Swiss Exchange - Sex Stories

Swiss Exchange

... look inside. All and all, a very satisfactory result."

The evening at the Hotel Riffleberg was set off by a raucous happy two hours in the bar with two of the young hotel staffers dancing the poles in skimpy bikini bottoms and the remaining guests mingling and mixing with each other and with accommodating hotel employees. The Greek shipper, Christos Diakos, and his boytoy, Kabr Zeidan, had already checked out; the supposed New Zealander, Peter Summerfield, was in his suite fucking Luca Meier to bring him back into the CIA Candy Store fold; and the hotel manager/senior chemist Akhtar Fariba was fucking Jeff Reynolds in his apartment. But the rest were there in a tension-relieving party mood. The drama of the espionage operations that had been going on under the surface had been lifted. The operations had been successful.

Projecting the raucous evening on, and with Winterberry's extensive crew still engaged in distracting the Iranian ski instructor/chemical research manager Farzin Ahmadi and the Iranian researchers from understanding they'd been had, the Russian, French, German, and Italian guests had happily taken Ahmadi up on the suggestion to retire to the spare suite, with its beckoning beds, along with the pole dancers and other rent-boy hotel staffers, to engage in an all-night orgy.

During the night, various guests withdrew from the party room. By morning, all of the Russians, Germans, French, and the Italian guests along with the supposed New Zealander, ...

... Summerfield, taking Luca Meier with him, had checked out and were filtering out of Switzerland.

When Summerfield departed the hotel, he turned at the entrance and smiled at and saluted Iman, the doorman, standing there, peering into the early-morning mists swirling around Riffleberg Mountain, his Kalashnikov at the ready. Iman, little knowing that Summerfield was laughing at him inside for dutifully looking for danger outside of the hotel when it had just been playing to a resolution behind the doorman's back inside the hotel, saluted back, but he did not smile. His duty was clear to him--the results of the last two days not so much.

A bleary-eyed Jeff Reynolds arrived belatedly for breakfast in the dining room to encounter a somewhat bewildered but completely nonunderstanding hotel manager, Akhtar Fariba. The Iranian ski instructor, Farzin Ahmadi, who should have been maintaining awareness of what was happening in the hotel, was still abed in the spare suite with two of the Iranian researchers. He hadn't noticed when the German, Jonas Koch, and left him and checked out with the German skier, Maximilian Bauer, his job of keeping Ahmadi distracted successfully accomplished.

"They're gone. He's gone with them," Fariba said, as Reynolds sat at his table.

"Who's gone?" Reyolds asked, fully aware of who had cleared out.

"Most of the guests. But one of my employees, Luca Meier, is gone as well. The man you came with, Peter Summerfield, is gone."

"Summerfield is gone?" ...