Five people in the room.
Waverly, Solo, Kuryakin, Webber, and Miss…
He didn't know her name…had missed it somehow.
He was looking at her. Really looking at her.
He was supposed to be paying attention to what she was saying, because it was important for some reason. His job was important, and so was this meeting, but for the moment his real priority was her.
Was it her, or the fact that it had been weeks since he'd last had sex, and he found himself thinking about it constantly. That wasn't normal for him, not his usual self-control. Twitch.
He was accustomed to finding other things to occupy his mind, ways to relieve the pressure, like experimenting with explosives or shooting at villains. So far, it had worked rather well.
He wondered about that, but went back to watching as the new girl from translation gave a line by line exposition on the latest intel that had come through her terminal from an agent in Kenya. In the aftermath of the newly formed independent government, there was activity from the familiar nest of baddies known as Thrush; some vain hope of infiltration or instigation.
The messages had come through in Swahili, a language she spoke in addition to English, French, Italian and Cambodian.
Funny, he couldn't remember her name but he did know the languages in which she was fluent.
He'd lost interest. What he was interested in was her. She was really pretty, though and … something about her… Twitch
Illya thought her to be a very beautiful, exotic specimen.
Wait, he shouldn't use that word, probably. Some people would frown on that.
'She is beautiful', he let it run through his brain.
He noted how the swell of her breasts filled out the UNCLE uniform that all of the female employees wore. On her it was seductive. Her waist was small; smaller than his (which wasn't always the case), and he reckoned that he would be able to span it with his two hands. Mmmmm… Twitch.
As he sat and watched, hearing very little, he chewed on the earpiece of his glasses. His groin was warm, and he felt an erection developing as he began to mentally remove each piece of clothing that she was wearing. His eyelids felt heavy, and he knew he was leering at her, like a predator. He didn't seem to care very much.
In his mind they were together in…
Where were they?
They were in a bungalow near the Naro Maru River, at the base of Mount Kenya. The setting sun was the only light, and it glistened off of their tan bodies…
'I'm not very tan. She is though…beautifully tanned…'
The setting sun was the only light, illuminating her tan body in the last glimmer of day. She looked at him, inviting him to take her in his arms. Her breasts were bare to him, willing him forward as he reached out, his hands…
"Mr. Kuryakin, do you have a question?"
"Uh…no, none sir. I'm just…no. None."
'Put your hand down, and don't break the mood…go back to her…'
He reached out for her and felt the fullness in his hands, the hard nipples beneath his fingers. Her hands were busy at his waist, unbuckling, unzipping until there was nothing left to remove.
Her hands glided over his body even as he carried her…
'Where's the bed? Oh, here…'
He carried her to the bed and lay with her, both of them exploring the hidden treasures that each of them held in secret places. His fingers found her, pulsing and eager for him, while his own throbbing
penis responded to her deft touch. She knew what he wanted, needed…
"Say, Illya…are you listening to me?"
"What? Oh, sorry. She is … the details, I mean, are just so…mesmerizing."
'Where were we?'
Pulsing, pulsing and throbbing…
She placed her hands on him and began to stroke and brush him with fingers so finely tuned to his needs that his intensity built to an unbearable crescendo. He had to hold on. She opened her legs to him then, inviting his ministrations as she lay in the last golden streaks of sunlight.
He ran his hands from her perfectly rounded thighs up, up into that forbidden garden that she was opening to him alone. Fingertips that could feel the clicking mechanisms of a safe would find the opening he needed now. Fondling the sensitive clitoris, he elicited whimpers of joy and need. Flicking the gem into sartorial sexual bliss, he let his fingers vibrate her until her moans threatened to cause him to come…too early. He wasn't done with her yet.
Her mouth was like a piece of ripe fruit. He bit into her, sucking out the juices like the hungry man that he was. Looking first into her eyes, he set out upon a journey that was indefinable in its utter joy, his mouth tasting every part of her as he made his way from breast to breast; the nipples hard and beckoning, leading him from a wasteland of loneliness to the garden gate. He dipped his face into her cloister, then deep into the cathedral within. He drank deeply of her, sending her into ecstasies she had never before known.
Sensing his own need, he drew himself upright, positioning himself to plunge deep into her, thrusting and gasping for air, the fruit full to bursting.
"Thank you Miss Fontenay. That will be all."
Wait, it couldn't be over. Not yet! Before he could stop himself he was mumbling something…
"What? Oh, sorry… I.."
Then a knowing look from his obnoxious partner.
He didn't think he could get up for a while. He moaned in repressed agony as he watched Napoleon follow the lovely Miss Fontenay out the door.
"Ahemmm….Are you ill, Mr. Kuryakin? You look a bit…strained."
He groaned inwardly, unable to move and frustrated beyond redemption.
The old man didn't know the half of it.