Fifty Shades Of Red

FIFTY

The rain drizzled endlessly outside and ran dreary rivulets of dirt down the soot-stained windows of the backstreet restaurant.  Outside the front door, the two Stasi agents huddled deeper into their black raincoats and pulled their hats down firmly on their heads before thrusting gloved hands back into their raincoat pockets once again.

Oblivious to their surroundings, the two young lovers, reluctantly took their eyes off each other to peruse the stained menu cards that the proprietor had tossed on the table in front of them.

“My German’s a bit rusty,” he said breathlessly, “but I think it’s either meatloaf and cabbage or cabbage and meatloaf.”

Di laughed throatily, how he loved that laugh.  “You’re such a cunning linguist!”  She said.  “Why don’t you order then, Jez.”

Jez gestured imperiously at the proprietor who’d retreated behind the bar to wipe some more dirt around his collection of already heavily stained glasses.

“Herr Kinder, bitte!”  He began confidently.  “Ein meatloaf und sauerkraut para dos hommes.  Vite vite garcon!!”

The proprietor shook his bald head wearily and disappeared through a door in the back of the bar area.  Pretty soon, spitting sounds started to echo around the confines of the room.

Di leaned across the table and enfolded both of Jez’s bony hands in one of her massively muscular ones.

“When you said you were going to take me away to a romantic European destination,” she said, “I was worried that you’d book a weekend in Paris or Rome or something terribly bourgeois like that.  I never in my wildest dreams expected to find myself in the people’s paradise of East Berlin.  The cost must have been enormous.”

Jez shook his head modestly.  “Not really, Di,” he said.  “I was able to borrow Lenny’s European Travelcard for you.”

Di dropped her eyes modestly.  “Jez,” she said, “I couldn’t help but notice that you’d only booked the one room.  Does that mean …” Her voice suddenly trailed away.

Jez reached into his jacket pocket and put a much-thumbed book onto the table between them.  Di’s eyes opened wide and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“The Commie Sutra,” she gasped.

“Yes,” Jez replied, the words catching in his throat.  “They’re all in there, you know.  All the positions….”

Di looked at the stained cover of the book with hardly concealed impatience.  “Brezhnev’s Backsider?  The Hammer & Sickle?”  She paused.  “The Double Agent?”

Jez could only nod, throat suddenly too tight to speak.

Di rose to her full four feet.  “Bugger the meal, Jez,” she said.  “Let’s go right now!”

Back in their room, threadbare curtains drawn and gas fire spluttering with East Germany’s uncertain gas supply, Jez watched transfixed as she removed her outer layer of clothes.  “Only four more layers to go,” she said as she lay down beside him.  “Talk dirty to me, lover.”

Jez smiled, he was good at this game.  “Capitalist!” he said.  “Oh oh”, she moaned.

“Monarchist!”  She moaned again and began to roll about in ecstasy.  “Stop it, stop it, Jez!” she cried.

But there was no stopping Jez now.  “Bank of England!” he shouted.  “Goldman Sachs!  The New York Stock Exchange!!!”

Di’s whole body shook as she was gripped with an enormous orgasm.  Panting, she hoisted herself on to one meaty elbow and looked him in the eye.  “Your turn now, you naughty boy.  Have you been a naughty boy?”

“Yes Di,” he said, lip quivering.

“Then I’m going to have to tie you up and punish you severely, you naughty naughty boy,” she replied, producing a pair of standard issue Stasi handcuffs.  Hand over your ones too…”

Naked, spread-eagled on the bed, he could only watch as she rummaged around in her enormous hand bag.

“You haven’t got a pigs head in there, have you?” he said nervously.

“Do I look like a closet Tory to you?” she shot back before emerging victorious with a crumpled piece of paper. Jez caught just a quick glimpse of the title.

“No, Di,” he said.  “Anything but that…”

“Oh yes!” she said, slipping off her remaining clothes and launching into the first line of the National Anthem.

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