The Secret of Excalibur

by Sahara Foley

  Stretching out in the water, I luxuriate in the warm water. Waking in a hot tub, then making love to a sexy, beautiful woman is a sinful feeling. But I've always prided myself on being a pretty good sinner. I'm about ready to get out of the tub, when I hear a voice.

  “Morning, sir, your coffee. Miss Ruth said you would take it here.” While setting her tray on a nearby table, then pouring a cup of coffee, Toni keeps staring into the water.

  Now, I know she can't see my nether region, but I become embarrassed anyway, and sink a hair deeper. She's giving me this hungry look, slowly running the tip of her tongue over her teeth, which prompts me to read her mind. Ruth told her to give me anything I desired, and now she's envisioning several sexual acts I might want to do with her.

  “Uh, thank you, Toni,” I say lamely, embarrassed.

  She bats her lashes, giving me a flirty smile. “Is there anything else you'd like, sir? Anything?” She's toying with the top button of her dress, and it pops open to reveal her cleavage. She doesn't do anything else, just stands there giving me a seductive smile.

  Damnit Ruth, I think, but aloud stammer, “Uh, no, Toni, that's all. Just to be left alone to enjoy the water. Thank you.”

  Her smile fades, then comes back. “Yes, sir.” She turns and flounces out.

  I focus on Ruth, who's in the shower. *Ruth, why did you tell Toni to have sex with me?*

  Again, Ruth gives a slight, wide-eyed jerk, exclaiming, “OH.” Then she relaxes, saying aloud, “I thought you'd enjoy a woman with more sexual experience.” Women.

  *Ruth, thanks for the thought, but I don't want that kid after you. With Toni, it'd just be sex. What we did was making love.*

  She's hugging herself in the shower. “But I thought men never passed up a free piece, Arthur.” She's washing her groin, washrag full of soap, moving very slowly.

  I'm having difficulty concentrating: watching her wash herself is bothering me … a lot. *Ruth, some men can and do pass up casual sex, and I'm one of them.*

  Her washrag is moving back and forth, back and forth. “I'm sorry Arthur, I meant well, and Toni was so jealous. Umm, forgive me?” she purrs. Damn. She's masturbating, very slowly, tightly holding the shower rod.

  *Yes, Ruth. See you later, kid.* Disconnecting from her, I mentally push her pleasure center. The last feeling I receive from her, is a bright, red light shooting across her mind.

  Clambering out of the tub, I dry off; gather my clothes, then teleport up to my room. I rinse off in the shower, change clothes and head for the kitchen. I'm ravenous. Gladys is busy at the sink, and as I'm pouring coffee, Ruth enters the kitchen. They speak quietly at the sink, then Ruth glides to me holding a newspaper.

  “Arthur, you should sit down before you read this,” she says with worry in her eyes, as she hands me the paper. She pours brandy into my coffee. A lot of brandy.

  On the front page of the newspaper is a picture of me standing in the doorway of the plane beside the terrorists. Next to the picture is one of Dobie, Breckenridge, and me. Then, there's another picture of Ruth and me hugging after the hostage situation, with Dobie standing right behind her. The headline reads: US MYSTERY MAN HELPS MI6 AND ALPHA TEAM DISPOSE OF TERRORISTS IN HIJACKING ATTEMPT!

  “What?!” I sputter, staring with disbelief at the article. Gladys flinches, looking like a sheep in a wolf pack, very nervous.

  Ruth picks up my cup, placing it in my hand. “Drink this, Arthur. I'm sure Dobie had no part in the leak or knew about the pictures until the newspapers came out this morning. The attempted hijacking is on all the radio stations, and every channel on the telly, too, along with your involvement. Same photographs and videotapes of everything the press filmed.”

  Fuming, I sip that one hundred proof coffee.

  “It seems the reporters recorded more in the dark than anyone imagined, but your name hasn't been mentioned once. Unfortunately, mine is, and the story goes on about how we pulled a fast disappearing act right under the noses of the press,” she explains in a rush.

  As I open my mouth to speak, Ruth interrupts me, holding up her hand. “Dobie called me while I was upstairs. Er, right after I was done in the shower,” she says with a blush. “He says he's sorry and has put a lid on the videos. The videos show a small group of people disappearing from the doorway of the plane, then reappearing on the tarmac. And they recorded everything after that. He's very upset.”

  “He's upset? How can I go on with my life with half the fucking reporters in town looking for me?” I yell, louder than I intended. Ruth flinches away as Gladys does what I call a short duck, her neck contracting.

  I take a deep calming breath. “Excuse me, ladies, I'm sorry for my outburst.” I hope my apology sounds more sincere to them than it does to me. I guess so, because Gladys gives a tentative smile.

  Gladys shuffles to my table. “Sir, I know this ain't none of my business, and I know that's you and Miss Ruth in the paper, but I wanted to say I'm glad we finally got one up on them filthy terrorists. And if there's anything I can do to help you, sir, well, you just tell old Gladys and you got it.” She curtsies and heads back to her sink.

  Ruth pats my arm, reassuring me. “We're all proud to be a part of the rescuing of the hostages. Dobie released a story confirming the attack against the hijackers is a part of their latest tactic against terror and skyjacking. And even the PM says she's proud of her MI6 and Alpha Team.”

  She's trying to console me, but it's not doing any good, yet. But that coffee she souped-up, that's helping.

  Ruth continues. “Dobie explained you're on loan from Special Branch just for this purpose. He doesn't care as Special Branch is a part of MI6, so he'll still get the credit. But Special Branch is top-secret, and the reporters know they'll never learn anymore about who you are. So your identity is safe from the press.” She takes a big gulp of her tea then gives me a big, encouraging smile.

  Ruth doesn't even realize she's trying to control me, as women automatically do with men as they inject themselves into their lives. And our personal relationship is exactly what Dobie and Tober were counting on. She is the key for them to use me, and it worked last night, sure as hell. But, for the first time since my interactions with governmental agencies, I don't mind. So I give her a return smile, pat her hand, and hold my cup out for more.

  Right then, Toni swings through the doorway carrying the coffee tray. She glares at me, whispering to her mother, arms waving in the air, pointing in my direction. Gladys pushes her towards the kitchen door. “Shush, girl, get busy on the bedrooms now, go on with you.” Ruth looks at Gladys with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, ma'am, she fancies she saw Mr. Arthur in the tub room and he just disappeared! Daft she is, ma'am, too much telly.”

  Ruth shoots me a stern look.

  I tell her telepathically, *No way. She was long gone when I teleported out of there.*

  Ruth leans towards me, whispering, “Unless she was watching you through the door. She does that quite often.”

  I say, *Damn, she could've been. I was occupied with you at the time.*

  Ruth gives me a sultry smile. “Yes, you were, and thank you. Don't worry, I'll speak to her.” She pats my hand and leaves. I guess she's a patter.

  Shuffling back from the stove, Gladys places a heaping plate of sunny-side eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes in front of me. As I pick up my fork to take my first bite of the delicious smelling breakfast, she says, “Hope you're hungry, sir. I figured you had a hungry type night.” She winks at me, then turns back to her sink.

  Women.

  Chapter Eight

  Sitting in his opulent office, Dobie proudly surveys his domain. He's contently puffing on a cigar, savoring the rich flavor. He never allows himself the pleasure of smoking a cigar before noon, but he feels he deserves one today. He starts reading the reports gathered from last night. He's already memorized them, but they make him feel good, so he rereads them again. After he's done, he studies the tip of his glowing cigar, mentally reviewing his wardrobe. There isn't
anything I own suitable to go before the Queen, for knighthood. Oh he has time yet, but he can feel his knighthood, getting closer and closer.

  Blowing out a stream of blue/gray smoke, the Commander of MI6 thinks about the American. He's almost under control. That fool lesbian kept Arthur with her all night in the hot-tub, and now, I'll be able to use Arthur whenever needed, through Dr. Burns.

  Funny though, with all the listening devices he had installed over the years in her house, even when her father held his quiet, subcabinet meetings there, not once was there a hint the lesbian also went for men. He chastises himself for overlooking that important detail. I'll have to be more careful in the future.

  Swiveling in his chair to gaze out the window at the London skyline, he reflects on his early morning meeting with the PM. With a self-satisfied smile, he remembers how the PM almost fell over herself with praise of him and his team. Why, she admitted he'll be knighted before long, and even confirmed his knighthood was long overdue. Finally, the silly woman is beginning to see who's really in charge around here. About time, too.

  Puffing on his cigar, he thinks, hmm, a new blue suit will work. I always look good in blue. Sir Cecil Dobie. Yes, that has a good sound.

  Chapter Nine

  I polish off Gladys' sumptuous breakfast, then drink more coffee, but with less of the rocket fuel. I can't get drunk, per se, just a feeling of euphoria and highness. Kinda like the time I was stupid enough to mentally push my pleasure center. Bad mistake. Just thinking about my two-minute orgasm still makes my legs tremble. The next two days I was dribbling and dripping all over the place. I've never been dumb enough to try that again. Men take longer to recover from that type of orgasm, unnatural I guess. Yet, women recover fairly fast, they just feel all warm and cuddly. Weird. Oh well, that's life.

  Ruth strolls into the kitchen giving me a soft, affectionate little smile, then pats my hand. Yup, warm, cuddly, and definitely a person who pats. She's smearing cream cheese on muffins. “Well, since I see no reason to run any further tests on you, what do you want to do today?”

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I think about that. “I'd really like to go sightseeing around the city.”

  As Gladys replenishes her cup of tea, Ruth points out, “I don't think we should do that. The reporters will be on us like vultures. They know about me, and where I live, and though Dobie has men stationed at the gates to keep them away, how far would we get?”

  She's right, and despite myself, I become angry again. Politicians. But at the same time, I know I helped MI6 of my own free-will and can't exactly blame Dobie. But it feels good, so I do it anyway.

  “Okay, kid, you're right. How about this? We take your little car and pop out to the country. Make a day of it.”

  With a sideways glance at Gladys, she asks, “Can you do that? I mean with my car?”

  I tell her, *Sure, we can take the whole house if you want.*

  She jumps up, heading for the door. “No, just us, alone. I'll get ready.” And she hurries off, like she's afraid I'm going to say no or something.

  Gladys picks up the dishes with tears in her eyes. This tough old woman, crying? So, I ask, “Gladys, are you crying?” My, but I'm observant.

  Rinsing our dishes at the sink, Gladys says softly, “Sir, I've known Miss Ruth all her life. For the first time since she was fourteen, she's finally alive, excited, and a woman. God Bless you, sir.”

  Either there are no secrets around here, or I'm missing something. Carefully, I read Gladys' mind. I'll be damned. She's always known about Ruth and Toni, but kept out of their affair, always hoping a man would come along and put Ruth back on the right track. And now, she figures that finally happened.

  “Sir, be kind to Miss Ruth. She's a good girl. Always was, just took the wrong path for a while.”

  Stepping behind her, I gently place my hand on her rounded shoulder. “Gladys, Ruth is a special person to have someone like you who loves her so much.” As I turn away, I gently pat her arm. Damn. Now Ruth has me doing it.

  Upstairs, Ruth is talking with Toni, handing her a small suitcase and a bag to take to the car. Ruth faces me in the hall. “Arthur, pack a bag, I want to do an overnight trip, just us alone. No one will know where we are, or who we are. Please?” she asks, gazing up at me, batting her eyelashes.

  Ruth is standing with the same pleading look she used last night during my phone conversation with Dobie. And it works the same way. Emotionally, I'm a pretty tough guy, but she's cutting through the protective coating men keep around their feelings, really damn fast. I'd better watch myself before I turn into a marshmallow. Okay, act annoyed, so she knows you're upset at being told, not asked, and stall a few minutes. Instead, I simply say, “Sure, kid, I'll get ready.” Very macho.

  Throwing my belongings together in one of my suitcases, I start thinking about our trip. Generally, I don't become excited over small things, but this trip is getting me going. Not just spending time alone with Ruth. Something else is pulling me, right at the edge of my mind. But I can't find the reason, and when I try to narrow it down, the reason slips away.

  Out on the porch, if you want to call an area that has thirty large, marble columns a porch, I see her, sitting in her cute, little car, waiting. “Would you like to drive, Arthur?” she asks me, oh so sweetly.

  I study her car. “No, you'd better. I'd be driving on the wrong side of the road, kid.” I load our luggage and concentrate on the road out by the back of the airport. “Close your eyes.” She already has them closed and a death grip on my right arm. BLIP! “Okay, kid, fire her up and let's go sightseeing.” I gently pry her fingers from my arm.

  With a sheepish look, she says, “That still frightens me. I'm sorry.”

  Driving along the old highway, the wind whipping through our hair, I think about how frightened Ruth would really be if she knew exactly what happens when we teleport. There's no way I'm telling her. Nobody wants to learn they've just gone through nuclear expansion, and would light-up a Geiger counter for several seconds afterwards, enough radiation to kill. But the radiation is controlled, somehow, by my mind. I never could figure out exactly how the process works; only that it does.

  The clear June morning gives way to cobalt skies with a few fluffy white clouds and several contrails arcing across the sky. Ruth indicates landmarks and historical locations along as we ride. I notice she's driving barefoot now, her sandals up close to her seat. She's wearing a beige, midi-length skirt, short-sleeve blouse, and a red bandanna tied up in her medium-length auburn hair.

  I watch with titillation as she shifts gears, because each time her leg moves to the clutch pedal, her skirt slides up an inch farther. Her skirt finally stops to where if I lean a hair forward, I glimpse white panties. I'm acting like a sixteen year-old boy again. Better get my shit together, or I'll be wetting myself. When she isn't shifting, steering or pointing, her left hand is resting on my leg, halfway from my knee, which doesn't help matters at all.

  Around noon, we stop and have a beer, with a lunch of some funny looking buns filled with meat. In the USA, they're called Runzas, but I have no idea what they're called here. They have a slight liver flavor.

  We're traveling southwest, and after four more hours of seeing absolutely nothing but trees, a few fat cows, some sheep, and a few bicycles, we arrive at a small town. As Ruth gears down, she says, “They have an inn here.”

  That's all. What does she mean? That the other towns we passed through didn't? Or they weren't far enough away?

  We pass a muddy pond in the middle of the town, with a long, old pole on a tripod, hanging over the water, and a few ducks swimming around. Ruth notices me staring. “Long ago, they used to dunk witches in the pond until they confessed.” As she steers around the pond, she continues, “In fact, about twenty years ago, the name of this village was Witches End. Gruesome, isn't it?” She's slowing and heading for a large, brown, two-story, stone building.

  I ask, “What happened after the witches confessed?”

 
; She steps on the emergency brake, then glances over at me. “They were burned at the stake.”

  Of course, how silly of me.

  I study the building as we park in front. “What a formidable place kid, looks medieval.”

  Ruth examines the building, too. “Well, actually, it is. The inn was built around the same time as the pond. Over the years, they've added modern conveniences inside, but the outside looks about the same. In fact, the people suspected of witchcraft were brought here and imprisoned, to await their trial by dunking. If they confessed, they were burned as witches. If not, they were either drowned during the trial, or stoned to death as hypocrites.”

  Looking around, I think, What a cheerful history. And she wants to spend the night here?

  She pats my leg, staring intently at my face. “I wonder how the folks in that era would've felt about you and your abilities. For that matter, even people living here today. They're still a suspicious lot. They believe in curses, and still fear witches.”

  “You've got to be kidding, it's 1987.” I glance at Ruth to see if she's serious. How can anyone still believe in witches?

  “You wouldn't know the history around here, but over there, to the west, about twelve miles away is where Camelot is meant to have been located. Old Merlin used to send his minions here to collect the villagers to be used for his magic potions.”

  “Hey, wait a minute here, I always thought Merlin used his magic for good, not evil. He was one of the good guys,” I say defensively. I've read many books about Merlin, and never read or heard this version before. I always thought he would've been a cool guy, hence my last name.

  She regards me as one would a new puppy that just wet the floor. “Arthur, by his own admission, Merlin lived more than one thousand years. He used plenty of human organs and blood transfusions to keep himself alive. In fact, when he became involved with King Arthur, he was supposed to be more than eight hundred years, so he used many people, all locals, to keep his youth and vitality. King Arthur ignored what Merlin was doing because he required his magic. So, for God only knows how many generations, Merlin's minions came here, and other villages like this, to gather peasants for whatever reasons he needed.”