“Mmm, just roughly, ten million dollars American,” came the reply from Ra’fah.“And how many men have come to Burkina Faso freely and left less...willingly after a bout of intense training in your hands?”“A hundred and fifty men and about fifty women.”Dominique sighed. Now she was massaging her clitoris and teasing the rings that pieced the hood that normally covered that small bud of flesh.Ra’fah turned from the view of the garden to watch her lover bring herself to orgasm with a business report. But this piece was different. It said it was from the Ministry of the Interior of one of those tiny ethnic states that emerged from the wreckage of the former Soviet Union. It was addressed to Professor William Kearns, which I assumed was me, even though I’m not a professor. I’m not even a teacher, at least, not any more. You see, I was a high school English teacher some thirty years ago, in a wealthy suburb of New York. At least I was until a jealous colleague blew the whistle on an affair I. More

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