Assignment Kilimanjaro

by Robin Moreton

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Spy Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

This adult erotic adventure is just like the jungle, hot and steamy!

Tilda is a British spy sent on a mission to German East Africa in 1915. Unfortunately, her aircraft is blown up and although she survives the crash into the jungle, she loses her memory. Captured by native tribesmen, Tilda befriends Chief Mandai, whose stamina proves formidable. But he can't save her from the dark machinations of the witchdoctor and she ends up tied to the sacrificial post. A combination of fate and her bravery pluck her from the clutches of death, and though her memory returns, she still finds herself in plenty of trouble.

She encounters a lascivious German patrol led by the depraved Sergeant Wolff; she becomes the plaything of Herta, the sex-mad wife of a German general; and she discovers oriental lovemaking from the suave Cambridge scholar Hassan, the leader of marauding Arab slavers. And while Tilda makes enemies of a number of British officers, she also befriends two British soldiers, Willie and Mick, and shares her bed with both.

Indeed, whoever she is thrust against, Tilda handles them with love, compassion, guile and, when necessary, her considerable sexual wiles.

Release date: February 10, 2010

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 326

Sample

Chapter 1: A memorable flight

Lake Amboseli, British East Africa – February, 1915

‘YOU SEEM PLEASED to see me,’ she said. Good heavens, she thought, he certainly fills his khaki shorts! So the gentleman dresses on the right. ‘My name’s Tilda Cuve-Banks. What is yours?’

‘Hal Denby,’ he replied, the slight warm breeze ruffling his dark-brown hair and the short sleeves of his sweat-patched shirt. A careworn brown leather belt supported a sheathed knife, a belt of .45 ACP cartridges and a holstered pistol – it looked like a Colt M1911. His shorts came to a couple of inches above his knees. Nice, sturdy knees, too; his legs were deeply tanned and very muscular and covered in quite a few old scars. Socks round his ankles and tough worn boots ensured he could travel in any terrain.

Denby’s dark left eyebrow arched and his steel-grey eyes roved over her. ‘Is that Mrs Cuve-Banks, then?’ His quick darting eyes had noted her wedding ring.

She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said but had no intention of explaining that Lord Quentin Banks, her young husband of four weeks, had died in the trenches. Even in these war-torn times, it usually felt safer if travelling as a married woman.

He smiled, the mouth thin and a little on the cruel side, she thought. Judging by the tumescence in the right leg of his shorts, he seemed to like what he saw.

Tilda was as tall as he was, though high-heeled lace-up white kid boots aided her in this. She wore a long-sleeved, white, chiffon dress with a high collar, the bodice decorated with white beads. As she stood there, her bulging leather briefcase in one hand, her other hand clamping the white pith hat on her head, he could just distinguish the tanned flesh contours of her legs and arms as the light wind blew off the lake against her. Tilda’s dark auburn hair was tied in a chignon but already wisps had broken free and fluttered around her elegant neck and high cheekbones.

He took her hand and shook it. His grip was firm, as was hers. He let go and turned to look at the biplane that bounced on the water of the rippling lake; its fuselage was tethered alongside a long, thin jetty made up of wooden planks on sturdy thick piles of tree trunks. A man – probably the pilot – was tinkering in the front cockpit.

Denby frowned dubiously at the patched canvas and repaired struts and dangling rigging wires and gestured at the seaplane. ‘We seem to be fellow passengers,’ he said in an ominous tone.

Ignoring his statement of the obvious, Tilda checked out her immediate surroundings.

Tied to the other side of the jetty was a small fishing boat. Four Africans were unloading wooden boxes of fish; she could smell them from here – men and fish. Behind her was a mud-spattered Ford box-truck, already half full with fish and other produce. Four mules were tethered beside the vehicle; the rich smell of manure and the perpetual buzz of flies also carried to her on the breeze.

The fishermen and farmers would get a fair price for the food, she knew. All to help the war effort against the Prussian Colonel Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck.

As she hadn’t responded to Denby, he tried again: ‘Are you going all the way?’

‘I always do,’ she replied, her light blue eyes flashing suggestively as he jerked round and eyed her.

‘You might consider my question rather impertinent, Mrs Cuve-Banks, but what takes you to Lake Manyara? It’s hostile territory, don’t you know? After all, it’s in German East Africa.’ Unspoken was the question, ‘Why’d your husband let you out alone?’

She looked askance at him from under her helmet brim. ‘Yes, Mr Denby. I agree with you, you’re rather impertinent.’ She smiled, though, to soften her censure. ‘You’re right about the hostile aspect. I’m a journalist and I want to get the scoop before any German newspaperman. They can be competitive swine, for hacks.’

‘Scoop? Surely the war’s the biggest story round here?’

‘Not necessarily, Mr Denby. There’s been an interesting archaeological find in the lake’s mud. And I specialise in early Arabic remains.’

‘What does your husband have to say about you gallivanting after dead people?’

‘Not a lot, Mr Denby. He died on the Western Front.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ She glanced away and was sure the white man emerging from the bowels of the fishing boat was taking an abnormal interest in her – or Denby. His eyes seemed hooded, useful she supposed in this bright sunlight. His complexion was rather florid, as if he’d been exerting himself. He could do with losing some weight around the belly, she thought. Under a hooked nose the man grew a salt and red pepper flecked moustache. His hair was slicked back with oil so appeared black but was probably red like his bushy eyebrows.

She gave Denby another up-from-under look. ‘What are you hoping to achieve at Lake Manyara? After all, it’s German territory, isn’t it? And you’re English like me.’

‘Touché,’ he grinned. ‘It’s confidential, but I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you. My firm’s interested in mining the area – after the war, of course.’

She didn’t believe him for a second. Before leaving Mombasa, she’d been warned by Colonel Innes of the Intelligence Corps. ‘Tread with care, my dear,’ he said, anxiety showing in every line of his face. ‘There are plenty of spies in the area, all with their own agenda.’

Considering how against recruiting her he’d been at first, Colonel Innes had come around wholeheartedly when she presented her irrefutable arguments. She was familiar with this part of Africa, having been brought up here. Half-English, half-French, she was fluent in a number of languages, including German and Swahili; and she was a bloody good shot with the Webley Mk V service revolver she carried in her briefcase. Reading between the lines, they knew she wanted to avenge her husband’s death too, but left that unsaid. Besides which, the Secret Service Bureau had used her – in every sense, though she didn’t elaborate – in Italy and Austria last year.

‘Of course,’ she acknowledged Denby.

At that moment the pilot she’d seen earlier – a short swarthy dark-haired man – strode up the slight slope of shale, curly head down, intent on wiping his large hands on an oily cloth. He was a short, stocky man, muscular legs and forearms bristling with black hair, but he clearly worked hard and kept himself fit since there was no sign of a belly on him. He glanced up and his almond-shaped eyes widened. He stopped for a second, taking in a sharp breath. ‘Caramba!’ he murmured, clearly pleased and whispering something else to himself.

Tilda realised that the position of the sun and the angle of his approach probably showed the dark triangle under the white chiffon dress, revealing she wasn’t wearing any undergarments. A fact that had not gone unnoticed by Denby; his pleasure at standing near her was still manifest.

‘¡Hola!’ the man said, his white grin transforming into a leer. One of his teeth was broken. He hastily licked his lips. ‘Me llamo Enrique Perez.’ His voice was high-pitched like a Mexican on too much tequila and it grated. She was glad the engine noise would prevent him making idle chat during their flight.

Tilda pursed her rather full lips and then said in a berating tone, ‘I was told you spoke perfectly adequate English, Mr Perez. I’d prefer it if you did so now for my and Mr Denby’s benefit. My Spanish is a little rusty.’ It wasn’t, but that was her secret for now.

Pocketing the oily rag, he shook his head. ‘Thousand pardons, Señora Banks. Is that all of your baggage?’ He thrust a thumb at the small matching leather suitcase resting on the ground by her feet. A look of puzzlement crossed his features as he noticed a black bullwhip thrust under the leather securing straps. He seemed to be having difficulty keeping his dun-coloured eyes on her face.

‘Yes, I travel light.’ She glanced at Denby.

He shrugged. ‘Me too.’ On his back was a haversack. ‘That aircraft needs all the help it can get, to get up, so I hear.’

‘Unlike you, I hope?’ she whispered encouragingly.

According to Perez, the biplane was a variant of the Curtiss Model F flying boat. It had been adapted to accommodate two passengers and a small amount of luggage. After the war, he hoped to go into the mail and passenger business.

Perez stowed the briefcase, suitcase and haversack in the two side panniers under the lower wings. The pilot sat in front: his seating compartment wasn’t cramped at all, Tilda observed enviously – he had enough room to manoeuvre the aircraft, which was a blessing, she supposed.

Following Perez’s advice, Denby climbed in first to provide some ballast. The craft bobbed on the slight swell of the lake water. There were no separate seats, only a metal bench covered by a thin blanket to reduce any discomfort. It proved a tight fit for Denby with his long, muscular legs. Annoyingly, he chose to sit nearest to the jetty so she’d have to clamber over him to her part of the bench seat. Anything for a fondle and a cheap thrill.

Clasping on to the upright struts and avoiding the latticework of wires, Tilda declined the help of Perez’s oily hands and stepped off the jetty and into the rear seating area. ‘Pardon,’ she said, gripping Denby’s hard shoulder as she lowered herself into the space on his right.

As the craft moved to the gentle lapping of the lake caused by a nearby bathing hippopotamus, she lost her footing but Denby was there, his large hands gripping her waist and bottom with firmness, steadying her. A gentle yet reassuring touch. She rather liked it. He refrained from accidentally groping her and she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or pleased. ‘Thank you, Mr Denby.’

Her generous hips nudged the canvas side of the craft on her right and Denby’s muscular thigh on her left.

The slight exertion of boarding had brought her out in a sweat. Thank God she’d consigned her combinations and brassiere to her case! God knows how on earth Miss Maugham, the missionary’s wife, bore them in this climate! It was all very well back home in the sedate drawing room life of Edwardian London, but it was tantamount to criminal idiocy to perpetuate that dress code out here.

Warm pools of sweat collected in the small of her back and dribbled between her buttocks; other rivulets ran down between her breasts and over her pubic hair. She felt decidedly uncomfortable under her arms but couldn’t do anything about it. She’d be glad to relinquish this stupid clothing once she’d left BEA. ‘Must keep up appearances, my dear,’ Colonel Innes had insisted.

A stupid statement to make in Africa. Appearances were everything back home, however. She recalled her meeting at the end of last month with ‘C’ – Mansfield Smith-Cumming, the cheerful 56-year-old Royal Naval Commander who ran the Secret Service Bureau. One of her friends called him ‘Always Coming’ – something to do with his amazing sexual stamina, even with his wooden leg. He lost his foot – and his son Alastair – in a tragic Rolls-Royce crash in Paris last October.

They’d arranged to meet in Holborn’s Restaurant. It was a remarkable contrast to the London streets outside, since everywhere was blacked out for fear of Zeppelins, those horrendous dirigibles that first dropped their bombs and incendiaries on the Great Yarmouth area a few days earlier.

The traffic and bustle went on, but there were a hell of a lot of accidents in the dark.

Sitting with C in the restaurant, it was difficult to realise there was a war on, though she supposed there was a greater preponderance of uniformed men at the tables. Bright lights showed up the gaudy admiral costumes of the band on the stage. Wearing their smart velvet outfits, the waiters expertly negotiated full tray-loads between customers. Ladies were dressed in the latest style with an emphasis on Poiret’s hobble skirts and orient-inspired long columnar dresses in hand-printed silk and velvet. Tilda eschewed the hobble skirts as they employed a fetter, a kind of bondage belt, that held the ankles together so the wearer had to mince along like a Geisha girl. Bondage didn’t appeal to her, though her fellow spy Kitty revelled in it.

Tilda wore a simple air-blue, ankle-length dress with small ruffs at the end of the long sleeves. Her face, neck and hands were tanned, which seemed unusual in this company. Most ladies appeared quite anaemic, more like porcelain than flesh and blood.

He had apologised for being ten minutes late as he couldn’t get away from his office in Whitehall Court – ‘Problems with Somerset Maugham; I think you met his agent, Ashenden, in Geneva?’

‘No, Manny, that was Lucerne.’

‘So it was. Good show, that! I wish all my agents could turn in such fine reports.’

‘Kind of you to say so.’

‘Just had a Foreign Office memo, my dear,’ C said, studying the menu through his gold-rimmed monocle. ‘Makes interesting reading.’

‘Well, don’t tease.’ Tilda urged, ‘What did it say?’

He had a kindly smile, the small fine bow of a mouth curving. ‘We want as many German colonies as we can get to use as pawns when negotiating peace terms.’

‘Peace terms? But the bloody war’s hardly begun!’

He shushed her and removed the monocle. He had striking bright eyes; he seemed to inspire strong loyalty in all his staff. ‘Not so loud, my dear. Plenty of people here don’t reckon the war will last another six months.’

Tilda sighed. ‘Perhaps if the war-mongers listened to Lloyd George, it would be over that soon.’

A hand stroked his clean-shaven Punch-like chin. ‘They insist on a western front and won’t have any truck with his ideas of a flank attack from the Near East.’

‘They’re fools, then.’

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged sadly. ‘They’re making a complete hash of it at the front.’ He absently grabbed the knob-end of his sword-stick and twirled it. ‘I don’t mean the poor sods who’re cannon fodder. No, it’s the bloody generals – on both sides.’

So C sent her out here on Assignment Kilimanjaro – a highly unoriginal codename – to work with Innes, a man who was out of his depth. Innes hadn’t realised that war was no longer a game between gentlemen on both sides.

Above them hung the engine and propellers. A globule of oil dripped onto Tilda’s hat brim and slid off onto her dress. So much for avoiding the oily hands of the pilot!

‘You’d better stow the hat, Mrs Cuve-Banks – it’s bound to blow off once we’re airborne.’

‘True enough, Mr Denby.’ She took off her hat and tucked it under the metal seat. No point in telling him she’d flown reconnaissance missions before, as she had no wish to seem ungracious. She rather liked him.

Donning a leather helmet that covered head and ears, goggles and heavy gloves, Enrique Perez cast off and then clambered onboard and sat in the front. He called over his shoulder, ‘Hold tight on, we are off!’

There was a farting sound as a native precariously balanced on the edge of the jetty and swung the wooden prop. Then the engine started and the native overbalanced and fell into the water. The aircraft shook and shuddered. Careful to avoid the flotation undercarriage, the native heaved himself out, his black body glistening in the high sun.

Both Tilda and Denby put on the goggles supplied by their pilot.

The noise of the engine was deafening. Any further talk was out of the question. Not that talking was the method of communication she had in mind.

By simply donning the goggles, she somehow felt anonymous and uninhibited. It reminded her of her assignment in neutral Venice last year. She felt herself flushing with pleasure at the memories of masked balls, intrigues and delicious abandoned sex.

They bounced along over the water and Tilda gripped the edge of the hatch with one hand and Denby’s bare thigh with the other. He didn’t seem to object. The hairs there were soft, the muscle hard. She was aware of his arm round her shoulders and was grateful as he acted as a cushion, preventing her back digging into the metal struts behind them.

At each bouncing motion over the water her left hand seemed to edge higher up Denby’s thigh, moving the edge of his shorts with it.

Already her forearm could feel the tumescence spreading like a blind snake down the right leg of his shorts.

Now she felt moisture between her legs and it wasn’t sweat.

This, she promised herself, was going to be a memorable flight.

They moved out to the centre of the lake, to go up into the wind. With a deafening roar of the 8-cylinder 100-horsepower engine with its open exhaust just above the passengers, the air rushed past their heads with the force of a gale driven by the propeller revolving 1,400 times a minute. They surged forward at a tremendous rate, the nose and fuselage rising.

Suddenly the tail lifted and with a bump or two as small waves slapped against the floats, they were in the air.

Denby braced, either because of the aircraft’s sudden lift or because the helmet of his penis was now protruding out of the edge of his shorts.

Three feet, six feet, twenty feet, they were climbing with exaggerated slowness.

Tilda gently stroked the silky smoothness of the taught skin of Denby’s erection yet, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, she continued to watch the lake and surrounding lush green land gradually recede while the pilot circled up to a height of 3,500 feet.

Though going at a rate of 75 miles an hour, they seemed motionless, as if the landscape was moving instead.

But the windblast was powerful and Tilda was grateful for it. Gripping his pulsing cock as if it were a joystick – the rather apt allusion quite amused her – she let go of the edge of the hatch and with her free hand hoisted her dress skirt up to her waist.

Bliss! She felt the cool air wafting over her naked flesh, playing with the dark curls of hair and drying the sweat. Unfortunately, pressed in as they were, there wasn’t room for her to open her legs wide to get the most benefit from the cool air.

The landscape presented a bewildering variety of scenes – from the lake, dotted with a few fishing vessels, its far edge by the jetty crowded with people, pack animals and vehicles, to the elephants and buffalo skirting the lake on the opposite side. Laid out below, the lush forest was like a chessboard of so many different shades of green.

Then the lake melted into the haze of the far off horizon behind them.

She glanced at Denby. Through half-closed eyes he was watching her hand moving up and down his shaft, mesmerised, his lips curving in pleasure. No words seemed necessary.

Gently and rather awkwardly tucking Denby’s sex back in his shorts she twisted round and kissed him. His mouth was dry with need. Their goggles knocked and clicked and they both laughed, the wind tugging the sound of their laughter away.

Their tongues fenced. He tasted musky and hungry. The arm round her back moved and his large hand touched her right breast, massaging it under the chiffon, pressing the decorative beads gently but firmly into her. Even with the distraction of the air blast and the incredible scenery spread out below, she sensed her nipple hardening to his ministrations.

Carefully, she unbuttoned his fly and finally released him.

Denby gasped. But his reaction had nothing to do with her cupping his hairy balls in her palms. He moved his hand from her breast and tapped her shoulder, pointing. Even through the goggles she could see that his eyes were wide in awe.

To their left, some 16,000 feet higher than they were flying, the mesmerising snow-capped mountain penetrated the sky.

Kilimanjaro.

The highest of the twin peaks was called Kaiser-Wilhelm-Spitze. She wondered idly if it would retain that name after the hostilities had ended.

Then all too quickly it was behind them as they headed in the direction of the Mount Meru crater and Manyara beyond. To the Southeast were the Pare Mountains.

But there were still plenty of smaller jungle-clad mountains and hills, all causing up-draughts of air. The small aircraft was bounced and jostled as they continued on their journey.

A large flock of flamingos was flying towards Manyara too.

Yet even the most incredible scenery palled for Tilda after a while. She needed stimulation.

She felt his limp member and was pleased that the mere touch of her hand engorged it again.

Now she edged her left leg over his and he helped by supporting her buttocks with his big, firm hands. Slowly she lowered herself so his shaft was in front of her, its rigid firmness pressing against the wet lips of her sex. She rested the backs of her thighs on his and they let the bouncing of the machine do the work for them.

It was exquisite. The cool draughts of air excited her labia and dried the juices, yet Denby’s shaft slid up and down, releasing fresh moisture, his pulsing rigidity jerking the hood up and down over her clitoris. Her whole body was tingling.

There was a mirror clipped to the pilot’s windshield and she could see Perez watching, the nostrils of his long nose flaring, his eyes wide, almost filling his goggles. She grinned and felt her cheeks flush, surprisingly pleased to be watched. Sometimes, she astonished even herself.

She could sense Denby’s heart pounding against her back, his heavy breathing in her ear. He wanted to go inside, she knew. She wanted him inside. But not yet. She shuddered as a small series of orgasms threshed through her.

Then the aircraft must have hit even more turbulent air. It bucked and rocked. She couldn’t hold back any longer.

Now!

She eased herself up and suddenly she heavily impaled herself on him.

Divine coincidence or good luck, at that instant the aircraft lurched in a series of down-draughts and she felt Denby rigid inside her, pulsing, still moving up and down with the movement of the aircraft.

Tilda shuddered with a powerful final orgasm and felt Denby’s little death as he came too.

The explosion happened about 15 seconds later.

She’d heard of the earth moving – an expression used in Spain by her bullfighter lover, she recalled. But the sky? I’ve experienced coitus interruptus before, she thought, but never like this!

Of course, it was obviously a bomb. The left-hand – port? – side of the plane was severely damaged. The bomb must have been hidden under the wing. She wondered about that man with the hooded eyes she’d seen on the jetty. A likely candidate for saboteur, in retrospect ... If she ever got out of this, she’d find him. His face was engraved on her memory now. Bastard!

Half of the port wing was missing. Pieces of struts, wood and canvas flailed noisily in the rushing air as they wobbled towards the forest beneath them.

Hastily, she moved back to her seat and fastened the belt. Denby tucked his flaccid penis inside his shorts – she noticed he was already shrunken, instinct pulling his balls in, preparing for flight or fight – and fastened his belt.

She glanced quickly at Denby and smiled. He bravely returned the smile. If they were going to die, at least they’d shared a few moments of ecstasy before the end. Denby held her hand and she was glad of that.

Tilda could see the pilot Perez shaking and shuddering as he tried stabi. . .