Menaced by the War on Poverty, SADISTO is poverty stricken! 0008's career of wanton seduction and assassination is ended... unless he bags a fortune stolen by the international mystery woman of the jet set, ravishingly sadistic D. Eva de Struxion, who alone holds the key to modern science's most fantastic breakthrough-a secret every agent in the world hungers for.... SADISTO's darkest hour became the
CHAPTER ONE
EVEN IN THE UTTER DARKNESS of the room, I could sense the dangerous presence of the naked girl who was my enemy.
My nostrils, trained and sensitive as they were, picked up the heady eroticism of her perfume, the sensuous scent of her sweat-dewed flesh.
She was close.
Very close.
My right hand tightened on the butt of my silencer-fitted Walther PPK, while I tried in vain to pierce the total darkness. Only four rounds in the magazine. When I found my target, I'd have to shoot accurately as well as fast.
Where was she, curse it? Scent, alas, is omni-directional. In a closed, air-currentless room not even a bloodhound can tell from which direction a scent is being wafted. Well, maybe some bloodhounds. But I wasn't a bloodhound.
Only bloodthirsty.
My trigger finger began to itch. Itch with eagerness to send bullets slamming into my female foe's soft flesh.
A sound! The faint scrape of bare feet against hard wood... To my right! Bearing 025. The Walther swiveled in my hand as I crouched. Curses! As I crouched a tendon creaked in my knee-now she knew my bearing.
Silently I slid to one side, careful to make no sound, supremely conscious of my nakedness, my vulnerability to the gun in my shapely foe's hand.
Close in front of me, only a few yards away in the pitch dark room, the voluptuous blonde was waiting, automatic leveled. Dare I risk a snap shot? No. Better wait for-
It came-an instantaneous flash of light, a mere microsecond of dazzling brilliance. But enough. Enough to outline my nude foe, enough to illumine the twisted snarl on her lovely face, the tumbled cascade of blonde hair foaming over bare shoulders, the jutting breasts, the trim waist, the near flat belly, the wide hips and curved thighs that represented-my target!
The gun in my hand jerked twice as I pulled the trigger, aiming by memory at the shapely orbs of her huge breasts. I heard the spitting wheeze of my silenced gun and-exciting sound!-the whap, slap of my slugs slamming into soft flesh.
I flung myself sideways, gun still trained, as a ruby star of flame erupted yards away-and an agonizing point of pain exploded against my belly as her slug crashed home. Again her gun flamed even as I writhed, and another star of agony detonated against my ribs near my heart.
I fired twice, fast, at the same instant as her gun spat flame again-and again. A slug whirred by my ear-and I heard the slap of at least one of my bullets ploughing into her forehead.
I fell backwards in a wave of pain and frustration. I was dead, curse it, and knew it.
A moment later the lights in the room went on.
Ten feet away, sprawled on her side, her face twisted with pain and anger, Veronique, my blonde opponent glared at me. Both her huge breasts had blossomed stars of bright crimson where my slugs had slammed home, and an ugly circle of red just below her navel told me I'd placed three out of four shots.
"Gotcha!" she snarled. "Right through your head-and your heart-and your belly!"
"Well," I gasped, "I got you first, Veronique." I sneered. "Looks like I hurt you kind of bad, too. So solly."
A door opened and the General stepped through. "Now children," he said chidingly. "Let's remember this is just a practice exercise." He frowned at us. "I'd call it a draw. You both placed three shots out of four."
I climbed unsteadily to my feet, ignoring the pain throbbing in my forehead, rubbing my bruised ribs and belly. Veronique also rose, alternately massaging her injured belly and breasts.
The General scowled at me. "0008, in a real action you'd look kind of silly trying to carry out your job with slugs in your liver, heart and brain. And you, Veronique-I mean 0004-are shot to pieces. A poor show, agents. A very poor show."
I glared at him. 0004 glared at him.
"General," I wheezed, "if you don't mind my saying so, this is a pretty nasty-and cheap-way of keeping us triple-zero agents in training."
"You can say that again-and again, and again," snarled Veronique 0004.
The General sighed and hung his head. "You're right, of course. Only a few weeks ago we SADISTO agents had all the live targets we wanted."
"Those were the days," I agreed wistfully. And truthfully. Time was-such a short time ago-when we SADISTO agents felt in need of practice all we had to do was take the elevator (in SADISTO'S huge underground headquarters just outside Washington) to the practice range.
At the practice range we'd order a drink, slump into a comfortable contour chair, slip the safety off our Walther-or Colt or Luger or Beretta or Browning or Smith and Wesson or Mauser or Gyrojet or Hotchkiss or Centaur flame thrower-yell Mark! (or Pull!) ; and a shapely live target would emerge from a door on the right (or left) and run screaming in front of us.
Only to drop riddled by our sadistically aimed bullets. Real bullets!
What a joy, convenience-and necessary training aid-it had been, being able to shoot, toast, spear, knife, poison dart or arrow shoot lively Cuban Castroite girl sympathizers, energetic Albanian female agents, Red Chinese cuties, North Vietnamese nymphettes and captured California University co-eds...
Time was, we triple-zero agents could-in fact were expected to-slaughter at least a dozen live enemy targets a week for practice.
And now...
"Don't say it," muttered the General, biting his lip and lowering his eyes. "I know, I know. It's terrible. Terrible."
Suddenly I felt almost sorry for him. Could those be tears shining in his downcast eyes?
"Yes," he continued, "I feel I have failed you-all of you triple-zero agents. Instead of a plentiful supply of live targets to practice on, our recent budget cuts have forced you to practice by shooting at each other. I fed that-sob-I've failed you!"
I looked at Veronique. She looked at me. "The old faker is putting us on," she snarled, rubbing her battered breasts. "Maybe we have no choice but to shoot at each other with wax bullets impregnated with red dye, but does he have to use such hard wax?"
"It's jet-age wax," muttered the General sullenly. "The land bullets bounce off. You can't get any soft wax these days-not on the limited budget I have to work with now."
He turned and, head down, walked sadly from the practice room, leaving Veronique and me alone.
"I think you were a little hard on the old boy," I told her. "It isn't his fault."
"Maybe not," sulked Veronique massaging her huge mammaries, "but that was awfully hard wax. You hurt me."
"And you," I said coldly, "hurt me."
Instantly she was in my arms, her soft belly surging against my stomach, her huge breasts pillowed against my chest, her arms tight around me, her downy cheek against my unshaven face.
"Darling," she murmured, "did I really hurt you? I'm so dreadfully sorry!"
And then her lips were clamped to mine, her tongue was a fencing flame invading my mouth, her loins were squirming urgently against my manhood, her fingers were sliding provocatively up and down my back from the nape of my neck to the tingling base of my spine.
I crushed her to me, sliding my hands down the sumptuous curves of her back, savoring the fierce fullness of her billowing buttocks, the feminine flare of her Herculean hips...
But while my lips drank the tangy nectar of her open mouth, while my flesh glowed in contact with her polished skin, while my manhood stirred in response to the intimate urging of her fabulous fertile body-my mind wandered.
Wandered over the sad state of affairs that had existed during the past three weeks at SADISTO.
Only three weeks ago, SADISTO had been a name to strike fear to veterans of the MKVD, KGB, MING-FLING, assorted Neutrals-and the FBI, UNCLE and CIA.
SADISTO...!
The fabled Security and Administrative Department of the Institute for Special Tactical Operations. When J. Edgar Hoover-or even Nero Wolfe-shrank from a problem, SADISTO took over. When the CIA got cold feet, when the FBI worried about invasion of privacy-SADISTO stepped in.
No job was too bestial, too horrible for SADISTO to tackle. When the Man from UNCLE was but a child, when the Man from ORGY was a tongue-tied boy, shy of girls-SADISTO had been on the job.
The General used to boast that his triple-zero agents were so hard they glittered, so tough ordinary detergents didn't get them clean.
We were the cream of the elite, the top of the crop. And, best of all, we'd been treated as such.
In the fifteen-story underground headquarters we called home was every luxury a sane, or even insane, man or girl could wish for.
Gourmet cuisine, stag movies every night, a huge supply of naked and willing call girls, the largest wine cellar in the Free World, LSD pills at wholesale prices, all the glue you could sniff...
And then, three weeks ago, our budget was slashed by some short-sighted, if powerful bureaucrat. Marghanita in Research had sobbed openly as her huge banks of IBM computers had been carted away-to be replaced by a second-hand adding machine and an abacus.
The huge recreation swimming pools on Level Five, often filled with champagne and always packed with naked, squealing girls now were empty, even of water.
Signs urging all agents to turn out unneeded lightbulbs had been posted everywhere. Spam and powdered eggs had replaced such dishes as peacock tongues a la mode in the cafeteria. Our fleet of armor-plated, gadget-equipped Jaguars and Aston Martins had been replaced by a couple of Volkswagens. Our super-sonic jets were being used in the War on Poverty, leaving us but a single, battered Piper Cub.
We even had to hand load our own bullets...
How humiliating! I shuddered with mortification and anger.
"Darling!" murmured Veronique, "you're trembling with passion! Pleasure me, you virile fool!" Her hot breath scorched my cheek, her hotter loins did the Swim against my throbbing masculinity, her shameless hands stroked rapture into my excited flesh.
Pleasure her? Why not! At least they hadn't taken sex away from us, not yet. Perhaps that, too, would be rationed soon-better get all I could while the getting was good!
I tightened my arms around her, feeling the old, familiar, carnal, primeval excitement course through my veins-the primitive pulse of passion I knew and loved so well.
Her huge breasts were pneumatic cushions of bliss against my bare chest; her belly, a lambent flame; her lips, magic passion portals opening into the sultry sanctuary of her mouth-her mouth wherein her teasing tongue waited to wrestle erotically with mine.
We embraced rapturously, sensuously. Both of us were too experienced in the game of sex to rush things; both of us knew that deliberate delay can be delightful, that the teasing, titillating build-up to the count-down can double your pleasure, double your fun!
Her fingers stroked my back and buttocks lazily, delicately, as if her finger-tips were feathers being drawn in erotic patterns across my flesh.
I sighed with contentment, slowly explored the polished plain of her back, the ridged roadway of her spine, the provocative cleft of her buttocks, the plump and pleasing fullness of her ripe young rump.
I let my fingers sink deep into the supple domes of her buttocks, kneading the rich and resilient fun flesh, feeling it squirm and twist beneath my hands as her hips undulated and writhed against my loins.
I pulled her savagely to me, against me, jamming the softness of her belly and the hot hardness of her thighs against the burgeoning bulls-eye of my manhood-and at the same time her hands were gripping the cheeks of my buttocks; her fingernails, sharp crescents of pleasure-pain as she, too, pulled our lower bodies hard together-as, her head tilted up, my head tilted down, out lips locked in a reciprocating suction of sensation, a tongue sliding, searing, soaring interplay of liquid, lust inflamed flesh.
We broke at last, the silence of the room torn by the ragged intensity of our breathing; her face was flushed with sexual excitement, her eyes gleaming with passion in need of slaking.
"Slake me!" she panted. "Take me-break me-but slake me!"
Her large breasts-erotic orbs of creamy white, tipped with huge pink aureoles from which sprouted the crimson splendor of her nipples-rose and fell dramatically.
I grunted, reached out my hands, palms flat, and hefted the twin bliss balloons that jutted toward me. They felt heavy, hot, silken smooth-and exciting.
I cupped my hands over them, squeezed them, playfully shook them. They bobbled and bounced, trembled and rippled; and the crimson mushrooms of her nipples thrust into excitement-swollen erection.
"Slake me!" she groaned.
I let go her breasts, stooped, slid my left arm around her waist, my right arm, elbow crooked, between her luscious thighs and lifted her, the torrid warmth of her loins and belly against my upper arm, the softness of her rump against my forearm.
Holding her that way, I carried her to the wide and comfortable couch a few yards away. If you have a strong right arm, as I have, it's an easy and enjoyable way of transporting a girl. I call it the 0008-Lift, though doubtless other men have invented it independently.
When I reached the couch I let go her waist, straightened my right arm and let her drop buttocks first onto the big divan. She bounced as only a girl with a forty-inch bust and no sag can bounce-joyously, exuberantly, wantonly.
I climbed aboard the couch, knelt beside her and began to explore, not for the first time, the field of flesh that was her body.
She folded her arms behind her head and closed her eyes contentedly as I slid my hands up and down her long and lovely legs. My palms and fingers glided up the delicate curves of her ankles and calves, over her dimpled knees, then up the thrilling throughway of her thigh.
Her long, luscious, exquisitely tactile and erotically supple thigh-sleek compound-curved cylinders of deep-fleshed excitement, rapture packed limbs that yielded invitingly to my pressing fingers.
She squirmed and moaned as I stroked and fondled her silken smooth thighs, twisted and writhed in ecstasy as I bent and kissed the creamy richness of her thigh flesh.
Her haunches arched up off the couch, arched again and then dropped as she slid her long legs wide apart. I shifted my position, kneeling between the wide Y of her legs. Then I bent forward again to once more kiss the hot, exciting flesh of her thighs, the tops of her thighs, the quivering inner surfaces of her thighs.
I slid my hands around her hips, under and around the ripe curves of her buttocks to squeeze and hold the resilient ripeness of her rump. It yielded to my grasp as if filled with warm quicksilver; and I kissed my way slowly, lingeringly up the inner curve of her left thigh and then, after a torrid pause, down the same route along her right leg.
I kissed and tongued the hot heaving flesh of her lower belly, the hard high arches of her hip bones, the hard hot intimacy of her thigh flesh.
She was blonde where a blonde should be blonde, feminine where chicks are all female-and I kissed her ardently.
And she just about flipped.
She whimpered and gasped and twisted on the couch as my tongue stabbed again and again her delight, as my tongue teased and tickled her, coaxed and cajoled her.
The harder I kissed her, the more deeply and suctioningly, the wilder her cries became, until I moved to new kissing pastures lest she get too excited.
I kissed the slender column of her waist, the dimpled cleft of her navel, the creamy bowl of her belly. I knelt astride her hips and bent to kiss the swaying summits of her mighty breasts, capturing each firm, full globe of flesh with my clasped hands, imprisoning the pulsing crimson towers of her nipples.
I pressed my lips tight against the sweet scented softness of each of her breasts in turn, made a suction pump of my mouth until the luscious tips of her breasts filled my mouth.
That turned her on quite a bit, too.
Turned her on, heck, it drove her wild with delight, out of her shapely skull with excitement.
My tongue traced the crinkled firmness of her warm aureoles, the textured turrets of her excruciatingly sensitive-and appreciative-nipples.
Erect though they already were, swollen with passion as they'd been, I felt her nipples throb and enlarge yet more under the studied erotic stimulation of my expert and practiced tongue.
I sheathed my teeth with my lips, bit playfully at the swaying flagpoles of desire that marked the business-and pleasure-end of her breasts.
Then I buried my face in the wondrously soft cleavage between her full breasts, clasping their outer surfaces and pressing them inward until I felt drowned in breast flesh, laved and bathed in the hot heaven of her bosom.
"Oh-oh-oh-eight!" she gasped.
I raised my head, slid my lips forward to meet her mouth as she raised her head to kiss me; her lips, wet and ripe and passion hungry; her tongue, a frantic serpent of lust, a whip of desire that struck and lashed against my own tongue, against the sides and roof of my mouth.
I broke for air, straightened up, still kneeling astride her hot-fleshed young body.
She smiled at me, a sultry, sex-drenched smile, reached an arm behind her to pull a pillow up under her head, so she could smile at me through the rounded canyon between her breasts.
Her breasts were so big, and set so high on her chest, and rose so straight and firm without a trace of sag, she could have easily kissed their upper slopes, if she'd had a mind to.
Obviously she didn't; she wanted me to play with her breasts.
And I did.
I held my hands flat and patted them as if they were bongo drums. I gently slapped their outer sides, enjoying the way they rolled and quivered, the way they slapped together with a thrilling, flesh sound.
I cupped their tips in my hands and shook them, making them ripple and gyrate.
I prodded them playfully, which resulted in yet another kind of shaking, bouncing response.
I took her long, full nipples between thumbs and forefingers and tugged at them, used them as handles to make her breasts sway and nod. I rolled her hard, hot nipples between the pads of my thumb and finger as if I were spinning the combination of a secret safe.
And she gasped and blinked her eyes, groaned and bit her lip with pleasure.
"Closer," she gasped, "come closer..."
"Why not?" I murmured.
Still astride her body I worked my way up higher, until, sitting up straight as I was, I could tilt my head and look directly down at her huge rounded breasts-looking, I mused, like dual observatory domes from the top of which crimson telescopes were peeking.
I reached down and clasped the outer curves of her breasts, thrust her great mammaries together.
She giggled happily.
I kind of giggled myself.
Because the contact of her soft flesh against my hard flesh was something that had to be felt to be believed-to be appreciated.
Again she began to twist and writhe beneath me, and the movement of her body made me rock back and forth, slide forward and back. The heat of our lovemaking (plus the fact that the new economy wave had curtailed air conditioning) had bathed us both in sweat.
Her torso and both her soft yet firm breasts were wet with perspiration, which made it easy to slide.
Easy and pleasant.
Incredibly pleasant.
Excitingly pleasant.
I groaned with contentment as I slid back and forth on her body, my buttocks sliding over her sweat-slippery lower rib cage, her breasts thudding softly against my upper thighs and lower body.
I pressed her breasts even more firmly together, until a man wouldn't have been able to slide even one finger between them-if they hadn't been wet with sweat.
I gasped again with pleasure and began to slide back and forth a bit faster, but not much faster. This was a sensation I wanted to prolong.
My hands cupping the outer surfaces of her breasts were tingling with excitement. Then I felt a new, even more exciting tingle.
Veronique, with an impudent twinkle in her eye, had pursed her ripe lips together, and each time the tip of my right index finger slid forward her lips met it.
Her soft, rounded lips.
Through which, every now and then, her prurient pink tongue darted playfully.
What a sensation!
What fun!
What a gas!
First the soft sliding friction of her soft breast flesh, then the torrid contact with her pursed lips and flickering tongue...
What a swinging combination of sensations. What a joyous way of passing the time...
I could have kept up the game for hours. Or rather I'd have liked to have kept it up for hours. But the sliding, stroking stimulus of her hot, ripe, slippery breasts-the teasing tit illation of her avid lips and tongue was exciting me too much, too fast.
I could feel a preliminary pulsing, a rising crest of excitement that promised within moments to erupt into a frantic floodtide of rapture.
Veronique turned her head to one side.
"Better stop, huh?"
"Sure," I gasped, sliding faster. "Soon. Any time now."
"Let's stop now," said Veronique firmly. "Why end the game when the fun's just begun?"
So, reluctantly, I slid off her, collapsed panting on my back beside her on the couch.
She was on her knees beside me in an instant.
"My," she chuckled, as her eyes strayed down my naked body, "you certainly are reaching new heights of excitement Better cool down a few degrees. You're too close to the boiling point."
"I don't want to cool down," I gasped. "I can, uh, control my emotions."
She smiled. "Don't kid me. You're set on a hair trigger right now. I could detonate you with the flick of a finger."
And, to prove her point, she smiled and reached out with the tip of her index finger. While I watched, fascinated, her finger hovered a quarter of an inch above my throbbing flesh.
Her finger bent, touched my hot flesh for a second, then flicked up.
I felt a quiver of excitement ripple through me, then slowly subside.
"Again!" I gasped. "Touch me again!"
"I will," she chuckled. "After I count five slowly." She counted to five, slowly, while the fever of excitement ebbed a tiny fraction within me.
Then her finger dipped and stroked me lightly, for less than a second.
Again I felt a rising tremor, a tremor I couldn't control surge through me, but not quite enough of a tremor to trigger the sex synapses in my loins.
"Sadist!" I groaned.
She chuckled. "Must be kind of frustrating, eh? I used this form of torture once on an uncooperative neutral agent just so I'd detonate him."
"Detonate me!" I gasped.
"Mmmm...maybe," she purred. She leaned forward, opened her lips as if she were planning on saying oh, and then pressed her lips gently but firmly against me.
A spasm of total joy began to surge up through me... only to slide slowly back as she quickly withdrew her lips.
"Close, almost miscalculated that time. Almost but not quite. I'm an expert-teaser. Do you know I kept that poor neutral agent on the very brink of bliss for over half an hour?"
"No wonder he cracked," I gasped. "It's a miracle he didn't go insane. Kiss me one more time, Veronique."
She smiled and bent her head forward. Her lovely lips moved closer and closer to my throbbing, eager flesh.
Joy suffused my brain. She'd miscalculated plenty this time. I knew, even if she didn't, that I was so close to the brink now that even a microsecond contact of her lips would detonate me.
I waited, my heart pounding trip-hammer fashion, my whole body afire with expectancy, my loins aching gloriously.
Her open lips paused half an inch above my waiting flesh.
I waited, my whole body shuddering like a boiler about to explode. Waited for her to kiss me, waited for the detonating contact of her lips.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
"Now!" I gasped.
"I don't think so," she murmured with a sly smile. "You're a bit too excited. Too, Too, Too, excited..."
I bit my lip in a paroxysm of frustration.
Each time she'd uttered the word too a puff of her warm breath had caressed my super-heated flesh, an airy caress that almost made me erupt with excitement.
The sadistic witch-she really was an expert on teasing a man ninety-nine point ninety-nine per cent of the way.
"If you won't kiss me," I groaned, "then say too one more time-or better yet, say phooey. Emphatically."
"I wonder," she mused, stroking her long blond tresses, "if with just one strand of my hair I could-look out 0008! An enemy agent!"
I was off the couch and rolling even before she finished, groping for my gun as my eyes raked the room in the direction she'd been staring, realizing with a pang of panic that my gun was loaded with wax bullets, no, it was empty even of wax bullets...
Rage roared through me. The room was empty. No enemy agent.
"April fool!" chuckled Veronique behind me.
I whirled, raising my hand for a deadly karate chop-only to remember just in time that Veronique was much better at karate than I was.
"That," I snarled, "wasn't funny."
She looked contrite. "Sorry, 0008. I only did it to take your mind off sex. See? Your...temperature has dropped a couple of degrees. Now we can go on having fun."
I glared at her. "That kind of cooling off," I gritted, "can give a man a heart attack." I made a mental note to play a nasty trick on her some time. I would, too. But meanwhile..
Meanwhile, she looked pretty sexy sitting on her haunches on the couch and smiling at me invitingly. And while I'd cooled off a couple of degrees, I was still several hundred degrees super-heated.
"Kiss me, 0008," she whispered. "Kiss me...and I'll kiss you."
With the suppleness of an erotic serpent she slid into a supine position on her back. She tucked a pillow under her head to raise it, slid her superb legs wide apart... and smiled at me.
I walked over to the couch, bent my head until our eyes were inches apart, upside down, if you know what I mean.
I moved forward, kissed her full on the lips. Her tongue pushed tentatively, contritely against my closed lips. I relented, opened my mouth to let her sexy tongue surge joyously in.
Then I moved forward, kissed the hollow of her throat, climbing up on all fours onto the couch.
Kneeling astride her I moved slowly down the curved delight of her body, kissing again her swaying breasts, her trim waist, her sumptuously soft belly.
I kissed the upper surface of her belly, her navel, her lower belly.
"Oh, yes-yes, please!" she gasped.
And I bent and kissed the lushness of her body, kissed her passionately, deeply, arousingly. Kissed her suctioningly and strokingly, sensuously and urgently.
Kissed her until she began to moan with rapture.
A moment later I felt her hands clasp my waist, slide slowly over my hips, then across my belly to gently hold me.
Without breaking the rhythm of my kisses I moved my knees a little further apart on the couch to lower my body, and an instant later I felt the golden touch of her open lips, her lips that seemed to pull me gently down into a vortex of exquisite sensation.
I kissed her probingly, searchingly while her tongue slid sensuously around and around my throbbing flesh. Her hands still clasped me, fondled me while the circle of her wet lips and the stroking of her softer tongue sent rapture cascading through my whole body.
I could tell by the intermittent tremors that shook her body that she, too, was close to the waterfalls of wonder, the edge of ultimate ecstasy.
I increased the ardor and depth of my kisses, and her body began to shudder as if she were racked by fever, and the spiraling excitement in my own body began to climb climactically.
I heard her moan through her nose, and her hips arched upward in response to my flicking tongue and coaxing lips. Her hands slid suddenly around my body to grasp my buttocks savagely and pull me down, down to a glowing tunnel of enfolding ecstasy.
And it happened, happened for her, happened for both of us.
A flaming, blinding, dazzling, shattering, engulfing spasm of champagne bubbling joy-spasm after spasm, each jolt of ecstasy greater, more incredible than the last. And it lasted, and lasted and lasted-lasted until I felt totally drained, totally depleted, totally exhausted.
But content.
CHAPTER TWO
I DREAMED THAT NIGHT OF BREASTS...and thighs. I dreamed of rippling rumps and soft, feminine tummies. Of flowing female hair, of caressing female fingers...
Perhaps my dream had some psychological significance.
Probably it does, since I have the same dream every night.
But-alas!-all too soon came the dawn. The metaphorical dawn, that is: at headquarters I sleep until ten-thirty; to me, ten-thirty is dawn.
I rose, showered, shaved, slipped on a pair of shorts, had breakfast-instant coffee and a well-aged K-ration-and reported to the General's office. He'd called a general meeting for eleven.
I arrived right on time, to find a couple of dozen triple zero agents sitting disconsolately on chairs, or else sprawled on cushions on the floor (all SADISTO briefings and meetings are highly informal).
Of the twenty-four agents present, eight were male sixteen female. The General prefers female agents for a number of reasons-not the least being he's kind ol a lecherous old goat-though a brilliant, dedicated, fanatically hard working old goat.
Most of the male agents wore the same costume I did-a pair of undershorts. The female agents were almost nude, nude, and more than nude.
(To me a girl wearing, for example, the lower half of a bikini but no top is almost nude; a girl without an raiment at all is nude; and a nude girl wearing (say black garters, a black belt, black gloves and one earring is more than nude: she's decorated herself to emphasize her nakedness.)
I looked around the General's huge office and gasped in surprise and dismay. Not at the sight of so much unclad female flesh-ultracasual attire or lack of it is customary at SADISTO's huge underground headquarters-but at what I didn't see.
Only three weeks ago the General's huge office had been one of the Ultra-Secret wonders of the espionage world. International espionage trade journals like Bloc Chamber and Cloak & Dagger Digest had run lavish feature articles on it.
For one thing, he'd had more electronic equipment in it than can be found in three aircraft carriers. Computers flashed cryptic lights. One entire wall had been studded with full-color television screens which put the General in instant touch with sixty-eight countries and several ships at sea.
And yet another wall had been entirely devoted to a floor to ceiling TV screen of such resolution that looking at it was like looking through plate glass into another room. (And many a time I had looked through it into another room-the female agent's shower room, the call girls' ready room, etc. etc.)
But now, all the computers were gone. So were all the TV sets, save for one second-hand portable. And in place of the row of ultrapowerful short wave radio sets was a war surplus walkie-talkie.
Even the row of red telephones on his desk had been casualties of our budget cut. The only phone in the office was a worn wall phone. A pay phone, yet.
Sad. Very sad.
A moment later the General walked in. His walk, formerly a brisk strut, had changed to a dejected shuffle. He stopped in front of his desk and smiled at us wanly.
"General," snapped 00022, a jaunty-breasted brunette who'd been awarded her triple-zero number only a month before for having single-handedly seduced (and then slaughtered) fourteen anti-Castroite Central American generals and five colonels, "General," she snapped, "I have a complaint to make." She waved a paper. "I've just opened my sealed orders for today. Quote: Assignment: the Mexican Movie Mogul's Mistress Caper. Instructions: Proceed to Mexico City and liquidate her. Reason: She's alleged to be pro anti-Nationalist Chinese. Transportation: Hitchhike. Hitchhike? Hitchhike? To Mexico City?"
The General hung his head even lower. "Sorry. They took away our private fleet of jets. Also our airline credit cards. And both our Volkswagens are...in use."
"I'll say they're in use," sputtered 0005, leaping to her shapely feet. "For the past five days you've had 0001 and I running them as illegal cut-rate taxis. At first we believed you when you said it was a hush-hush assignment, but when you began meeting us at the underground garage to collect our tips... Well!"
"Times," sighed the General, "are tough." He chewed his lip. "And they're going to get tougher. Soon, within a matter of days, we're going to encounter-the PLN."
An instant hush fell over the assembled agents.
"The PLN?" I asked, leaning forward. "Is that a new world-wide terrorist organization. Does PLN stand for Poisoning, Liquidation and Nihilism?"
The General shook his head. "Obviously none of you ever worked as a librarian. You may not know it, but the average public library has three times as many books as they have shelf-room for. Normally that doesn't matter, because the bulk of their books are circulating. But every Public Librarian's Nightmare (PLN) is that one day all the books will be returned at once."
I caught 0002's eye. Had the General flipped? What had our problem in common with libraries?
"You want to know what our problem has in common with the PLN?" asked the General. "Look around you. Two dozen agents, a typical headquarters' roster. But our full roster, as you know, is six dozen triple-zero agents."
I nodded my head. He was right. Right now the other four dozen SADISTO agents were scattered all over the world, busy carrying out assignments-raping, looting, pillaging, torturing, seducing and slaughtering (though for the ultimate benefit of the Free World, of course).
"Soon," continued the General, "those four dozen agents will begin to trickle back-those that survive, that is. And we can't afford to send them-or any of you-on any more missions. Our headquarters, huge as it is, can't accommodate all our agents at once. Not comfortably. You'll have to start sleeping four to a bed."
I nodded soberly. Sleeping four to a bed would be a ball for a while. But only for a while.
"General," said 0009, a keen witted (though fantastically stacked) blonde. "I hate to broach this, but have you considered a merger?"
The General drew himself up to his full height (five-feet four). "Never! Merge with the CIA-those wishy-washy boys who won't even overthrow a government without first making a phone call to Washington? Never! And the FBI? You know how they operate. Their agents must wear suits, ties and hats at all times. They can't drink, gamble, be sexually promiscuous or use bad language. Not only would we not feel at home, but I don't think the big fish would have us. I'm sure he wouldn't, in fact."
"I wasn't suggesting we merge with the CIA or the FBI," said 0009. "But couldn't we make a deal with THRUSH? Or KAOS? Or SPECTRE? They may be rotten to the core but they speak our language."
Cries of hear, hear filled the room.
The General silenced us with a raised hand. "In a word-No! We will never sell out to the enemy except as a last resort. Besides, THRUSH, KAOS and SPECTRE are all over-staffed right now. I called them this morning." He swallowed hard. "Collect."
How mortifying! I thought. Only three weeks ago the General thought nothing of spending ten or twenty million on a minor caper.
Suddenly I felt a wave of sorrow, and good will, toward the General. The Old Boy was doing his best, albeit not too successfully. The other agents must have had the same emotions, for suddenly we were all on our feet cheering him. "Three cheers for the General!" we cried. "Long live SADISTO!"
"Thank you," said the General, wiping a tear from his eye. "We must hold on as long as we can. SADISTO has survived budget cuts before, we'll survive this one. All we need is one really big, successful caper-I mean assignment. An assignment that will prove our worth to those penny-pinching bureaucrats. Until that assignment comes along, I'm afraid we must devote ourselves to-Operation Moonlight."
Operation Moonlight! The very name was redolent of mystery, intrigue, secret weapons, sex and...a cold chill sank through me. "General," I said. "Am I correct in guessing that Operation Moonlight means we're all going to be moonlighting?"
"To sum up succinctly," said the General, "yes. Will you two new girls step forward."
00065 and 00032, a languorous, full-breasted redhead and a small but sexy chestnut-haired chick stood up and saluted.
"Girls," said the General, avoiding their eyes, "before you became top-notch secret agents and trained killers I believe you worked as, uh, hustlers, did you not?"
Both girls nodded. "We did it before," said 00065 proudly, "and for SADISTO's sake we'll do it again," cried 00032.
"Splendid," said the General. "Remember, each trick you turn will be, indirectly, for the sake of the Free World. 00027?"
A thin young man wearing magenta undershorts stood up and saluted.
"00027, your consummate skill with cards and games of chance-as well as guns, knives, cross-bows, exotic poisons and land mines-have proved invaluable. You still have all your old card-sharping skills, I trust? Splendid. You can start right in working the boats. Have Documents print you some forged cruise ship tickets. Uh, 00044, before you became our explosives expert I believe you, uh, worked in a number of banks?"
"That I did, General," said 00044, a tall, green-eyed honey blonde who. I knew, had once been the youngest and prettiest female bank robber in five states. "Say no more. I know a bank in Des Moines I can knock over like that." She snapped her fingers. "And if the bulls get me, you can count on me using my cyanide pill before I squeal on SADISTO."
"Thank you," said the General. "As for the rest of you-I'm happy to say that you'll be able to moonlight in your old trade, more or less."
He whipped out a clipping. "Here is an ad I recently placed in four newspapers: Modern-minded, debonaire gentleman of fifty-seven desires to exchange imaginative photographs with bizarre minded... Ahem. Wrong ad. Excuse me. Ah, here we are."
And he read aloud: Wife cheating on you? Hubby stepping out? We'll catch 'em in the act-with pix to prove it. Call the Friendly General Detective Agency. We also supply uniformed guards for parties, store detectives, night watchmen, strong arm men and strike breakers. Dirt cheap rates. We have no dissatisfied clients.
A ghastly silence followed his reading of the ad. At last I found my voice. "General!" I gasped. "Has it come to this? The most highly trained agents in the Free World working for a sleazy cut-rate detective agency?"
The General looked at me coldly. "Not working for a sleazy cut-rate detective agency-working as a sleazy cut-rate detective agency. I'll be working too."
An even more ghastly silence ensued. A long, long ghastly silence that was finally broken by the trilling of the wall telephone. With quiet dignity the General stalked over to it, lifted the receiver.
He took a deep breath, swallowed three times, then fixed his stern face into a horrible caricature of a smile.
"Hello there, Friend Client," he said with forced joviality. "Your problem, whatever it is, is just about over because this is the Friendly General Detective Agency. And-" he swallowed hard once again "-and I am the Friendly General."
And thus began the hideous if sex-drenched era that would forever after at SADISTO be referred to as the Dark Ages...
CHAPTER THREE
GINGER JOHNSON WAS a living doll and built like a brick manikin. She was also a bit drunk.
She stood in the doorway of her fancy Georgetown apartment swaying slightly as she peered at me. Each sway of her body, I noted with interest, caused her full young breasts to sway in complex counterpoint to the rocking of her shapely young body.
She was in a state of dishabille, as they say at the Paris branch of SADISTO. She was wearing, loosely, a beaded negligee that plunged drastically to reveal the black lace net of her bra-a bra that was being strained to the breaking point by a pair of golden brown breasts that were doing their best to bubble over the bra's ramparts.
Below the waist a pair of fancy-and well filled-black net panties were visible through the beads and semi-transparent fabric of her negligee.
I showed her my teeth in a cheery grin. "Hi, there," I said. "I'm Trevor Anderson, from the Friendly General Detective Agency."
"Well do tell!" she gasped. "Come in. Have a drink."
"Yes, to both invitations," I said, following her swaying rump into her luxurious living room.
I accepted her sloppily poured bourbon and soda, sat on a big, over stuffed sofa. She poured herself a drink, sprawled at the other end of the couch. In sprawling, her negligee fell aside to reveal the entire length of a luscious thigh-a thigh that resembled a golden brown torpedo of flesh.
She seemed oblivious of the display of thigh flesh she was treating me to. She simply smiled at me and tossed her lovely head and her thick, lustrous ginger-red hair.
"I mush shay-I mean, I must say, you sure look better'n I figured. I mean that oily old guy I talked to at the agency... How come a nice handsome guy like you is working for a sleazy cut-rate detective outfit?"
"It's a long story," I said, making an effort to tear my eyes away from her shapely thigh-an effort I failed in. "You need the services of the FGDA?"
She frowned suspiciously. "I can't pay a lot. Ten dollars a day, that old goat said? That's cheap, you know Either you guys are awfully bad, or you need money in the worst way."
"Your latter surmise is correct," I said, doing my best to keep smiling. It took a real effort, believe me. The humiliation of it all! An outfit like SADISTO-reduced accepting cheap jobs from cheap dames. Not that Ginger looked cheap. She just acted and sounded cheap.
"I understand," I said, "that this is a divorce case?"
"Thash...that's correct," she said, gulping bourbon on the rocks. Sixteen ounces of bourbon and two tiny rocks. "I wanna divorce. Like my husband is old, you know? Forty-two? Thash twice my age."
"Tsk, tsk," I said. "I take it he's, uh, playing around?
"He must be," she said sullenly. "Don't all men?
I nodded agreement.
"You wanna know why I married him?" she asked confidentially, leaning forward to let me smell her bourbon breath and peer down her fabulous cleavage.
"Not particularly-I mean, yes, of course," I said.
"I was broke. Nineteen and broke. And he was thirty-nine and loaded. Now he's old-forty-two. And I'm still young. Twenty-one is young, isn't it?"
"It is," I agreed, eyeing her ebullient breasts and wondering when the nipples would pop into view. Any moment now, the way she was leaning forward.
She sighed. "I was young and foolish then. I thought, I'll marry an older man. Pretty soon he'll die of old age, and I'll get all his money." She sighed again. "Three years have passed. He looks fitter than ever, the rat."
"Forty-two may be old," I agreed, "but it isn't that old. He may well live for several years yet."
"He would-the rat!" she snarled.
"Whom," I asked, "has he been playing around with?"
"Who knows? Some rotten little tramp, I guess. Maybe a whole bunch of rotten little tramps. I don't care whom-just so you catch him in the act, like your ad said. And I get a divorce."
"We'll catch him," I assured her. "And in the act. Or acts."
Privately I thought, so this is why private detectives get ulcers before their time. For ten bucks a day this chick wants her husband framed, and photographed. Aloud I said, "We'll get right on it."
She frowned and pulled back. That lessened my view of her cleavage, but did nothing to interfere with my view of her legs. "We? How many you guys gonna work for me?"
I consulted my small coded notebook. 0004 was working as a cut-rate store detective in a super market. 00048 was carrying a picket sign. 0009 was working as a night watchman for a lumber yard. 00087 as a bodyguard. And so on. I toted up totals.
"We have fifteen highly-trained male and female agents available for your case," I said.
She looked worried. "I can't afford more than ten bucks a day," she whined.
I nodded. "Ten bucks a day is all you pay. For that you get fifteen agents."
"Gee," she said. "That's-lessee-seventy-five cents a day per agent. You guys sure must need money."
"We do," I said. "Excuse me." I picked up her phone dialed, got headquarters. "Put all available agents on-I looked at her questioningly.
"Johnson. Titus C. Johnson," she said.
"Titus C. Johnson. Male agents to carry cameras and tape recorders to catch him in the act. Female agents to provide the act. That is all." I hung up.
"Gee," said Ginger. "That'll show him, I guess."
"It will indeed," I said. Poor Titus. Five male agents stalking him with mike and camera, and ten incredibly voluptuous, expertly sexually trained female agents pursuing him with lusty intent.
However faithful or inhibited he might be, he wouldn't be able to hold out. He might rebuff one or two-or even six or seven sex crazed girls. But fifteen? Never. He was as good as divorced.
I rose to my feet.
So did Ginger.
"Don't go," she urged. "Not when we're just getting friendly."
"My job-" I protested.
"Let the other fourteen agents work alone for a bit," she urged. She giggled. "Even if I keep you here all day and night, you'll only cost me seventy-five cents, right?"
"Right," I said, suppressing a shudder. Me, 0008, working for seventy-five cents a day-with nights thrown in. Well, it was for a good cause.
Ginger swayed toward me. "Give us a kiss, huh?"
I stared at her. She was a bit too drunk for my taste. On the other hand, she was stacked. And my employer. Also, better to be in her apartment lapping up booze and feeling up flesh than standing in some drafty street corner snooping on her husband.
"Why not?" I said, and an instant later she was in my arms.
She reeked of perfume. Not cheap perfume, but not good perfume, either. No matter. I'd made love to many a tramp, married and unmarried, in my career.
And as tramps went, Ginger wasn't bad.
Her mouth was a bourbon scented furnace of lust that locked to my lips like a lust crazed limpet, and, through the flimsy fabric of her negligee, I could feel the animal warmth and pagan contours of her twenty-one-year-old body flowing against my chest and loins.
I slid my arms around her as I bent her back with a Rudolph Valentino kiss. Her back was an arced invitation for my hands to trace her contours, and I let my hands trace. Funny, I mused, it's been years since I felt up a girl with clothes on-if her scanty garments could be called clothes...
She was a small girl, and while my preference is for Amazonic babes-or at least girls tall enough so that I can gaze into their wide open and adoring eyes while I'm making love to them-small girls can be fun, too.
There's a cute kind of delicate femininity to them, a miniaturization of erotic components that make a man feel protective as well as rapacious.
Or so I mused as my hands traced her tiny back, her incredibly small waist, then slid down to enjoy the warmth of her jaunty buttocks through the beads and fabric of her negligee. She had compact, rounded, saucy buttocks, my hands told me. Buttocks that ended with a sharp inward dip at the ilial crest.
Meanwhile her pelvic bone was doing the Frug in close carnal contact with my manhood, her breasts were snuggling against my chest like lazy battering rams of bliss.
I slid one hand around to find and fumble with the buttons that fronted her negligee, and suddenly she'd wriggled from my embrace to giggle drunkenly.
"Uh uh," she chided, wagging a drunken (but dainty) finger in my face. "Lights off first!" And she reached for the light switch.
Frankly I was stunned. Moving in hip international circles as I do, the concept that a modern girl could be shy about being stripped and sexed with the lights on was one I could hardly credit.
Still, it was her party, and if she wanted to play coy-and then the lights were out-and I gasped.
Ginger glowed in the dark. Or at least the beads on her negligee did. Just like those photos I'd seen in Life magazine. Only the glowing blue and green beads on Ginger formed a more interesting pattern. Specifically, they formed three arrows. Two pointing to her breasts; and one, south of the Equator.
What a novel but useful concept. No more groping for a girl's fun zones in the dark-just follow the arrows. I did just that, and an instant later Ginger was in my arms again.
And this time she made no objection when I opened her up button by button. The glowing beads were so bright they cast a bluish-green glow on her flesh. Interesting. As my un-buttoning hands moved down her front, I could see shining blue-green flesh being revealed.
An instant later I had the last button off, and the negligee slithered off her shoulders and down her flesh to the floor. Oh, happy sound-it brought back the days of my youth.
For so long now girls had presented themselves to me stripped and ready for my inspection and amusement, I'd forgotten what a kick it had been to unwrap the package.
I'd forgotten the unforgettable sound of cloth slithering off warm, vibrant female flesh, the snick of metal fasteners being opened by my fingers, the thud, thud of female shoes being wantonly kicked off female feet.
Ah, the sounds of youth...
Meanwhile, Ginger was in my arms again, and my hands were sliding over her bare back. I found the catch of her bra, deftly unhooked it (my fingers hadn't lost their old cunning, not by a hook-eye), then pushed her gently away from me so the bra could fall free.
She gasped excitedly and drunkenly, captured my hands and placed them over her now nude breasts.
Nice breasts. Not gigantic, but big-not cantaloupe sized, but bigger than most grapefruit-and much more interestingly sculptured.
Full, firm, compact, and solid breasts. Soft to the touch, but firm and springy, ripe and resilient, and tipped with eager young nipples that sprang to life the instant my palms touched them.
I massaged both breasts and nipples for a bit, wash-boarding her sprouting tease-tips into vibrant life, kneading the yielding globes of frontal flesh with my strong yet supple fingers.
She squealed with delight-obviously she'd never encountered so skilled a sex artisan as I-and shoved herself hard against me, causing her breasts to overflow my cupped hands.
I slid my hands lower, in an hourglass motion, dipping in to follow the contour of her arm-thick waist, way out to follow the flare of her all-girl hips.
I found the waistband of her scanty panties, dropped to a crouch in front of her and began to slide them down.
Slowly.
It had been a long while since I'd pulled a girl's panties down.
Nowadays, it seemed, all the girls I made love to didn't wear panties.
Or they took them off themselves.
Or I ripped them off in my eagerness to get at the fun flesh beneath.
But this time, for the fun of it, and because Ginger Johnson was a client, I slid them down slowly.
It was dead quiet in the darkened room, quiet save for Ginger's excited breathing, and the sibilant whisper of her panties sliding around and over her hip and buttock flesh. Lower I pulled them, and lower.
My eyes, accustomed to the darkness now, discerned a rising crescent of faint light-her bikini zone. All of her body was tanned, evidently, save for a narrow band around her loins. Not really a band, more like the shape of a seagull with open wings viewed from head on-two narrowing upflaring wings of white, where the fabric of her bikini pants narrowed to the hip straps, and a downward V in the center.
Evidently Ginger believed in removing all hair-save for the top of her head, that is.
Interesting.
I glanced up to see if her breasts were tipped with white, untanned circles. But no. She tanned those. A pity. I like a girl whose loins and breasts are untanned-it underlines the excitement those three areas can provide.
Stimulating, too...
Meanwhile I had Ginger's panties over her rump now, and an instant later they rustled to the floor.
She was all nude now. All nude and all mine...
Crouching before her in the darkened room, I slid my hands around the luscious curves of her thighs, thighs that seemed to glow erotically against my palms and fingers, thighs that were soft and supple, infinitely inviting.
I slid my hands up higher, past the ilial crest of her buttocks to cup the cornucopias of her brazenly full backside. How provocatively her buttocks yielded to my tightening fingers, how firm and fresh and young and exciting they were!
I pulled her to me, nuzzling my cheek against the polished flesh-pillow of her belly, savoring the tangy taste of her exquisitely soft and sensuous flesh. I kissed her from waist to navel, from navel to nirvana. I kissed her with lips and tongue, and enjoyed her with all my senses, enjoyed the warmth of her body, the texture of her flesh beneath my fingertips, the heady scent of her skin.
Then I released my hold on her, rose and began to shed my clothes fast. I'd no more than shed my sport coat and tie when Ginger stopped me.
"Let me," she whispered.
So I let her.
Let her unbutton my shirt, button by button. Let her teasing fingers stroke each inch of flesh she uncovered. Let her wrestle with my belt buckle and zipper, let her slide my trousers down, remove my shoes and socks.
And all the while her fingers stroked and explored my flesh-shamelessly, ardently, eagerly.
Then I was naked save for my undershorts and Ginger knelt before me and slid them down, and down while she touched me, here and there, and kissed me, you know where...
I patted the top of her ginger-red head, pulled her lips hard against the flesh of my belly, sighed contentedly as her hands strayed up and down my back, my backside and legs.
Then: "This way," she murmured, and reached out and grasped me, grasped me where it was fun to be grasped by her hot little hand, grasped me and led me through the darkened living room into her equally dark bedroom.
My legs bumped against the bed and I fell sideways onto it, with Ginger in my arms.
Only then did a stray (and annoying) thought cross my mind.
"Your husband," I said. "Any chance of his walking In on us while we're making love?"
"Not one chance in two," she murmured.
I nodded. "Those odds are good enough for me," I told her, confident that my highly trained hearing would enable me to detect the sound of a key in a lock.
And then I forgot her husband, forgot everything but the bundle of wriggling eroticism in my arms, the leg to leg, loin to loin, chest to breast and mouth to mouth contact of our highly charged bodies.
Our tongues twisted and intertwined, our thighs inter-meshed, our hands roamed everywhere-touching, patting, stroking, squeezing and fondling.
Then I pushed free from her, the better to browse on the passionate pasture of her body. My hands slid up her rib cage, caged the pouting impudence of her nearest breast, contoured it, cuddled it; then I bent my head to capture the torrid tip, the lighthouse of lust that was her nipple.
The throbbing promise of her ecstatic nipple, her quivering breast triggered an instant response in my hormones, and I felt my interest rise even higher. So did Ginger, whose stroking hands had clasped their own trophy.
I transferred my attentions to her other breast, let my tongue stroke and outline the launching pad of her aureole, the upright missile of her nipple, while my hands moved over her choice and chesty charms, her warm and wanton arms. I stroked her shoulders, the delicate column of her neck, the dainty outlines of her head, the firm delight of her flanks.
I kissed the deep valley between her breasts, kissed their steeply rounded slopes, kissed my way down to her hips, her stomach, and the pleasure portal of her desire.
Then I rolled her over and let my hands and lips stray over her South side, lifting the scented mane of her hair to kiss the nape of her neck, kissing her shoulder blades, her back, the dip of her spine, the rounded hills of her buttocks.
Buttocks softer than whipped cream, warmer than original sin, buttocks that quivered and jumped when I parted and shook them, buttocks that rippled entrancingly under my buffeting hands.
Impudent, youthful buttocks. Mounds of enticement, domes of pleasure, overfilled pillows of bliss...
I let my hands move down the taut and tender curves of her thighs, so smooth to the touch, so resilient to my groping fingers.
Then I flipped her on her back once again and again tasted the hidden fruit of her breasts, passion-engorged pinnacles of her nipples.
I kissed my way along her limbs and around her torso, kissed her from lips to toes.
She squirmed and giggled, writhed and rolled as if in torment as I teased her passions ever higher-her passion and mine.
She thrashed on the bed, flailed the mattress with her fists, scissored her legs wildly.
"Do it to me!" she pleaded, "do it to me now! I can't stand it if you go on like that-I can't stand it!
But she stood it. Took it lying down, in fact. Though not lying still.
She bounced and shimmied, jerked and twisted, arched her back and rolled her hips as I stoked her and provoked her.
"Now!" she screamed, "now, now, now!"
She flung her legs wide apart, dug her fingernails deep into my flesh as she tried to pull me down on top of her. And I let her pull me, still keeping most of my weight on my knees and arms. I let her pull me, her hands around my buttocks, right to the voluptuous vortex of her body.
She screeched with raw and naked ecstasy as I ram-rodded myself all the way to her embrace, as I slammed my self brutally against the gateway of her sexuality--the gateway my metaphorical battering ram had already breeched.
Her thighs quivered and her hips whip-cracked as I pistoned her, plungered her. Her nails raked my back and her teeth sank deep into my shoulder as I probed and pleasured her deeply, demandingly.
Her body was a bubbling cauldron of lust that my masculinity was stirring, exciting, churning. I rocked my hips from side to side, and she squealed as if a giant windshield wiper had come to life inside her body. I thrust up and down, forward and back, all the while straining hard against her, thrusting all the way to her welcome.
Then I began to piston back and forth, slowly, as if I were sawing wood. Back and forth I pistoned while I strained upwards so that she'd feel my moving where she'd be most excited by it.
And she got plenty excited. She began to babble and whimper, began to pummel my back with her fists, chew on my shoulder as if she wanted to gnaw on my shoulder bones.
I increased the speed of my rocking thrust, pumping passion into her with every stroke.
Faster.
And faster still.
And every lunge I made was met by an up-surging response of her hips, a frantic bounce of the bed, a demented groan of pleasure.
I pistoned her brutally, savagely, my mind beginning to spin from the flesh-sliding delight, the friction of our meshing and unmeshing points of interest.
Her legs locked around me, locking my pivot of power within her squeezing shaft of flesh. Her muscles pulsed and gripped me with incredible power, frantic rapidity-adding an indescribably exciting dimension of delight to the passionate game we were playing, skewer me-tear me wide open!"
"Faster!" she screamed. "Impale me-stab me-
I speeded up.
"Faster!" she screamed, while her fists pounded against my back, while her muscles flexed with the power of a strong man shaking hands-though no strong man could shake hands as fast as her muscles could grip me.
"Faster!" she pleaded, and I pistoned faster, making the whole bed bounce and rock, sending waves of rapture tumbling through me, through her, raising us both to an almost agonizing crest of sexual tension-a crest that towered above us to the sky, a crest that finally broke with the force of a sexual tidal wave, sweeping up along a tumultuous current of joy, a rising river of liquid fire.
So intense was the ecstasy of my outpouring affection, the pulses seemed to blend into one, into a great soaring arc of supra-human experience.
It was demolishing, destroying, diabolical-crazy and creative-yin and yang-darkness so deep it was alight, light so bright it was black. It was hot and cold and sour and sweet and every contradictory sensation rolled into one.
It was mind-bending and soul-shredding-a total triumph of flesh over thought. It was as if the sun were the center of the universe, and the sun was in my loins.
Shining...
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCK, A LADY I'VE flirted with many times in the past, grinned at me that day-Ginger's husband didn't walk in on us while we were tumbling nakedly and ardently on the sheets.
Nor did he walk in on us while, after a round of drinks and a chorus of giggles from Ginger, we had at each other for round two.
Round three went without interruption, too.
Then I said farewell to Ginger Johnson and hitchhiked back to SADISTO's huge underground headquarters beneath the rolling hills of Maryland.
The General and I split a K-ration for supper. All the other agents were out-out after Titus C. Johnson.
The poor guy never stood a chance. Two days later we nailed him, and that evening we gathered in the General's office to watch movies depicting that very event.
As motion pictures go, it was kind of uneven; it would never have won any academy awards for camera work. But then, it had been shot under difficult circumstances by five agents using twenty different cameras, cameras smaller than a match box and long range cameras using 300mm lenses, and the sound had been recorded on mikes hidden in buttons, half-mile range directional mikes-and so forth.
Nevertheless, the film was interesting.
The first shot on the screen was of Titus' office window, evidently taken from a building across the street Then, as the zoom lens moved in, we got a close shot of him sitting behind his desk-the poor clod was an investment counselor.
He shuffled papers for a while, the sound of the papers being shuffled clearly audible-direction mikes are fantastically powerful-and then he looked up in surprise at the sound of a door opening.
0005 sauntered into view. 0005 has a bust dimension in the high forties, and the rest of her figure matches beautifully: wide, incredibly wide hips; long, incredibly long legs: ripe, incredibly ripe thighs. Also waist-length auburn hair and full, kissable lips.
She was wearing a trench-coat and high-heeled shoes.
"Who," gasped Titus-a rather worried-looking man in his early forties-are you?"
"A girl," crooned 0005 in her inimitable husky, sexy, voice. Looking for a job. Care to hire me?"
"Certainly not!" spluttered Titus, "I don't need any more employees. How did you get past my receptionist?"
"She seems," crooned 0005. "to be asleep."
Unconscious was more like it, I reflected-unconscious after being jabbed expertly in the neck. 0005 had won two blue ribbons in judo.
"Well-go!" shouted Titus.
"Now, now," drawled 0005. "Don't you want to ex amine my...credentials?"
And with that she shrugged off her trench coat am kicked off her shoes. She was, of course, totally nude under the coat. Nude and magnificent-a pagan package of king-, or rather queen-sized bliss-an erotic Amazon with more curves than a truckload of pretzels.
"Kiss me-boss!" she whispered, vaulting lightly over Titus' desk to land with a thud on his lap. The result was predictable. Exquisite though 0005's figure is, her colossal charms quite naturally weigh a few pounds. Like, she's no lightweight.
Under the whizzing impact of her well-padded body, Titus' swivel chair collapsed into wooden splinters, and 0005 and he rolled on the floor wrestling frantically. 0005 was wrestling-or trying to wrestle-his clothes off; Titus, the fool, was wrestling to escape her amorous clutches.
"Silly boy," we heard her croon, "play hard to get?"
"Help!" bleated Titus. "Desist, my good woman! You're sick-in need of treatment. I'll call a psychiatrist! Early nymphomania is curable and-let go my arm-let go my leg, let go my-help!"
Surprisingly, he broke free. And, with his tie missing, his coat half torn off his back and his shirt-tails flapping he fled through his office door.
"Tsk, tsk," said the General, watching the action on the screen. In the darkness next to the projection machine, 0005 began to sob quietly to herself. Naturally. No girl wants to think any man can resist her-especially a sex-trained agent like 0005.
On the screen was a shot of Titus, wild-eyed, dashing from his office building, darting nervous glances behind him. A cab swung into the curb and Titus flagged it and jumped in. If he thought it unusual to encounter a Volkswagen cab in Washington, he said nothing about it.
On the screen the camera angle changed. Evidently a wide angle miniaturized camera had been hidden in the dome light. We had a fine view, from overhead, of Titus sitting panting in the back seat of the VW, looking nervously back through the rear window. He was looking in the wrong direction. The cab driver, a dazzlingly beautiful brunette (00065) instantly unzipped her jumpsuit and slithered out of it and over into the rear seat with the flowing movements of a sex-starved python.
"Take me-I'm yours!" she moaned as she tore at Titus' already tattered clothes.
"Stop!" screeched Titus. "I'm a happily married man with a devoted wife waiting for me and-help!" His words were instantly muffled by a soft female breast being thrust into his mouth.
A moment later the screen was filled with a fascinating montage of legs, arms, breasts and backsides as 00065 and Titus thrashed around in the back seat of the VW.
And then-incredibly-he escaped again. Stripped to the waist and missing both shoes and one sock, he fled in panic down the street.
And for the next ten minutes, I watched what must have been one of the most remarkable chase scenes ever filmed on the streets of Washington and Georgetown. Through avenues and streets, down dark alleys and across vacant lots fled Titus; and everywhere he fled he encountered more lusty, clothes-shedding girls.
Passionate girls sprang at him from behind trees, popped out of garbage cans, dropped from lamposts into his path.
It was a case of one hound being pursued by ten super charged foxes-or is the word vixen? At any rate, in his heroic dash for home, Titus was pursued and tempted by more gorgeous girls in more unlikely places than the average man could hope to meet in a lifetime.
And he resisted them all, outran them all. Made it back to his apartment and slammed the door, just at a wave of naked girl flesh dashed itself in vain against his portal.
"Ahem," said the General, as all this unfolded on the screen. "I appreciate the zest and, ah, enthusiasm with which you girl agents pursued your, ah, target. And it's true we must get pictures of Titus making love for our client to get her divorce. But I think a more subtle approach..."
Subtle or not, the girls got him. On the screen was now depicted the inside of Titus' apartment-while I'd been tumbling Ginger in the bedroom, other SADISTO agents had installed carefully concealed cameras throughout the living room.
Back to the door, wild of eye and bereft of clothing-save for a pair of badly torn undershorts-Titus stood panting.
He looked around for his wife. No wife. Only a note pinned to the door. I knew what it said, since I'd dictated it to Ginger: Have gone to spend the next few days with Mother. Enjoy yourself while I'm gone. (Signed) your young wife.
Titus read the note through twice, and was about to read it for the third time when the bedroom door opened, and eight nude girls sprinted toward him. Eight different girls-more triple-zero female agents had returned to headquarters and been assigned to the case.
"We're being pledged to a sorority!" the girls squealed. "And guess what we have to do to prove our character!"
Titus guessed-and made a wild leap for the window. The girls caught him in midair.
Moments later they had him spread-eagled on the floor. Four did, that is. The other four, squealing with excitement, made a game of removing his undershorts. With their teeth.
"Help!" moaned Titus, "Help! Help! Ouch! Help!" Then they had his undershorts off and started swarming all over him.
Expertly.
Erotically.
Fiendishly.
Lasciviously.
They began to tease and stroke him with their flowing hair, the tips of their breasts, the sides of their thighs, the crests of their buttocks, the tips of their tongues.
His eyes continued to roll wildly, but his cries for help began to get fainter and fainter and his interest in the proceedings began to rise. After which they began to concentrate on his interest.
Pruriently.
Passionately.
With nuzzling breasts and lapping tongues, with tweaking fingers and pursed lips, with sliding thighs and bumping buttocks-Titus was now staring at the ceiling with wide, incredulous eyes as if he couldn't believe that what was happening to him-was happening.
I hoped for his sake he wasn't trying to fight the inevitable. But resistance or no resistance, the inevitable happened.
Or so the girls maintained, no doubt correctly. I didn't see the inevitable happen because the camera slipped out of focus for a few moments, and all I could see was what looked like a bottle of champagne being shaken, until the cork popped and the girls worked all the harder for the sake of the camera.
"Ahem," said the General. "Interesting though these films are, I fear they might not be accepted as evidence of deliberate infidelity on Titus C. Johnson's part. I mean, he is being held down..."
"Right," said 00033, tossing her tawny hair. "That's why we kept the orgy going for two days and nights. I won't show the whole film, since it would take two days and nights to run it off, but here are some excerpts."
And as I watched the excerpts, I realized why 00033 was SADISTO's acknowledged expert on sex. Briefly, what happened was that the girls-the original eight, plus half a score more who dropped in during the proceedings-kept Titus in a non-stop state of sexual excitement. For two days and night. Two days and nights of champagne and rose-lipped girls, two days and nights during which every imaginable and unimaginable sexual gambit was practiced on him.
No man, not even a prudish, narrow-minded-and devoted-husband like Titus could survive a sex-washing like that.
At the end of the first night it took only two girls to hold him down. By the close of the following day, one girl. During the second night, he didn't resist at all. And on the last day, Titus began to do most of the chasing and a lot of the sexual improvising himself.
He was kind of delirious and very drunk, of course; living in a waking dream-a delirium that had become reality to his fevered mind.
Nevertheless, he was indisputedly leering and chasing naked girls. And catching them. And doing all sorts of naughty things to them and with them.
No judge, watching a carefully edited version of that last day and night, could fail to regard Titus as one of the worst and most shameless lechers since the death of Caligula.
Certainly no judge would pay the slightest attention to Titus if he tried to tell the truth. Who'd believe him? Assaulted by a gang of gorgeous girls in his own home? Ravished against his will? Incredible. What would be credible would be the films of Titus leaping like a goat, a very virile goat, upon girl after girl-of Titus assuming a belligerent stance and shouting that he could lick any girl in the room, though any girl was welcome to do her best to bring him down-of Titus wallowing in a sea of flesh, slithering under a bridge of thighs towards a bounty of breasts...
No doubt about it, Ginger Johnson would get her divorce, and all the alimony a judge could squeeze out of Titus.
"And we," said the General proudly, when the film ended, "will collect thirty dollars."
I shook my head sadly. Thirty dollars. In exchange for the devoted efforts of a score of SADISTO agents (whose training had cost the taxpayers at least a million apiece), plus the use of half a million dollars worth of electronic and photographic equipment. It just didn't seem right.
I said as much to the General.
"You're right, of course," he said. "But at least we're keeping in training. And most of all-we need the money."
And at that instant the lights went out.
The signal for an orgy.
"General!" I cried, as the assembled agents had at each other in the darkness, "what a thoughtful gesture-throwing an orgy for your devoted, hard-working agents!
"I suppose we might as well have an orgy," sighed the General, "especially as it's already started. But that isn't why the light went out. The fact is, I couldn't pay our light bill this month. Anybody got a candle?
Nobody had.
But we had a ball.
After that, though-in fact for weeks after that-we had no fun at all. We rose at six in the morning, munched surplus soy beans for breakfast, climbed fifteen stories up the elevator shaft (no electricity for the elevator motor), and then lined up shivering on the highway to hitchhike off to our demeaning jobs.
And what jobs...
Peering through dusty keyholes at second-rate hotels, lurking in dime stores to catch under-age shoplifters, acting as night watchmen in drafty warehouses...
Still, we made money. A little money. Not that all of our jobs were carried out to perfection. The original ad the General had placed had boasted that the Friendly General Detective Agency had no dissatisfied clients, which had been true, since we'd had no clients at all then. But by the end of two weeks we had plenty of dissatisfied clients.
The trouble was, we SADISTO agents had been playing to different rules-our own rules. As 0002 found out when she brought down a little old lady shoplifter with a hail of machine pistol bullets. Instead of a bonus she got fired. And when 0001 was hired by a lawyer to get an elusive witness she got him in two hours-only to find out the lawyer had wanted him alive.
I myself goofed a couple of times. Through no fault of my own. I mean, if you were posing as a private detective and a bill collection agency told you to turn the heat on a guy who was behind in his payments, wouldn't you assume he meant use a flame-thrower? Again, plenty of the people who call a detective agency are a bit crazy or hysterical or both, though they don't look it at first.
Like the young housewife I called on one morning. She was trim and blonde and had friendly eyes, as well as a ravishing figure which was marvelously discernible through the thin housecoat she was wearing.
I leered at her. She shyly lowered her eyes. But not too shyly. I began to look forward to a little fun, after I'd taken care of the simple problem she'd complained about over the phone.
"My problem seems so petty," she confessed, glancing flirtatiously up at me. "But your rates are so reasonable-five dollars for half a day-I, well, I though I'd get expert help. You see, I have a little boy..."
I nodded, reaching for my Walther PPK. "Heavily insured, eh? Does he pass many dark alleys on his way home from school?"
She frowned. "Why-no. And I don't have him insured."
I slid my Walther back into its holster. "So what's your problem?"
"It's the fact that he brings his little chums back with him. Into the kitchen. And then they all raid the refrigerator. I've told him a dozen times not to. How can I put a stop to it?"
"Easily," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out what looked like a lightbulb. "I'll show you. First you unplug the refrigerator like this. Then you take out the bulb, so, and screw in this gadget of mine, like this. Next we close the door--and then, with the door safely closed, we plug the refrigerator on again-so."
"I don't understand," she said. "What do I do?"
"Stay well away from the house. At least a hundred yards-two hundred would be better. You see, when those rotten kids open the refrigerator, instead of a light coming on, the bomb will explode. That should wipe the smile off their faces. In fact it should wipe their faces off their...madame! Why are you screaming hysterically on the floor?"
She never told me. And when I tried to help her to her feet she fainted. So I said the heck with it and left, taking my light-bulb bomb with me. You can't do business with hysterical woman.
In fact, as the weeks passed and word of the unorthodox methods of the FGDA spread, we had trouble doing business with anybody.
Things looked bad.
And they were bad.
And they got worse.
They turned off the water. We ran out of candles. Our super-sensitive protective devices no longer worked (no electricity), so we had to stand guard duty at the door in shifts. We ran out of liquor. And at last we were down to one silencer fitted Walther PPK among us-we'd had to hock the rest.
And then, at the last moment, a Top Priority Ultra Secret Rush Job came in. We drew cards, and I drew top card.
I'll never forget the scene that night in the General's office, an office now illuminated only by the glowing wrist watch dials of the five dozen assembled agents. Then General briefed me, gave me the gun, the only gun SADISTO now possessed, plus our last six bullets-three lead ones and three wax ones.
The treasury was emptied, also the assembled agents' pockets. Eighty-four dollars. It would have to do. Transport to Rome had already been arranged, on the Fly Now-Pay Later plan.
I rose to go. The assembled agents cheered. The General shook my hand.
"Remember, 0008," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "you must not fail. I know the fate of the Free World has depended on all your other assignments, but this time something even more important is at stake-the fate of SADISTO!"
"You can count on me," I said, picking up the gun I'd accidentally dropped. "Count on my skill and intelligence," I added modestly, while I picked up the keys and coins that had dropped out of my pockets when I'd bent over for the gun. "Uh, sorry about that," I added to 0004, whose foot I'd just stepped on.
And then, with a cheery wave, and a sincere apology to 0002, whose eye I'd just poked with my cheery wave, I was off, climbing fifteen stories up the elevator shaft, on my way to Rome and the most vital, most dangerous, most sex packed episode of my career-
The Eva de Struxion Caper...
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE HAD MAGNIFICENT BREASTS.
And, because I believe in giving praise where praise is due, I told her so.
"Thank you sir," she said. "You may unfasten your seat-belt now if you wish, we're halfway across the Atlantic."
"Oh," I said, glancing down at the waves far beneath us, "so we are. Uh, tell me, it's been a few weeks since I've flown the Atlantic, are all you airline hostesses wearing that sort of costume now-tight fitting short-shorts and nothing at all above the waist?"
"Most of us," she said, leaning over me to help me unfasten my seat belt buckle, her fantastic breasts swaying like ripe fruit before my eyes, the near one gently bumping against my nose as the plane hit a slight turbulence. Turbulence. Funny, I mused, how fashions in weather change. When I'd started flying they'd called them air pockets. Then downdrafts. Now turbulence. Science certainly moved with the times.
"You see," said the hostess, still fumbling in my lap where the seatbelt buckle rested, "the competition among trans-Atlantic air carriers is fantastic. And we of Air Eurasia are determined to keep pace in supplying attractive extras. Ah, I think I have the buckle open now.
"That's my zipper," I said-but silently.
"Of course we got the idea from those restaurants on the West Coast," she went on, still fumbling around the seatbelt buckle on my lap. "But if waitresses can go bare breasted, why not air hostesses? There! Now I'll just pull the buckle up like this and-oh, I'm terribly sorry sir!"
"That's quite all right," I said. "Perfectly natural mistake to make, I guess."
"I'll put it right back," she said. "If, uh, I can, that is. Funny, I pulled it out so easily and I'm having a lot of trouble getting it back in."
"You may call it trouble," I said. "I call it fun."
"You're too kind. Here, I'll use both hands. Uh, would you mind steadying me?"
"Not at all," I said, grasping her swaying breasts which squirmed and wriggled in my hands as more turbulence rocked the plane and the airline hostess.
She was sure an exotic-looking chick, but that was to be expected of a girl who worked for an airline like Air Eurasia. I wondered what her nationality was-Indonesian? Malayan? Cambodian?
No matter. Suffice that she was tall and willowy, with breasts like great golden goblets and long, lustrous black hair.
"I'm still having trouble stuffing back," she grunted, "it's very long-longer than any I've seen in my native land-and my hands keep sliding over it."
"So I've noticed," I said.
"There, I just about-oh. Oh, dear. I'm afraid I've turned it on!"
"Looks that way," I said.
"My," she said, "it certainly glows brightly, doesn't it?"
"That's what flashlights are designed to do," I said. "Here, I'll just put it on the seat beside me." And I did, reflecting on how nice it was of the General to give me his own three cell flashlight, and how dumb it was of me to have stuffed it down the waistband of my trousers. Still, a fellow never knew when or where he needed a light.
"Now if you'll excuse me, Sir," said my exotic airline hostess, "I have to make an announcement."
"Sure, sure," I said.
"If you would be good enough to release my breasts? Ah, thank you, Sir."
"My pleasure," I said, watching her magnificent hips undulate down the aisle. The tight fitting short-shorts she was wearing covered only part of her exotic buttocks, and with each step she took her rump writhed and swayed invitingly, flirtatiously...
I closed my eyes deliberately. No time to think of fun, 0008, I told myself. You're on a job-a tough job. Think man, think. And I thought. Thought of how much fun it would be to capture that swaying rump in my hands, peel down those tight-fitting short-shorts and-
The job. Yes, the job. The General had given me a thorough if rather muddled briefing...
"You've heard of the de Struxion family, I take it?" he'd asked.
"Yes sir," I'd said. "A great name in European industry. De Lesseps is to canals and Du Pont to chemistry, the name de Struxion is to steel. Also iron, coal, oil, phosphate and munitions. A multi-millionaire family. Business headquarters in Rome, branches all over the world."
"Good. Now, a month ago Struxion Steel's subsidiary, Struxion Oil, perfected a simple, foolproof method of growing yeast on petroleum."
"Good grief!" I said. "Those lab boys sure know how to waste their time. Like who needs it?"
"The world needs it," said the General in his most dramatic voice. "Don't snicker-I'm serious. We grow yeast now on sugar and water solutions, but the ideal culture would be one of the hydrocarbons, specifically paraffin rich petroleum. And it's been done, to a limited extent. The British Petroleum Company has a huge pilot plant working specifically on the problem. Perhaps you read about it in the October, 1965 issue of the Scientific American?"
I said I hadn't. The General said I ought to read more and went on to explain that most of the world, like two thirds of it, was undernourished because their diet consisted of plant foods, like rice and grain which lacked certain vital amino acids found only in animal protein and yeast.
"Given an unlimited supply of cheap protein," he went on, "the world's food problem would be solved almost overnight. It would be revolutionary."
"If there's a revolution, General," I told him with ray teeth gritted, "you can count on me to put it down."
"Don't," said the General. "To continue: the protein products harvested from petroleum cultures rather resembles soapflakes or soap powder, but are odorless and tasteless. It can be drunk as tasteless soup or mixed, with sauces, and hundreds of millions of undernourished human beings will benefit. And if an efficient method of growing the protein can be perfected-as de Struxion Oil has perfected it-only forty million tons of oil a year would supply food protein for the whole world."
"That's a lot of oil," I said.
"Compared to world production of one and a quarter billion tons? That's like taking a cupful of oil from an oil tanker-it'd never be missed. And every country in the world has oil refineries. Every country could produce all the protein its people needed."
"Good," I said. "What's the problem?"
The General frowned. "The pilot plant that perfected the new foolproof method of using petroleum to synthesize protein blew up. Killed the whole staff."
"Bad," I said. "Guess their method wasn't foolproof liter all, eh?"
"The plant was blown up," said the General, "by a bomb. Don't forget, 0008, there are forces in this world who don't want the underfed nations to get all the food they want. No discontent-no revolution. Other forces want to keep markets open for their surplus food. And still other forces don't care-just so they can make a fast hundred million bucks."
"Hmm," I said. "The plant and all the scientists blew up, you say?"
"Yes, but not before they sent a description of the catalyst they used, the formula-if you will-to de Struxion's Rome office."
"Good," I said.
"Where it was promptly stolen," finished the General.
"Bad," I said.
"But we know who stole the formula," said the General.
"That's good," I said.
"Only we don't know where she is," he added.
"That's bad, I said. "Maybe she-she?"
"Yes, she. You've read about Desdamona Eva de Struxion-or D. Eva de Struxion, as she calls herself?"
"Sure," I said. "She's the youngest of the fantastically wealthy de Struxion family. A madcap playgirl in her twenties who just recently got disowned, disinherited and kicked out without a penny on account of the many drunken and naked brawls she got into. Aha!"
"Right," said the General. "To spite her family-and make a huge fortune on her own-D. Eva de Struxion stole the formula. Dropped out of sight. And then sent notes to China, Russia, India, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, France, Britain and a lot of other countries, offering to sell the formula for ten million dollars."
"Sounds like a fair price," I said.
"That's what China, Russia, India, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, France, Britain and most of the United Nations thought. They all sent ten million by return mail. Which she has kept. Along with the formula."
"Isn't she the nasty one?" I said. "A girl like her should meet a really horrible fate-like me."
"Go," said the General, "and fate her up good. After you get the formula. And," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "one other thing..."
"What's that?" I asked, also dropping my voice to a whisper.
"The two hundred fifty million dollars she stole."
"General!" I gasped. "Doesn't that money belong to China, Russia, India, the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the rest?"
The General winked (first snapping on a cigarette lighter so I could see him wink in his darkened office).
"Finders keepers, losers weepers," he whispered. "We needed that two hundred fifty million bad, 0008. You too. Fast women, fast cars, good food, expensive wine, la dolce vita? You want to collect unemployment instead?"
"I'll bring it back. General," I told him, "or my name isn't-isn't-say, you know, I've been using my number for so long I keep forgetting my name. Does it start with an A? B?"
"Go!" said the General.
And I went.
CHAPTER SIX
BUT ALL THAT HAD HAPPENED HOURS ago. Now, sitting in my comfortable airplane seat high over the Atlantic I was interrupted by the exotic airline hostess.
"Your attention, please," she said. "We are now about to project our in-flight motion pictures. As you passengers know, until recently only one airline showed in-flight movies on Atlantic flights. Now most lines do. The competition is murder. So we of Air Eurasia have decided to show...unusual movies. Those of you who feel you may be shocked will be provided with blindfolds and earplugs, another no-cost extra from Air Eurasia-the different airline. Thank you, lady and gentleman."
I smiled. What an adorable exotic child she was. Still making foolish grammatical mistakes. She... I straightened in my seat, looked around. Great Scott, she was right! There were only two passengers on the entire plane-me and a dark-haired girl sitting way up front, about fifty seats up.
She was right: the competition was murder.
The girl way in front turned briefly to glance back at me, then turned quickly back. Hard to tell what she looked like. She was wearing one of those high collars that came up to a girl's forehead, with two holes for her to look out of-the kind Modesty Blaise used to wear, at least when posing for book jackets.
Interesting...
But then the cabin lights dimmed, and the first usual movie came on the screen. In full color stereophonic sound.
Wow!
It was called Cinderella 70, and although the plot was trite the action was terrific. It opened with a pair of aristocratic parents talking on a yacht. It would have been kind of a dull scene, except for the fact that hordes of bikini-clad nymphettes were trotting about the yacht in the background, swigging champagne on the deck, swigging in the rigging and necking on the poop deck.
What the aristocratic parents were talking about was their son, the Prince. Seems he was thirty-five years old, and his mother thought it about time he started showing interest in girls. They decided to throw a party for him, a coming out party, where plenty of girls would come and put out for him-if he was at all tempted, that is.
The next scene was the party. And what a party! It reminded me of some of the costume bashes I'd attended at the Duchess of Delphi's castle. The camera roamed among dozens, hundreds of girls-all in costume, though not very much costume.
Some were nude save for finger painted designs adorning their luscious torsos, some wore feathered headdresses, period; others wore grotesque masks and lots of costume jewelry, but all were at least ninety-nine per cent nude.
And stacked.
The camera glided past thighs like golden columns, thighs like creamy pillars, thighs like ebony dreams-past saucy bare buttocks and jaunty buttocks, full buttocks and trim buttocks-past promise-laden eyes and promising lips, past flowing feminine hair that tumbled or flowed in blonde and black and red and chestnut and auburn and brown and silver abandon.
A marvelous montage of female anatomy spun across the screen-arms and hands and calves and necks and ankles, shoulders and wrists and fingers and foreheads, noses and cheekbones and ears and eyelashes and knees and elbows...
Curious, I mused, I'd sort of forgotten that other parts of the female anatomy are attractive. I mean, like most men, I look first at a girl's breasts, then at her hips and buttocks, then at her thighs. Then a quick glance at her waist and hair. After that, if she's rated high enough in the important points, I look at her face.
It's the natural, lusty thing to do.
But in concentrating on essentials, one does tend to forget that girls (bless 'em) are well constructed all over. The thing is, I decided, the other parts of a girl's body-the parts aside from her breasts and buttocks and belly and thighs-tend to sort of fade into the background.
If a girl had ears like a donkey or a neck like a gorilla, you'd notice it, but if her ears are merely delicately sculptured and feminine, her neck merely slender and graceful, why, you hardly notice them, or it.
I made a mental note to pay more attention to nuances of feminine anatomy in the future. No doubt about it, movies can be very educational-really start you thinking.
Meanwhile, on the screen, the party was really starting to swing. A tawny tressed teen-age trollop with boxing-ball sized breasts jumped onto a table and began to do a frenzied frug. But for the color of her hair, she looked like that chick in San Francisco who became famous rocking bare breasted in a discotheque.
Only this doll was denuded completely, and her dancing was five times as frenzied. Her hips wagged faster than you can wave your hand, and every wag of her hips imparted a flinging, flaunting, flagrant motion to her blissfully bouncy buttocks. Her backside bounded from side to side as if it was about to come lose. It didn't, though. All it did was make her ripe thighs ripple rapidly and rapturously.
And above the waist... Her huge breasts did a dance of their own, an upward rearing, down plunging, side to side flinging, round and round rolling dance that had me dry mouthed with passion, spellbound with aroused desire.
No tassel twirler I'd ever seen had equaled the pectoral gyrations this chick was capable of. If she'd had pendulous breasts, the effect would have been dramatic though less than erotic; but her breasts, while fantastically big, were as round and taut and springy as if they'd been inflated with hot, sweet cream under pressure.
Ever inflated a toy balloon with warm water? Noted the way it sways and rolls and quivers? That's the way this chick's choice chest ornaments swayed-and rolled-and quivered. In speeded up tempo.
Meanwhile, on the screen our hero, the Prince, was stifling a yawn.
Another girl began to do another dance-that wriggly, bend over backward dance where a girl slithers under a stick. I forget what they call it, but it's real big in the West Indies for some reason.
Anyway, this naked chick began undulating and bending backward and then stomping forward under the stick-only she couldn't make it. Her breasts jutted up too high. They kept bumping into the stick.
Fascinating!
On the screen the Prince stifled another yawn.
A tropic moon rose over the party (it was a garden party) and a bevy of selonotropic maidens did their stuff to music, (don't bother looking it up-selonotropic means bending or turning under the influence of moonlight. ) And how those naked maidens bent and turned beneath the moon, to drum thudding, pulse thrilling music.
(On screen the Prince dozed.)
Girls began doing incredibly erotic dances. Alone, with other girls, with lusty young men, with an assortment of wildlife-still the Prince yawned and dozed.
He was sure characterized as a creep.
Naked girls swam in a brightly lighted moat (the picture must have been shot at the Duchess of Delphi's castle-I remembered her moat well; many was the liquid, enfolding merging I'd enjoyed with amoral aqua-maids in that moat). Girls swung nakedly from vines, slithered nudely across lawns, danced demonically on tables...
And still the Prince yawned.
Then, dramatically, a spotlight swung-picking up the incredible figure of a girl. A naked girl. A golden girl. Like that chick in Goldfinger. But bigger. Much bigger. Not that she was tall; she was medium height. Not that she had big hips: she had average hips. Not that her thighs were titanic or buttocks gigantic; they were normal sized-though incredibly shapely.
No, there were only two fantastic, unbelievable things about this golden girl-her port and starboard breasts. They were, really and truly, the size of basketballs. Oversize basketballs.
If her bust measurement was less than fifty-five inches, I'd eat...something. And enjoy every mouthful.
The Prince rose to his feet, eyes glazed. "That," he gasped, "is my kind of girl!"
His kind of girl swayed closer on golden high-heels. Aside from a ruby in her navel, a tiny black mask and a flimsy silver-net bra, she was totally naked...and her flesh was painted gold.
She sauntered up to the Prince, stopped three feet away. Her colossal boobs swayed but a few inches from his fascinated gaze-the stuck out that far.
And, although they were decorated by a flimsy silver bra, as I mentioned, it was obvious from the way her huge baubles swayed and rolled that the bra was for ornament, not support or concealment.
"Darling!" cried the Prince, lunging toward the incredible orbs of gold painted flesh. But before his hands could close over the prize-or rather prizes-swaying so temptingly before him, a clock struck twelve very fast.
"Gotta go!" gasped the girl with the fifty-five inch no-sag bust, and turned and sprinted across the lawn. She ran with a funny, backward leaning gait. Understandable, considering the huge frontal weight she was carrying.
The Prince dashed in pursuit, only to trip over naked girl after naked girl. At last he reached the castle gate, to find the scenery-empty! Empty, that is, save for a silver bra, size fifty-five. He held it up thoughtfully as the scene faded to black.
I won't recount the rest of the movie. My readers have already guessed the plot, I'm sure. Suffice to say that for over an hour, on the screen, our hero, the Prince, traveled the world over, looking for a girl whose boobs would fit the titanic bra he carried at all times. For fifty-nine minutes he had no luck. No, that's wrong. He had a lot of luck-and fun. But he didn't find the girl. Though he really tried.
Since the chick of his dreams had been painted gold, he didn't know her natural skin color, hence his quest took him to all corners of the Earth.
He stripped and tried his bra on Scandinavian sexpots with skin as white as fresh milk-on tanned Texas teasers with ride-me-cowboy eyes-on languid Liberian lovelies with bodies like buffed anthracite-on nut-brown, nude-breasted, native broads in New Britain-on olive skinned Mediterranean maidens with Latin eyes and lust engorged nipples-on saffron skinned Saigonese strippers with pagan passion in their enigmatic eyes-and so on. Around the world.
Searching, searching... Also stripping! But no girl, no matter how mighty her mammaries, could fill the bill-or bra rather.
Not that this was anything to be ashamed of. Like, June Wilkinson, Sabrina, Jayne Mansfield and Anita Ekberg working together could hardly have filled the yards of silver net he carted around.
But while he failed to find the girl of his erotic dreams, he did find that travel broadens a man-or to put it another way, if you travel a lot you meet plenty of broads.
And in the course of trying the mighty bra on different babes he naturally started getting a lot of free feels. His fingers traveled over yards and yards of bare and rounded breast flesh. And he got to like the travelling his fingers were doing.
In short, before a dozen scenes had passed he began awarding consolation prizes to the chicks whose chests failed to measure up-said consolation prize consisting of him.
Like I've implied, it was a very sexy movie. The hero began by giving each discarded bosom a friendly pinch and ended by rolling in the hay, frantically, with every bosomy reject he rejected.
Conventionally at first and then, as the movie and his education progressed, with variations and permutations. All kinds of variations and permutations.
Like standing on his head, lying down, sitting up, bending over, facing down, facing up, sitting down, sitting up, side by side, under-water, in free-fall-and so on.
And on and on.
Like I said, movies can be very educational. And this movie was more educational than most. I was almost tempted to take notes.
What ingenuity!
What imagination!
What stamina!
Though he got off to a slow start, the movie's hero really got rolling after a while.
And what delectable darlings he rolled with! Anyone of them would have been a serious candidate for a Miss World contest. Any ten or twelve would have served well as a dream harem for an adolescent-or a grown man, for that matter.
Dusky darlings from Djarkarta...ivory-fleshed imps from the Ivory Coast...coppery cuties from Cambodia...lewd and lascivious lovelies from Latvia...dimpled, delectable-but depraved-debutantes from Detroit...sultry sirens from Spain...brazen bosomed birds from Bolivia...
Girls from every corner of the globe. All young, all lusty, all busty, all nude-and all available. To the hero of the movie, that is.
What a realistic movie. So often the movies you see have such improbable plots, such unlikely actions. But this was a movie I knew had the ring of truth.
For I, too, had traveled the world and found willing and wanton girls in every civilized and uncivilized section of the globe. I'd circled the world in 80 days, and again and again in an 0008 daze-sexually sated in every city, pleasured in every province, heated in every hamlet, titillated in every town, had at in every harbor...
Yes, it was certainly true that a broad-minded young man could find all the sexual satisfaction he could wish for in every part of the world. At least, I had...
Finally, on the screen, the movie's hero found the girl who fitted his fifty-five inch bra. He tried it on her, took it instantly off, leaped upon her and then, for fifteen stirring minutes, proceeded to show his affection for her. And her mammoth breasts.
It was really a stirring climax-or series of climaxes.
After which the movie ended. And the lights went up. And the exotic air hostess said: "In a moment we will show our second in-flight movie. Meanwhile, please sit still, if you can. I'm having trouble threading the film through the projector. Like, it's so hot!"
I wondered if she was referring to the film or the projector. The projector, most likely. I decided to go hack and help her, and stumbled my way back up the aisle toward the projection room.
Once inside the projection room I found myself in a tiny, faintly lit but cozy world.
The hostess was curled up beside the whirring projection machine, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"Need help?" I asked, slipping out of my confining and hot clothes as I asked.
"Thanks, but no thanks," she gasped, "I've got it threaded and rolling. See?"
I peeked out through the slot next to the projector. Sure enough, a movie was being projected. A red-hot movie about wayward American girls in Mexico city. Really red-hot. I knew. I'd seen it three times.
I turned back to the hostess. She'd slithered out of her tight short-shorts, doubtless because of the heat, and was lying panting and nude beside the projector. On a mattress. A real comfortable projection room.
"Tough job, eh?" I said, as I slid out of the last of my confining clothes.
"I'll say," she gasped. "But for the fact that Air Eurasia is non-union, we'd be out of business. As it is-well, it's rough. Like most airlines have two or three hostesses."
"But Air Eurasia employs only you?"
"Right. This is our only plane, too. You've no idea how rough it is-I earn my thirty-seven fifty a week. I have to cook the in-flight meals, serve the in-flight drinks, project the in-flight movies and provide the in-flight sick bags. And then I have to keep running up to the front office."
"Ah," I said. "To take coffee to the pilot, co-pilot, stand-by pilot, first engineer, second engineer, chief navigator, assistant navigator and purser?"
"To fly the damn plane," she snarled. "I'm the pilot, co-pilot, stand-by pilot, first engineer, second engineer, chief navigator, assistant navigator and purser. Also the whole ground crew when we touch down."
"You really need a union," I said. "Uh, who's flying this crate right now?"
"A makeshift automatic pilot that I built from a kit in my spare time."
"I see," I said, a bit worriedly. "And on the rest of Air Eurasia's flights?"
"What flights?" she snapped. "We only have one plane-this one. And just one aircrew-me. And when we get to Rome, I have to fly this crate right back to Washington. And then wash it down before I take off again at dawn."
"Rough," I said. "But at least you're proving that a woman can do a man's job and all that. Uh, if you don't mind my asking, what do you do for a sex life?"
She smiled. A sultry if tired smile. "I depend," she said, "upon virile and aggressive passengers, like you."
"Like me?" I purred, reaching out for her golden breasts and pulling her to me. "Don't you have a husband?"
"Sure I have a husband," she gasped, slithering nakedly against me. "The bum is president-and entire executive staff-of Air Eurasia. He sits in his cushy office back in Saudi Eurasia while I fly the plane back and forth, service the engines, plot the course, change the diapers, project the movies, sell the tickets and..."
"Hush," I said, "in this age women should be thankful for the opportunity to do a man's job. Or twenty men's jobs. Kiss me, you rebellious fool."
And she obediently kissed me. And I had to admit that her kiss was as hot as twenty average girls' kisses put together. What pent-up passion! What leashed lust! What repressed sexual vitality!
Her golden curves cleaved to my flesh, squirming, writhing, pulsing and pressing against me, her belly and breasts jamming against the hardness of my body, her thighs sliding between my legs, her lips smothering my face and mouth with passionate liquid kisses.
I slid my arms around and prepared to have fun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AND FUN WAS WHAT I had-with erotic bells on. The fever of her body burned my naked flesh, her tongue was flickering lightning delivering high voltage charges to my responsive mouth. My hands stroked and sculpted her writhing curves while our tongues roiled sensuously together.
A moment later she made a suction cup of her lips, pulling my tongue into the warm sanctuary her mouth-as her hands slid suggestively down my neck, my spine, my flanks, then around to explore the warm (and getting warmer) world of my thighs and stomach.
Her hands slid over me as if seeking something, and then halted as if they'd found what they were seeking. As indeed they had. And in a game like that it's as much fun to be captured as to capture.
I cupped one of her buttocks with my right hand, gave it a friendly squeeze while my left hand slid between our bodies to roam over the satiny slopes of her golden breasts.
She began to twist and squirm slowly on the mattress, a seductive lateral undulation that made her soft flesh ripple in response-arousing waves against my straining body.
I broke the suction of our kiss, twisted so that my lips could fasten over the turgid turrets of her desire-hardened nipples. I tasted each nipple in turn, drawing each deep into my mouth, letting my tongue stroke the solid urgency of her nipples, the delicate corrugation of her aureoles, the firm, proud softness of her seal-sleek breasts.
And all the while my thighs were in tingling contact with her thighs, her hands were in stroking, gently squeezing contact with my most responsive flesh.
I slid my hand down and gently moved her hands away. Things would be over too fast if she kept on teasing and squeezing me like that, and I'm a man who liked to take his time.
Time to kiss my exotic playmate in a hundred places, in time to fondle her exotic flesh in-
"Say," I said, momentarily interrupting my kissing, "What's your name?"
"Exotica," she murmured.
"That figures, I said, and kissed her lightly on her full lips, kissed her cheekbones, the hollows of her eyes, and the delicate tracery of her ears. Her thick, rich, long and flowing hair tickled my face, filled my nostrils with exotic scents of Sandalwood.
I kissed the golden column of her throat, the buffed beauty of her shoulders, the exciting valley between her soaring breasts. I kissed each of her fingers, kissed her slender arms, the solidity of her ribs, the marshmallow resiliency of the sides of her breasts.
I stroked and kissed my way down to the golden V of her hips (what soaring symmetry!), down to the malleable fullness of her flawless thighs, the golden grandeur of her long, languorous legs.
She rolled sideways on the mattress so I could kiss and knead the shimmering surfaces of her excitement packed buttocks that swayed and rolled invitingly beneath my touch.
Then she turned and pushed me gently down on the mattress, and began to demonstrate the talent in her lips and tongue, the skill in her sliding fingers.
Up and down my pleasure aching body she moved, teasing and toying with every part of my body, kissing and tonguing and nipping my arms and legs, my chest and neck, my everything and all...
It was the greatest!
It was too much!
She crouched over me, swinging her lovely head back and forth, sweeping my rigid flesh with the silken cataract of her long, smooth, thick hair.
A million sparks seemed to flash to light on my flesh as her hair, softer than sin, gently tickled and stroked my throbbing masculinity.
She leaned further forward, her great breasts swaying like golden balloons filled with molten gold; leaned forward and rocked her shoulders, causing her huge breasts to swing faster, more forcefully.
Back and forth her breasts played, their rounded inner surfaces slapping gently against that part of my body which projected up between them-my nose, I think it was.
Then she halted the swaying of her shoulders, cupped the outer surfaces of her breasts and began to shove them together so that they slapped together. Rapidly! Slapped against each other-and against my hard flesh.
"Like that? She queried in a throaty murmur.
I grunted assent.
"What would you like me to do now?" she whispered.
I told her.
"Just what I was hoping you'd say," she purred. And she shifted her position, shifted until she was heeling astride me. Then slowly, carefully, guiding herself and me with her hands, she lowered until I felt the cushiony bliss of her buttocks settle on my lower body and upper thighs.
"Ah..." I gasped.
"Mmm..." she murmured.
And began to wriggle playfully, began to switch her hips from side to side, then back and forth.
And it was bliss! It was rapture!
And when she began to slowly bounce up and down, it was ten times more fun. I could feel my ardor rise high, higher, and so could she, judging by the satisfied sigh she sighed.
She began to bounce faster, and every time her plump, young rump thudded against me I felt a jolt of joy, an enfolding throbbing, sliding spasm of pleasure.
I reached out and began to stroke the smooth curves of her thighs (while she kept on bouncing), slid my hands up over her wide and wonderful hips (while she bounced yet faster), then reached up to cup the golden hemispheres of her breasts (and still she bounced).
Each time she bounced her breasts bounced too, bounced inside the confining cage of my palms and fingers, the nipples gently stroking my flesh.
Meanwhile her hips were swaying from side to side, back and forth, around and around, in wondrous erotic counterpoint to the steady up and down bouncing of her body.
I groaned with pleasure, pleasure so great it was close to pain.
Groaned and dug my fingers hard into the surging globes of her breasts as she bounced almost six inches into the air, then bounced down, flicked her hips from side to side, did a clockwise movement instantly followed by counterclockwise motion and bounced up and down again.
I felt like a stirring stick stirring a deep pot of golden honey-warm, bubbling honey. Only the metaphorical stirring stick didn't have to do any of the work-the honey pot was stirring itself.
And me.
She bounced up again until, again, her buttocks were almost half a foot above my body, held herself at that height above me, began to rock back and forth, around and around.
I gasped.
She gasped; gasped as if her metaphorical spark plug was firing.
Then she let herself slide down onto my body again. And at the instant I felt the softness of her thighs and buttocks press demandingly against me I felt something else-the squeezing, pulsing, peristaltic caress of her stomach muscles.
Wow! Even though her body wasn't moving, I still felt myself being stroked and squeezed-and not lightly, either. Exotica, like many Oriental girls, had evidently practiced muscular control since childhood.
Ever dived very deep under water in a wet suit? Know how the enfolding rubber starts to grip your arms and legs with a firm, encircling pressure?
That's how I felt when Exotica began to show me what her squeezing muscles could do. Flickeringly, pulsingly, squeezingly. And then she began to bounce again, bounce up and down and at the same spiral and shake her hips-and use her stomach muscles.
I let go her rolling breasts and clasped her hips, pulling her down hard each time she bounced down, holding her in the very real fear that in her enthusiasm she'd bounce too high and our bodies would become unlinked. There was no sound in the projection room save the stirring of the projector, the gasping of our breathing, and the liquid thudding and slapping together of male and female flesh.
The stimulation was fantastic, irresistible. Trained though I was to restrain and curb my reactions, I couldn't keep myself from responding to the pumping, squeezing, shaking stimulation of her body.
I clutched her hips tightly and gritted my teeth as the first frantic, fulmination of my passion exploded-and then exploded again, and again and again.
Exotica shrieked as if a shotgun barrel had been thrust against her body and fired again and again-and my hips jolted as if they were the stock of the shotgun. I felt as if a firehose was jetting rapture through me in uncontrolled spurts, as if my whole body was being electrified by billion-volt bolts of lightning flashing through me, striking the soft body I clutched...
My hips arched up off the mattress, my mind dissolved into flaming fragments, then I went limp.
Time passed.
I let it pass. I just lay on my back gasping, listening to the machine-gun tempo of my heart, feeling sweat dripping off me, letting the dazzling white-hot heat of my ardor cool degree by degree.
When I felt strong enough to open my eyes and sit up, the movie was over and the projection room was empty. I peered through the projection slot. Exotica was back in her air hostess uniform-shoes, short-shorts and cap-and was strolling down the aisle with a tray.
"Cigars, cigarettes, erotica," I heard her chant.
The girl in the front of the plane who was my sole fellow passenger shook her head without looking around.
I dressed with difficulty in the confined space-funny how much easier it is to undress than to dress-resumed my seat.
Exotica sauntered back down the aisle, pushing a portable bar this time. "Scotch, sherry, schnapps?"
"Scotch on rocks," I said, patting the comfortably padded seat beside me. Exotica poured me a generous slug of Scotch with ice, slid into the lounge chair next to me.
"What may I do for you?" she asked. "Read your palm, press your pants, manicure your pinkies?"
"Uh...a manicure, please," I said. Air Eurasia certainly didn't stint on service, I reflected. Aloud I said, "I'd like to pump you, if I may."
"So soon? What stamina you inscrutable Caucasians have!"
"Not sex-information. You jet back and forth across the pond all the time, no?" (By pond, of course, I meant the Atlantic; we jet set types have our own lingo.)
She nodded, intent on my cuticles. "Seven round trips a week. Air Eurasia whisks you from home to Rome-and beyond-every day of the week aboard its luxury three jet stupor-cruiser."
I frowned. "I thought this plane had four engines."
"It does, usually, but the starboard outboard engine hasn't worked for two weeks. I've tried everything to fix it. Do you suppose if I milled down the impellor and-"
"Later for that," I snarled. "I need information. Do you happen to be familiar with a jet-set Jane named Eva de Struxion? A shapely black-haired, black-eyed play-girl recently disinherited?"
"Oh, sure," she said. "That girl up there..." she began, pointing my right hand toward the girl passenger up front.
"Doesn't need her nails manicured right now," I snapped, "I'm talking to you. This Eva de Struxion. Do you happen to know any of her private love nests in Rome? I really need to know."
As indeed I did. The General had told me I stood my best chance of picking up Eva's trail in Rome. She'd jetted around the world, he'd told me, picking up ten million at various post office boxes around the globe-and not mailing the formula in return. Now, most likely, she'd be headed back to Rome. Or so he reasoned, and I figured his reasoning was sound.
"She wouldn't have carried the formula with her," he'd told me. "And most likely she simply remailed the money to some hide-out. But the formula? My hunch is she left it someplace in Rome. Find her secret headquarters in Rome and you'll find the formula. If she doesn't get there first."
"Why," said Exotica, "while we of Air Eurasia never snoop on our passengers, I do make it a practice to eavesdrop when I can. It serves to pass the time. And I once recall hearing Miss de Struxion telling a hand some married playboy to meet her at her suite at, let me see, the Roma Coma Hotel!"
Just the information I needed!
Exotica pointed again toward the girl sitting near the front of the plane. "If you'd like me to introduce you to-"
"I haven't time for stray girls," I snarled. "I have to think. Please keep quiet while I cogitate."
And I cogitated the rest of the way to Rome, while Exotica shined my shoes and washed and dried my drip-dry shirt. Shortly before touch-down, Exotica dashed up front to land the plane-she did a nice job-and then, once we'd stopped taxiing, dashed out the front of the plane to push the landing ramp up to the passenger door.
I gave her a friendly wink as I departed, started looking around for a cab. The girl with the head-high collar found one first.
"The Roma Coma Hotel!" she snapped, in fluent Italian.
"What luck!" I cried, sliding in next to her. "I'm bound for the same place. We can split the fare and save money. Unless you have some special objection. Do you?"
She stared at me through the tiny eye-holes in her high collar. "Uh-no," she said, in fluent English.
I spent most of the ride thinking furiously. If the General and I had figured right, Eva was headed for the hotel Roma Coma right now. Probably landed at the same airport I'd landed at. Hailed a cab, headed directly for the hotel. I shrugged. No possible way of finding her.
I turned my attention to the young girl sitting hunched up in the other corner of the cab. With the high collar she was wearing, it was impossible to see more than her dark eyes studying me through the eye-holes, that and her dark hair. The chic coat she was wearing concealed most of her figure, but her knees looked young and shapely.
I sighed, inwardly. Ordinarily when I share a cab with a shapely young girl, I while away the time by getting to know my fellow passenger. As intimately as possible.
I do it all the time. In fact, I have a routine worked out. I give my destination to the driver, then lower my voice and request him to make as many sharp right turns as possible and to jam his foot on the accelerator after each turn.
You can see the advantage this gives me. Being a gentleman, I always let girls precede me into a cab, which means I'm always sitting on the right.
I smile at the strange girl I'm riding with. Sometimes she smiles back, sometimes not. No matter. Within a matter of moments the cab driver makes a sharp right turn, and I'm sent sliding to my left.
Onto and into the girl.
I clutch wildly for a handhold and always end by clutching her knee.
Then the cab accelerates rapidly. We're flung back hard against the seat, and my right hand is flung all the way up her leg until stopped by her torrid zone. My hand, as if still grappling for a handhold, scrabbles wildly against the front of her silk or nylon panties, or just against warm flesh if she's the type who doesn't wear underwear (and that's my type of girl).
My scrambling fingers grope wildly (while I apologize profusely) and then, just as my fingers have "accidentally" groped as far as possible, the cab makes another hard right turn (according to orders).
Again I'm slid forcefully against the girl, and my hand is locked firmly between her lovely legs. Not that I don't wriggle my fingers frantically in an apparent attempt to extricate them.
This gambit, I've found, effectively breaks the ice.
Some girls, of course, pretend to react with indignation-even annoyance. Especially when I claim, apologetically, that I've twisted a muscle in my arm and can't seem to withdraw my damned fingers. Though I always tell them that my hand itself doesn't seem to be injured, which I prove by moving it forcefully and rapidly.
Yes, an effective ice-breaking gambit.
True, I frequently get my face slapped. But we SADISTO agents are inured to pain. And just as frequently I have a lot of fun. During and after the cab ride.
But, alas, there was no time for such pleasant pastimes. I had to think, think, think, and...
The dark-haired girl in the high collar beside me leaned forward and whispered something to the cab driver. I ignored her, went on thinking, thinking, thinking....
Suddenly the cab made a sharp left turn. The girl beside me slammed hard against me, her right hand groping for a hand-hold. She grabbed my knee, just as the cab accelerated rapidly.
Her hand slid all the way up my leg until stopped-just as the cab made another left turn, locking her groping hand between my legs. She grappled for a handhold, found one and squeezed as hard as she could.
"Yowwwww-yiiiiipe!" I screeched, doubling forward in agony.
She let go, extricated her hand.
"So sorry," she said, in fluent French.
"That's all right," I gasped. "I'm sure your intentions were good, only with a man you-" I broke off. The cab had stopped. Outside the Roma Coma Hotel. And my shapely kneed fellow passenger had gotten out, after tossing a handful of lira at the driver.
"Keep the change," I told him, and lurched painfully out of the cab and toward the hotel. I reached the reservation desk just as the dark haired-girl stepped into an elevator.
"Miss Eva de Struxion," I said to the desk clerk who looked uncannily like Rudolph Valentino. "I know she has a suite here, though perhaps under another name. Which one?"
"I'm sorry, Sir," he said, "but we do not give out information of that nature."
"Make an exception!" I snarled, sliding my Walther PPK out of my shoulder holster and letting him peek down the muzzle of the bulbous silencer.
"3B," he said, turning pale.
"Thanks," I said, turning toward the elevators. Both were busy. I sprinted up the stairs. I had to reach 3B before Eva did, wherever she might be.
I reached the third floor. A, C, D, E... Where was B? Ah! I flung open the door, just as the dark-haired girl I'd shared my cab ride with stepped quickly through it. She was holding a small brief-case in her right hand. On it, in gold, were the letters E. de S.
I frowned thoughtfully. E. de S.?
"The letters," purred the dark-haired girl, "stand for Ecole de Sorbonne. I'm a co-ed."
"Oh," I said. "I wondered. Uh...this is your suite?"
"No, certainly not. The desk clerk must have given me the wrong key. Been nice knowing you."
"Likewise," I said, pushing into the suite.
"Don't get hurt," she called mockingly over her shoulder. "The suite seems to be, heh, heh, full of crates."
I grunted in reply, kicked the door shut behind me. Alone at last-in Eva's suite. I looked around. Just like the co-ed had said, a number of wooden crates, with the lids off, littered the floor.
A man could get hurt, I reflected, stepping on some of those exposed nails. Get tetanus or something. I looked around some more. Where would a girl like Eva hide a formula? For that matter, what had been in those crates?
I peered at them. Solid-looking crates. Marked Product of India-This Side Up, For Krishna's Sake! Inside each crate was a tin dish full of water, and emanating from each was a curiously reptilian odor.
Oh-oh, I thought, reaching for the door handle. The door handle came off in my hands. I was trapped! And slithering toward me across the carpet was one, two, three-a dozen-six dozen small, hostile-looking brown snakes!
A suite full of crates? No! Not crates-kraits! The deadliest snake in India-in the world! The angry-looking kraits closed in on me, venomous jaws agape.
What to do?
An agent like Israel Bond would have had a mongoose or two in his pocket. All I had was eighty-four dollars and a forged Playboy Club key.
Things, I decided, looked bad.
There was, in fact, only one thing to do.
And I did it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAFELY OUT OF THE SNAKE-infested suite, I raced down the stairs to the lobby.
(How had I escaped? Simple. I'd remembered, in the nick of time, SADISTO Escape Technique 4486, Krait Attack, Withdrawal From. This Ultra Secret escape technique simply involved pulling a CENSORED from my pocket, adjusting the dial to CENSORED, and then sawing through the door during the ensuing confusion. A child could do it.)
Loping down the stairs, my mind raced as it had never raced before, and in a blinding flash of intuitive intuition I realized that my enigmatic, dark-haired, dark-eyed female fellow passenger in the plane and cab had been none other than Eva de Struxion herself!
Too bad I hadn't strangled her while I had the means, motive and opportunity.
I dashed into the lobby. Eva was nowhere in sight. I yanked out my Walther PPK, waved it at the desk clerk.
"That way!" he gasped, pointing toward the entrance to the hotel's dining room.
I raced through the dining room, unavoidably tipping over tables left and right. Waiters, diners, chairs, soup plates and wine bottles went crashing in all directions. I dashed through the swinging doors leading to the kitchen.
Thunk! A waiter went reeling backward, spaghetti and veal parmesan spinning into the horror-struck faces of a row of chefs. I sprinted through the kitchen, heedless of the spilled soup toureens and the cascading pies.
A huge cake loomed before me. I dashed up and over, and then with a squelch, down into it.
"Ow!" squealed a naked girl in fluent Italian. "I'm supposed to come out of the cake-you aren't supposed to jump in!"
"Sorry about that," I said, disentangling my foot from her bruised bosom. "Uh, as you were."
And on I dashed. Out into the alley behind the hotel. Aha! There was Eva-running around the corner, briefcase in hand. I followed her, heedless of the trail of cake icing and spaghetti sauce I left behind me.
Around the corner I plunged in pursuit, just in time to see her duck into a hardware store. Darkness had fallen over Rome, I noted, and the hardware store's lights were winking out. Also a steel grill was sliding across the entrance.
I plunged through, just as it clanged shut behind me. Trapped! But at least my prey was trapped too. Or was she? I heard a door slam yards away, the faint and rapid click-click of high-heeled shoes.
I ran through the dark aisles toward the retreating sound as-ka-Zam, ka-Zam! A gun roared twice in the dark, sending bright flame and whistling lead plunging at me. I ducked, just as a second and third gun roared behind and to one side of me.
Trapped indeed. Eva (curse her) had led me into a trap. A lethal trap. I slid out my Walther, listened. Silence. Then the scrape of a shoe. Italian leather-a foe! I ducked up, fired twice, ducked down again.
A scream-A thud.
Chalk up one less enemy. Guns flamed and roared on both sides of me. Two foes remaining. I reached up carefully, found a can of paint or something, hurled it Crash! Guns roared again. I rose and fired again at the nearest flash. Another scream-another thud.
One enemy now. But only three bullets left. Wax bullets at that. At close range they'd give a man a bad headache, but at long range.... Forget it. I raised the gun, fired three more times, pulled the trigger again to let them hear the click as the hammer struck nothing.
"He's out of ammunition!" yelled a surly voice (speaking Italian with a Sicilian accent). "Let the Americano dog have it!"
Guns crashed on all sides. Horrors. I'd goofed. At least eight or ten foes lie waiting for me in the darkened hardware store. Guns roared again and again until, at last, I heard click after click as gun after gun was emptied.
One, two, three...eight, nine, ten guns clicked empty. Ten foes. Out of ammunition now, but still dangerous. How dangerous? I crouched low, slid out the SADISTO Agents' Instruction Manual, flipped the pages by the light of my wristwatch dial.
Ah! Page 284. When faced by nine enemy agents, use karate and judo techniques described on pages 293 through 365. When faced by ten enemy agents-forget it. You're dead.
So, Judo and karate were out. No matter. I reached into my pocket for my cigarette lighter hand grenade. It wasn't there. Curses. I'd hocked it two weeks ago.
I was helpless! Unarmed! And surrounded by ten equally unarmed but no doubt husky agents. What to do?
I thumbed through the manual again. Ah, here it was. Page 542. Trapped in hardware store, what to do when. Yes! Exactly!
I groped my way down the aisle, feeling up the counters as I crept. Aha! Heavy rubber bands. Two required. I stole two. Butane cigarette lighters, two needed. I found two, purloined them. And last but not least, two cans of aerosol spray paint.
Quickly I looped the heavy rubber bands twice around the aerosol paint cans. Even more quickly I slid the butane lighters under the rubber bands, business ends up, right under the spray nozzles.
Then I flicked on the lighters and rose to my feet.
"There he is!" cried ten ugly voices in Italian. "Trying to light his way out-rush him!"
And they rushed me-just as I rushed them. Five feet from the charging mob I pressed the spray buttons on the cans. Paint sprayed out from both the cans-paint instantly ignited by the pilot flames of the lighters.
Brandishing my two home-made flame throwers, I plunged forward as my foes fell back before the dual five-foot dazzling flames of my aerosol cans.
Screams and curses-mixed with a few smug chuckles on my part-filled the air as I plunged through the reeling mob of scorched toughs. Then I was through the back door, which I quickly slammed and locked. Free! But where was Eva? Nowhere in sight.
Something gleamed in the moonlight of the alley. I pressed one of the paint spray can buttons and, by the light of the searing fountain of flame, stooped to examine it.
A matchbook cover. When in Dover, patronize M. Stover. I only revolt-when you default. Mixed drinks our specialty.
Curious. More than curious-a clue! M. Stover was evidently the proprietor of a pub in Dover, England.
"Your escape was very clever, Eva," I sneered to the empty alley. "But not quite clever enough. I'm on your trail! Also your tail!"
And, in less than half an hour, I was winging my way to Dover in a sleek Air Europa jet.
A short while later the petite, bare-breasted French airline hostess was saying, "We are now approaching Dover. Please excuse me a few moments while I go up front and land the aircraft. Do not be alarmed by sudden zigs and zags of the jet, over Dover we have to take evasive action to avoid the swarms of bluebirds that hang out over the cliffs."
I nodded soberly. Starlings over Boston and gooney birds over Wake had proved serious hazards to aircraft. No doubt the Dover bluebirds were equally pesky.
We landed safely, however, and the shapely hostess pilot, spitting bluebird feathers out of her mouth, bowed us from the plane.
I cabbed at once to downtown Dover, changed cabs before ordering the second driver to take me to the establishment of M. Stover.
"Cor blimey, guv'ner," gasped the cab driver. "That's a pretty rum roadhouse!"
"You mean," I said, "that it's an attractive pub serving rum? No more than I suspected. It would look innocent to unhip eyes. Take me there at once, my good man!"
Which, with various muttered anti-American sentiments, he did.
And in all truth it looked innocent enough, a huge, brightly lighted roadhouse built in pseudo-Tudor style-dark stained beams, white plaster, mullioned windows, the whole bit. Also neon signs and a rock band.
I shouldered my way through Mods, Rockers and assorted middle class English types. Beer, ale and stout were flowing as beer, ale and stout should flow; and plenty of Scotch bottles were clinking too. A real swinging place.
Up on a couple of platforms, caged, a duet of scantily clad, bountifully bosomed birds were stomping and twisting their near-nude bodies to the frenetic strains of a rock group, the Glasgow Goblins.
A real swinging group, too. Electric guitars, electric drums-even electric bagpipes. The bagpipers could really blow, too. I felt tempted to join in the fun, especially when several blonde-haired, blue-eyed and nubile daughters of Albion beckoned me to join them as they shook their perfidious hips on the dance floor.
But duty called. Not too loudly, however, so I tarried for a half-hour or so on the dance floor, learning the Pensance Plunge, the Cornwall Camp, the Devonshire Dip and the Earls' Court Shambles.
And what swinging partners those uninhibited English girls made! What swinging costumes! Black net blouses with black net holes just large enough to let their large nipples peep through-dresses with open sides-dressed with the skirt slit above the waist in front -dressed with three circular holes cut in them in exactly the same positions where the average American girl would wear a fig leaf and a brace of pasties-dresses with wide and shameless swathes of wide-open net-topless dresses, backside-less dresses....
Under and out of and through which bobbed and bounced and hobbled tempting female curves, ripe female bosoms and riper female buttocks-thighs and bellies and whatnots.
All shaking.
And jumping.
And close.
Very, very close!
What, I wondered, had become of the shy English girls of yesteryear? Where were the tongue-tied, inarticulate English boys? When I'd been young, I'd had the English typed very early: stuffy and conservative and pompous and behind the times. What had gone wrong? Hadn't the English read the same textbooks? Probably not. That was the trouble. Not knowing they were supposed to be square, the English had started living it up. Perhaps, who knows, they'd always lived it up. At any rate, they were sure stomping up a storm that night.
Reluctantly I broke from the impromptu embrace of a huge-bosomed English chick (that was another thing: weren't English girls supposed to be flat-chested? Of course. So why were all the girls with the biggest boobs in the gatefolds of the men's magazines English girls? No doubt about it, English girls were simply getting too big for their bras.) I broke, I say, from the embrace of a chesty English chick and looked around.
Over by the bar a tall female, rather haggard-looking, stared morosely out at the jumping scene. She looked vaguely familiar. She must be the owner, M. Stover. Where had I seen her before? Honolulu? Hadn't she been leading some kind of revolt in World War II? Well, no matter. Now she didn't look rebellious-just revolting. Though de gustibus... I thought kindly.
And looked around some more.
Aha! In a dark corner of the dance floor a slender, exquisitely shaped young girl was letting her legs and hips and torso undulate in the frantic motions of the Liverpool Lunge. She was just an ordinary, gorgeous-figured young girl, clad in form-clinging black tights and leotard-save for the curiously tall black collar she wore. All of her lovely body was visible and lovely, save for her face. Her face may or may not have been lovely: it was hidden by the high, black stiff collar she wore-a collar that reached almost to the top of her head, a collar through which she peered through oriental-cut eye-slits.
Eva!
She caught sight of me at almost the same instant, turned and raced from the dance floor. I raced in pursuit, elbowing my way through the luscious-bodied cuties who blocked my way.
What a disaster! (Having Eva elude me.) What a thrill! (Slithering through a sea of bosoms and buttocks, thighs and tummies.)
Evidently, I reflected, this far-out pub had been-still was-one of Eva's hangouts, a place where she could find sanctuary.
And boy, I thought, she must really need a sanctuary right now. Enraged agents from Russia, India, China, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, France and twenty other nations must be hot on her trail. Agents determined to recover the ten million their countries had shelled out, seize the formula, kill Eva-or all three.
To put it mildly, she was plenty hot. And I, SADISTO's cracked-I mean crack-agent was ahead of the pack.
I caught a glimpse of Eva's shapely backside, just as she dived through a pair of swinging doors marked PANTRY. I plunged in pursuit, burst through the doors, to find the pantry empty.
Empty save for stacks of canned goods, wine bottles and assorted supplies. I looked around. Aha! A big wooden barrel was sitting on the floor a couple of yards away, filled to the brim with what looked like soap-flakes.
Only I knew better. The General had told me that protein laden yeasts grown on petroleum looked rather like soapflakes when harvested. Tasteless and odorless, he'd said. But packed with protein. Well, I could use a quick energy boost right then.
I scooped up a handful, crammed it into my mouth.
AHHHGHHH! It was soapflakes, I realized, spitting out the mess with more than deliberate speed. And at that instant, the swinging doors burst open, and half a dozen burly waiter types charged through, waving meat cleavers and butcher knives.
I was done for!
No! They took one look at the soap suds foaming from my mouth, turned and charged out in panic, yelling "Help! A hydrophobic American! Beware of the mad American!"
I spat out the last of the soapflakes. What a joke on them. They thought I had hydrophobia just because I was foaming at the mouth!
No joke, I thought upon sober reflection. They'll return with guns and you're trapped. What to do? I thumbed through my SADISTO agents' manual. Ah! Here it was. Pantry, trapped in, what to do when.
I read the instructions. What a cinch! I had only to make up a few deadly napalm bombs. Fill some empty bottles with a mixture of soapflakes and gasoline; the resulting home-made napalm, the manual said, was ninety-three per cent as effective as the military product.
And I had plenty of soapflakes, plenty of wine bottles I could empty, and plenty of-no, no gasoline. I was still trapped. Then I spotted the small metal door on the wall labeled Dumb Waiter.
I opened the door. The cable was swinging back and forth. Eva was escaping down the dumb waiter. I grabbed a couple of dish towels to protect my hands, and slid down, and down.
What a vexing caper, I mused to myself as I slid down, and down, and down. Protein from petroleum. It sounded so prosaic. Usually my jobs involved important sounding things-death ray guns, laser beams, pocket-sized H-bombs and the like. Protein hardly seemed that, well, that glamorous.
On the other hand, I reflected as I continued to slide down, and down, and down, the General had said two-thirds of the world's population were desperately short of protein. And there were three billion people in the world. Two thirds of three billion was....
I clutched the cable harder with my right hand (while I slid down, and down, and down), fished out a slide rule with my left. Quickly, by the light of my watch dial, I worked out the calculations involved, doing much of the mathematics in my head. Less than three minutes later I had the answer: two-thirds of three billion was two billion. Phew! What a potential market for dirt-cheap protein! If each undernourished human paid only fifty cents a month for food that was-I did more calculations-twelve billion dollars a year gross profit!
Glamorous or not, that formula was worth plenty, I decided-while I slid down, and down, and down.
Down and down and down? It seemed like I'd been sliding down a long time.
Then suddenly I tumbled out of the dark chute into a brilliantly lit white cave. A huge cave, carved from solid chalk. Of course! The dumb waiter had been nothing less than an escape route, a shaft which dropped for hundreds of feet through the solid white chalk cliffs of Dover!
Too late I remembered being told (during basic training) that the Dover cliffs were riddled with caves and secret passages, many dating back three or four hundred years from the time when smuggling was a way of life along the Channel coast.
I blinked in the bright lights, looked around me. There was Eva! Dashing toward a strange-looking vehicle resting on the broad floor of the huge cave. A hovercraft.
I vaulted aboard it, just as the pilot's door slammed and, an instant later, powerful motors coughed into life.
The hovercraft rose a few inches, then several feet above the cave's floor, began to glide toward a solid chalk wall. I hung on to the side of the cabin, hung on tight. The hovercraft moved relentlessly toward the wall of chalk. A moment later, doubtless in response to a radioed command from the hovercraft, a husky Westland 305, the chalk wall hummed and swung open.
Out through the great doors of chalk the hovercraft roared, began moving across a sandy beach. Sand and dust flew in all directions as highly compressed air billowed out and under the rubber skirts of the vehicle.
I half closed my eyes, hung on tighter. The hovercraft flashed over rounded boulders of chalk, missing them by inches, and then plunged seaward. A moment later, fogged spray pluming out in all directions, the hovercraft began to roar out over the dark waters of the English Channel.
I clutched the tiny guardrail for dear life as a horizontal jet engine just above me growled and began to spit flame. The hovercraft began to pick up speed. Too much speed. About sixty knots.
Holding on desperately, I bent and peered through the shatter-proof glass windows. There was Eva, at the controls. The rest of the hovercraft, a fifty passenger job-a mere toy compared to the 500 passenger craft I knew were now being built for cross-Channel operations in 1968-was empty.
I started to crawl toward the main passenger door, only to be pinned to the side by the dazzling beam of a searchlight from dead overhead. I looked up. Not one, not two, not three but four big helicopters were droning overhead, a brilliant searchlight beam stabbing down from each.
The helicopters fanned out, bracketing the hovercraft a hundred feet above and a hundred feet to each side. A crimson jet of machine-gun fire spurted from the two lead helicopters and churned the waters of the Channel a hundred feet ahead.
The hovercraft tilted and the jet engine screamed above my head as it darted off to the left-to port, I should say. To no avail. The 'copters effortlessly turned to keep us bracketed. And again tracer bullets churned the sea, this time less than fifty feet ahead.
Eva and I were trapped. Hovercraft may be much more economical to operate than 'copters, but none of them, to date, can match a helicopter in speed or maneuverability. Again crimson tracer bullets slashed into the sea, this time scant yards from the nose of the hovercraft.
There was no mistaking their meaning. For four hundred years a shot or shots across the bow have meant heave to-fast. Eva brought the hovercraft to a gliding halt. Another burst of machine-gun fire churned the calm sea around us, all around us. She cut the engines and the hovercraft sighed down to a splashing halt in midchannel.
Eva de Struxion had been captured. And so, for that matter, had I. And by what luscious captors!
The lead helicopter hovered scant yards above us, rope ladders tumbled down, and down the rope ladders scampered a squad of girls. Young, shapely girls clad only in figure-hugging green net jump suits.
Jump suits that limned every jutting curve of their pagan and proud young bodies, jump suits that revealed soft, gleaming teen-age girl flesh between each open reticulation of the green net garments.
Guns, green-painted guns, were jammed into my face and, a moment later after the passenger door was forced open, into Eva's face.
"Give up or die!" snarled the squad leader of my voluptuous captors.
I did what any sensible SADISTO agent would have done under the circumstances: I gave up.
And thus began the most sexually incredible adventure-but I anticipate....
CHAPTER NINE
TWO DARK-HAIRED, glowing-eyed girls held their guns on me. I smiled at them. Smiled at their lovely if cruel faces, their lovely, voluptuous bodies, so revealingly revealed by the green net jump suits that clung to their curves if they failed to conceal them. Their ripe nude curves, that is.
"Hi, girls," I said. "Happy to see you're in such good shape. My name-or number, rather-is-"
I got no further. A dart-firing tranquilizer pistol coughed, I felt a stabbing shaft of pain lance my shoulder and I blacked out.
Only to come to an instant later. At least, it seemed like an instant later. Actually it must have been several minutes later. I was in an aircraft, a helicopter to be exact. The 'copter was skimming a scant hundred feet over the channel toward a dark-hulled tanker.
A medium-sized tanker, not more than fifty thousand tons. A few years ago a fifty-thousand-ton tanker would have been a big ship, but now tankers were huge. The Tokyo Maru, for instance, weighs in at a hundred and fifty thousand tons, and two-hundred-thousand-ton tankers are almost ready for launching.
Still, even a fifty-thousand-ton tanker is a large ship. And running without lights, by moonlight, it seems even larger.
Refraining from moving, keeping my eyes open to mere slits, I watched as the helicopter I was prisoner on thrashed down toward the rolling ship below.
Lower we thrashed, and lower. And then suddenly a huge section of the tanker's deck slid back, and the helicopter purred down directly into the yawning black hole now revealed.
At which point, alas, I blacked out again....
I woke to darkness. And something soft over my face. I wriggled, and the soft blindfold fell off me. A girl's ripe thigh it was, I noted. An unconscious girl's thigh.
Eva's thigh, to be exact.
I sat up, looked around, seeing first of all Eva's unconscious body sprawled beside and on top of me. She was still wearing her form-fitting black tights and leotard. And she was still out cold.
I looked around and gasped.
I was in the middle of a tropical jungle. Soft loam was under my body; palm trees and tropical hardwoods waved their branches high above my head. Orchids bloomed in profusion all around me. And tropical jungle sounds assaulted my ears from every direction.
Interesting. Most interesting.
I looked around some more. I appeared to be in some sort of jungle clearing. Dense tropical foliage ringed me on three sides. Flagrantly feathered tropical birds screeched and flashed high overhead. A troop of howler monkeys screeched in the distance. Frogs croaked, insects hummed and buzzed and somewhere a jaguar coughed.
I was in a tropical rain forest. I'd never actually been in a tropical rain forest before, but thanks to my rigorous training as a SADISTO agent I knew the sounds: I'd listened to more than one tape made in a tropical rain forest during training.
I groped for my agents' manual, intent on looking up Rain forests, tropical, what to do when stranded in. My manual was gone. Stolen. And, I noted with discomfort, the leafy branches high above me were waving back and forth in all too steady a motion.
Well. I'm not stupid, as some of my readers have no doubt surmised. It didn't take me more than four or five minutes to figure out the real if horrifying truth. I wasn't in a real tropical rain forest. I was still aboard the fifty-thousand-ton tanker.
The foliage above my head swayed too rhythmically, especially in view of the fact that there was no wind. And the blue tropic sky above was a shade too blue. True, I could only catch brief glimpses of it through the thick leafy branches that swayed overhead.
But those brief glimpses were enough to make me realize it wasn't a real sky-only a blue painted dome high above my head.
All right.
So where was I? Aboard ship, that was where. Most likely aboard the same black tanker the helicopter had dropped into. Impossible? No. Only improbable, and I'd long ago learned to accept the improbable as likely.
Large scale reproductions of tropical jungles had been achieved before, I knew. There'd been that eccentric millionaire in Akron who'd converted a former dirigible hangar into a pseudo-jungle. And the main hold of a tanker, a fifty-thousand-ton tanker, drained of oil, would be plenty big enough to hold a small scale tropical jungle.
So... So I was in an ersatz jungle deep within the interior of a mysterious black tanker on the high seas. So what else was hew?
Eva, still clad in close-fitting, form-revealing black tights and leotard-plus a high black collar-stirred beside me, sat up.
Just as a portly, bald-headed man stalked into view down a tropical trail.
He smiled at us. I glared at him. And suddenly placed him!
"Jovial P. Greensleeves!" I gasped. "The fantastically wealthy transportation magnate! The multi-millionaire who owns trains, planes, ships, trucking lines, pipe lines, motor scooter rental services plus bicycle and roller-skate sales agencies around the world!"
"I'm pleased," chuckled Jovial, "that my face is not unfamiliar. Yes, I'm Jovial P. Greensleeves. And my motto, as you no doubt know, is the public be hanged-make a buck!"
I gasped. That was his reputed motto all right.
"To which motto," chuckled Jovial, "I've added an amendment: why make a buck-if you can make a billion bucks?"
I gasped again. "Jovial!" I gasped. "Can this be your ship?"
"You've guessed it, wise guy," chuckled Jovial. "Kind of an unusual tanker, eh? The front hold is a hangar for my predatory helicopters. And the main hold, in which you are reclining, is my home and garden. Years ago I became enamored of tropical climes. But very little is doing in tropical climes, very little for a business magnate like me, at least. So I decided to take my tropical garden with me. Ingenious, no?"
"No," I said. "I mean any fool could convert a big tanker into a tropical pad if he had enough money."
Jovial scowled. "I suppose you don't think it takes ingenuity to make a billion dollars-my present fortune?"
He had a point there. To change the subject I said, "Uh, what can I do for you, Jovial?"
"You? Nothing. But Eva here can do plenty. And she can start by handing over the formula. Or else, if you know what I mean."
"Never!" she whispered, turning her head away. "Jovial! How can you be so mean to me? We used to be drinking pals along the jet-set circuit, we used to sing ribald songs together!"
"And you'll live just long enough to sing some more," sneered Jovial. "The formula! Hand it over pronto, or I'll have you searched." He slid a pearl-handled switchblade knife from his pocket. "Inside and out." He made a slashing motion with his knife. "I want that document now!"
Evan shivered. "I don't have it. I destroyed it after I..." She broke off.
"After you memorized it, eh? Well, you can dictate it to one of my flunkeys. Freely, or after torture." He rubbed his hands together in a rather oily fashion. "I'm equipped for torture aboard this ship. In addition to the usual, run-of-the-mill gadgets-like red-hot pincers, racks and barbed-wire flails-I have many cute tropical pets. Like inch-long army ants."
"I won't talk!" gasped Eva, still keeping her head turned away from both of us, as if the couldn't bear the sight of Jovial or me.
"You'll talk," giggled Jovial. "After I stake you down naked in this very clearing. Then dump a hundred hungry inch-long ants into a goldfish bowl and upend the bowl on your soft and vulnerable tummy. The ants, heh, heh, will chomp their way right into your stomach. You'll crack soon enough, and if you don't, your boy friend here will when he hears your horrible screams, watches the ants devouring various parts of your anatomy."
I goofed then. I smiled.
"So," chuckled Jovial. "That's the way it is, eh? You like the idea of Eva being eaten alive by giant ants?"
"Frankly, yes," I said. "The fact is, I'm a SADISTO agent, assigned to track down and destroy this wench. Also recover the formula, if possible. Maybe we can make a deal?"
Jovial's lip curled. "I make no deal with SADISTO agents. But I will promise you, giggle, giggle, separate but equal treatment. Like I'll save a few hundred hungry ants for you. I..."
He broke off as a tall, full-bodied blonde in a green net jump suit trotted down the trail toward us.
"Sir!" she said, "it's-ooof!"
The reason she said ooof was that Jovial, moving with surprising speed for such a fat man, had just kicked her hard in the stomach.
"Stupid minion!" he snarled. "Didn't I warn all hands never to interrupt me while I'm threatening prisoners?"
"But, Sir!" gasped the green-net clad girl, writhing around on the jungle floor clutching her abdomen, "it's midnight!"
Jovial frowned at his wristwatch. "So it is. Time for my session in the carnivorous plant room. Just as Nero Wolfe never lets business interrupt his sessions with his orchids, so I let nothing keep me from my beloved, bloodthirsty plants. The torture will take place in three hours. Minion, take them to the guest cottage."
And with that he turned on his pudgy heel and walked off down the trail.
The blonde in the green net jump suit climbed painfully to her feet, still rubbing her bruised belly with her left hand while her right hand slid a green .38 Colt automatic from a green plastic holster.
"Hit the trail," she snarled, waving the gun toward a trail that led in the opposite direction.
"You seem upset," I said with an ingratiating smile. "Also bruised. Working conditions getting you down? Why not defect to SADISTO? A million dollars? Two million? Tax-free?"
The blonde sauntered up to me, right up to me until her gun and both breasts nudged me. Her right hand moved to her throat, tugged down on a green zipper tab. The green net jump suit was suddenly open all the way down the front, revealing full, creamy breasts tipped with cherry-like nipples, a creamy-fleshed waist and a creamy belly.
"Feel," she suggested.
I smiled. Inwardly. Once again my saturnine good looks had won the heart of a fair minion-maiden, that is. I reached out my right hand, appraisingly squeezed a rich handful of hot, luscious breast-flesh.
"Not my boobies," snapped the blonde. "My stummick."
Obligingly I slid my hand down her lovely front, over her lovely waist, down her lovely belly, down to-
"Not that low, you sex maniac!" snapped the blonde. "Here." She guided my hand across her soft, warm tummy.
"Feels just like an ordinary-I mean extraordinarily soft, warm, firm-fleshed girl's abdomen," I said. "Perhaps-ah! I detect a tiny scar. Just have your appendix out, sugar?"
"Six months ago," said the blonde. "When I signed on as one of Greensleeve's minions. Know what he got in place of my appendix? A small bomb."
"How uncouth of him," I said, quickly withdrawing my hand and stepping back.
"The bomb is quite small," said the blonde. "Just big enough to blow my last meal fifty feet in all directions. The detonator is radio controlled, of course. And guess who had the second most powerful transmitter in the world aboard this ship?"
"I see," I said. "That does sort of complicate defecting, doesn't it? Just by pushing a button Greensleeves could give you the worst stomachache in history. Uh, why not chance it anyway, honey? We'll wrap your tummy in window screen or Reynolds wrap to deflect the radio waves, steal a life boat and-no, better not chance it." It had just occurred to me that if she blew, we blew. For the sake of my mission, I was more than willing to risk her neck-or stomach, rather-but I had no right to risk a valuable agent: me.
"So skip the appeals to my better nature and or greed," snarled the blonde, prodding Eva and me along the trail. "Besides, SADISTO doesn't have a million any more. My sister who works for THRUSH told me your outfit's broke."
How mortifying. THRUSH, KAOS and SPECTRE all laughing at us....
Meanwhile, we'd arrived at the guest cottage. A curious sort of place: a palm-thatched cabin set in a jungle clearing Inside it was quite modern, though-bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, etc. Almost cozy. And no lock on the front door....
"There's no lock on the front door," said the blonde with a nasty smile as she backed out. "But don't get any ideas about taking a stroll. I'm sprayed with jaguar repellent, you two aren't."
She slammed the door. As if on cue, a jaguar snarled a few yards away.
Eva burst into tears. "We're trapped!" she sobbed. "We're going to be eaten by ants! I'm too young to die! Do something! Save me-us!"
"You," I snarled, "should talk. You got me into this mess in the first place, albeit indirectly. I hope you're first on the ants' menu three hours from now I'm sure going to laugh up a storm every time you shriek in unspeakable agony."
Eva stopped crying. Stiffened. "You're a horrible sadistic monster. And (sob) I should know, I've been one myself for quite a while. Even before my fantastically rich family disinherited me, people started... despising me. And I began despising them back. I was hurt and I wanted to hurt people in return."
I stifled a yawn. I hate it when girls start analyzing themselves aloud. Frankly it bores me.
"Yes," continued Eva, "I've become a monster. I blew up that petroleum refinery full of sweet old scientists in white smocks. I stole the formula. Lied, cheated, extorted. I'm rotten-no good. Do you hear?"
"I hear," I said, "and I couldn't agree more. If you weren't scheduled to die horribly in a short while, I'd kill you myself. As it is, I might as well toy with your fleshy charms to while away the time. C'mere, baby. Let's see what you look like."
She shrank back. I stepped forward. Grabbed the front of her black leotard, tore it brutally from her body. A real nice body, too. Flesh tanned the color of lightly crisped toast. Firm, proud, youthful, high-jutting breasts. Not enormous, but adequate; wholly adequate. My lips began to water with eagerness to taste them.
But first I reached out and ripped away her black form-fitting tights They tore easily, almost willingly. I let my eyes slide brazenly over her now totally nude body. Golden brown hips, feminine and flaring. Saucy, impudent young buttocks designed for a man's pleasure. Sleek, erotic thighs-ripe and rich fleshed; pleasure packed.
"Not bad," I conceded. "Now let's rip that high collar away and-"
"No!" she shrank back, making no effort to cover her youthful nudity but clutching frantically at the high collar that masked her face.
"Say!" I gasped. "I've just figured you out. You must have a real nasty scar, or maybe big pockmarks, all over your face. Girls are sensitive about things like that. I saw this movie once with Joan Crawford where she had a scar and it made her antisocial until a plastic surgeon fixed it up and took her to bed. No doubt you have the same problem. Let's see."
And with that I ruthlessly ripped the mask-like collar from her face.
Surprise! Her face was incredibly lovely. Wide eyes so deep a blue they were almost purple. A cute, turned-up nose. A perfectly shaped mouth with soft, scarlet, passionate lips and perfect teeth, which she was now showing in an angry snarl.
"Baby," I said, grabbing her by the shoulders, "you must be nuts! Nobody could despise a dish like you, so why do you despise the world? Eh? Speak up."
She shook her head.
"Speak! I snarled. "Or at least breathe. You're beginning to turn purple from holding your breath so long."
Two tears appeared and trickled silently down her lovely cheeks, her lovely cheeks that were now slightly blue. And then she closed her eyes and let out her breath in a long sigh.
I stepped back. "I understand everything now," I said quietly. "Wait right here." And with that I stepped into the bathroom. Fortunately it was lavishly equipped. I returned to Eva, handed her a bottle.
She looked at it dubiously. "But I've tried ordinary mouth rinses," she moaned.
"This stuff is better," I said. "It contains chlorophyll, DDT and sulphuric acid." Eva shrugged, trotted in the bathroom, her jaunty rump jiggling exuberantly. A moment later I heard the sound of her gargling. And in another moment she was back.
"Exhale," I said. She did. "Kissing sweet," I said, grabbing her and kissing her. A long, slow, passionate kiss, a kiss that brought my hormones almost to the boiling point.
Her eager young curves surged against me, the warmth of her breasts and loins seeming to ignite me even through the encumbering clothes I wore.
I slid my hands up and down her golden-brown back and buttocks, pulled her brutally against me. Long minutes later we broke.
"Baby," I said, "your troubles are over. You can start a new life-without bad breath."
"It's like some wonderful dream," she gasped. "I-no! How can I change? I'm a thief, an extortionist, a swindler, a cheat and a multiple murderer. Who'd want a girl like me?"
"SADISTO," I said. "A few months training and a triple zero number can be yours. And you won't have to change your way of living at all, you can keep right on being a monster. Only you'll be working for Freedom. More or less. Of course there's a small initiation fee-rather like a klektoken. In your case it would be-two hundred fifty million dollars?"
"It's yours!" she whispered. "All the money I swindled from Russia, India, China, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, France and those other countries. It's safely hidden in...."
"Careful," I cautioned, closing her mouth with a friendly upper-cut. "This guest bungalow may be bugged. Tell me later. Meanwhile let's not talk shop. Or anything."
"Then if we can't talk," she murmured, her deep purple eyes blazing with lust, "let's act!"
And, following her own advice immediately, she sprang upon me passionately, tearing at my clothes with frantic hands. My coat, my tie, my shoes and socks-all my clothes slid off and away within moments.
Then I was naked, naked and happy, sprawled on the soft mats that lined the bungalow with Eva atop me. Kissing me, fondling me, hugging me, loving me.
Her body was like a flickering flame of flesh that scorched me from end to end, back to front and side to side. She was like a girl possessed, obsessed, which no doubt she was. Heaven knows how long she'd gone without sex. What pent-up passion must be leashed in her loins, what demonic needs, what zest....
Whimpering and sobbing with passion, she squirmed against me, rubbed against me, clawed me, chewed me, kissed me, adored me.
I didn't fight her off. In fact I sort of encouraged her-egged her on with diabolically effective strokes and thrusts of my hands and fingers and tongue.
When you have a sexually supercharged girl on your hands, as I had then, it doesn't take much to drive her crazy with sexual desire. Just a touch here, a poke there, a teasing thrust someplace else.
It's something like judo-you aim only for the vulnerable, in this case sexually vulnerable, areas. So as Eva slithered over and around me, kissing and fondling up a storm, I contented myself with resting comfortably on my back and now and then reaching out to flick her nipples-now tense and turgid with passion-or else deftly slide my hand between her luscious thighs and then expertly flex my fingers.
She yelped with ecstasy.
I slid my fingers down her thighs, flicked her belly, prodded her breasts, blew hard on the nape of her neck and in her ears.
I nipped her gently in certain places, bit her hard in others; I stroked certain parts of her anatomy with feather soft fingertips, slapped her stingingly other places.
And it drove her wild. Wilder! She was already wild with lust.
So sexually tense was she, in fact, that I don't doubt that I could have sent her into sexual convulsions merely by jabbing and poking and stroking her.
I didn't, though. I simply waited until she was all but hysterical with passion, then I grabbed her and flung her down on her back, yanked her legs apart and thrust myself to her superheated embrace.
Once, twice, three times I thrust myself all the way, and on the thrust of three she exploded. She screeched like a banshee, and her hips arched up, up off the floor mats, shaking me, worrying me as a dog worries a bone, rocking her arched hips from side to side as she savored and experienced the sheer naked joy of my presence-or the sheer naked presence of my joy, depending upon how you care to phrase it.
Her luscious young body convulsed again and again as she screamed and sank her teeth into my shoulder and clawed my back.
Me, I felt warm and comfortable and mildly excited. But only mildly. Unlike Eva, I hadn't been sexually starved for months on end. Three thrusts, even into an embrace as hospitable as Eva's, wasn't enough to detonate my emotions.
The frenzy ebbed in her, and her hips dropped with a meaty thud of buttocks on the matted floor.
"You...you weren't with me!" she gasped. "You don't...like me?"
"I like you plenty, baby," I told her. "I'm just saving myself for the next round and the next. I've seen many cases of sexual starvation before, baby. And believe me, you'll need more than one round to slake you."
I rolled on my side, still deep in her embrace.
"You should have joined me," she gasped. "I'm finished now, finished for a long while."
I said nothing, I simply slid my hands around her, grasped her buttocks, shook her a little at the same time as I moved my hips.
She gasped.
"Oh...oh yes!"
I smiled. And shook her some more and moved some more.
"Oh Lucifer, yes!" she gasped. "I can't believe it. I just-just slaked myself. I should be exhausted, sleepy, sated, satiated.... Only I feel kind of excited again. 1....
She broke off as I pulled from her embrace.
"What," she gasped, "did you do that for?"
"Because I feel like a change of pace," I told her, climbing to my feet. "Up, baby!"
She rose. I beckoned to her. She moved close to me, and I slid my hands around her waist, then down over her hips and around back to cup her buttocks.
"Put your arms around my neck, sugar," I said, "and kind of hop upward-legs apart."
"Oh, yes!" she gasped, doing just that. I clutched her buttocks tightly, pulled and guided her to me as she wrapped her thighs around my hips. Bulls-eye first time. We were lustfully locked, excitingly joined, both our bodies supported by my wide-spread legs.
"Mmmmm!" she moaned. "This is fun!"
A indeed it was. Her arms were wound tight around my neck, her lips were locked to mine and so were her eager young loins.
She kissed me passionately, tongue strokingly, then broke the kiss, smiled at me as she gently rubbed her nose against mine. Then she let herself slide backward and outward until only her linked fingers around the back of my neck supported her upper body.
She wriggled. I rocked. And the integrated effect of our combined motions was sensational.
I leaned back a little to balance us, reached out to cup and squeeze her jaunty young breasts, squeeze their rotund fullness, finger their blood-red, desire distended nipples.
Eva smiled and half-hooded her sexy eyes, smiled as I tweaked and twirled her nipples, fingered her ripe, taut young breasts.
Then she pulled back up against me until her bare breasts were thrusting against my naked chest.
"You're so big and strong," she gasped, moving her hips slowly.
"I was going to ask you about that," I muttered. "I mean, I am kind of big for a man-that is, I'm taller than most men. And you are rather a small girl. Are you-that is, are you quite comfortable?"
"Have you ever heard of a wine bottle bursting," she murmured, "because a cork was too big?"
"Funny you should use that simile," I gasped. "Because, metaphorically speaking, I feel somehow like a wine bottle, or rather a corked bottle, and...."
"And corks, have a tendency to expand," she breathed. "I'm a wine fancier myself, you know. But don't worry. The best wine needs a quality cork-what's wrong, after all, with a close fit?"
"Nothing," I grunted.
"You're so strong," she sighed, "I bet you could hold up my weight all by yourself. Shall we see?"
And with that she loosened the grip of her legs around my hips, let her legs ease toward the ground. But they didn't touch the ground. She just swayed close against me, crooning with happiness.
Funny that I didn't feel her weight on my shoulders or neck. What could be keeping her luscious young body off the ground?
Perhaps it was my hands, my hands that lightly cupped her buttocks and pulled her close to me.
"Oh you masterful man!" she whispered. "I weigh almost a hundred pounds, and you're supporting most of my weight. Oh, you lusty, virile man!"
And then (frankly to my relief) she wrapped her lovely thighs around me again, and leaned back again so that I could easily and conveniently caress and knead her high, proud breasts.
"It feels so wonderful!" she whispered. "But how do we....
"There are ways," I countered. "Like, I could walk around a bit."
And I did, walking heavy-footed, walking so that each time one of my feet hit the floor we bounced a bit. And every little bounce was a riot of fun.
Slowly I walked, my hands savoring the sculptured contours of Eva's high, proud, pouting, but so ripely full breast?. Slowly, with a joyous, mutual bounce to each step.
And between each step Eva's stomach muscles, first shyly, then graspingly, flickered in counterpoint.
What a swinging way to exercise. True, I had to support almost three hundred pounds, instead of my usual two hundred, but I never thought of Eva's extra poundage as a burden.
Quite the contrary.
I just walked with a bouncing step, and Eva bounced around me (while I squeezed and fondled her perfect breasts) and squeezed around me (what cute and impertinent muscles she had) while we slowly circumnavigated the room.
Then, tired of walking, I stood in one place and bounced oh my heels. And little Eva, locked tightly around me, bounced joyously as I bounced.
What fabulous friction! What exciting arousing meshing-stimulating counterbouncing!
Eva groaned with ecstasy, I grunted with pleasure-a responsive bat handle grasped by half-a-dozen hands that squeezed in turn, up and down, tightly, demandingly.
I bounced more rapidly on my heels, Eva squeezed faster, more urgently, until-
I jumped up into the air, gasping incoherently. At the same instant Eva sobbed with rapture as her muscles began to spasm. An instant later I felt myself begin to jolt with convulsive intensity, felt Eva's body contract and ripple ecstatically. It was happening, happening for both of us instantaneously, simultaneously....
Happening again and again as I reeled drunkenly back and forth. Eva mashed her lips to mine and sent her tongue stabbing deep into my mouth as mine thrust against hers. She dug her fingernails into my back and moaned through her nose while her body muscles rippled and squeezed with fantastic power, but not with enough power to prevent my spasms of desire from culminating.
I reeled, bereft of sense and reason; reeled, stumbled, caught myself, reeled again; then fell heavily forward onto a soft pile of cushions-and the even softer cushion of Eva's sweet, young body.
And there we lay, panting, resting, gasping, recuperating, smiling....
Lay a long time while strength flowed molecule by molecule back into our depleted bodies.
And then we had each other again.
CHAPTER TEN
"YOU KNOW," MURMURED Eva, stretching herself languidly and nakedly, "we really should do something about escaping from this horrible place."
"Later for that," I said, reaching out to stroke one of her lovely, nude thighs.
"I'm going to peek out the door," she said, crawling on all fours to the door, her plump rump switching intriguingly as she went. Too intriguingly for me to resist-I began crawling after her.
"Halt," I said, and she halted and looked over her shapely bare shoulder. "Now stop that!" she said chidingly, as I bumped her playfully in the buttocks with my lowered head.
Needless to say I didn't stop. I kept right on crawling up and over and around Eva's luscious body, my cheeks and then my chest sliding over the rounded contours of her golden-brown and buoyant buttocks.
And still I moved forward, nuzzling and kissing my way up the torrid turnpike of her spine, until the front of my legs bumped against the soft buffers formed by the backs of her thighs, until my body was pressed urgently against the full and fabulous curves of her backside, until she gasped arid giggled and squirmed as if she'd been tickled pleasantly.
"Darling..." she whispered, as I nuzzled the nape of her neck, then slid my hands around her body to stroke her soft belly, cup the swaying cupcakes of her youthful breasts.
"Precious..." she sighed, as I thrust slowly but purposefully against the delectable target of her southernmost end, slowly forward and then slowly back. Repeat. And then again.
Back and forth I pistoned, feeling a thrill of sexual pleasure course through me each time I thudded against the cushiony softness of her buttocks, buttocks that seemed to scorch my desire even as they soothed my flesh.
Her rump was wonderfully resilient, yielding with the springiness of a brace of over-inflated beachballs each time I slammed blissfully against it.
The soft thud of my body against her flesh, the stimulating friction of our meshing emotions, the tactile joy of fondling and feeling her hard-tipped, softly curved, hanging breasts quickly brought me to a state of tingling readiness. I could feel my resolve responding, and so, judging by the whimpering sounds of ecstasy escaping from her lips, could Eva.
I pumped my body back and forth faster, and still faster, building up frantic head of sexual steam, feeling ultimate ecstasy throb like the thudding of a great drum, driven half out of my mind from of her most feminine flesh against my most masculine flesh.
Faster.
And faster.
I slammed against her buttocks bruisingly, wildly, my hands clutched the soft, swaying orbs of her firm-fleshed breasts as I seemed to soar into an orbit of incredible, swinging sensation, soar like a skyrocket...
A rocket that suddenly exploded into a million wonderful sparks of fire, an erupting explosion of white light and pure rapture.
And again, and again and again warheads of enriched ecstasy detonated within me, while Eva wriggled her rump frantically from side to side like a dog wagging its tail, and I clutched her tight and held myself hard against her.
It was like thunder, like a tidal wave, an earthquake, a volcanic eruption-but much more fun, of course.
Then we rested awhile.
Then I reached for her again.
"No!" said Eva, wiggling from my clutching hands. "We must see about escaping."
"I suppose you're right," I sighed, climbing to my feet and looking around me. Getting out of the guest bungalow didn't present any problems; we could just walk out. But once outside we'd be in a jaguar-infested jungle. Inside a steel tanker's main oil tank. Somewhere at sea.
Things didn't look good.
"I've been thinking," said Eva. "That story about jaguars. Does it sound probable to you? I never heard of jaguar repellent. Maybe there aren't any jaguars, just tape recordings of jaguar snarls."
"Maybe," I said dubiously. I opened the bungalow door, looked cautiously around. Nothing but green ferns and lush foliage and orchids and-three jaguars. They opened their jaws and snarled. I slammed the door fast.
"There are jaguars in the garden all right," I said.
"Could...could they be realistic stuffed animals with machinery inside, like in Disneyland?" asked Eva.
"See," I suggested, "for yourself."
She opened the door. "Here kitty, kitty, kit-" She skipped back fast, slamming the door an instant before a jaguar thudded against it.
"Real jaguars," she admitted.
I nodded, thinking furiously. What to do? Yell for help? Yes. At least it was worth a try.
"Help!" I yelled.
Eva looked at me strangely. "Expecting friends?"
"I'm yelling," I said, "into my wristwatch short-wave radio." I put the watch-radio to my ear. Nothing but static. "I was afraid of that," I said. "Being inside a steel tank like this ruins radio reception. Also transmission. What's that?"
"A butcher knife," said Eva, handing me a wicked looking knife with a foot-long, razor-sharp blade. "Does it give you any ideas?"
I pursed my lips thoughtfully. It did give me an idea. Not a nice idea, but possibly a practical one. And we SADISTO agents are trained to put practicality above nicety.
Eva took a quick step back. "If you're toying with the idea of cutting me up into a bunch of uncooked steaks, stuffing chunks of me into a pillow case, then running fast down that trail tossing bits of me behind you to delay the pursuing jaguars-forget it. Only I know where that two hundred fifty million is stashed, remember? And only I know the formula."
She was right. Well, back to the mental drawing boards. I though constantly, relentlessly for fifteen minutes and then the answer came to me. I explained my plan to Eva.
"What a horrible thing to do! How can I help?"
"Yell," I said.
And she began yelling "help! fire!" at the top of her lungs while I lit a small fire in a metal wastebasket and piled damp wet palms-pulled from the palm thatched roof and moistened in the shower-onto the fire. Smoke billowed up and out the barred window we opened.
A few moments later the door burst open and one of Greensleeve's girl guards, a redhead this time, charged into the room. Like the rest of his minions she was nude save for the wide-meshed, green, form-fitting jump suit she wore.
"Where's the fire?" she demanded, brandishing her green-painted automatic. "For that matter, where's that stupid SADISTO agent?"
"Here," I said, dropping from the roof beam I'd been clinging to. The redhead tumbled to the floor with me on top of her, momentarily stunned. Fortunately Eva aimed a hard kick at the redhead's head while I was recovering from being momentarily stunned.
I quickly tied the redhead's hands behind her while she was still groggy. She shook her head, snarled at me. "Very clever," she sneered. "But it won't buy you a thing. I'm coated with jaguar repellent and you aren't. You can force me to lead you out of this miniature jungle, but you can't stop the jaguars from eating you along the way."
"But Jovial," said Eva. "And that blonde hussy. They-"
"Jovial," sneered the redhead, "is known and loved by the jaguars. They're his pets. As for the blonde, Sonia, she's coated with triple-strength jaguar repellent, strong enough to keep the jaguars away from her and any prisoners she's escorting. The rest of us just have regular strength repellent."
"Isn't science wonderful?" gasped Eva. "By the way, dearie," she said to the redhead, "have you been working for Greensleeves long?"
"A year," said the redhead proudly. "A year in which he's developed a super-secret undercover organization almost comparable to THRUSH, KAOS, SPECTRE and TATU. And I'm proud to be a part of his highly paid team."
"I suppose you think nothing of killing in cold blood?" asked Eva.
"I think plenty of it," boasted the redhead. "I like cold-blooded killing. I'm good at it, too. I already have ten merit badges, killing you two will earn me an even dozen."
"I'm so glad to learn you're a murderess," said Eva. "It makes me feel much better about-doing what we're going to do to you."
"Which is?" gasped the redhead.
"Why," I said, "we think you look a bit dusty. We're just going to give you a nice scrub."
The redhead paled. "No!" she screamed, "not that, anything but that!"
Naturally she kicked and struggled wildly, but with hands tied behind her back she was no match for the two of us. We dragged her into the shower, turned on the taps, tore off her green net jump suit and soaped her all over. Then rinsed her white and shivering body-her body that was now whiter than white.
We led her screaming to the door. "There you go, little dove," I said, kicking her outside. "Run faster than a white tornado now."
And she did. But, of course, the jaguars ran faster.
I turned and pulled Eva's fingers out of her ears. "If you're going to become a triple-zero SADISTO agent," I said sternly, "you can't be squeamish about a few dozen horrible screams from a young and shapely girl being eaten alive by jaguars. Anyway, the screams will stop in a few minutes."
And they did. We waited a few minutes longer, then walked rapidly down the jungle trail. "Have no fear," I assured Eva. "Jaguars, like lions, only attack when hungry. Right now they're busy digesting that redhead."
Eva slipped her arm through mine. "How clever of you to think of washing the jaguar repellent off her. I suppose she suffered horribly?"
"Unquestionably," I said. "But no more than we would have, being eaten by-ouch!-a stray ant just bit me. Ah, here's a door. Painted green, of course."
I opened the green steel door. We were in a green-painted passageway. Somewhere close by the tanker's engines thudded with massive power. "Diesels," I said. "And I'm almost sure-no, I am sure they're Westinghouse diesels. That means we can be sure this is a Type C-4 tanker." I closed my eyes, recalling from memory the structural plans of C-4 tankers (the SADISTO training includes three hours of memorizing typical merchant ship layouts).
"We're abaft the main oil tank, twenty yards from the starboard after companionway," I said. "Follow me!"
Four minutes later I unlashed the Number Five lifeboat, actuated the automatic lowering davits. Five minutes later we were chugging away from the black tanker, ploughing through a heavy swell off the coast of-I studied the pattern of flashes of the nearest lighthouse-Penzance, Cornwall.
"If memory serves," I said, "there's a sandy cove two hundred yards south of that lighthouse. Or maybe it's two hundred and fifty yards."
"Don't you know?" snapped Eva.
"Look, baby," I said, "when you memorize twenty-two thousand marine charts in two hours you can't help being a little hazy about details. Anyway, here's the cove." Quickly we landed. Quickly I took a visual compass bearing on Polaris. Quickly I found an old trail that led up the heather- and bracken-covered hills to an abandoned tin mine.
"Golly," gasped Eva, "you SADISTO agents sure know your way around. You once lived in Cornwall, eh?"
"Never," I said. "I merely memorized maps and aerial photographs of England, Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Northern Europe, Souther-ouch! Stepping on that thistle made me realize I forgot something important back in that tanker."
"What?" said Eva.
"I forgot to put my clothes back on," I said. "And so, I see, did you."
"You're-ouch-right," she gasped.
Hurriedly we climbed the Cornish hill, scratching our naked flesh against bracken and-
"A baby palm tree!" gasped Eva. "I just scratched my left thigh on a baby palm tree. Are you sure we're in England?"
"Certain," I said, a bit smugly. "Cornwall is the only part of England where palm trees grow. Because of the Gulf Stream, you know. These old tin mines are interesting, too-the oldest in Europe, they were originally dug hundreds of years before Christ by the Phoenicians who sailed here all the way from what is now Syria. Even today the inhabitants of Cornwall are noticeably dark and swarthy, in biological memory of lusty orgies that took place two thousand five hundred years ago when dark Arabic seamen seduced flaxen-haired English tin-mining girls and-"
"Shut your over-educated mouth," snarled Eva. "You know too much."
"Can I help it if I'm overtrained?" I protested. "As I was saying, as late as this century inhabitants of Cornwall had a distinct language, an Arabic-Semitic language, dating from those times. The last living speaker of that now-dead language expired about forty years ago, and-ouch! Why did you strike me with that rock?"
"To shut you up," snarled Eva. "You secret agents are all alike, I can see that. Long-winded. When you come to write up your report, I'll bet anything you spend ten chapters describing our escape from the jungle infested tanker, our voyage to Cornwall, and our climb up the hills to the abandoned tin mine."
"Certainly not," I snapped. "We SADISTO agents are terse and laconic. At most I'll use two or three pages. I could pad this part of my report to cover ten or even twelve chapters, but we SADISTO agents don't believe in dragging things out and-put down that rock!"
She did. And as a return favor I stopped talking. Rapidly we climbed the hill, and there was the abandoned tin mine. Also a whole bunch of people, TV cameras, searchlights and balloons.
I swore. I'd forgotten the English had revived the sport of free ballooning. Evidently we'd stumbled onto the site of a night race.
"I say!" cried an English balloonist with a Terry Thomas mustache. "Look at those two daft nudists hopping through the heather. What a smashing girl! And-look!-here come half a dozen black helicopters without lights, roaring in from the Channel!"
Curses! Greensleeves was on our trail. There was only one thing to do. And I did it.
Five minutes later Eva clung to me nakedly and passionately, her kisses burning my easily ignited flesh. "Darling," she cried, "how could I have doubted you? Only you, Trevor Anderson, would have had the wits to jump into an empty balloon basket, cut the ropes and soar to freedom!"
"All in the day's work," I said modestly.
"To think," gasped Eva, "that only fifteen minutes ago we were in deadly peril aboard a black tanker. And now, thanks to you..." she peered over the edge of the basket...now we're in deadly peril in a balloon over the ocean. Help!"
"Hush!" I said, clapping a hand over her shapely mouth. "Greensleeves minions may hear you!" And even as I spoke a helicopter thrashed by us a few yards away. We could hear it even if the clouds and thick fog obscured it from us-and we from it.
"They'll track us!" moaned Eva, crouching low in the wicker balloon basket.
"Not so," I said. "They may have radar, but radar can only detect metal. And what metal is there in a balloon? None. Only fabric, hydrogen, ropes, plastic valves, a wicker basket and human flesh and bones. Except for this gun and my wristwatch radio." Quickly I tugged the watch off my wrist, hurled it over the side of the basket along with the gun.
"This has to go too, baby," I said, jerking a thin gold chain from around her neck and tossing it out.
"Not my Playboy Club key!" she screamed. "It means everything, or almost everything, to me! It was given to me personally by Hugh-"
Her words were drowned by the roar of engines as a 'copter dove past us in the fog.
"They're radar-tracking your Playboy Club key!" I gasped, "following it-" A terrific splash sounded, "-not wisely but too well," I finished.
Silence followed. Silence through which we drifted in the dense fog. I peered over the side of the basket. Nothing. Nothing but grey fog and a black triangular shark fin sliding past below.
"Heave out a sandbag!" I yelled. "We're too low!"
We both began heaving out sandbags. Up we drifted. Up and on. But whither? On we drifted. And on and on and on.
"We're lost!" wailed Eva, clinging to me, her warm female flesh kindling automatic responses in my ever ready masculine body. We drifted through a break in the clouds. Stars appeared. Quickly I held out my arm, thumb cocked, fingers flexing slowly like a sextant. I took a star shot. Two. Three.
Rapidly I performed complex calculus problems in my head. "It's all right!" I cried. "We aren't lost, we're over Hobart, Tasmania."
"If we're over Tasmania," snapped Eva, "how come the top of the Eiffel tower is drifting past us on the right?"
"So I made a slight mental error in computing," I growled. "Don't criticize-grab it!"
We both grabbed for the top of the Eiffel tower, and both, unfortunately, missed.
"At least we know we're over Paris," said Eva. "Let's land. Let gas out of the valve. You know how, don't you?"
"Frankly no," I admitted. I was ashamed to tell her the truth-the truth being that, like all SADISTO agents, I'd been given half an hour of intensive free balloon handling training. Only, during that crucial half hour, I'd had to leave the room for a minute to answer a call of nature. Hence I'd missed the instructions about releasing gas from the release valve.
"Don't worry," I said. "We'll come down eventually. And meanwhile, as long as we're drifting naked and cold above Europe, let's do what we can to warm up, eh?"
"What else can we do?" sighed Eva, melding into my embrace.
We held each other close, absorbing excitement and warmth from our close-cleaving flesh. Her lips locked to my lips, our tongues slid surgingly together, twisting and turning in pagan and passionate communication while her arms held me close to her, my arms held her close to me, and our frontal flesh met in mutually satisfying contact.
And we had a ball.
Maybe you think there isn't much that can be done, sexually speaking, in a tiny basket swaying beneath a free balloon. If you think that, you're right. You're plenty hip, and well-traveled.
But some things can be done. Be it ever so tiny, there are few place where a lusty man and a sex hungry girl can't figure out some sort of mutually satisfying flesh game.
And so with the baskets of free balloons. There wasn't room to lie down, of course. But there was a small wicker chair seat fastened to one side of the basket. I sat on it. And Eva sat astride my legs, facing me.
That is, her face faced my face, her breasts thrust against my bare chest, her belly snuggled against my naked stomach and we worked things out. Pleasantly, pruriently, passionately...
I kept my legs pressed together while she straddled me and wriggled up until her lower belly was pressing against my eager flesh. Then she raised up, wiggled into just the right position, and lowered herself-with mutually pleasing results.
I slid my arms around her body, pulled her tight against me, so tight that her full breasts pressed and then billowed out against my chest.
Our lips locked again, and we reciprocally suctioned rapture from each other's mouth while our tongues tangoed teasingly together.
Meanwhile, I thrust high up to her hot and receptive area of lust, and her abdominal muscles began to flicker and squeeze in the international language of love.
And I responded. Instantly, urgently, eagerly. I did more. I began to flex my feet, leaving my toes on the wicker floor but bouncing my heels up and down. And every time I bounced, my knees rose in the air.
And she was sitting on my knees. Up and down I bounced her, up and down while her belly slid over my naked and close-pressing stomach.
Zam!
Also wham-bang!
And then up and down and out, slide and squeeze and thrust and grip and push, cling and lunge and hold, clasp and capture and probe-then over and over again, faster all the time and...
It spells rapture.
Hot flaming incandescent ecstasy.
Carefully controlled rapture.
In few other, perhaps no other position, can a man adjust the tempo of titillation so exactly.
Just a slight flex of the feet, and the girl you're engaged with bounces up and then down, at just the tempo you choose. Your own amusement and stroking, stimulation need determines the speed with which you bounce her.
If she follows you, as a girl should follow a man, in sex or in old-fashioned body to body dancing, so much the better for her.
But you set the pace, to gratify your needs, your sexual demands. If you're in the mood for slow sexual stimulation, you bounce her slowly; if you want a quick jolt of sexual joy, you bounce her rapidly.
You just can't lose. I mean, you can't even lose her, physically. It's just about impossible to knee-bounce her high enough so that you slip away from her hungry expectancy.
It gives you perfect, total control of the situation. Feel a bit too excited? Slow down the flexing of your feet, and the bouncing of your knees that makes her buttocks bounce up and down. Feel in need of extra excitement? Then just speed up the flexing of your feet a little, and your knees bounce a bit faster, her buttocks bounce faster, move up and down with a quickened tempo.
And more excitingly.
More pleasingly.
Until, when you decide to flex and bounce her all the way, all your way, you bounce her faster and faster until you can feel the friction sparks flaring around you, until you feel the up-welling urge of highly compressed emotions-
And you explode, wonderfully; and she responds, gratefully and ecstatically and passionately, her reflexes triggered by yours, her fuse igniting as yours does, her dynamite detonating when the plunger is all the way home...
And it's great. Masterful. Incredible. Unimaginable. Out of this world...
And fun.
My kind of fun.
The best kind of fun.
He-she fun, boy-girl fun, male-female fun.
Sexual fun.
The kind of fun Eva and I experienced together that night in the free-floating balloon high above Europe.
And like the best kinds of fun, it got better. The heat rose and the temp quickened and the exquisite agony of sexual stimulation increased until it blossomed violently into the total and terrible joy of ecstatic madness. Love-death and light-dark and white-black and yin-yang and finite-infinite exploded and imploded within us, around us-and we knew heaven and hell, bliss and agony, totality and nothingness...
And had a scathing, screeching, sliding ball.
A sexy, flesh-happy, hot-blooded wing-ding.
Also a shindig and a shivaree and a hullabaloo.
And then some.
While floating in space, high, high above the world of Western Europe.
We drifted, metaphorically and actually, drifted in space and time. Also over Western Europe.
"Where are we?" gasped Eva, some time later. I looked over the side of the basket.
An ice-coated rock whizzed by, close by.
"Over the Alps, close over the Alps, I suspect," I told her.
Crunch! The basket skidded by and around another ice-drenched mountainpeak.
"We're going to crash!" screamed Eva.
"You're so right," I told her. I glanced up at the flabby gas bag above us, quickly computed the square feet of hydrogen it contained, the amount of ballast we had to drop to clear the Alps.
"Just under a hundred pounds," I said. "That's all I-I mean we-have to drop over the side to skim over the Alps in perfect safety.
Eva scrambled back against the basket wall. "Don't look at me!" she snarled. ""Just because you need to drop slightly less than a hundred pounds, just because I weigh slightly under a hundred pounds-leggo!"
"Darling!" I cried, "just because I'm grasping you around the waist and lifting you up and pushing you toward the side of the basket car-that doesn't mean I'm going to drop you over the side, honest it doesn't!"
"I sure hope not!" she screamed, "considering only I know where the money is and what the formula is!"
"You're right," I said, releasing her. "I can't drop you. What else can we drop? Our clothes?"
"We're already naked," reminded Eva.
"True," I said. "What else? What would Jules Verne have done in a spot like this? I have it! We'll drop the basket! Scramble up the rigging, Eva, and cling to the balloon itself. I'm going to cut loose the basket."
"With what?" gasped Eva, as she scrambled nakedly (and seductively, I must admit) up the nylon network of the balloon.
"My teeth," I muttered, gnawing frantically at the ropes from which the basket was suspended. Faster and faster I gnawed, while lower and lower the balloon dropped, as craggy peaks whizzed by scant yards away.
Finally I bit a rope through. Then two, and then three-and at last four. The basket plummeted down-as we soared up. But now happily. Who could be happy clinging for dear life to the swaying network of ropes ringing an expiring balloon?
We drifted through clouds. Bright clouds now; the sun must have risen. And then into bright clear sunlight! Through crystal clear air we drifted-right toward a mountain peak.
"Stop trying to kick me loose!" yelled Eva. "I'm not going to let go! Even if it means we crash right into-"
At which point we crashed right into a mountain peak. Fortunately, a snow-covered peak. We rolled in the snow, gasping, while the balloon, freed of our weight, soared effortlessly upward and away.
I lurched up and out of a snow bank, glared at Eva.
"A fine mess I'm in, thanks to you," I snarled. "If you'd had the courage and self-sacrifice to let go and plunge screaming to your doom, I wouldn't be in snow to my neck right now."
Eva made a face and hurled a snowball at me. I ducked-just as the sound of a helicopter's engines roared in my ears. Greensleeves had found us!
Quickly we began to scramble nakedly down the mountain. Ahead of us, thank heaven, was a cluster of concrete buildings. Some sort of observatory, it seemed. Sanctuary!
We staggered toward it. The buildings looked familiar. "Hey!" I yelled. "That's the famous observatory of Mount Louis, the solar observation center."
"So what?' gasped Eva, struggling through the snow, just as the black helicopter sank to rest beside the largest dome of the observatory, and a dozen green mesh-suited girls emerged from it, firing submachine guns in all directions.
White-coated scientists dashed frantically from the observatory and began to scurry down the snow-covered slopes. The observatory was in enemy hands!
"Oy veh!' I gasped. "Before this we had troubles!"
"What's bugging you?" snapped Eva. "So Greensleeves has taken over the observatory. So what? We'll just keep on running down the mountain."
I laughed, bitterly, as I watched, with horror, the 34-foot parabolic bowl of mirrors lurch, then turn relentlessly toward us. "That parabolic bowl of mirrors," I told Eva, "happens to be the largest solar mirror in existence. Know what it does? I'll tell you what it does: it collects and concentrates the sun's rays and focuses them to a small point. A point which reaches a temperature of 6,300 hundred degrees, which is a couple of thousand degrees hotter than the sun's photosphere, a temperature hot enough to melt any known substance-including your soft body."
"Ulp!" said Eva, as we both ducked down behind a huge, ice-encrusted rock.
Even as we ducked a beam of diabolic brilliance flashed toward us, and a line of dazzled snow exploded violently into super-heated steam. The beam grazed the top of the rock we were hiding behind, and the rock's tip fragmented into glowing blobs of lava.
"6,300 degrees!" gasped Eva. "That thing will melt us-vaporize us!"
"You can say that again," I gasped. "Though I wish you wouldn't."
Meanwhile, the huge reflector swung back again, a bit erratically. "They're having trouble focusing and aiming it," I muttered, as the beam swung twenty feet above our heads, causing a tiny cloud to boil and scatter like cigarette smoke in front of a fan. A flock of birds swooped through the beam-to explode instantly into vaporlike giant flashbulbs.
I could see the thousands of tiny mirrors that made up the reflecting bowl move slightly as Greensleeves and his girls experimented with focusing the deadly projected cone of light and heat. The beam slid along a high outcropping of rock, leaving a bubbling furrow of lava in its wake. Once they focused it on the rock we were hiding behind, it wouldn't take long to melt it-and us. If the rock didn't explode from superheated steam trapped in its crevices.
"You know," I said, "I can't figure Greensleeves out It would make more sense if he tried to capture us, or at least you-to get the formula. Instead he's trying to kill us, horribly. He must have a nasty temper."
"I'll say," moaned Eva.
"There's another thing about Greensleeves I can't figure," I said. "He's worth a billion dollars. So why doesn't he retire and enjoy life?"
"Total retirement for active businessmen is psychologically harmful," said Eva. "Doubtless his doctors told him to take up an active hobby. In a sense, forming a worldwide ruthless criminal syndicate is a hobby. In short, he is enjoying life."
I nodded thoughtfully. Doubtless she was right. Bossing a huge criminal gang, especially a gang composed of shapely girl criminals, would provide quite a few kicks. To me, at least. But time enough for philosophical speculation later. Right now we were trapped on the slope of a mountain, waiting to be vaporized.
What to do? Appeal to Greensleeves' mercy? Useless. Try to flounder down the mountain without snow shoes? Useless. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.
"Help!" I yelled at the top of my voice.
Eva glared at me. "You some kind of nut? Who can help us now, a Saint Bernard dog? The...the snow's moving! You started an avalanche by shouting!"
"Precisely," I said, as we started whizzing down the mountain along with several hundred tons of snow. Down we whizzed, and down, traveling far faster than Greensleeves could track us with his solar mirror. Down, and down, whizzing faster and faster, moving at a good eighty miles an hour, I estimated.
Then we ran out of mountain. More precisely the mountain dropped off suddenly, and we went flying out across a valley as if we'd been launched from a ski-slope. Through the air at eighty miles an hour we flew, only without skis.
Below us were rocks, tree stumps and a railway line. I squinted at the sun, estimated the time. "Seven-fourteen!" I shouted to Eva. "The Intra-Alpine Express is due in three seconds. I hope it's on time."
It was. It thundered by beneath us and we landed with a thud on the roof of the last car, quickly scrambled down onto the rear observation platform. "Tickets, please," said the conductor, a ravishingly beautiful blonde Swiss girl in a chic, bare-breasted uniform. We were safe!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TWO HOURS LATER WE were winging back across the Atlantic in a chartered jet, Eva clinging nakedly to me, her firm young flesh cleaving affectionately to my hard, equally naked body.
"Kiss me," she pleaded, "kiss me everywhere! Love me! Love me with your eyes, your hands, your masculine masculinity!"
"Why not?" I said, pulling her to me, sliding my hands over the eager curves of her brazenly built body.
It had all, I reflected as I stroked her pouting buttocks and her sleek thighs, gone very well.
After I'd given brief and highly untruthful explanation to the bare-breasted Swiss conductor, she'd let us use the phone in the club car (European trains, at least the better ones, have phones, of course.) I called SADISTO-only to find their phone had been disconnected. But it was okay. Eva had a friend at Chase Manhattan, and she had him wire money to the next station where, clad in a cape borrowed from the conductor, she dashed out to buy us a couple of topcoats (there was no time to buy more clothes than that).
I'd remained aboard the train to question the shapely Swiss conductor-Heidi, her name was.
"Heidi," I said, "I have three questions. Where can we charter a jet, how can we keep the train from leaving before Eva gets back with her money, your cape and my clothes? And last but not least-am I your type?"
"Geneva," said Heidi. "Pull the emergency cord. And yes, you handsome, naked American-you're exactly my type. Step into my private compartment a moment, and I'll show you just how much you're my type."
I followed her into her private compartment, thankful to escape the cold stares of the male passengers and the shameless leers of the female passengers.
Heidi's compartment, however, was distressingly small. Not even room to lie down. Heidi winked at me, bent over double to place her hands flat on the floor, then lifted her legs so that she was standing on her hands in front of me.
"Put," she suggested, "your arms around my waist and lift me a little." I did so, and she promptly hooked her legs around the emergency cord which ran from wall to wall of her compartment. The train, which had just started to pull out, slid to a stop in a hiss of air brakes.
"It'll take them ten minutes to find out who pulled the cord," she told me, tilting her head up to smile at me as she swayed back and forth upside down hanging by her bent knees from the emergency cord. "Meanwhile..."
"You ingenious girl," I gasped, quickly removing her short-short wrap-around skirt and the waist holster that held her ticket punch.
Then I slid my arms around her chubby but choice buttocks, stroked the contours of her extra-ripe thighs, pulled her to me to kiss the Swiss chocolate sweetness of her tummy, the Swiss cheese creaminess of her inner thighs.
She wriggled until her legs were well apart, slid her soft arms around my buttocks, pulled herself close to me and kissed me. Excitingly, urgently, expertly.
Waves of warm rapture enveloped me as her hands stroked and gently clawed the backs of my thighs and buttocks, as her soft chubby tongue added its stimulus to the already stimulating circle of her lips.
Meanwhile I went on kissing her, kissing her where long experience has taught me girls enjoy being kissed, kissing her until she began to moan through her nostrils. She couldn't moan through her mouth, of course, because her mouth was busy. Very busy.
I sank my fingers deep into the wondrous billows of her smooth, supersoft buttocks, the heat of her inner thighs burning my cheeks, scorching my lips and tongue.
I kissed her passionately, thoroughly, suctioningly; kissed her with the exploring tip of my tongue-even as the tip of her tongue slid in sizzling spirals around and around my now fully excited flesh.
What an easy, pleasant way to make love in a confined space and the same time keep a train from pulling out. What hot flaming fun, what tongue-stroked rapture, what a ball!
I kneaded her deep-fleshed buttocks, stroked her sweet thighs, deep kissed her sweetest sweetness, while her own lips seemed to draw me deeper into a soft warm sanctuary of rapture.
Bathed to the hilt in bliss I quickened the flicking, teasing titillation of my tongue, and she began to squirm and writhe. An instant later I began to squirm and writhe as the warm excitement of her lips and tongue and mouth made me throb slowly where it feels wonderful to throb.
Still I kissed her, kissed her effectively, efficiently, erotically; my hands stroked and squeezed the roundedness of her hips and buttocks and thighs. Still her hands teased my haunches, the base of my spine; her lips pressed in a torrid circle against my body...
Then the throbbing in my body became a pounding pulse, the convulsive movements of her inner thighs speeded up dramatically; and titanic wave after wave of hot ecstasy rushed through me. Her fingernails bit deep into my buttocks as her most excitable muscles contracted again and again...
And for a long, long moment we clung to each other, lost in a whirling world of our own, a world of thunderous silence and brilliant darkness and tumultuous and titanic secretly shared joy...
Next moment came a pounding on the door. "Let go that emergency cord!" yelled a male voice, doubtless that of the engine driver.
"I'm back with two coats for us!" called Eva.
Quickly I helped Heidi slide off the emergency cord, quickly she snapped on her wrap-around skirt, buckled on her ticket punch. I opened the door.
"Bah!" said the engine driver, glaring at Heidi. "I might have guessed!"
"What," snapped Eva, "were you two doing in there?
"Conferring," I said. "And don't tell me what to do. You don't own me. I'm young, and what's more I enjoy being young. I'm free, and-"
"Oh dry up," snarled Eva. "Here's your topcoat. When your...excitement has dropped enough so you can button it, let's get a drink in the club car."
And we did. And a short time later, in Geneva, we hired a U-Fly-A-Jet and raced out over Europe and then the Atlantic. We were headed for New Mexico, where Eva-for some obscure reason-had stashed her ill-gotten two hundred fifty million.
High over the Atlantic, with the jet on automatic pilot, we'd relaxed, slipped out of our topcoats and strolled back to the spacious and empty passenger compartment to hold hands and trade torrid kisses.
"Are you mad at me for being jealous of that fat teenage Swiss girl conductor on the train?" murmured Eva, sliding her shameless hands over and around the most intimate areas of my naked body.
"Frankly yes," I said. "SADISTO agents-even temporarily deputized agents like you-can't afford to be jealous. Ever. As you'll come to realize, once you finish training, get you triple-zero number and become active in the field."
"What kind of field?" asked Eva.
"Any kind of field-clover field, hay field, corn field. SADISTO agents are trained to work, and sex, in all kinds of rural, suburban and urban areas. And sex, raw, lusty sex, is something you have to grab while you can."
"Like this?" murmured Eva, grabbing me in just about the sexiest manner imaginable.
"Exactly. We SADISTO agents must snatch forbidden moments where and when we can, snatch what sexual happiness is available, snatch quickly, snatch ardently, snatch-"
"You," chuckled Eva, "obviously have a one-track mind. But," she added, fingering and stroking me suggestively, "I get your message. We SADISTO agents have to live each moment as if it were our last, eh?"
"Precisely," I said, moving her soft hands down to an area I felt like having stroked. "When I was a young-that is, a younger SADISTO agent, I'm still pretty young and virile, as you may have observed-when I was fresh in the field, I frequently let sexual opportunities pass me by."
"You?" gasped Eva.
"Me. But I learned better. The hard way. For example once in Cambodia a breathtakingly beautiful Cambodian teenage temple girl-nude, of course-flung herself nakedly against me and urged me to sample her Oriental sex wiles. Fool that I was, I pushed her away from me while I figured out a secret Cambodian cipher that had baffled archeologists for four centuries. It only took me five minutes, after which I reached for her golden and unclad young body-too late."
"Too late? She'd lost interest?"
"No, she was shot out of my arms by a burst of machine-gun fire. Leaving me nothing but bitter memories of what might have been, plus a few unusual fragments of her lovely body. I swore then never to let an available female's body go unsampled."
"Is that a fact?" said Eva, stroking and squeezing me more ardently, more shamelessly.
"It is indeed. Only, alas, I forgot my vow only a month later. I was trapped in an ice cave on Greenland, alone save for my Walther PPK with silencer, a hundred pounds of ammunition, a hundred pound pack of supplies, a hundred pound long-range radio transmitter, a hundred pound sack of high explosives, and-"
"A hundred pound naked Eskimo girl?"
"You heard about it, huh? Well, Nanookie-that was her name-Nanookie begged me to pleasure her luscious nude, blubber slick body. But, fool that I was, I decided a reconnaissance was called for. And it was a reconnaissance mission that was ended horribly-with a harpoon."
"They harpooned you?" gasped Eva, searching my naked body for a scar. Or something.
"No-Nanookie. I sent her on patrol. I may be a fool but I'm not foolhardy. It was horrible. I watched through binoculars as the enemy plunged harpoon after harpoon into her writhing, ripely curved young body.
"What stamina, what vitality she showed. If she can still thrash around and squirm around after eight harpoons have been thrust into her soft flesh, I thought to myself, how excitingly she would have thrashed and squirmed if I'd taken the time to harpoon her-metaphorically speaking.
"As it was, alas, I never got to sample her churning charms. The ninth harpoon, a big one, finished her off. I'd missed the boat. Also my chance to sex up Nanookie. Another time I followed a vicious killer into a coal mine in Pennsylvania. A sudden coal slide trapped us underground, a slide I calculated-correctly-would take me a full day and night to dig through.
"The incredibly lovely-and naked, for reasons it would take too long to explain-Pennsylvania Dutch girl who was trapped with me pleaded with me to put down my gun and make mad, passionate love to her. Instead I resolved to kill the killer."
"Now wait," said Eva. "That time it seems to me you did right. Before dallying with a denuded Dutch damsel it would make sense to finish off the vicious killer you were trapped with."
"So I reasoned at the time," I said. "So I shot the luscious young naked and unarmed Pennsylvania Dutch girl to pieces. But the I had nobody to talk to, or make love to, during the day and night it took me to dig my way out. I should have loved her up first and then shot her to pieces."
"I can see now you're quite right," sighed Eva. "A SADISTO agent has to grab sex while the grabbing is good. Kiss me, you soft-headed-I mean hearted-fool!"
And I kissed her. Kissed her and pulled her to me, grabbing heaping handfuls of soft, delectable flesh. She sighed happily and rolled with me on the soft floor of the jet-foam rubber carpeted-as my hands roamed up and down her young, tanned, naked body.
I fingered and fondled the firm freshness of her rump, the suave sleekness of her gorgeous thighs, the navel-dimpled desire dome of her belly, the brash bastions of her bulging breastworks.
I polished and patted and probed and poked her satiny smooth charms from one end of her body to the other, from her back side to her front side, touching her and teasing her, caressing her cupping her, exploring her and exciting her.
I pillowed my head on the swaying summits of her breasts, on the rolling ramparts of her rump.
I caught and captured the intriguing resiliency of her proud-fleshed thighs, sliding my hands over them from knee to knee in a sweeping, hairpin curved route of rapture, with some lingering pauses in the vortex of the V.
I patted her all over, listening to the lusty sounds my patting evoked-drum-like thumping when I patted her belly, meaty whaps when I patted her buttocks, pleasing plocks as I patted her full breasts, thrilling thwacks as I patted her thighs.
Even though I was now familiar, very familiar with all the soaring slopes and clipping valleys of her enticing young body, I still got a thrill out of exploring her again.
Exploring her with my lips and tongue and fingers, with my arms and sliding legs, with all parts of me. There isn't a section of the male body that doesn't tingle and respond to the sliding touch of female flesh. So I treated all sections of my body to the stroking thrill of all sections of her body.
To take a single, or rather double, example: I felt her breasts with my hands (palms and fingers both), with my arms, my chest, my belly, my thighs and calves, my back and shoulders and so on.
And on and on.
Every possible contact of my flesh and her flesh was pleasing, and I tried just about every possible contact.
What a tactile treat, what a carnal carnival!
And what a thrill when I rested and she began teasing and toying with me! How exciting it was to feel her dark hair sweep over my chest and belly and thighs, how pleasant to feel her stroking me from head to toe with her swaying nipples and pendulant breasts...
And the teasing touch of her lips moving over my whole body, her tongue sliding out to tease my nipples, my neck, my nose-my everything.
For an hour, for two hours (while the jet flamed across the Atlantic on auto-pilot), we rolled and wrestled and teased and tormented each other, building up our mutual sexual excitement to incredible heights.
We rolled rapturously together, bathed in a golden glowing sea of mutually induced ecstasy.
My whole body was so highly charged I responded to the slightest touch of her flesh, any section of her flesh, against any part of my body.
And it's incredible how many rounded inches of flesh there are on two bodies, a male body and a female body.
It was agonizing pleasure, excruciatingly wonderful torture, sensational suffering.
As everybody knows, certain areas of a girl's body are termed the erogenous zones, which simply means that a man can evoke the maximum sexual response by touching and teasing a girl in those places-especially her breasts in general and her nipples in particular, and that part of her body that would be covered by a G-string if she wore a G-string.
Everybody knows the major erogenous zones of a girl-every full-grown girl by instinct and experience; every adventurous male by experience and experimentation on willing girls.
Likewise in a male, the major erogenous zone is common knowledge. Happy, widely acknowledged knowledge.
But all too few males and females realize that fantastic, if less highly charged pleasure, can be experienced by concentrating on the secondary erogenous areas, male and female.
Speaking largely, the secondary erogenous zones of a girl's body encompass all those sections of her flesh not included in a map of her primary erogenous zones. Which means, simply, that if you get a girl sexually excited you can give her a thrill by touching or kissing her anywhere: the lobes of her ears, the nape of her neck, the backs of her knees-anywhere.
With a man, as most of my readers know, much the same rule holds true, with the exception that certain secondary fun zones are more sensitive than others.
Most men, for instance, get more of a charge out of feeling a girl's fingers stroke the base of his spine than if the same girl stroked his ankles, more of a thrill from have the nape of his neck stroked than the top of his scalp. And so on.
But I don't mean to get technical. Generally speaking, I repeat, a turned-on man and a turned-on girl get pleasure, plenty of pleasure, by being stroked and fondled just about any old place-provided the stroking and fondling and kissing is performed by a lusty, naked member of the opposite sex.
So much is common knowledge.
But so few men and so few girls realize that for a change, once in a while, it's absolutely great to tumble on a mattress with a cooperative partner who makes a point of ignoring the easily superheated zones and concentrating on the rest of your body. While you do vice versa.
It's a slower way of igniting the inevitable conflagration, of course. But a pleasant, smoldering, differently exciting way.
Like it prolongs the pleasure, subtilizes the pleasure.
It's the difference between swigging strong liquor and sipping mildly alcoholic wine. Sooner or later you get just as drunk, but the whole wonderful process takes longer, much longer.
I won't say it's more fun, just that it's a different kind of fun.
A slow, tantalizing, teasing way of having fun.
Like it just about drives you out of your skull, but very pleasantly.
Just about driven out of our respective skulls, Eva and I writhed together in sexual torment and delight.
And then it was time, time to speed up the glorious game. I thrust Eva down on her back and suctioned my lips over her left breast, drew in the hot, hard pulsing finger of her nipple, drew a luscious mouthful of hot breast-flesh and teased it all, hard and soft flesh alike, with my stroking, swirling tongue.
She wiggled with ecstasy. Then wriggled even more when I transferred my attentions to her right breast, suctioning its torrid tip, kissing its rotund undersurface, the ski-slope of its top side, the hot rounded valley between her breasts, the passion swollen outer curves.
I nibbled her breasts, chewed gently on them, prisoned her nipples between my teeth and lips, tugged at their turgid excitement.
She gasped with pleasure, groaned with delight as I suctioned soft mouthfuls of her breasts deep into my mouth, sliding and stroking my tongue over the tender breast-flesh, the ruby hardness of her nipples.
Then I flung myself down on top of her, flung myself forward and down, thrusting all the way to her receptive, fever-hot flesh.
I thrust forward ardently, each stroking contact sending electric spasms of sheer delight surging through both of us. She howled with ecstasy as our bodies met and meshed all the way. Muscles in her body flickered around me and held me and greeted me and excited me. Her thighs whipped around my hips, pulling me to the swirling whirlpool of her rapture.
I thrust forward again, withdrew, plunged again, and again, and again. Faster I moved, and faster, driving her wild, turning her into a lust-inflamed wild beast, making her flail the floor with her feet, pummel my back with her hands, sink her teeth deep into my shoulder. Totally tumescent, my unstoppable ardor slammed against her, rammed all the way.
Her body thrashed and twisted, churned and shuddered beneath me, a squeezing maelstrom of frantic feminine fervency. And I kept on slamming to her, jamming, faster and faster.
Her lips mashed against mine, her tongue stabbed into my mouth like a crazed serpent, her breasts were swaying pillows of pneumatic pleasure supporting my swaying chest, her hands were stroking, scoring demons raking my back.
An instant later, arc after arc of ultrahigh voltage, sexual flame spurted through us, welding our bodies, melting our souls in a timeless time of frenzied fire and dazzling light.
It was an insanity and a wonder, a throbbing infusion of other worldly heat, a pinnacle, an atomic disruption and a cosmic triumph.
We clutched each other, clung to each other, clawed, chewed each other, hugged and thigh lashed each other. Then gasped and grunted and moaned, groaned and sweated and panted, blinked and smiled and held each other close-very close as if by holding the other tightly we could escape for all time into another, better dimension, and then...
It was over.
Over, but definitely not forgotten.
For a long, long time we seemed to drift through endless space, black space illumined only by the glowing fires that still suffused our bodies.
Drifted like a black leaf swirling slowly down a dark coal mine at midnight, like a chunk of charcoal floating on a river of ink far underground.
Drifted silently, thoughtlessly, mindlessly.
And we were content.
Real content.
Before we knew it we were over New York. We landed, refueled quickly, and were on our way again.
"You look worried," said Eva. "What's wrong?"
"Perhaps nothing," I said. "Only, those peons on the ground crew looked at me strangely when I supervised the jet's refueling. Do you suppose Greensleeves..."
"Perhaps," suggested Eva, "they only looked at you strangely because you forgot to put your topcoat on when you supervised them. It can't be every day a naked man jets in from Geneva."
"Perhaps you're right," I conceded. "But I can't help feeling Greensleeves wouldn't give up that easily."
"Silly boy," laughed Eva. "Put the plane on automatic pilot again and let me kiss you again."
So I put the plane on autopilot. And sure enough she kissed me, kissed me exactly where I'd been hoping she'd kiss me.
And despite my fatigue and my physical depletion it wasn't long before her kissing excited me and then, gloriously, finished me again.
And so the time passed until, all too soon, we reached Santa Fe.
At Santa Fe we landed the jet. I say we because I made Eva sit in the co-pilot's seat while I landed. As a SADISTO agent, she'd have to know all the fine points of handling a huge jet single-handed-frequently while kissing fervently at the same time.
At Santa Fe we chartered a U-Fly-A-Helicopter and roared out over the desert. Out and out and out.
"The money," I said, "the two hundred fifty million. You're sure you know where you hid it?"
"Certainly. In the trunk of an old Buick in the middle of a roadside auto graveyard. Stop worrying. It's perfectly safe."
All the same I worried. I worried to think how the General and the entire staff of SADISTO must be worrying. I'd sent them a postcard from New York: Having a hectic time. Wish you all were here. Returning soon with new recruit and loot. Regards from 0008.
Then it had all seemed so simple.
Now, with the desert stretching before us endlessly, I began to worry again.
"Don't worry," said Eva, snuggling nudely against me, "it's just down this highway a few miles."
We roared on for several miles, on over an empty-highway and an even emptier desert. Nothing but sand dunes, cacti, jack rabbits and an occasional dusty farm.
"There!" cried Eva. "The old auto graveyard was right by-that bend in the road?"
We circled over the road. Nothing. Nothing but sand, sand which looked recently swept.
"You fool!" I snarled. "Don't you know Congress recently passed a highway beautification bill? That old auto junkyard has undoubtedly been moved somewhere else. Away from the highway. To make America beautiful.
"I guess you're right," gasped Eva, abashed. "I wonder where they put it?"
"Well, well ask somebody," I said, as we clattered over the open spaces of New Mexico. "See anybody?"
Eva peered out the window. "I see a man in a dusty pickup truck," she announced at last.
"Good," I said. "He's probably a county agent. We'll land in front of him."
We did. And the man, as dusty as his pickup truck, climbed out to greet us. "Howdy, folks," he said. "I'm your friendly county agent. May I help you?" Tactfully he ignored our nudity-because of the heat in the desert, we'd shrugged off our topcoats-and contented himself with touching his wide-brimmed hat and telling us his name.
"Calhoun? I said.
"No, no-not Calhoun-Kowloon." He wiped some of the dust off his face. "I'm Chinese-American, can't you see?"
"So you are," I said. "We're looking for an auto graveyard that used to be by yonder bend in yonder highway. Where'd it go?"
A dusty girl climbed out of the dusty pickup truck. "Hi," she husked. "My name is Stella Deller. I know where that auto graveyard was moved to. In case you haven't guessed, I'm a home agent."
"Ah," I said. "You teach the local girls how to knit, sew, cook and be a credit to their local 4H club?"
"Not exactly," said Stella who, I noticed for the first time-but with considerable interest-was wearing a pair of dusty blue jeans and nothing but dust above the waist. "In this county we try to be more practical. I teach the local teen-age girls how to swim, frug, put out, buy pills and be a credit to their local 4L club."
"4L?" asked Eva.
"Right. Lewdness, Lasciviousness, Licentiousness and Lustiness. We have to keep up with the times." She smiled at me. "Like a free sample of what I teach?"
"Any time," I gasped, taking in the firm, full magnificence of her nude if dusty mammaries.
"Later for that," snarled Eva. "That auto graveyard?"
"They figured it was an eyesore by the highway," said Kowloon. "So they carted it back half a mile and dumped it next to the Indian Reservation. Thataway." He pointed.
"Thank you kindly," I said, and we climbed into our helicopter and took off. "Friendly people around here," I noted.
"Too friendly," snapped Eva. "That Stella, I bet she fancies she's a real ball of fire."
I ignored her, because just ahead loomed a dusty Indian reservation and right in front of it was the dusty auto graveyard.
"We found it!" I yelled, landing beside it and tumbling out-little dreaming, what was in store for me...
CHAPTER TWELVE
HARDLY HAD WE EMERGED from the helicopter, naked and unsuspecting, when we were rushed by Indians.
And what Indians! Tawny, magnificent-breasted Indian maidens dressed only in a fringe of beads, beads which danced provocatively in front of their tawny, luscious loins.
They took us prisoner instantly and marched us, with a mixture of cruelty and kindness, toward their village. That is, they marched Eva cruelly-kicking and jabbing her with sharp sticks-but me they marched in a very kindly fashion, carrying me on their shoulders, patting me, kissing me, fondling me and making suggestive remarks in Peyote (a language which, thanks to my thorough training as a SADISTO agent, I was well versed in).
"Help, help!" cried Eva, as they kicked and prodded her along.
"That your squaw?" grunted the breathtakingly magnificent bare-breasted Indian girl on whose right shoulder I was riding.
"Never, or hardly ever, saw her before in my life," I said. "Uh, what's doing?"
"An Indian orgy," said the Indian maiden on whose left shoulder I was riding. "You arrived just in time. Things are tough around here. All the braves are off picking cotton and tending cattle. We Indian maidens are all alone, as usual. Not a brave on the reservation except you. Hope you have plenty stamina. We plenty sex-starved."
"Is that a fact?" I said.
"Help! Help!" cried Eva, as she was kicked and jabbed along with wicked pointed spears.
"You object we torture white squaw plenty for kicks?" asked the Indian maiden who was carrying my right foot.
"No, no-not at all," I said. "Just don't finish her off or anything."
"Okey-dokey," said the Indian maiden carrying my left foot. "We no dead her up, just make her wish she dead. Heap fun, no?"
"Uh, you bet," I said. "When does the orgy start, by the way?"
"Now!" cried the Indian maidens, hurling me down onto a pile of soft straw covered with soft deer skin. And, with assorted pagan whoops of pleasure, they proceeded to hurl themselves on top of me.
What a predicament! What a challenge!
Could I, depleted as I was by recent rapturous love-making with Eva, hope to satisfy two dozen lust-crazed Indian maidens? I stiffened.
Yes! As a highly trained SADISTO agent I could do it-had to do it, in fact.
And I did it.
Not that it was easy, of course.
Time after time, as maiden after maiden flung her self at me, then on me, I said no, this is it-I can't manage any more! But always my flagging spirits rallied and rose just in time.
And what a time...
The world seemed to dissolve into a kaleidoscope of maidenly Indian breasts and thighs and buttocks and bellies, of surging Indian hips and urging Indian lips.
Copper-red breasts brushed my face, copper-red thighs stroked my body, copper-red bellies snuggled against my belly-time after time.
Pagan lips kissed me wildly, wantonly; pagan hands stroked me frenziedly; pagan muscles throbbed like drums around me and pagan passion seemed to consume me.
I sensed, intuitively, that two dozen lust-inflamed Indian maidens were at least a dozen too many, but I did my best. Valiantly!
My straight narrow manhood lanced again and again; my thrusting tongue darted in and out, also again and again; and the sliding fingers of my hands wreaked as much sexy havoc as possible.
But still they came, then went-to be replaced by new, even more eager Indian maidens, maidens turned on by watching the previous Indian maidens getting turned on.
Could my manhood take it? Could my tongue take it? My fingers take it? No, but they did. Again and again. And again and again.
Shrieks of Indian-maidenly satisfaction filled the air, mingled with shrieks from Eva who was evidently being given a real hard time.
I was bathed in sweat, exhausted within and without, but still I did my best. Thrustingly, probingly, surgingly.
Four at a time, they came. One to bestride my hips, one eager to see what my tongue could do for her, and one each to urge my flagging hands between their satin-soft-copper-red thighs.
What a wonderful if exhausting ordeal! If only... I tried wriggling my big toes suggestively, but none of the Indian maidens noticed.
So I went on moving my hips, teasing with my tongue, exploring with my fingertips. I detonated lush maiden after maiden, but still more kept coming. Were they sending word to other tribes? Could I hold out? Each minute I kept thinking, is this my last stand?
And then, miraculously, the sea of copper-red breasts and thighs and bellies and backsides receded.
I sat up, dazed and almost delirious.
The Indian maidens were scurrying toward their wiki-ups, lighting cooking fires, shaking blankets, dusting off papeese.
I looked the other way. Several clouds of dust. And under each cloud a dusty bus.
Aha! The Indian braves were returning for lunch. The Indian maidens, most of whom obviously weren't maidens at all but the pagan equivalent of suburban housewives, were trying to cool things.
I had been, I realized, the lusty victim of an impromptu all-girl suburban sex club-Indian style.
Well, the sensible thing to do was to make tracks fast before the busloads of Indian husbands arrived and started asking pertinent questions.
I looked around for Eva.
There she was, climbing weakly to her feet. She looked pinker than I'd remembered her.
"It's all right," I said, loping toward her. "We were just the victims of a pagan prank."
"Prank?" screeched Eva. "I got jabbed with sharp sticks, whipped with leather thongs, singed with burning brands, strung by flung rocks, bruised by whacked sticks and stomped by hobnailed sandals-and you call it a prank?"
"Look at it this way," I said reasonably. "In this day and age our motto must be the greatest good for the greatest number. And if two dozen Indian chicks were able to therapeutically release their hostility by whacking, whipping, jabbing, singeing and stomping you, who are you to deny their need?"
Eva made an unprintable reply.
"Maybe so," I said. "But let's make tracks anyway. Four busloads of Indian braves are returning for lunch. And who know how much hostility they may have built up? Let's like go!"
And we went, scampering across the sand at a gallop.
Quickly we reached the fringe of the auto graveyard, wisely removed from the highway where it was an eyesore and dumped next to the Indian village where nobody would see it. Except the Indians, of course. But they were only second-class citizens.
Slowly-because of broken glass and jagged metal-we made our way through the auto graveyard. Seeking, searching.
Searching for a... "What year was that?" I asked Eva.
"A 1936 Buick sedan," said Eva, hopping around on one foot. Evidently she'd stepped on something sharp.
"Right!" I said, hopping around on one foot as I stepped on something sharp.
We looked around. Nothing. We walked and climbed more. Still nothing. More walking. More climbing. Still nothing. Nothing but sharp things we kept stepping on.
And then-"There it is!" yelled Eva.
"Where?" I cried.
"There!" she squealed.
And she was right.
Quickly, hopping now on one foot, now on the other, we made our way toward the once proud automobile. We reached the trunk, twisted the handle, pulled it open and-
There was two hundred fifty million dollars. Even in thousand-dollar bills it made quite a pile.
"My money!" sobbed Eva.
"Our money," I said, bathing my face in a sea of greenbacks.
I looked up at her. "Eva," I said. "You're my kind of girl." I looked above her. Greensleeves! Roaring toward us in a black helicopter!
"Not again!" gasped Eva.
"I'm afraid so," I said, as Greensleeves' helicopter roared closer. "But then, that's the way it is in life-a little sweet, a little sour. A spoonful of sugar and a cupful of vinegar. A bit of sun and then some rain. Lake Mr. Guest says, every cloud has a radioactive lining and it takes a heap of livin' before-"
"Shut your fool mouth!" screeched Eva, "and do something!"
"So what can I do?" I said, as the black helicopter clattered toward us. "But keep cheerful, look for the bluebird of happiness..."
The bluebird of happiness didn't show, however. Only Greensleeves, leering out of the pilot's seat of his big black helicopter.
"So!" he chortled. (I should have known he'd be the type of man to chortle.) "So," he chortled, "I've caught up with you at last. You won't escape me, or my pets, this time!"
"Pets?" said Eva. "I don't see any girls in that fifty-passenger helicopter. Only a lot of jaguars peering out the windows!
"You're so right, I'm afraid," I said. "Greensleeves seems to be obsessed with the idea of having us eaten alive. Looks like he brought his whole pack."
And indeed it so seemed. A few yards above us Greensleeves opened one of the helicopter doors. "Jump, my little pets. Jump down and enjoy a hearty meal!"
A couple of jaguars stuck their heads out, snarled, pulled their heads back in fast Wisely enough, they evidently didn't fancy jumping onto a lot of broken glass and twisted metal.
"Jump, I say!" we heard Greensleeves snarl. "Jump! Geronimo and all that. Gung ho! Down and at 'em!"
The jaguars weren't having any.
"Oh, happy day," cried Eva.
"Don't be too sure," I said. "He'll land someplace."
"Not here," said Eva. "There isn't a level spot for a hundred yards, just wrecked cars."
Greensleeves turned his black helicopter, droned off for a hundred yards, landed. Jaguars poured out of the ship. At least two dozen. They began racing toward us in a pack.
Greensleeves raised his helicopter, swung over us again.
"Since I'm low on gas," he yelled, "I'll leave you now. But I'm sure my little pets will make you feel-wanted!" And with a final maniacal cackle he roared off.
Meanwhile, across the desert sand, two dozen jaguars raced toward us.
"We're doomed!" screamed Eva.
I looked at her. Looked around for a sharp knife with which to chop her into twenty-four tempting morsels which I could toss to the jaguars. No knife, worse luck.
Well, there was only one thing to do..."
"If you yell for help one more time," snarled Eva, "I'll cut you up with this sharp knife I found."
"Sharp knife?" I said.
"Oh no you don't!" she yelped, hurling the sharp knife over her shoulder.
"In that case," I said, "there is only one thing to do." And I proceeded to do it. Quickly I found a couple of metal gearshift knobs worn shiny by the wind swept sand. Quickly I fastened them to a piece of board. Even more quickly I ripped out a couple of auto sparkplug coils plus some wire, fastened the coils in series.
With frantic haste I found a battery with some trace of life, lugged it toward my hastily assembled contraption. Like lightning I hooked the right wires to the horn button of the old Buick.
"See?" I said to Eva proudly. "A primitive spark gap transmitter. When I press the horn button, juice will flow from the battery through the two coils connected in series and then jump with a fat spark between the two burnished gearshift knobs."
"Now you take up electronics as a hobby!" screamed Eva. "Throw that junk away and think about saving us from that on-rushing pack of jaguars!"
"No need to panic," I said. "This primitive radio spark gap transmitter is, in fact, highly illegal. It's illegal because it isn't at all selective. It broadcasts on just about all frequencies at once. Primitive spark gap transmitters like this were popular during the early twenties, but were quickly outlawed by the FCC because of their aforementioned broadband transmission."
"So what?" screamed Eva, as the jaguars bounded closer. And closer.
"This primitive spark gap transmitter," I continued, "would and will louse up reception on every radio and TV set for miles around, without regard to the frequency said sets may be tuned to."
"You punch-drunk would-be radio ham!" screamed Eva. "Do something. Those damn jaguars are just a few yards away, and leaping toward us fast! Do something!"
"I intend to," I said with all the dignity I could muster-which is plenty. "Duck!"
Eva ducked. Though whether in obedience to my order or because all twenty-four jaguars, bunched closely in a pack, had just made a mighty spring toward us, I couldn't say.
Speaking for myself, I hunched down inside the old Buick and pressed the horn button. Again and again. I could hear a fat spark crackle between my makeshift spark points and then-
BLAM!
Fragments of jaguar flew in all directions.
Then silence reigned.
Eva stuck her head up, spat a jaguar tail out of her mouth.
"They exploded!" she gasped. "My hero! What did you do, you clever man?"
"Nothing," I said coldly, "that any red-blooded highly trained SADISTO agent wouldn't have done. You recall that red-head aboard the tanker, the one we washed and scrubbed?"
"To get the jaguar repellent off her? Before we fed her to the jaguars-alive and screaming? You bet I do! What about her?"
"It should be obvious," I snapped. "She got eaten by those jaguars, right? So it stood to reason one of those jaguars ate the tiny bomb planted in her stomach, the one only Greensleeves could detonate in case she defected."
"Yes!" gasped Eva, staring at me worshipfully.
"Well," I said, "obviously-to avoid his loyal hired help being blown up by stray transmissions-Greensleeves would have rigged those bombs to explode only if he transmitted two, three or more signals on different frequencies simultaneously.
"And since I didn't have time to build a complete radio transmitter and experiment with multiple combinations of transmitted frequencies, the only thing I could do was construct a transmitter that would transmit on all frequencies with great power, at least at close range. And, since they were closely bunched, when one jaguar blew, they all blew."
"How clever of you!" gasped Eva. "I'll never doubt you again!"
"Hah!" I said.
After that I said little and Eva said nothing. Little needed to be said. We simply raced back and forth between our helicopter and the old Buick's trunk, carrying money. It took eighteen trips, but eventually we loaded all the money aboard.
Then we took off for Santa Fe.
On the way I spared time for a glance at the Indian Village below.
"Those poor Peyote maidens," I mused. "So starved for sex. Someday soon, while on vacation, perhaps, I must return and make them happy again..."
Eva made a rude noise.
"And maybe bring you," I snarled. "They seemed to get a real kick out of torturing you."
Eva sneered at me.
Minutes later we landed at Santa Fe. Bought four gunny sacks. Stuffed the money in. Transferred the loot to our chartered jet. Took off for Washington.
Safely in Washington I hailed a cab, headed straight for SADISTO's headquarters under the rolling hills of Maryland, making only one stop-the light company-where I paid SADISTO's bill.
Minutes later we were home. At least at the place I call home.
"Why," gasped Eva, "it looks just like a seedy old country club. That's SADISTO?"
"It may not look like much on the surface," said the cab driver, "but lady, underground is one of the largest buildings in the world, reaching fifteen stories underground and encompassing and enclosing some of the most modern equipment in the world."
"Shut," I snarled, "your mouth." I paid the cab driver and tipped him a dime. Too many people, I reflected, knew too much about SADISTO. Maybe I should shoot the cab driver. Too late. He was already out of range. And I didn't have a gun.
I led Eva up to the main door, spoke my name. Lights were burning-the power had been turned on promptly, I was glad to see-and the electronic computer connected to the door speaker recognized the complex speech patterns of my voice almost instantly, and a door swung open.
We took the elevator down fifteen flights to the General's office. A mighty cheer greeted us. The entire staff of SADISTO, agents, staff employees, instructors, call-girls and flunkies were on hand.
It was touching the way they cheered me-especially after I dumped the gunny sacks on the floor. Two hundred fifty million dollars.
"Enough," said the General, wiping a tear from his eye, "to maintain us in our accustomed lavish way of living for at least a month. And by that time..." He fingered a gun, "by that time some of our enemies in Budget may have, heh, heh, changed their minds. Or died horribly. In short-SADISTO has been saved!"
The assembled agents broke into a rousing chorus of He's a jolly good fellow! while I blushed modestly.
Twelve hours later, after the ensuing orgy had subsided, I was alone with the General. Already his giant bank of TV screens was being reinstalled.
"You made some mistakes," said the General. "More than I care to enumerate. But you did bring home the bacon. Two hundred and fifty million."
"Also the formula," I said.
The General frowned. "Bad news there, I fear. That girl, Eva. She memorized it all right, but what with all the excitement, she's unfortunately forgotten it. Oh well. The important thing is-we got the money. Right?"
I frowned. "General, you know I never speak ill of fellow agents. But Eva de Struxion is not yet an agent. And shouldn't be one, I think. I suggest she be immediately assigned to the rifle range-as a live target. And I, General, am in need of live target practice."
The General frowned. "She seems like ideal agent material. Cruel, ruthless, already a mass murderer, shameless, immoral and amoral... What have you against her? Is she squeamish about shooting old ladies and small children?"
"Worse," I said. "Not once, but several times, she spoke to me contemptuously. Implied I was a fool and bungler. Well!"
The General looked at me. And looked and looked.
"0008," he said at last. "If I sent to the rifle range, as live targets, every person in this huge organization who has spoken of you as a fool and bungler, this place would be very empty. Totally empty."
"Empty?" I gasped. "Empty but for you and me?"
"Empty of me too," said the General. "However, 0008, as fools and bunglers go-you acquit yourself well. Go now. Take a bit of leave. An hour. Maybe two hours. Then report back for your next assignment.
"Yes, Sir!" I said.
Two hours leave! I hadn't had that much time off in years. Two whole hours!
I raced to my suite, dialed Call-Girl Control.
"Send down a dozen lust-crazed girls!" I shouted.
"At once!"
Two free hours! What lusty action I could pack into those hundred and eighty minutes!
