Love To Die For: The Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West

By Kris Deva North

From risking death to love a virgin Princess, through sex on the polo field, dance floor, boardroom, beach and freeway, to orgies made in Chelsea, these twenty seven tantalizing stories track the erotic adventures of a man who loves sex as much as he loves war.
Harry West lives for the fun of the fight and Fun with a K, from the rooftops of Wanchai to the debs of the King’s Road, pale lilies and dusky maidens. Addicted to the taste of forbidden fruit, he savors the passion of contact, the moment of climax, the smell of conquest in and out of bed. Until the moment his life, his career, flashes before his eyes as if he were a drowning man.
Men and women like Harry and Holly, Alice and Charlie, know what they want and go for it, spurring ahead through triumph and disaster, laughing their way to climax after climax. Come inside and join the Fun!
LK of London: Far more interesting than Fifty Shades, written by a Tantra teacher, and set in some fascinating places. Full of sex ... Mrs GM of Ireland: A wonderful piece of writing...intriguing, mind-expanding (especially the bit with the mother/daughter in Mother Love), cheeky, and witty, as well as the thrill of teenage kicks.... And Love to Die For was gripping: love, death, heartache, hope, escape....a real thriller! GT London: This is quite an unconventional book of modern erotic tales, written by a Taoist Master in a style that is graceful, sensitive, and baroque enough to appeal to a woman as well.
Miss AA: Mr North has produced an erotic masterpiece, sensual, exciting and elegant, leaving chick lit and mummy porn fading into yesterday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kris Deva North
• Release date: Nov 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301432806

Kris Deva North

Kris Deva North has been involved in Taoist practice since 1987. In 1993 he cofounded the Zen School of Shiatsu and London Tao Centre. He lives in London.

Book preview

1. LOVE TO DIE FOR

Saudi Arabian women could travel abroad only if accompanied by a close male relative: father, brother, husband or son.

Waiting for a client making her last flight before the ban came into effect, ex-Captain West stood in Arrivals at Heathrow, holding a name-card, and wondering what she would be like. Her uncle had given him no more information than flight number, the name she traveled by, and that the family were transferring her to a girls-only boarding school in the English countryside. New York, he said, was getting too liberal.

Uncle, a minor prince with a major appetite, spent most of his time wheeling and dealing in London: engineers and lawyers by day, dancing girls by night: Omar Khayyam in Regent Street, Cashlite in St James's, Pars Persian in Earls Court.

With a brief 'Get a movie set up for later,' the Prince set off with one of the hotel drivers on a round of contract hustling while Harry headed for Heathrow by way of Clapham, where a garage-operator ran a sideline: a projector-hire business with a stock of films to the taste of princes.

The Arabs seemed to like his manner, easy yet efficient, and that he never obviously tried to take advantage of them, or took liberties (that they knew of.) Their tradition was to treat everyone as equal. Some drivers got themselves in trouble, forgetting their real status, and getting fired for such familiarity as bantering with girls hired to sit at the table for the princes' amusement: girls whom Harry would wait to drive home from the royal beds before sharing their pleasures. They also liked that he could get them anything they wanted, from blue movies to drugs to girls, all at the short notice they took for granted. And they paid what he asked, for everything.

He saw trolleys piled with Gucci and Louis Vuitton roll by as First started to come through. Professional anxiety pervaded the Terminal 2 chauffeur group: anxiety for clients to be alert for name-boards, not wander past to be hustled by some random pirate who would charge them half and think he was ripping them off.

Harry saw her.

'Jee-zus,' he heard from a Hertz driver, 'just look at that.'

These many years gone by he sees her now as clearly as he saw her then, walking with thoroughbred grace through the concourse of stares and lip-licking tongues.

She comes closer. His body goes hot inside the charcoal suit, his neck fills the collar of his white shirt, and his throat dries up.

She stops in front of him, looks up at the placard. Can she hear his heart?

'Hi. Me.'

Face and body of a young Liz Taylor, shaggy Suzi Quatro hair. Sparkling eyes black as jet. Honey-colored skin, generous lips. A smile to make deserts bloom, please God...fleeting thoughts tumble round his brain. If he lost his head he could lose his job. And his head for real. She could be stoned to death when, if, they got her back.

'Hello-o. Anybody there?' She must have been used to the effect she had on men. Laughing sexy voice, soft American accent.

'Er. Sorry. Yes, yes, I'm here to meet you, Princess. Your uncle ...'

Her face darkened slightly.

'Is where?'

'Sorry, ma'am. The Prince...'

She shrugged. 'Cool!' He took the trolley, led her to the parking lot, opened the back door to the Cadillac. Not a happy family, then.

'Can I sit up front?'

'Of course, ma'am.' Back in role.

'Get you, man! Your name wouldn't be Hudson?' Harry's mind pictured the TV butler, a comparison with His Smugness he really did not appreciate.

'No.' stiffly, 'my name is West, Harry West.'

'Harry.' Dazzling him with a grin. 'I guess you call my uncle Your Excellency? Your Highness?'

'He instructed me to call him by his name.'

She giggled, 'You Brits,' and turned her voice to posh English, 'So, Harry, I instruct you to call me Dawn.'

He melted, held the door. She sat, swung her legs in. Dark flowered skirt, inch of white lace, dark pantyhose, patent shoes. An Arabian Sloane.

He didn't call her anything for a while. He knew many of her people: princes, princesses, bodyguards, slaves, businessmen, but had never been alone with a young westernized girl.

She pushed the radio button. Kenny Everett crooned, 'Just cram your finger in the phone,' plugged a product and played Dancing Queen.

'Yuk! Abba.'

He kept quiet. He liked them. Delivering takeout to the Montcalm he got told off by Agnethe for bringing the wrong flavors. 'Don't mind her,' said Benny, 'she's missing her kids.'

Dawn played push-button and complained of the lack of music stations. Harry made listening noises as they joined the traffic into Central London. He felt excited she was there, beside him.

Harry loved his Cadillac. It had space in back to lie full length on the floor, where he would provide full limousine service to the Prince's girls either after their duty done, or warm-up beforehand. But they were working girls and the one beside him now was altogether a different story. Life in the front seat, mostly solitary, had its moments: Ingrid, Grace, legends, sitting behind but talking with him, seeming interested. And other conversations, overheard. Last week, tennis stars: 'What happened in the restaurant? Where d'you go?' American, Boston.

'Out back. In a closet upright we did it.' European, guttural.

'Howja know she would? Maybe she just wanted your autograph.'

'She held my look that little bit too long. Autograph she did not ask.'

'Did she say anything?'

'No. We made sex in silence.'

'Like, was she on the pill? Did you use anything?' No response. Boston went on, 'Maybe she did get your autograph. Maybe she'll look you up some day.'

'Ach, it was too quick for that.'

Harry's mind flashed back to a North African state, celebrating an anniversary of the beginning of their struggle for freedom. He was guesting on a Navy frigate sent to represent Her Britannic Majesty. Navy blue, scarlet and green, the officers went ashore to a great hall of tables laden with all kinds of food, roast goats, oxen, piles of fruit, salads, and shock-horror, no alcohol. The Navy, Marine and Army boys endured on Coca Cola, orange juice and mint tea. Until the after-party in the Military Attaché's residence, a little piece of Britain where the wine and whisky flowed and Harry caught the eye of an English girl...who held his look that little bit too long and hoisted his jack of union upright in a closet. She turned out to be the MA's nanny and they spent the weekend celebrating the struggle to get undressed for sexual freedom.

It was dark when they reached the hotel. The concierge called the suite. 'The Prince has been delayed, Harry. He will return later.'

'Thanks, George. Can you call up?'

'Certainly.' The understanding between servants, unspoken and crafty.

Dawn came out of her room, hair wet. She'd changed into an electric-blue dress, tight lace-up front showing the upper swell of her breasts.

'Like it?' She twirled. Yes, Harry thought, I do understand her family's concern about the liberal ways of the west. They'd have been more concerned about the libertine ways of ex-Captain West. But had he paused to think how it would end, would he have begun? Or was it written? He wondered how hard she found returning home for vacations. How did she adapt to a culture where woman was 'lower than a lame camel'? Or was he just part of the furniture here anyway, a safe reliable retainer she could show off to.

'Wow,' he said carefully. She pulled a face.

'You don't like it. I'll change.' Her voice went croaky.

'No, I do like it. I really do. It's beautiful.' To hell with it, he thought, to hell with the Prince, to hell with me. He looked straight into her eyes. 'I like it, Dawn. It is beautiful.'

Should he go on? Dare he? She stood one hand on the back of a brocade armchair; she stood very still and looked at him a long time. He felt he could have touched that silence. 'And I think you are beautiful.' His heart was thudding. He held her gaze. He was almost sure he hadn't offended her, but only almost. If he had, and if she told her uncle, he could be more than fired. There were others like him who could get these very rich men anything they wanted at very short notice.

He saw her breath quicken, heard her voice thicken.

'Where is my uncle? When will he come?'

He felt a lurch in the gut.

'Later. I don't know. He's been delayed. I have to set up a movie for him.'

'What kind of movie?'

'I haven't seen it.'

She reddened. 'I know what kind of movies my uncle and his friends watch.'

'Have you seen any?'

'No...' serious face turned bright with mischief, 'Hey, shall we? Or will you get in trouble?'

He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. 'If I get in trouble he'll just get another driver for you. Anyway George will call up when he comes.'

'I don't want to get you in trouble.'

'I'm in trouble already, Dawn.' He kept his eyes on hers. 'Dead trouble.'

Face serious again, she came round the chair and sat, smoothing the dress beneath her.

'I'm sixteen. I'll probably have to get married next year. I'll be locked away to make babies. I don't resent it. It is written. But first I want to have some fun.'

They both knew what her life would be, hand rocking cradle.

In a cold sweat he set up screen and projector, slippery fingers threading the film through little wheels and spools. He went to the door, hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, and locked it.

They sat side by side on the carpet. He put his arm round her shoulders. Dawn leaned her head back, wet black hair cool against his cheek. The movie ran. He felt her tense, then relax, as they watched a group of hippies making out in a trailer. She whispered, 'I've never done it before.'

That one word, before, told Harry what he was aching to know.

'Do you want to do it now?'

Her body answered. Her mouth was on his. She knew how to kiss for sure. This is real sang his heart as he kissed her back. This is what I've been missing, he thought, what I've been waiting for, what I want, this is what I want. His hands ran over her body, over her dress, under her dress, down her legs, up her legs. Smooth, bare, sexy, exciting legs. He wanted to take time, to savor every tiniest touch. She knelt in front of him on that luxurious carpet, smiled into his eyes, and held out her arms. He unlaced the dress and lifted it over her head. Naked, proud of her young body, wanting to be admired.

'Do you still think I'm beautiful?'

'It wasn't just the dress. You are the most beautiful woman I have known. Your hair, your eyes, your nose,' he kissed each as he spoke, 'your lips, your throat, your breasts,' his kisses tarried on pink virginal nipples, down to dark down. He reached her sex. She lay back and lifted her hips. He kissed her there, and then along the inside of her thighs, and there again. The movie ran on, heard but not seen. Her hands went to her breasts and he stayed down, letting his tongue explore. Her fingers