Fred knew what the guide meant. According to his father, it had certainly been a long time after the war before his grandfather had said anything about what he knew of what had gone on there.Fred followed the group of visitors as the guide led the way out of the Mansion and around the outbuildings that had housed the teams that had worked on the Ultra material — the code name given to the Enigma intercepts.The tour wound its way around the complex, finishing up at the working replica of one of Turing's Bombes. The clatter of the machine's rotors was impressive enough, it was daunting to think what the noise must have been like with ten of the things running.Eventually they found their way back to the Mansion. "Ladies and Gentlemen," the guide said, "there's one last thing we'd like to show you and, frankly to ask for your help. We know that a lot of the visitors here have family recollections of things that went on at Station X which were never recorded and we're rather baffled by a. Shit, if she wanted to snore he wouldn’t care, any sound she made would be good, though he was still glad she wasn’t snoring. Her face was all made up, dark lashes, ruby lips, exotic looking eye liner. It was like looking at a more beautiful, prettier, Mona Lisa. He scouted out what she was wearing. The nightgown felt soft, like silk. It was silk. He could see her boobs. God they looked succulent. He wondered if that was an appropriate way to describe them. He knew they sure looked luscious, gorgeous: positively, absolutely edible. He watched and listened to her slow shallow rhythmic breathing. Should he wake her up? If he awakened her they’d surely have sex. But if he woke her up now, she might not get back to sleep, then they’d lose a whole day on the gazebo. He watched her breathing some more. He rolled so he was facing her stomach, her flat stomach. Stretching slightly he caught sight of her navel, an innie, but he knew that. Anybody this perfect had to have an innie. It didn’t.
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