Lady Sonia

Want to see me bend over so you can take a nice long stare up at my ass?
I promise I wont be mad. My skirt is just too small to cover my whole bum and you can see it all, my pantyhose dont do much to conceal my pussy either… What to do?

More Pictures Here

Banking for Beginners

Henry Clegg looked nervously around at the departure lounge. Of course he really knew that the armed police, in their flack jackets, carrying their disturbing array of weaponry, were only there to provide security, but he couldn’t help feeling that they were also keeping a close eye on him, personally.

In Henry’s mind the question was which of the forces of law and order would be first through the door of the departure lounge ready to snatch away his ticket and boarding card before he could get to his flight. There was the bank’s inspection department, their auditors, the financial services regulator, the head of consumer finance watch, and of course the police themselves. And that didn’t include the irate parents of his recently pregnant P.A. Lately things just seemed to have piled up and now he was just glad to be getting out. Some bankers might be getting bailed out but it certainly didn’t seem to extend to him.

“Air Kushtia is pleased to announce the departure of flight 003 to Riga, Strigino, Tashkent and Kolin. Passengers should please board now through gate 27.”

Henry felt relieved by the announcement. He picked up the small bag that carried the few things that would sustain him on board and scurried towards the gate. It had been awfully good of Uncle Freddie to arrange this for him, he thought, and at such short notice. He’d certainly needed the chance of a new job somewhere far away from where he had been working. Somewhere far removed from structured funding arrangements linked to the American sub-prime market, the fall out from his deal with Lehman Brothers, from his negotiations with a certain savings bank in the North East of England or indeed the exit strategy for his finances that he had arranged with Landsbanki, Glitnir, and Kaupthing in Iceland.

With his current set of problems, the Kushtian capital of Kolin had sounded attractive at the instant that Freddie had mentioned it; if only because he’d never heard of it before and he could readily imagine that none of the people who were hoping to find him would have heard of it either. At the very least it would allow him to keep his head down for a few months. That way he could wait until the more acrimonious scalp hunting had finished and then he could work out what his options were.

The boarding gate was curiously quiet. Looking around, as far as Henry could tell, he was the only passenger. Airline staff walking back along the pier to the terminal building looked at him with what seemed to Henry like a mixture of astonishment and sympathy. Henry got his first inkling of why when the stewardess came forward to open the gate. He wasn’t sure what sort of ‘plane the flight was using but with her bulk he hoped it was a large one. He’d been used to the idea of wide bodied aircraft, he was surprised to see it applied to cabin crew too. She peered at him through thick lensed, heavy black framed spectacles and beckoned him forward. Henry looked around to make sure it was him she wanted but to his disappointment there was no one else.

As he handed the woman his boarding card, his eyes were drawn to the thick dark moustache that adorned her top lip. She misinterpreted his startled curiosity for some form of flirtatious interest and handed him his boarding card back with a disturbing smile. As Henry got back to his seat he noticed her adjusting her dark brown uniform jacket in some sort of vain attempt to pretend that it had anything to do with the figure of the woman underneath it. When she straightened her jacket, her body appeared to move off in another direction entirely. As far as Henry could tell the uniform had been created by dyeing a khaki Soviet army jacket with cold tea and replacing the badges with the insignia of Air Kushtia. You could still see darker patches where the military badges that had been there before had stopped the fabric from fading.

When the fight attendant pulled back the curtain that closed off the boarding ramp he was only too pleased to slide past her and on towards the plane.

As he walked down the ramp he peered out of the window into the gathering gloom of the evening. The aircraft that was waiting for him was no sleek jet but one of the largest propeller driven aircraft that Henry had ever seen. With its thin fuselage, steeply swept back wings and four large engines each carrying two sets of propellers, the thing looked more like a bomber from the cold war than any sort of airliner that Henry had travelled on. He would have to ask his uncle about it, Henry thought, Freddie knew a lot about aircraft. He emerged from the ramp close to tail of the aircraft. Its fin and rudder stretched up high above him. Henry could see the insignia of Air Kushtia on the fin; it appeared to have been painted over a Soviet red star. Maybe his theories about cold war bombers weren’t so far off the mark.

The bulky, moustachioed, flight attendant was waiting at the head of the stairway as he climbed up to the rear passenger door. Henry was a bit puzzled as to how she might have got there given that she hadn’t passed him on the ramp but he managed to squeeze by her. As he did so he realised that it was not, after all, the same woman as had checked his ticket at the gate. He was depressed by the idea that, in Kushtia, maybe all women looked like this.

He stepped into the cabin and looked around, wondering at how an interior designer could find a use for so many shades of brown. He found his seat and stowed his flight bag in the overhead locker.

The engines coughed into life. He was evidently going to be alone for the first leg of the flight at least. He heard the flight attendant slam the rear door of the aircraft and then, obviously not happy that it had shut properly, slam it again. He was beginning to wonder if Freddie had done him such a favour after all.

The aircraft seemed to lope across the tarmac towards the runway before lurching upward with a whine of engines and staggering into the air. Henry thought the best thing to do would be to get some sleep.

“Henry George Arthur Clegg,” the judge was saying. “You have been responsible for defrauding your employer and the customers of your bank. You have caused distress and hardship. You have been found guilty of fraud and it is the sentence of this court that you will be taken from here to a place of confinement and then to a place of execution where you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead in twenty minutes.”

“In twenty minutes,” thought Clegg, “what sort of sentence was that? Where’s the time for appeals? That can’t be right.”

“In twenty minutes. Sir, we will be landing in Riga in twenty minutes. Please you must fasten your belt seat.”

Henry looked up with relief, waking up with a jump to find the flight attendant tugging at his arm. He nodded to show understanding, fiddled with the controls of his seat to slide it upright and strapped himself in, ready for what he feared would be a bumpy landing.

At Riga the flight was joined by more passengers, a small group of men in dark suits, dark shirts, dark ties and dark glasses that sat together and spoke not a word for the entire 4 hours of the next leg of the fight to Strigino. They left the fight there and Henry had the opportunity to stretch his legs while the plane refuelled.

The flight took off again heading to Tashkent. An hour out from Strigino, one of the engines coughed and failed, its propellers shuddering to a halt. Clegg waved the stewardess over to show her but she seemed neither surprised nor even very interested. At least that was reassuring, thought Clegg. Certainly it didn’t seem to interfere with the aircraft continuing its flight.

At Tashkent there was much shouting and excitement on the tarmac beneath his window as mechanics debated what if anything could or should be done about the faulty engine. A ladder was brought. Anch argument ensued. There was much banging and thumping from the engine nacelle as shouts of encouragement were offered from the ground. Clegg dozed off again, not anxious to witness exactly how they managed to get the plane airborne again.

By the time he woke again the plane was well into the final leg of the flight. Keen for a drink he decided to risk the attentions of the hirsute cabin staff and reached up for the stewardess call button. It came away as he tugged at it.

Henry, embarrassed, was trying to push it back into place when he realised that a stewardess was beside his seat. “What can I do to help, Sir?” a soft voice asked.

Henry turned to see a vision of loveliness staring down at him. The flight attendant was evidently no relative of the one that had crewed on the earlier parts of the flight. This girl was, Henry judged, barely twenty. She had almond shaped, dark brown eyes and a dark complexion. Her face was modestly veiled but her belly was naked, a jewel sparkling in her navel. Her uniform looked more like something that belonged in a middle eastern harem. Henry thought it a great improvement over the one earlier that had appeared to have been acquired from a T34 tank regiment. She reached across him to push the call button back into the panel. Her breasts were only inches from his face.

“Ah, a, ah, err yes, ah, a scotch please,” Henry stuttered.

“Of course.” The girl disappeared and returned moments later pushing a trolley with a tray carrying three bottles of different malts, a small ice bucket, a small jug of water and a cut glass tumbler. She knelt in the aisle beside his seat holding the tray towards him. “Which would you like sir?” she said.

Henry happy at the improvement in cabin service grinned. “The Laphroaig,” he said, “please.”

The girl smiled again, poured a stiff measure of the drink, offered him ice and water both of which he refused and then handed him the glass before kneeling again beside him to ask if there was anything else he needed.

It was only later, when Henry had learned much more of the compliant and obliging nature of Kushtian women, that he realised that he had missed an opportunity. As it was he settled for a bag of nuts.

© Freddie Clegg 2008

All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

Chapter 2 : Kolin International

The arrival formalities in Kolin seemed no more or less tedious than at any airport. That was one of the sad things about the development of air travel, Henry thought. After leaving Heathrow he felt there was nothing to choose between a run down, fly-blown, derelict airport with third world catering and the capital of Kushtia. Henry allowed himself a grin. Freddie would be furious if he heard him say that. One thing about his uncle – Freddie could be fiercely patriotic.

He emerged from the baggage claim, surprised that his bag seemed to have had no worse a flight than he had, and headed for customs. As Freddie had suggested, the informal entry visa of a $10 bill left carelessly in his passport speeded his admission to the People’s Democratic Republic of Kushtia.

In the arrivals hall, a short dark man was waiting carrying a cardboard sign with the words “Henly Cregg” scrawled on it. Henry thought that was close enough and presented himself to the man. He pointed to the exit and headed off towards it, barely giving Henry enough time to collect his bags and stagger after him. Henry found him outside sitting in a battered Zil limousine. He tossed his bag into the back and climbed in alongside the driver. As the car pulled away, Henry grasped at once the reason why so many Russian leaders used to be seen scowling so frequently.

It was dark. The complete lack of street lighting meant that Henry’s first impressions of Kushtia would be delayed until the morning. It was probably just as well. The airport road ran into town past a series of factories, cement plants, steel works and chemical refineries. It wasn’t the most attractive of routes.

When Freddie had set things up he’d asked Henry if he’d prefer the Kolin Holiday Inn or the Kolin Centrallum Hotel. Henry had opted for the latter, not wanting to check into yet another impersonal international chain hotel. As Henry climbed out of the Zil in front of the hotel he now realised why Freddie had said, “Well, if you’re sure….”

The hotel front was in complete darkness apart from a feeble bulb glowing over the front door. Henry pushed his way inside, dragging his bag behind him.

The lobby of the hotel was, however, much more welcoming than its exterior. There was light, there were comfortable looking chairs, there was a bar and, most intriguing of all, there was a woman naked apart from a veil that covered the lower half of her face, dancing on a table for the amusement of the guests. Henry though that Kushtia or at least the hotel had something going for it after all.

A loud cough from behind him drew his attention away from the spectacle in the bar. His driver was waiting. Evidently the opportunity to leer at naked flesh wasn’t sufficient recompense for his trip. Henry nodded towards the naked woman, “Not your sort of thing?”

“Ah, maybe. Without the veil, that would be something. With it – well you westerners may find it a novelty, perhaps.” He shrugged. Henry found him another $10 bill. The man flashed Henry a toothy grin and left.

By the time that Henry had registered and been given his room key the almost naked woman had, to his disappointment, gone. In spite of the absence of entertainment Henry made his way back to the bar. He ordered a beer. The barman insisted that he could only serve alcohol to foreign nationals and was then disappointed when Henry showed him his passport, the extra tips for this illegal service obviously making up part of what he considered his rightful payment entitlement. Henry sat down. There had been a message waiting for him at the check in desk. He opened the envelop to read it.

“Good greeting and most welcome to Kolin,” it said in neat handwriting on headed notepaper that proclaimed itself as coming from the People’s Bank of Kushtia. “It is my great pleasure that a brother son of the most excellent Freddie should be here in our country. My many distraughts that I can be not wit you tonight but will join in the morning feed time. Your most extraordinary correspondent. Kerren Kerrish. General Manager and Chief Cashier”

He re-read it and felt he had managed to take from it all the meaning that might be held within. Henry sank another beer and then a third before retiring to bed in anticipation of his meeting the following morning.

++ ++ ++

Kerren Kerrish arrived the following morning in time to interrupt Henry’s breakfast as he sat alone in the hotel restaurant. Henry saw him arrive at the doorway. He wasn’t sure that the man would actually get through it. Kerrish was man with a bushy white beard and a substantial girth. If his complexion had been lighter he might have made some store an ideal festive Santa Claus. “What delights, Mr Clegg, what delights,” he boomed as he stepped across to Henry’s table.

Clegg got to his feet. “Mr Kerrish,” he said, “good morning. It’s very good to see you.”

“Indeed. Indeed. And for me it is very good to see you. The bank needs your expertise. I understand from Mr Freddie Clegg that you have held a very responsible position in your British banking system. It is most good of you to bring those skills to Kushtia.”

Henry was quite happy to accept Mr Kerrish’s plaudits even though he wasn’t sure that his career in banking to date warranted them. It sounded as though Freddie had done a more than effective job in selling his capabilities to the Kushtians. He went on with his breakfast. Kerren Kerrish was offered coffee by Henry’s waiter and gladly took a cup.

“So. We have for you a nice office. We are very advanced here, with computers and everything. You will see. Just like your old lady of needle threading street.” Henry looked puzzled until he realised that Kerren was talking about the Bank of England. He wasn’t sure that he believed Kerren any more than he did his uncle. Kerren Kerrish finished his coffee. “We go to the bank now. You find we work for mornings just. From 10 o’clock to one o’clock. That is enough for work. Then after for pleasure and rest. Better that way than work all times. So we go to the bank now.”

Henry nodded. He could see that the hardest part of the job was likely to be understanding just what his boss was talking about, but then, he thought, that’s hardly the first time.

++ ++ ++

The head office of the People’s Bank of Kushtia turned out to be a short stroll across the square from the hotel. Kerren Kerrish was bulky but surprisingly agile as he bobbed through the crowds, avoiding the clouds of diesel fumes belching from the buses that seemed to take little notice of pedestrians whether they were in the road or on the pavement. Henry followed him, narrowly avoiding being run down on several occasions.

A doorman waved them into the bank with an expansive gesture and a deep bow to Kerrish. Inside, the banking hall was suitably impressive with heavy wooden counters, brass rails and grills for the staff; deep leather chairs and polished tables for the customers. Kerren Kerrish swept through the hall, staff bowing as he passed them, Henry hurrying along behind him. Kerrish led the way into an enormous office with a desk the size of a billiards table. “Head of Business Banking and Credit Services” it said on the door. Henry wondered what the owner of the office was like; it looked like this was going to be his new boss.

“Take a seat,” said Kerrish, gesturing to the chair behind the desk. “You should get used to your new office.” Henry was beginning to worry that Freddie might have oversold his capabilities. “I will have your chief clerk acquaint you with the bank’s procedures. He will be able to take care of most things for you. Trust your staff, Mr Henry, they are capable men. Now you will need a secretary.”

“I suppose so,” Henry was still somewhat bemused by the turn of events that had him disappearing from one bank pursued by the authorities on one day and marching into this enormous office on the next. He wished he knew a bit more about Kushtia than he did. All he had to go on was that it was along way from London, Freddie’s assurance that “they’re a reasonable bunch of chaps” and the fact that Freddie had done business with them for a while

“Do you have a preference?”

Henry thought for a moment. If he had been honest he’d have expressed a wish for someone more like the stewardess on the Tashkent-Kolin leg of his flight out than the one that had welcomed him on board at London but he felt that would probably be seen as politically incorrect. “I’m sure that any of the bank’s secretaries will be well able to fulfil the role, Mr Kerrish,” he said to Kerren. “I will be advised by you.”

Kerren looked puzzled for a moment but then said, “Well, I shall send you one. I hope you find her suitable.”

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

1. Chapter 3: Suitable Staff

There was a knock on his office door and, once Henry had realised that whoever was outside was waiting to be invited in, a young woman entered. Kerren Kerrish had been as good as his word and based on his first sight of her Henry thought she would be very suitable indeed.

She was, he supposed, about twenty one or twenty two years old and wore a curious combination of western and what he assumed was traditional Kushtian dress. On her head she wore a pill box hat from which draped a scarf that hung across the lower half of her face veiling all of her features apart from a pair of sparkling, dark brown eyes fringed with long lashes. If her headwear was traditional, Kushtian and modest, the rest of her outfit was anything but. She wore a white blouse that fitted tightly across her breasts and her skirt while straight and tailored was slit so that with each step Henry was afforded an excellent view of her legs. He waved her into the office. To his delight Henry realised that the girl was wearing stockings and, from the way she strode across the room, her skirt dividing at each step, she didn’t mind that he knew it.

“Mr Kerrish said I should see to anything at all that you needed,” she said. Henry thought her tone distinctly flirtatious. She was carrying a set of files. As she leant forward to place the files on his desk, Henry had an excellent view of her cleavage. He felt it hadn’t been accidental.

“Well, Miss ..” he began.

“Anchari Astana,” the woman said. “I am called Anchari. But my friends call me Anch, please.”

“Well Anch,” Henry went on. “I hope you will be able to help me. This is all very new to me.”

“I’m sure I can help,” she sat herself on the desk beside him, crossing her nylon sheathed legs. “Mr Kerrish was very keen for me to do all I can. Oh, excuse me.” Henry realised that the top button of her blouse had given up the unequal battle to keep her blouse closed and had become unfastened. Anch refastened it without embarrassment and then turned her attention back to Henry. “So what should I do first of all?”

“Well, why don’t you take off that veil,” Henry said, “I’m sure you don’t need it in here.”

Anch leapt to her feet, startling Henry and shouting. “What do you take me for? Mr Kerrish said I should be nice to you but you treat me like some common huna! I am no huna!” She stormed out of the room, practically knocking over Kerren Kerrish as she pushed passed him in the doorway.

Henry was on his feet calling her to come back but she ignored him. Kerren Kerrish looked at Henry. “What ever has upset Miss Astana? She is one of our most experienced staff. She seemed very distressed.”

“I don’t understand,” Henry said. “She seemed – well – very friendly.”

Kerrish smiled. “Kushtian girls are all very friendly,” he said, “you will have no difficulty finding companionship for your relaxations in the afternoons. Miss Astana would be very suitable. Yes?”

“Well I hadn’t thought of that but yes.” Henry was surprised by Kerrish’s casual suggestion that his secretary would be happy to provide sexual favours. “But I have obviously upset her.”

“I am surprised, good friend. Of course the appetites of the Cleggs are legendary but even so I cannot imagine what you could have said that would have scandalised Miss Astana so.”

“But I made no improper suggestion, I simply suggested that she take off her veil and ….”

“Ah!” Kerrish threw up his hands. “Ah! I understanding. Such a thing is not nice here in Kushtia. For a girl to show her face before her marriage. No! Only the poorest of women in Kushtia would dream of going without a veil. You will find that Kushtian girls are most accommodating in every other respect but they would find such a thing deeply insulting.”

“She said I was treating her like a common – what was the word – huna?”

“Oh yes. A girl dog.”

“Bitch?”

“Yes, bitch. It is an insult to call a woman so in English? Even though you love your dogs?”

“Yes. Look can I apologise to her?”

“No. No. That is not the way.” Kerren’s face had a look of astonished disbelief. “No man can apologise to a Kushtian girl. That would bring great loss of face. Please let me explain to her your misunderstanding. She may forgive you. I will do what I can. This is what friends are for. Leave this to your friend. See.” Kerren excused himself and left the office.

A few minutes later the girl reappeared, knocking politely at the door to the office. Henry beckoned her in. Before he could say anything she spoke. “Mr Kerrish has explained that you do not know our ways and traditions. I should have explained how things are here. Please forgive me.” She lowered her eyes to the floor.

Henry was grateful for the opportunity to repair things. “That is quite all right,” he said. “I have much to learn. I am sure you will be able to help me.”

“So, you would like me to stay?”

“Yes, yes indeed.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” Anch said. “I was afraid that you did not like me and that your words were intended to make me go.”

“Not in the least. Now perhaps you could explain these files. I suppose that I should try to understand them.”

“First some coffee though? You would like?”

“I would like very much. Thank you, Anch. What is ‘thank you’ in Kushtian?”

“Thaknarish.”

“Thaknarish,” Henry imitated.

“Very good,” Anch clapped her hands delightedly. “I will get coffee.”

She returned moments later with a large brass jug and two tiny porcelain cups and poured them each some of the thick, black liquid. Henry took a sip. The coffee was warm rather than hot and extremely sweet and strong. “Thaknarish,” said Henry, raising his cup to Anch.

She lifted hers in response, “You say ‘cheers’ in English?”

“That’s right. You speak very good English.”

“Thank you,” said Anch. “We learn at school. It is a difficult language. Much harder than Kushtian. So many words.”

Henry was enjoying the discussion. Anch was an attractive girl. Even if her face was veiled, the rest of her physical attributes more than made up for that. His eyes were drawn to the swell of her breasts and then, as he looked up, he saw that she had noticed his stare and her eyes told him that she was smiling behind her veil. “Ah, err, yes,” Henry stuttered.

“Do not be embarrassed Mr Clegg,” Anch said. “All Kushtian men admire the woman. They all like the breasts. Do you think mine are nice? Sometimes I think they are too small. Perhaps one day I will go to America or London and get new, big breasts.”

“They are lovely, Anch. I don’t think they need to be any bigger.”

“I’m not sure,” she started to unbutton her blouse, obviously anxious for some further reassurance.

Henry was more concerned not to get thrown out of his job on his first morning and was anxious to encourage her to put them away without offending her again. “Err, your medallion,” he said pointing to the disk that hung from a cord around her neck. “That’s very attractive. Is that gold?”

His question distracted Anch from inspecting her breasts although she did nothing to fasten her blouse. She lifted up the bright disk and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It is my properta. All Kushtian women wear them. I am lucky to have this in gold.”

“Properta? Like the English word ‘property’?”

“Yes that is right. It shows the household that I belong to. Luckily my household is wealthy so my properta is made of gold. With the properta anyone can tell from which household a woman is belonging to. The household is very important in Kushtia. It is the centre of our lives. To wear the properta of a wealthy household is to have high status. I am very lucky. Now please come and tell me what you think of my breasts.”

“Ah, well, surely not here in the office.”

“Of course. This is why we have cubicon.”

“Cubicon?”

Anch gestured to a curtain against one wall. She took Henry by the hand and led him towards it. Pulling back the curtain, she revealed a small recess with a couch littered with large cushions. “Here,” she said leading him to the couch and encouraging him to lie down. “Cubicon is very important for senior managers. Too much stress is very bad for you. Here you can have your stress relieved. Part of my job is to ensure that your stress is least. I feel you are tense and need to have less stress.” Henry gulped. He had to admit feeling stressed but he wasn’t prepared to tell Ann that she was the cause rather than the cure. “All Kushtian men like breasts. Are English men the same?” she said, kneeling astride him, pulling off her blouse and reaching behind her back to unfasten her bra. Her full, dark breasts spilled forward towards him.

“Ah,” said Henry appreciatively. “Yes, ah, yes, English men do like breasts, generally. And these are very nice indeed, err, very nice.”

“But they should be bigger? Yes?”

“No, not at all Anch,” Henry was thinking that if these were any bigger he would be in serious danger if one or other of them hit him. “I don’t think they need to be any bigger. No, not at all.”

“You English men are so polite. It is very nice. I shall play your piscalo.”

“Piscalo?”

“Oh, in Kushtian, it is a musical instrument. Like a – what? – flute. But it also means…” She pointed down to his crotch and in response to his “Oh!” dived for the zip of his trousers and, pushing her veil aside, quickly had her tongue around his prick. Henry decided that he was in no position to argue with Kushtian traditions and leant back to enjoy it.

Anch didn’t pause when Kerren Kerrish put his head around the cubicon curtain. “Ah! Good! You are falling into our ways. That is excellent. Miss Astana is very capable as a secretary is she not?”

“Indeed. Ah!” Henry gasped in between Anch’s enthusiastic sucking and licking. He found it difficult to hold up his part of the conversation while his other end was being kept up so effectively by his secretary.

“Well. Shortly in my office please join me. No needing to hurry. Just when Miss Astana has finished her present tasks.”

Henry nodded and Kerrish left. Anch continued. She was apparently undisturbed by Kerren’s arrival but skilfully and swiftly brought Henry to orgasm, licking him clean of his jism with enthusiasm. She reached down beside the couch and pulled out a small silken cloth with which she wiped and dried Henry’s member. The gentle touch of the cloth, so carefully used, seemed to encourage Henry’s prick back into life. “There,” she said. “Now you will feel much more relaxed. Ready for your meeting with Mr Kerren.”

Henry had to admit that he was feeling significantly improved by his encounter with Anch. He got up from the couch, zipped his fly and headed off towards the office of Kerren Kerrish.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

Chapter 4 : Loan Agreement

Kerren Kerrish’s office was even larger than Henry’s. It was hardly surprising, Henry thought, but it did mean you ought to be able to get a taxi from the door to the desk. As he arrived, Kerrish emerged from what Henry took to be his own cubicon, followed a moment later by a leggy dark haired women in her late thirties, Henry guessed. She gathered her wrap around dress about her with a flourish that left Henry uncertain what if anything he had seen of her body and left the pair of them to their discussions.

At Kerren’s suggestion,. Henry took a seat. “I have small project for you,” he said. “No doubt simple after your many triumphs for Bank of England” Henry thought for a moment – he didn’t remember claiming that but maybe Freddie had polished Henry’s CV a little. “One of our best customers has a chance for new business making. An opportunity but – as is always – it needs funding.”

“I guess that’s good news for us,” said Henry.

“Indeed, indeed. With no need for money where would a bank be? But, of course, not all opportunities are as splendid as they seem. Some have greater risk than others, some require more security than others, some will generate a greater return than others. I would like you to talk to our customer, assess the opportunity, advise me on the risk, determine what interest you think we should charge.”

“Fine. I can do that.” Henry wasn’t at all sure that he was qualified. Back in London whenever anyone wanted a loan they just fired up the computer and filled in the forms and the system said yes or no. Nevertheless, Henry thought, how hard could it be? It was probably some farmer looking for a loan to build a barn or something.

“You need to talk to Kushnati Koresh, he is one of our Council Elders. He is not too able to speak English but his wife is American. He has asked for her to deal with this. It is unusual but I suppose we must move with the times in some things.”

Henry didn’t see what was so odd about Koresh’s wife discussing a bank loan but he let Kerren continue.

“Miss Astana will provide you with the files. She will arrange a car for you. Mr Koresh and his wife will be able to see you tomorrow morning. I am sure you will be able to assess their application. Of course as a Council Member Mr Koresh has a preferred status with the Bank, he will be very happy to meet with you.”

Henry wasn’t entirely happy. He felt he might be getting out of his depth in political waters. It sounded like his boss didn’t want to hear that this loan wasn’t a good idea and that, if it did go bad, he’d be the one carrying the can for the bank. Oh well, no change there.

Back in his office, Anch was already waiting for him with the Koresh file. “I have asked for your car to collect you from the hotel in the morning,” she said. “It is one o’clock now so you will go back there, I think. For me it is time to go back to my household too.”

Henry was disappointed, he’d been looking forward to spending some more time with Anch but there would be plenty of other opportunities he thought. “That’s all right, Anch,” he said. “I’ll see you when I get back from talking to Mr Koresh and his wife.”

“His wife? On bank matters? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr Kerrish said that she was to be involved in the discussions. Why? Is that odd?”

“Very, Mr Henry, very,” An responded. “In Kushtia a woman is not able to have a bank account. Such things can only be had by a man.”

“But how do you manage? What do you do with your wages? Surely they don’t pay you in cash.”

“No, of course. But I don’t receive wages. The earnings from my work here go to my household. They provide my food and lodging and my clothes and for my care. That is what the properta means, I contribute to my household and they take care of me.”

“I see,” said Henry, not really seeing at all. It sounded very odd.

“Now, I must go, if that is all right, Sir. I have to be back at my household for two o’clock. There are domestic duties to take care of.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Well, you must tell me more of your household, Anch. I would be interested to learn more about your life.”

Anch nodded her head and walked across to her desk gathering up a few things for her handbag. She took a magazine from her desk and was about to put it into her bag when she said, “Here is another good Kushtian word for you.” She held out the magazine and pointed to the title. “Yassi!” it said.

“Yassi?” Henry responded, taking the magazine.

“Yes, good,” said Anch. “It means ‘Hello’ or ‘Greetings’.”

Henry nodded and looked again at the magazine’s cover. “Lady Sonia Beckham is as much a celebrity here then?” he said pointing to the cover.

“Oh no. That is not Mr Beckham’s wife. She does look very like her though, I agree. Also called Lady Sonia. That is the chief wife of the son of our Kalinin, our president. She is an English girl.”

“The chief wife? I suppose his others are called Gerri, Emma and Melanie.”

“So you know them? It was very odd, first for a son to marry five wives at once and then for them all to be foreign. He was a big fan of the Spice Girls they say. His wives are all very like them.”

Henry thought the whole thing very odd. “Well, I guess the cult of celebrity extends everywhere these days,” he said. “Well she certainly looks like Posh Spice, or at least the way she looked when last I saw a picture of her. What do people in Kushtia think?”

“She is very scandalous!”

“I see. Because her face is not covered?”

“No, silly. She is a wife, once you are a wife your husband may be happy to display you, if he allows. No, there are rumours about her and other men and that her husband encourages her behaviour. But she has nice breasts, doesn’t she? Should I have my breasts made like those, do you think?”

“Anch, I think your breasts are just fine.”

“Only fine?” In spite of her veil Henry could sense the sulky pout. “But I must go.” She pulled a heavy shawl around her shoulders and then, finally took out a pair of heavy brass bracelets and fastened them on to her wrists. As she stood up to leave Henry saw that the bracelets were linked by a short length of heavy brass chain.

“What are those?” Henry said.

“These?” said Anch turning towards him. “These are manuses.”

“But they’re like handcuffs. Do you walk home wearing those in the street?”

“Yes, of course. Many Kushtian girls wear them. These are very grand. You see how the cuffs are broad and the chain is quite short. That is very much the way they are being worn this year. My household was very good to buy me such fashionable ones. My friend Harana is very jealous. Her’s are not so wide. She tried to hide them under her shawala when she saw mine.” Anch laughed. “I will see you tomorrow Mr Henry,” she said and left him bewildered.

Henry shut up the things in his office and made his way back to the hotel along the empty streets of Kolin. The hotel lobby was deserted he grabbed his key from the rack behind the reception desk and made his way upstairs to his room.

He flicked on the TV. Three channels of TV Kushtia all showed a blank screen with words that said the same thing. “Back at 20:00” he looked at his watch. It was 20:15. There wasn’t anything else. He looked out across the square. It was empty. There didn’t seem much else to do except to sit down and go through the Koresh file. Oh, and maybe introduce himself to the contents of the mini-bar.

By the time it came to think about dinner he’d formed a good view of the nature of Mr. Koresh’s finances. The mini bar had been a disappointment. In a country where you had to show your passport to get hold of alcohol it shouldn’t have surprised him that the small fridge contained only fruit juice. He was glad to toss the file aside and go in search of food and a drink to go with it.

© Freddie Clegg 2009

All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

All characters fictitious

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

1. Chapter 5 : The Household of Kushnati Koresh

Henry’s car bounced its way across the potholes on the road leading out of Kolin. They crossed the bridge across the almost dry river bed of the Kolin River and headed out through scrubby rocky countryside.

The car stopped outside a large, low, seemingly derelict building. A honk of the car’s horn brought someone to the tall door that filled a high archway halfway along the front wall. Henry peered out of the car. This didn’t look very impressive for someone that was supposedly a Kushtian Council Elder. He climbed out and headed to the door.

As he entered, his opinion changed. The doorway gave onto a courtyard that, in contrast to the barren land outside, was filled with luxuriant foliage. Water played from fountains in the corners of the courtyard. Two veiled women sat chatting on a bench to one side; two others were carrying large baskets of fruit across the courtyard. Henry’s bemusement at the extraordinary difference between the courtyard inside and the countryside outside the walls of the building was interrupted by the muscular young Kushtian man that had opened the door. “For Mr Koresh? From the bank?” he said.

Henry nodded and the young man led the way further into the building. The verdant greens of the courtyard gave way to opulent gold silk and purple velvet wall hangings and finely knotted silk carpets inside. Henry was astonished by the sheer luxury of the surroundings. His mouth was still hanging open when he was shown into a large room furnished in even greater splendour. At one end of the room an old wizened man sat in a wheel chair, gazing vacantly across the room. To the side, on two large padded leather couches, two women reclined, talking to one another in animated fashion. Henry recognised one of them immediately as the woman he had seen earlier on the cover of Yassi! Magazine. The other, much younger, he took to be Koresh’s wife. She got up and approached him, her long skirt brushing across the floor.

Henry offered his hand. “Henry Clegg,” he said. “from the People’s Bank.”

Koresh’s wife and the woman from Yassi! exchanged puzzled glances but then waved him towards their couch. “Hi,” the woman said in a sharp Brooklyn accent, “I’m Lauren – wife of Kushnati Koresh. My friend here is the wife of the eldest son of the Kalinin. He calls her Lady Sonia.”

“I can see why,” Henry said, conscious that she was watching him closely. “I understand that your husband wishes to discuss some financial matters.” Henry looked across to where Kushnati Koresh was sitting in his wheelchair. He didn’t look as if he was up to discussing anything much.

“Of course,” said Lauren. “I will bring him over. I shall need to translate for you.” She walked across to where Kushnati sat, unlocked the brake on his chair and wheeled him back to where Henry was sitting. He stood up and offered his hand. Kushnati Koresh continued to stare straight ahead giving no sign that he had any awareness of Henry’s presence. “I will explain things,” said Lauren. “but first, tell me, Clegg isn’t a very common English name is it? Do you know a Freddie Clegg? A dark haired man with a wiry moustache.”

“Well yes. It’s not a common name. Freddie Clegg is my uncle. That sounds exactly like him. How do you know him?”

“Ah – both Lady Sonia and I had some involvement with one of his companies before we came to Kushtia.”

“I’ll mention it when I talk to him next,” said Henry sociably.

“Oh, I shouldn’t think he’d remember us,” Lady Sonia said acidly.

Henry blinked, puzzled by her response. He knew Freddie had some dealings with the Kushtian’s but why these two women should have been involved he couldn’t imagine. Lauren interrupted. “Can we get on?” Henry nodded. “OK, here’s the pitch. Mr Koresh here has very good contacts with the elders of the tribes in the northern hills. For many years they chose their wives from Russian stock. Recently they have found it difficult to find wives. Through my father in the Trade Ministry I have found how I can solve that. What is need is funding to allow us to satisfy that need; finance for the initial expenses until we can recoup them from our fees.”

Henry was bemused. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m not sure if I’ve got this straight. These elders will pay you to find them wives? Oh, I’m sorry I should be talking to your husband, shouldn’t I?”

“Of course,” said Lauren, “everyone knows that a Kushtian woman cannot borrow money.” Even so Kushnati Koresh showed little sign of understanding what was going on. “But yes, you’re right. They’ll pay a premium because of my husband. He is well respected. They will feel his choice guarantees a good wife.”

“A premium brand?”

“Precisely.”

“So you’d be running a sort of marriage brokers.”

“Sort of.”

“And is it easy to persuade Russian girls that there is a good life to be had in Kushtia?”

“Easy enough. But that will be what we’re doing.” She pointed to herself and Lady Sonia. Henry wasn’t at all sure how Kushnati could contribute anything to the business. He was lolling limply in his chair, dribbling from one corner of his mouth.

Henry quizzed Lauren on the funding required. She made a pretence of consulting her apparently unhearing husband on several occasions but gave Henry all the data he needed. The costs appeared to have been well thought out with substantial sums allocated to the recruitment of potential brides. The girls were very confident of the level of fees that the business could charge. They explained how they needed cash to support it although there was sufficient collateral with Kushnati’s assets.

Well, it was hardly the Dragon’s Den, thought Henry, but, apart from the fact that Kushnati Koresh looked to be pretty much a sleeping partner in the enterprise, there seemed to be no reason why the bank shouldn’t advance the money. “If you can have your husband sign the necessary documents, I am sure that the bank will support this,” Henry said.

Lady Sonia raised an eyebrow at Lauren but she simply said, “Leave the forms with me, I’ll get him to sign them when he’s feeling better. Won’t you darling?” This time at least Kushnati managed a flick of an eyelid, though whether of agreement or not Henry could hardly say.

Henry got up to leave. Lauren rang a bell and a muscular man appeared. He gave Lauren a lascivious leer. “Our overseer will take you back to your car,” Lauren said. The man looked disappointed but turned to Henry to indicate the way he should go.

As Henry began to walk towards the door, the overseer stepped between Lauren and her husband and, ignoring the old man in the wheel chair, gripped Lauren in a tight embrace, locking his mouth onto hers and pawing at her breasts.

Lady Sonia looked on with an air of amused tolerance. “He’s too eager,” she said. “Lauren, you really should tell him to control himself.”

Lauren disentangled herself from the overseer’s grasp and shooed him away. With a disappointed air he gestured for Henry to follow him towards the door. Henry felt grateful to get back to his car.

Chapter 6: Financial Evaluation

In the office, Anch was in shocked disbelief. “You actually met Lady Sonia? The wife of the Kalinin’s eldest son?” Henry had hardly got through the door, Anch hadn’t even removed her manuses but she was anxious to hear the slightest bit of gossip and was bombarding him with questions. “There are really shocking rumours about her now. Some say that she has men that she treats as her doenyes – her servants. That she has made her own properta for them to wear in secret. That she makes them wear manuses for her or even the chanoosh! Can you imagine a man doing such a thing?”

Henry didn’t know what to say. Lady Sonia had just seemed like one of many pushy women entrepreneurs he had come across. He wouldn’t have been surprised by anything that she got up to in the bedroom if she felt it would help whatever scheme she was involved it.

Anch was still chattering on. “Is she as beautiful as she looks in the magazine? What was she wearing? Are her breasts really like they look in the photographs?”

“You shouldn’t worry about your breasts so much,” Henry chided, enjoying the fact that Anch was wearing an exceptionally tight sweater that provided him with all the information he needed to reassure her.

“We shall have to go in the cubicon later,” she flirted, “so you can be sure.”

“Well, Miss Astana” Henry responded playfully. “I am most anxious to be certain. We shall most definitely find some time to review the matter. For now though I would like some coffee.”

Anch nodded her head and got up to go in search of the brass pot and tiny cups. They had only time for a single cup before Kerren Kerrish summoned Henry to his office.

“So, Mr English Banker, your assessment of this project, please. Should we advance money?” Kerren was in expansive mood.

Henry was keen to tread carefully. “Well, Mr Kerrish, the business proposal seems sound and the sums involved are not large. Of course the credentials of Mr Koresh are beyond reproach and in any case there is sufficient security.”

“I am hearing an unspoken ‘But’ in your assessment, I fear.”

“It is only my concern regarding his wife, Mr Kerrish. It seemed to me that this was more her scheme than his, if you understand me.”

“Indeed I do, Indeed I do. Many of those who take westerners as wives or concubines discover that their women find it hard to give up their traditions of independence. Fortunately we need not worry. In Kushtian law no woman can make a contract. So the husband is always responsible for the actions of his wife.”

“But in this case – with Mr Koresh so unwell – I suspect he is much less able than his wife pretends.”

“You are right to be concerned. I think we should proceed as you suggest but we should also protect our interests. I think you should keep a close eye on this business enterprise. It would be most unfortunate if anything were to embarrass a council member or, worse still, the Kalinin.”

“Oh good,” thought Henry. “No pressure.” What he said was, “Absolutely, Mr Kerrish, you can rely on me. I will arrange review meetings with Mr Koresh’s wife, so that she can keep me up to date with progress.”

“Very good. I will inform Mr Koresh that the bank will approve the loan.”

When Henry returned to his office, Anch was waiting for him. “Your ten o’clock appointment is here, Mr Henry,” she said. “Mrs Hallanan wishes to discuss with you a loan application.”

“Anch, I’m puzzled,” Henry replied “I did not think that the bank could lend to a woman. This is not more of the Koresh business is it?”

“No, not at all. The loan is for her husband but she has come here to plead his case.”

Henry was beginning to wonder if any Kushtian man handled his own financial affairs. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that I had better see her.”

Henry’s reluctance was immediately overcome by the appearance of the woman. Although veiled, of course, she was dressed for the rest in the most elegant of western fashions, with a conspicuous display of expensive finery. Henry wondered how much of a loan her husband was looking for. It had to be substantial, otherwise he could just pawn his wife’s designer clothes. ”

The woman spoke out in a stream of a guttural dialect of Kushtian. Henry had to apologise. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”

His question brought forth a similarly unintelligible response. Henry called Anch across. “This is no good,” he said, “you’ll have to translate for us.”

Anch looked slightly embarrassed. “She says she has been sent by her husband to do anything that you need in order that the loan is approved.”

“Well,” said Henry, misunderstanding comprehensively, “I’d better look at the file, make sure that all the forms are here and so on.”

Anch blushed. “No, Mr Henry,” she said.” She says she must go to the cubicon with you for discussions. Her husband insists. This is how things are done.”

Henry looked at the dark almond eyes of the woman as she stared intently at him over her veil. He took in the way that her well cut suit fitted what was evidently a trim figure and how the shortness of her skirt showed off the shapeliest of thighs. It would, he decided, be rude to refuse to discuss matters further and gestured to the cubicon. The woman took him by the hand and led him to the curtained couch.

Almost as soon as he had spread himself out on the couch the woman was kneeling beside him, gabbling away. “Anch,” Henry called, “You must come and translate. And bring your pad, there may be things we need to keep a note of.”

Anch looked embarrassed but joined Henry behind the cubicon’s curtain as the woman started to fumble with Henry’s fly zip. She chattered on, apparently unconcerned by the presence of Anch who was translating as best she could to keep up with the woman’s constant stream of talk. “The loan details should be all that the bank requires,” Anch translated, “”There is quite sufficient security to meet the bank’s requirements and there should be every reason to grant the loan. Of course it is recognised that first families get priority in these matters but surely the bank recognises the importance of the stimulus to the economy… “ by this stage the woman had pushed Henry’s trousers and underpants down and had knelt astride him, pushing her skirt, with some difficulty, up over her hips.

Henry, somewhat nonplussed by the turn of events still managed to turn to Anch and ask “What is this about first families?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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