The Lady from L.U.S.T.

Book #1

When the world's sexiest spy tracks you down, you're glad to be caught.

LUST,

Be A LADY TONIGHT

by Gardner Francis Fox

written as Rod Gray

Originally printed in 1968

digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel 2017

for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC

Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.

At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.

The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels. We are proud to present - - -

Table of Contents:

CHAPTER ONE 

CHAPTER TWO 

CHAPTER THREE 

CHAPTER FOUR 

CHAPTER FIVE 

CHAPTER SIX 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

CHAPTER NINE 

CHAPTER TEN 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

Chapter One

I learned about L.U.S.T. in Haiti.

The League of Underground-Spies and Terrorists, that is.

At the time, I had no thought of becoming a spy. I was on, vacation and enjoying myself as I did not do at home, with the voodoo drums throbbing in the warm night air lying heavy on the slopes of Morne à Cabrits, a sea wind off the gulf bringing with it the languid scent of jasmine.

I was watching a naked girl dance la cumbia.

La cumbia is a voodoo dance, wild and erotic.

Her dance was getting to my date, George Norman, a fellow American vacationer, in Port Au Prince. The rhythms of the rada drums, those cylinders of wood and hide consecrated to the gods on banana leaves, before lighted candles and with votive offerings of food and drink, the eerie sounds of the lambi conch shells, the chanting of the mambo priestesses, were all around us. The clatter of the organ bells, the sight of the pretty mulatto dancer shimmying ecstatically so that her breasts shook like bowls of café au lait jelly, were filling George with a magic all his own.

His arms were tight about my middle, his eyes were fastened on the loins of the dancer his body was firm against my buttocks, His breathing was uneven.

"My, my,” he kept saying.

The mulatto girl was quivering from her knees tip to her shoulders, Her eyes were wide, staring. At her feet, the six votive candles blazed with a brightness oddly appropriate in the otherwise dark jungle-night. Her feet stamped, her heavy thighs shook, her soft buttocks jiggled as she moved between the waxen tapers, uttering soft cries.

La cumbia is a dance of passion. Just as the Corybantes, those priestesses of Cybele worshiped the goddess in Sumer and in Babylon with their extravagant posturings, so this young woman was adoring the life force that is in every man and woman. Her body was tuning itself to the vibrations of her gods, and because of her efforts, was glistening with sweat.

Her dance was akin to the fertility rites of the ancient religions, where the women worshiped the life principle itself, giving themselves to the embraces of strange men for the greater glory of a goddess like Mylitta. In la cumbia, there are no patterned steps, it is an individual offering by the dancer by which she hopes to free her spirit, offering it to the god, and through the god, to her loved one. The blazing candles symbolize the sun, the first life force which brings ripeness to the crops and warmth to animal life.

On spraddled legs the girl was moving above the clustered candles. Her head was thrown back, her shoulders barely moved yet her heavy breasts were leaping wildly. It was a stance by which the god was said to enter into the body of his priestess, but it was also a pose which was designed to rouse the primal lusts of the onlookers.

It was rousing George, all right.

I was not feeling any too cool, myself. I knew that when the solo dancing ended, everybody who wanted to, got in on the act. The onlookers came together and paid their own devotions to the gods. The names of the gods vary. There is Legba, who seduces women, Mange, who loves to eat, the female Erzulie who is the goddess of love, Guide Nimbo, the god of death. I think the mulatto woman was worshiping Erzulie. The way George was poking me in the behind was filling me with a desire to do some worshiping on my own.

Somebody pushed a cup of clairin into my hand. Clairin is a kind of raw rum. If anything were needed to get a girl in the mood to let Legba have his own way, it is this concoction. I swallowed it thirstily.

My hips began to move involuntarily. George was starting to pant. The dancer was crouching above the candles now, hips jerking savagely. Her parted lips gave little animal grunts, and her breasts moved in a steady shaking that added to the stark sensuality of the scene.

"Let's go find a little clearing,” George whispered.

"Mmmm, in a minute.” I was trying to play it cool.

My name is Eve Drum, I told myself. When I was much, much younger, I had wanted very desperately to become a lady cracksman, a latter day Lady Raffles, a female Jimmy Valentine, a girl Gray Seal. My father is a locksmith, and a good one, and he taught me much of the art of opening. safes and combination locks. My mother is a poetess of sorts, and gave me an inborn love of reading as her contribution to my upbringing. My memory trip was doing me little good. I started to wriggle.

George had his hands on my breasts.

I was wearing a thin print cotton and a Maidenform brassiere. His fingers were amorous feathers rousing my nipples, hardening the breast-flesh.

Think about Mamma, think about Daddy! I scolded myself.

I used to practice on the locks Daddy brought home until my fingertips were raw. I was rather miffed because there was no well-known girl safe-cracker. This fact made me lamentably ambitious in the wrong direction, but at least it gave me a reason for carrying on my researches. I even had a name picked out for myself. Penelope Courage, a girl crib cracker.

Naturally, since a lady thief might run into trouble from time to time, I went to classes in judo and karate, getting to be pretty good at them. I am a wearer of the red and white Sixth Dan belt, as a matter of fact. I guess I studied karate a lot more faithfully than I did my schoolbook lessons.

Mother was a free thinker. She encouraged my reading anything and everything. I became a theoretical Jill of all trades. I could write a thesis on the origin of the solar system or discourse for an hour about the use of the flying buttress in medieval cathedrals.

I also learned about boys and girls and what they did for kicks during the post-adolescent days. I had dates so that I could practice what others preached. I tested my responses to erotic stimuli with the right boys. The ones I was not enthused about got a sample of my karate technique. I am afraid I rather confused my school chums. Some of them reported me to be real hot stuff, others were convinced I was Eve Chill. Understand, I was never indiscriminate.

I learned to swim like a dolphin even in a heavy surf. I won expert marksman medals with my .22 Colt revolver. I even managed to master the trick of tacking a sailboat before the wind. I was a girl athlete, a femme fatale, and a walking encyclopedia, all at the same time. I was fun and games at almost anything. I did all right with my book learning, but when it came time to use some of the judo tosses and karate whacks as a girl thief, I simply chickened out. Or maybe I got more sense when I got older. Besides, I never needed money badly enough to steal it. Secretly, I have always felt that the criminal Hall of Fame lost a great candidate when I decided to stay honest.

So I got a job in government service. I hung my Sixth Dan belt on the wall of my little apartment and dropped my shooting medals in a bureau drawer. My many practice uniforms served to line my bureau drawers and protect my black nylon unmentionables.

George was lifting my skirt. His hands were hot fires on my stockinged legs, then on the bare flesh above my nylons. He was kissing my throat with his open mouth. I started to moan.

Thinking about Mommy and Daddy and my early childhood was doing me no good at all. I was getting as hot as the six ritual candles. The mulatto mambo was writhing like the snake she worshiped, ripples of flesh beginning at her thighs and traveling to her hips and then to her breasts. She was panting, only the whites of her eyes showed, and she moved as if enjoying the embrace of a lover.

On either side of us, women onlookers were dropping to the ground, emulating her, but with real men instead of the imaginary loa who was pleasuring the cumbia dancer.

"George," I whispered through dry lips.

“Mmmmm?”

"Do you believe in voodoo?”

“Mmmmm!”

“That isn't what I mean Voodoo is magic, it is a religion. Its appeal is based on the most primitive forces in the lives of human beings: a fear of death which ends life, a hunger for food that sustains life, and an enjoyment of sex which is the life principle in its most ecstatic form. By the rites of voodoo, the gods which attend these various functions of the living are worshiped, appeased and their intervention sought.

Nowhere but on Haiti has this vaudou flourished. They teach a distilled version of it in Columbia and Venezuela, but only on this jungle island does it appear in all its true significance. Uncensored, unabridged. Honest. Naked, for the gods like Damballah and Ayida, Erzulie and Father Agoue. Here alone are found the ouanga charms that bring health and sickness, love and lust, hate, birth and death. Here also one can watch la cumbia, the danse Congo, the Petro dancing. In Haiti the loi spirits are closest to the human heart. The serpent and the bull are worshiped as once, long ago, they were worshiped by the Bacchae in Thebes and Lesbos. There are scholars who say that voodoo derives from veau dor, the golden calf which Aaron made for his people while Moses was on Mouft Sinai. Others maintain it comes from vodu, a term for spirits, either good or bad, in the language of Dahomey in Africa. No one knows for sure.

The only thing I knew was that George Norman had his palms on my buttocks binder under my upraised skirt, that he was caressing me, that somehow he had lowered my ten-dollar Parisienne panties without my knowing it. The mamalloi priestess was writhing on the ground now, with a big ebony male. I was staring at them with wide eyes, half hypnotized by their lascivious motions.

George breathed, "Let's get out of here!"

"Yes—oh, yes!” I panted, pulling up my panties. He caught my hand, he dragged me between the boles of the tall trees at a run. My skirt was up to the middle of my thighs, anyone who cared to look could probably see the firelight winking off my garter-clasps.

For my part, I would have fallen right down on the dirt floor of the jungle and become just another worshiper of Legba, but George was more civilized, I guess. He wanted a bed.

We were almost at the little taxi he had rented for the night, to drive us up here into the hill country, when the four men came out of the shadows. They were not native Haitians. They were muscular white men and they ran at George with an intentness that was frightening. Their eyes gleamed in their pale faces, their hands held wickedly curved machetes.

The man nearest to me cried, "He's lust!" I thought he was only being complimentary at the time but the long knife in his hand held my eye, and before I really knew what I was doing, I remembered my old judo lessons. My hand went out, gripping his wrist. I chopped down with my left hand across his arm above the elbow. I had broken wooden planks with that blow. I broke his arm just as easily. He screamed as he fell and saw the bone protruding from the bloody flesh. George risked one glance at us. I guess he thought it was his date getting her lumps. His eyes goggled when he saw the man kneeling on the jungle floor moaning in pain, doubled over.

I reached across George and caught hold of a second man by the shoulder of his cotton shirt, yanking on it. As he lost his balance I drove the edge of my hand against his temple. As he made choking sounds, I swung my right leg from the hip at the same moment, taking both his legs out from under him. He went down flat on his back and his head cracked against a big rock half buried in loam.

He never made another move. George had come out of his paralysis by this time. His fist rammed into a jaw, driving his man backward. I stepped in between the other man and George and caught him under the chin with my rigid fingers formed into a cone, driving them into his soft throat. As he dropped I hit him hard on the back of his neck.

George said in awe, "Cheeeest, Eve!”

The man he had hit was lying on the ground by this time too, so we had nothing to worry about at the moment. I became a helpless female again. I stepped over an unconscious man and let George feel my body right up against him.

"You were so masterful, darling,” I breathed.

"Me? It was you who did all the damage."

George is a very practical man. I put my arms around his neck and hugged him, kissing him feverishly,

"You saved me from getting raped. I'll never forget this, George.”

"Neither will I," he breathed, pulling away. The mood was broken. The Haiti moon was still the same silver orb, the night warmth was as romantic. The rada drums throbbed with that same beat which dug down under your skin, and from time to time we heard the soft cries of women and the bull bellows of rutting males. But George looked at me with different eyes, and the body that had needed me so much now poised for instant flight.

I sighed. The night was going to be a fiasco. George muttered something about the four men being secret agents, that we could leave them here and get back to our hotel in Port-Au-Prince. He caught me by the hand and began dragging me down the little trail.

I was going to have to do something about the boy, I told myself. Obviously he was not swallowing my line about having rescued me from a gang bang. He had stood and stared at me performing that major outer wheel hold on tough guy number two. It is pretty impressive when done properly. As a Sixth Dan, I was a step above a black belt wearer. I could take care of myself.

I cuddled next to him in the vintage 1940 Ford that served as a taxi, but the poor darling didn't dare lay a finger on me. I kissed his throat and whispered delicate invitations to venery, but he was having none of it. I decided something drastic must be done.

"George,” I said right out. "You're chicken!”

“You're so right,” he agreed eagerly.

"You probably think I am quite muscular.”

"Oh, I do, I do!"

"I'm not,” I wailed. "I'm soft and smooth and very female."

"You are, indeed." George would have agreed with anything I told him at the moment. I gritted my teeth. I vowed to restore my girl-girl image. I had broken it only so that George himself would not be broken in half by those four hoods.

When the taxi stopped, I said, "Pay the man, George. Then come upstairs to my room. I have something I want to show you.”

"I think—“ he began.

I looked at him.

He said hastily, "I will, I will!"

My room was a tiny, two room suite. Twin lamps were aglow as I opened the door and dragged George in with me. The door of my little bedroom was slightly ajar. I told George to park himself in a chair, I would be no more than a minute.

"Eve, maybe another time—”

"George!” I snapped.

He sat down. I left him there and went into my bedroom, pulling down the shades and snapping on a vanity bench light. I kept the scotch, in the large drawer of my vanity table. I lifted out the bottle, and stared over it at my mirrored image. I needed no LSD to see myself with big cracks running from my forehead all the way down to my slippered feet. I had broken my girlish image.

I looked like a Gorgon to the boy. I am not named Eve for nothing. I would restore myself to his good graces very simply. I undid my blouse and took it off. My breasts bulged white and soft above my black lace Maidenform. I reached behind me, unfastened the bra straps and eased the frilly things downward.

My breasts shook-slightly as I lifted off the bra. I wear a C cup, size 38. My globes are round and white, with large brown nipples. Being a female female, I am naturally proud of them.

I got to my feet and walked out to George carrying the Scotch bottle in a hand. George made a gasping sound. He half rose in the chair and his eyes bulged. I was wearing my high-heeled shoes and my skirt. My every step made my breasts sway and shake.

George had been holding his hat in his hands. He dropped it on the floor as he went on looking at me.

"Take your jacket off, too, George.”

He nodded like a man in a trance. "Those topless waitresses have nothing on me,” I giggled. "I don't even have anything on myself. Above the waist, that is.”

I got ice cubes from the little fridge in my kitchen area. I put two in each glass and poured the Johnny Walker Black over them. I put them on a tray. I carried them to George who was in his shirt-sleeves.

He said, “You're a different woman, Eve.” I put a knee on the chair, and leaned closer so that I could touch my glass to his glass. My breasts shook and jumped right before his eyes, the dark nipples erect and eager. My shoulders moved, my nipples played tennis for his moving eyes. I think I could have hypnotized him. I dipped my nipple into George's glass. George drank eagerly, thirstily. His eyes closed in pleasure, it was such good Scotch. I patted his head gently, happy to see that he was losing his fear of me. I had to repeat the dosage with the other nipple. George was leaning his head back against the chair, helpless in his enjoyment as any baby. His right hand held his glass, his left hand was resting on the chair arm.

I bumped his right arm when his teeth forgot to be gentle and send a pleasurable pain all the way to my toes.

"Ohh, George,” I breathed.

"Mmm-hmmm," he agreed. His hand fell off the chair arm onto my stockinged calf. "I'm a real female woman, darling,” I informed him. "You know that, dear. Don't you?”

His hand came alive on my calf, moving leisurely to the bend of my knee where I knelt on the chair. His fingers were amorous snails sliding across the stocking, growing aware of the warm flesh beneath it. Up over the back of my thigh they slid, around to the front where the garter-clasp made a bump. He caught the garter, snapped it.

"George, you're a devil.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Now his fingertips were on my bare thigh. I wriggled in delight. They moved upward slowly onto my hip and pastured for a minute or two on my black nylon panties.

His fingertips moved. George opened his eyes wide, looking up at me where my black hair hung down, covering my flushed face, His eyes were on fire.

"You are a woman, Eve,” he whispered. "Oh, my.”

I bent my head. We kissed lazily and without haste. Soft moist lips and tongues moved back and forth, around and about. I just had to convince this handsome man that I was not the whirling dervish he had seen in action an hour ago. I would be soft and seductive for him, someone he could overpower with his masculinity.

"George, have you ever heard of the kelouci?”

"No, what is it?”

"Or the kebachi?” He shook his head back and forth and since his head was buried between my mammaries at the moment, he caused some interesting reactions, I bent and kissed the top of his head.

"You don't read very much, do you, George? Well, I've had a real off-beat education." I told him. "Mamma and Papa were advanced thinkers. Those things I mentioned—the kelouci and the kebachi—are really unusual ways of making love.”

“They are?”

George actually glowed with anticipation. I got off the chair and smoothed my skirt down, letting him have the benefit of my toplessness. I put out my hand to him, wriggling my fingers.

"Come, darling. You must forget I am Eve Drum. See me only as a teacher of the esoteric arts.”

He came eagerly, rising up to stand against me. I purred my approval of his readiness as a pupil. I had never actually set out with the idea of teaching a man to love me, ever before. In the past I have always been the pupil, for the most part. Tonight I would vary the procedure.

I started for the bedroom, lifting my skirt as I went, wanting George to see how perfectly shaped were my legs in their nylons, and how pleasantly curved, the cheeks of my rump. I dropped the skirt outside the bedroom door. It needed to be dry-cleaned, anyhow,

I did not remove my panties. I was remembering the somersault position as outlined in the love treatise of the Shiek Nefzawi—el kelouci—and the fact that a pair of panties would come in very handy. I sat down and told George to get ready.

"I am ready,” he grinned.

He got rid of his clothes. He was a muscular young man, his body was heavily tanned except where his swim trunks would cover him. George liked to swim and sunbathe and his body showed it.

I patted the bed. "Come up here, darling. Then do as I say."

I got over him, dropped my black nylon panties about my ankles and bent over. As I directed, he caught my hips, somersaulted me and—

I cried out with delight. So did George. It was a strain on the leg muscles, but the pleasure was intense. Those old Arabs sure knew how to get their jollies, I give then that. Three hours and a number of experiments later, George lay exhausted beside me. I was pretty tired myself.

"Eve, you're wasted as a secretary,” he said thoughtfully.

"Am I, darling?”

"You ought to be in L.U.S.T."

"I just was,” I giggled.

"No, I mean The League of Underground Spies and Terrorists." Enthusiasm caught hold of him. He propped up his head with a hand, elbow sunk into the mattress. "Yeah. You have all the qualifications and then some.

I snuggled against him. "Tell me more, George."

The league had been begun some years before, as a result of the cold war and the spy activities of foreign countries carried on inside the United States. L.U.S.T. had no official status. It was a by-blow out of the State Department by way of the Central Intelligence Agency. Only a limited few knew of its existence at all.

Members of L.U.S.T. were given assignments which were criminal in nature. A man must die, a document must be stolen, a building must be blown up. The league was never used until all other diplomatic channels had been found wanting. Even then, there must be agreement from those higher-ups who controlled the destinies of the country.

The pay was extremely good, if sub rosa. After all, every time you went out on an assignment, you risked your neck for Uncle Sam. The name of the game was kill or be killed. For this you wanted to live good between jobs.

"Those four men tonight wanted to kidnap me. I know things the—er—other side wants to learn. Usually I'm not caught that easily. I kind of lost my head, being out with you. Fortunately, you saved it.”

"How glad I am,” I purred.

"Are you interested?”

"Darling, you can't. Not again!” He laughed. "I didn't mean that. Or did I? Actually, what about trying out for L.U.S.T., Eve?”

Next morning, George Norman and I caught a Pan American plane that carried us to Miami, Florida. George explained that my background would be explored in minute detail by L.U.S.T. agents, that I would have to undergo, a training period. With my unusual qualifications—George grinned slyly, thinking of how I would surprise certain instructors assigned to me—I would have no trouble passing the physical tests.

We dropped onto a landing strip at Miami International Airport in the early afternoon. Less than an hour later, we were walking into a notions shop on N.W. 19 Street. George nodded briefly to a pert young thing, took me into the back room and lifted a trap door.

A flight of aluminum steps took us down to a lower floor that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Indirect lighting showed glistening linoleum floors, a delicately tinted, ceiling, and a dozen desks where typists were banging away at I.B.M. electrics.

My head was swiveling this way and that, trying to see everything at once. Banks of computers lined the walls, their lights flickering back and forth, up and down. With his hand at my back, pushing me ahead of him, George ushered me into the presence of a big blonde-man named David Anderjanian.

"I have a volunteer, David,” said George. David Anderjanian looked a time. He was a huge Viking of a man, six feet four inches tall and built like a pro football lineman. His eyes were dark blue and his lips were quick to smile with pleasure or tighten with grim disapproval. I got to know David much better, much later, when L.U.S.T. assigned him to me as my case officer.

Right now, however, he gave me a cold fish eye and grunted. He was spectacularly unimpressed, even though I was wearing a tight Orlon sweater and a mini-skirt. I held my breath when he asked what gave George the idea that I might be a good L.U.S.T. agent.

George smiled gently as he said, "Give her a little test, David. I think she's ready right now.”

David laughed, not nicely. "You mean that?”

George nodded complacently. He explained how the four secret agents had made a try for him in the Haitian hills and how I had felled three of them.

"Just lucky, David growled, but he lost his fish eye stare and looked at me as if I might be a human being. He said softly, “Miss Drum, I am a sex maniac. It is night: You are walking home from a movie. I approach you and—”

He lunged for me, both hands grabbing at my shoulders. I bent, caught his right arm above the elbow with my left hand, slid my right arm under his left-armpit and turned, easing his weight onto my right hip. I rammed my high heeled shoes back between his feet.

I bent. David Anderjanian rose into the air and sailed. I aimed him at the big couch. He fell across it upside down. The floating loin throw is very effective, if one does it properly. I did.

David grunted hard when he hit. He lay there staring at me upside down. I thought he might be angry but he began to laugh.

"George,” he said. "Chalk one up for you.”

"Yeah,” George said and winked at me.

It wasn't all that easy, of course. L.U.S.T. sent me to its spy school where I listened to lectures day after day, and refreshed my memory about target shooting with pistols, about throwing a knife fast and deadly. I knew how to swim but L.U.S.T. retrained me as if I were out to make the Olympic team. I took the judo and karate courses just for kicks.

The locale where L.U.S.T. maintains its school for agents is high priority hush-hush, but I can tell you I myself was trained on a big farm not too far outside Washington. We candidates for admission rose at dawn, we went horseback riding before breakfast, we did calisthenics and isometric exercises until I thought my muscles would wear out; then we ate.

Classrooms were complete with desks, notebooks, and hard-nose instructors. We learned about the 'drop,' the 'cut out,' the 'safe house.' We were taught tricks and techniques, we studied means and methods by which to stay alive when on a case.

We did field work on judo mats, on target ranges, in pools and pounding surf. We went on mock missions to meet a 'cut out', who was an in-between contact man or woman, at a pre-arranged 'drop' where we would pass over little messages. We learned, above all, the value of little things that might betray an agent to the opposition.

We were worked hard. There were times when I wanted to chuck it and go back to my safe and sane typist job, but I am a stubborn girl. I gritted my teeth and hung on. Then David Anderjanian came to see me.

We met out on the target range on a June night. Ordinarily the spot would have been right for romance, with the early summer wind sighing down from the Virginia hills and a big hazy moon high overhead. David was all business.

“You’ll do,” he told me casually.

"Oh, goody,” I smiled.

"You want a case or not?” he growled.

There were times when David Anderjanian seemed not to have a heart in his big Viking body. I wiped the grin off my lips and nodded.

“I want anything that'll take me out of this prison.” I told him honestly.

"Fine. You're going to be a call girl.”

So what else is new? I thought.

“Really? Sounds funsville.”

“It might be at that. You're going to visit a real Count on his yacht. Then you're going to rob him. Got it?

So I went to work for L.U.S.T.

Chapter Two

A fair exchange can be robbery—sometimes.

Count Guido della Faziola wanted my body. I wanted the pictures that were hidden in the wall safe of the stateroom which the Count occupied aboard his luxury yacht, the Lorelei. I would give him the flesh feast he wanted but the Count was not likely to hand over the negatives even in exchange for little old me, so I was going to have to steal them.

At the moment all this was running through my head, the Count was pressing me into the wall of the lounge room, and himself into me. He was a big hairy he-male and I shivered as I felt the extent of his desire against my thigh. His lips were at my soft throat and his right hand was edging up across the black satin evening gown that covered me in most of the necessary areas.

Over his shoulder I could see his friends—Teddy diLorma and Ron Masciani—as they busied themselves with the other two call girls who were their guests. Teddy was dancing with the redhead named Lucy. Ron was sitting on the couch with his hand up under Mari's skirt, watching us.

The Count discovered that my evening gown afforded his hand an entrance into the low-cut bodice. His fingers were soft, tender, gentle with the heavy white mound he found waiting for him. He toyed with the rigid nipple.

"Let's see them, honey,” he whispered hoarsely. "In your cabin, your grace.”

"Here,” he chuckled. "Come on, we're among friends, I want my guests to eat their hearts out.”

He was tugging down my shoulder straps as he spoke. Beyond him I saw movement under the white linen gown Mari was wearing as Ron reached his destination. Mari made a round red O with her lips and scrunched down lower in the lounge cushions, She stared right at me, and her tongue ran out around her lips.

Oh, well. After all, I was in the service of my country. I just had to get the pictures in his wall-safe. It was a patriotic, gesture, in a sense.

The straps were down. I moved my shoulders, making my breasts bounce. The Count barked laughter, stepping back.

“That is the way, my dear. Yes."

I slipped my bare arms out and let my shoulders dance. There was no brassier beneath the gown bodice, only me. The gown slipped lower. The Count clapped, shouting encouragement.

“Andare avanti! Keep going, keep going!”

Now both my breasts were out there, in the open, leaping and shaking. And they were all looking, Ron with his hand working at Mari, Teddy diLorma pressed up against Lucy’s soft buttocks, his hands hidden under her evening gown.

I moved forward, arms stretched out, ready and willing to perform. I just wondered if the Count would pay the price I was going to name. Right before his face I waved my twin titillators. His eyes grew very wide. I hit him with both barrels. He forgot to duck and his face went red.

The Count grabbed me, yanked  me close for a kiss. For a little while I forgot why I was on his yacht. He was one Latin lover who was mighty fond of his busing. He used his lips, teeth and tongue until my knees started to give-way. Then he put his hands on the backs of my knees where the nylons were taut and smooth, and ran them up the backs of my soft, thighs. His fingers sank in. He lifted me. He made me widen my legs and came between them.

The stereo set was giving out with a mambo. The Count was an expert mambo dancer. So was I, but the way he was holding me, my feet never touched the floor. He moved about in perfect rhythm, and while he danced on the floor, I danced on him. It went on and on.

It was enjoyment above and beyond the call-of-duty.

“Honey, I can't take much more,” I panted.

"Is good, hey?" he grinned, lapsing into a different brand of English. "Is my own idea. I am good man for ideas.”

“Why don't you let me show you some of my ideas—in your stateroom?” I whispered into his ear, circling it with my tongue. The wall safe was in his stateroom. I wanted in to both places.

He lowered me against him, kissing my breasts like an infant, lips drawing. I gasped and stated over his head at Lucy and Teddy diLorma. They were dancing too, but her back was to him and his arms were banded about her middle. Her red taffeta evening dress was going to get all rumpled, it was so high up where he was pressed into her. Í thought absently that Lucy had nice legs in those black nylons. Her thigh-flesh was very white.

The Count was playing handsies with my legsies.

"The stateroom, your grace,” I reminded him.

“Un momento, cara mia,” he breathed. “A woman is a violin my dear. A Stradivarius, a Guanarius. She must be properly tuned before she will play, eh? Gently, con amore.”

He was tuning me but good. I was reaching high C on my tiptoes and thinking that it was the smartest move I ever made to go into government service. All this and a paycheck too.

Me, girl spy.

My hips quivered spastically. The pictures, the pictures, I kept telling myself. Eve Drum—the sexiest spy in the service—must get those films and negatives within the next two hours. The safety of the free world might depend on it.

"You are everything to me," the Count breathed.

Everything to him and NATO, OAS, and L.U.S.T. My chief had told me at my briefing that the fate of every man, woman and child in the United States and western Europe, as well as those of our South American allies in the freeze squeeze we call the cold war, might depend on me. I just had to get those pictures, "You mean a lot to me, too,” I moaned. “But you'd mean even more if we were somewhere more private."

"I can't imagine anything more private than this,” he chuckled, wriggling his fingers.

I laughed gaily as he expedited me to I put my hand down and said, "Or this, you naughty Latin lover.”

It was his turn to groan.

“Cara mia,” he muttered, wriggling. “You are too much.”

"Oh, I hope not,” I cried, opening my fingers.

He breathed deeply, nodding. He moved back and caught me by the elbow. "Very well, my dear. In private it shall be, although the sight of others enjoying themselves is always most stimulating to me."

His hand gestured at Mari and Ron sprawled on the couch. Mari was spread out, her stockingless legs looking extremely tempting as they waved this way and that while Ron crouched between them. Her eyes were shut and her teeth glinted in the lamplight where they bit into her lower-lip as her head rolled back and forth.

The Count guided me across the wall-to-wall carpeting of the lounge. I stepped over Lucy who was on her side, one leg high as Teddy diLorma was engaging in what the Shiek Nefzawi calls the djenabi. Lucy was moving back and forth wildly, her pallid buttocks shaking like jelly.

Count Guido whispered, "Interesting, it it not?”

"Oh my, yes! But not nearly as interesting as what I intend doing with you, you sweetheart.”

His voice grew unsteady as he asked, "Che cose? What is it you have in mind?”

"Something new and different."

“Tell me! I beg you.”

“You know Giulio Romano?

His eyes widened. "The artist of the Renaissance in my country? The man who made the naughty pictures that inspired Aretino to compose his verses on them?”

I nodded. "The ten tributes to Venus.” He whistled softly, eyeing me sideways. "You know them, eh?”

"By heart. Do you?” He shook his head slowly. "One or two, yes. Not all ten.”

"You shall, before the night is over.”

He laughed uneasily. “No man is capable of such a feat.”

"You are, your grace.” He thought about it as we moved from the lounge into the companionway. The Lorelei is a big yacht, almost nine hundred tons of teak-wood deck and steel structure. It was a hundred and thirty feet long and needed a crew of twenty men to run it. It was able to cruise at slightly more than twenty miles an hour. It cost a million dollars.

The master stateroom was a masterpiece of modernity. Saarinen himself had designed it. A sweeping vanity table like a sea wave was matched by an equally elegant glass and metal bench. The huge circular bed looked large enough for ten, and what took place on the bed could be seen above it in the great round baldachin mirror suspended on chains from the ceiling. Underfoot, was a black and white Persian carpet that touched all the walls, which in turn were done in leopard skin and mirrors in alternate panels.

It was kookie, but effective. It was geared to rouse the animal in a girl. It worked with me, I know.

I thrust my evening gown past my hips, revealing the black lace garter belt that hugged my middle and the black lace straps gripping my black nylons. The Count stared from where he stood frozen beside the bed. I was reflected in half a dozen looking glasses that showed my white buttocks and the shapely nyloned lengths of my legs, the quivering ripeness of my breasts and their erectile nipples.

Modesty in a woman is the result of repression of the sexual urges, and of the neuroses such repression causes. A child is neither modest nor immodest, it is completely unaware that such a thing exists. On the other hand the mere wearing of clothing does not mean a person is modest. Sexual Superstitions play a big part in this matter of modesty, too. Your Turkish woman will cover her face while she exposes anything else or everything else. Europeans think nothing of baring the face, yet believe that to show other parts of the female body may be the height of impudicity. The Chinese woman hides the foot, the Japanese woman wears the obi to disguise the shape of her hips and buttocks. Custom is as custom does.

Everything changes. Fifty years ago in time, no decent woman would be seen dead in such a tiny thing as a bikini bathing suit. Today, there are few beaches where a girl in a scrap of bra and matching loincloth is not accepted. In Roman and in medieval times, men and women bathed together naked, quite publicly, as they do today in Japan. The woman was not, thought less of because she indulged in this common practice.

I walked up and down the room, letting the Count admire my body. Most women who have handsome legs, manage to wear clothes to show them off. If their breasts are especially attractive, their gowns are usually cut low or very tight so as to show the shapes beneath. A woman is a vain thing, and her clothes, or lack of them, are designed to show her fine points. I am proud of all my body.

I seated myself in a chair, still wearing my stockings and high-heeled shoes. The Count, staring at me, began slowly to undress. I laughed softly and wriggled my fingers at him.

"Come here, your grace. Let me do that for you.” He came to stand before me, letting my nimble fingers strip him naked. There was a method in my servitude. I wanted him at full strength for our coming love feast. During that feast, he must exhaust himself physically and emotionally, because he had to be sound asleep before I robbed his safe.

When he was naked I slithered to my feet. I felt like a female leopard about to devour her mate. I kissed his body, I caressed it with my hands. He was breathing gustily, eyes half closed, trembling to each tactile caress.

I moved against his front, rubbing his hairy chest with my nipples. I slid down his body and across it, my breasts mashing against him. I went around behind him and let his spine know the imprint of my globes. I reached in front of him and giggled as my fingers fumbled lazily.

He was pleading in Italian, "Bella mia, have mercy. I am not the man of stone.”

"All in good time, Guido,” I whispered. I drew him toward the bed. I had never attempted the ten treats of Venus before. It had always seemed to me they were beyond the capacity of a single male. Tonight I was determined to make the experiment. The Count must be in total collapse before I dared to make my try for the safe.

Actually, of course, there are sixteen of these tributes. Only ten are known today, so I had to be content with what I knew. Besides, nobody but nobody could go through all sixteen.

Giulio Romano was the greatest pupil of the famous Raphael. Commissioned to draw the sixteen postures for intercourse, he gave to the project the full extent of his genius. I Modi, the Ways was a masterpiece of the erotic art. Its fame spanned oceans and continents, and its sheer mastery of form and detail inspired Pietro Aretino, called the greatest erotic writer in Christendom, to do his own prose masterpiece, I Sonetti Lussuriosi, in which he describes these pictures in the sonnet form. The Sonnets first appeared in print, with the Romano illustrations engraved in copper by Marcantonio Raimondi, in 1527.

Certain of these 'ways' to make love have been given such titles as the 'whirling basket,' 'the donkey ride,' the 'Christmas candle.' They are realistic, they are lifelike, they are honest. Unfortunately, they created quite a scandal in their time, resulting in the imprisonment of Marcantonio Raimondi. Giulio Romano fled to the protection of his patron, the Duke of Mantua, while Aretino ran off to Arezzo.

I forgot Giulio Romano for a little while as the Count went through postures one, two and three with me. After all, I am human too.

At the moment, I could see His Grace reflected in the baldachin mirror over the bed, his hairy shoulders, his hairy legs. He was like a bull, frantic in his enjoyment of the embrace. He began to bellow with his head thrown back.

I gave him no rest. I writhed out from under his heavy body, slapping his flank with the flat of a hand. "Number four coming up, your grace. Rise and shine!"

“Cara mia—no! The rest, I need the rest. I am exhausted.”

“We've only just begun, lover! Come on!”

“You’re a little devil,” he laughed.

"You really don't expect any more from me so soon, do you?"

My hand is very smooth, very soft, very knowing. The Count stared at himself in surprise.

“Maybe you are the devil, after all,” he muttered. "Is Satan a woman, my dear?" Well, if you can get me to perform the remainder of these Venerian tributes, you're a woman among women, devil or not.”

The Count rose from the coverlets to get into position. In time, the copies of I Sonnetti Lussuriosi were lost or destroyed, passing into, the realm of legend and folk tale. There were imitations, by Lorenzo Veniero and Niccolo Franco, but the original itself simply disappeared. It had existed, everybody knew that, but it existed no longer. Then a book-dealer unearthed an original of the 1527 book in Milan, less than forty years ago. The world could now see for itself, the genius of the artist, of the engraver, of the prose words of Aretino.

I had read the book, I had seen the engravings.

I was now demonstrating them.

The Count was almost out, on the bed. His body, was limp, his eyes were closed, he wanted only to slumber. We had just completed the seventh posture.

I would not let him rest. I tugged him upward, standing him on his feet, ignoring his furious Italian oaths. His black eyes were glazed, unseeing.

“I am like the overcooked spaghetti, cara mia,” he protested.

"Poof! You insult your manhood.” I knelt down. I caressed him. I was right. He had insulted his manhood. He grinned at me shamefacedly and made a gesture with his hands to indicate he did not know his own strength.

I pushed him into a chair, settled upon him. "This will be the last, signorina," he sobbed. I just laughed at him. "Only two to go,” I cried gleefully when we were done. The Count groaned, head lolling against the chair-back. His face was ashen.

"Be brave, your grace,” I urged, running bed-wards. “Brave, si. Crazy—no!”

Beyond the bed I could see the mirror behind which the wall safe was hidden, according to David Anderjanian. I would never be able to open it with the Count around and about. He must be on the point of absolute collapse when we were done with our tributes to Venus.

On the edge of the bed, I wriggled my toes at him. "No more,” he groaned, staring. "I can stand no more."

"Darling,” I crooned. "You can, you must, you shall. Never have I met such a lover. You wouldn't stop now, would you?”

"I would, I would!” he declared eagerly. "Just two more. Only two!”

“Santa Maria benedetta! Is it my death you wish?”

"I shall boast of you in the finest hotels in Miami Beach and New York. Your name will be synonymous with that of Hercules, who undertook the thirteenth labor of servicing fifty women without a stop."

"It is impossible. I die. See? I am white with fatigue. So be a good girl and go away for a little while.”

I got off the bed. I ran to my handbag. I had come prepared for just such an emergency. Never say a secret agent will not go to any lengths to save N.A.T.O., O.A.S. and LU.S.T. There was a vial of a special liquid-derived from the el tsabane of Arab physicians—which all L.U.S.T. agents carry on certain, assignments, in my black suede Coblentz bag.

I emptied the liquid in the vial onto my palm.

I ran back to the bed and reached between the hairy thighs of the Count. A few moments after I had applied the liquid, he was sitting up, staring at himself.

“Are you a witch, a strega?” he gasped.

He did look tired, but I gave him no respite. I cried gaily, "Nine, my love—for the honor and glory of Italy!"

"I am as patriotic as the next man, but—“

He groaned, caught up in the coils of concupiscence. He took small pleasure in the act, I am afraid. He was sweating and his eyes were rolling. He moved his hips almost by reflex, and began crying out that he was ending his life as he had lived it, gritting his teeth and sobbing.

"This must be—the last,” he gasped, heaving.

He was ready to collapse. But I must make sure. "One more only, sweet lover,” I cooed, stroking him. "Then blessed sleep."

"Sleep—yes. I shall sleep."

“Number ten remains.”

"Have pity,” be pleaded.

The liquid had done its work. In morbid fascination the Count saw himself rise for the attack. He groaned, he beat his fists together. But I was coiling about him, instructing and guiding him in this final sacrifice to Venus. It was a somewhat complicated posture we sought, but when it was attained, as it was with much gasping and groaning, from the Count, telling me he was not as young as he used to be, it lasted for close to fifteen minutes.

Their the Count shuddered three times and fell into the bed-covers. I drew up the blankets and the sheets, shrouding his nakedness. He was asleep before I tucked him in. I waited patiently. I even sang a lullaby to him. When he snored, I knew it was time to act.

The wall safe was behind the mirror. The mirror also reflected the twin white moons of my behind as I knelt on the bed where the Count was sleeping. They jiggled slightly as I stretched out a leg to put a foot on the thick carpet.

The Count snorted, bubbling air.

I froze. I had come too far to lose out now. The photographs I had been sent to steal were in the wall safe. If I could get them, I might get other assignments from my chief.

I leaned closer to the Count. He was a rich man, a man who could and did indulge his whimsies with girls he hired here and there, as he had hired me. He was as hairy as a mattress across his chest and upper back and middle. It had scratched while he made love to me and in some vicarious way that wiry tangle had added to my own pleasure.

The Count was bushed in more ways than one; right now. I let my feet settle more firmly on the carpeting, easing my weight off my right knee and onto my left leg very gradually. The Count went on sleeping. I slid backward until I was standing naked on the carpet, all five feet three inches of me.

I let the air ooze from my lungs. The tough part came now. I turned and looked at the mirror. I stared back at myself from the glass, my black hair hanging partway down my back, ebony gloss against the white and tan smoothness of my back, my gray eyes looking faintly worried.

I shrugged. My breasts did a little dance. "Duty calls, Eve,” I told myself. My reflection in the mirror grew larger. Then my hand came up and blotted the rest of me out as I swung the mirror to one side. The safe was a good one, but my father had been a locksmith and I knew all the factory charts of standard combinations almost by heart.

The safe companies always advise a change of combination when their safes are delivered, since the movers often must open and close the safe doors for easier transportation. A very few follow this advice so that most safes, even such a wall safe as I was working on, still possessed its standard combo.

With anywhere from twenty-five to thirty dial instructions locked in my head, it should not take too long to open. Since modern safes contain almost silent tumblers, I had to carry a stethoscope in my handbag too.

I put on the stethoscope and let my fingers drift over the dial, getting its feel. The stethoscope I pressed to the safe wall, listening for the telltale click of the tumblers. My fingers went back and forth, slowly.

click

I breathed again. The first tumbler. I made a mental note of the number, began twirling the dial all over—again. It took a long-time. The Count had installed, a good safe. But eventually, my task was done. The last tumbler clicked into place and the metal door opened.

There was a plain brown envelope inside the safe. I reached for it, used a long fingernail to slit open the paper. I peeked. Ah, yes. These were photographs, but were they the right ones? I drew them out.

I swallowed. Oh, my! The man I knew, his name was Martin Sloan and he was a something special nuclear physicist working for the Defense Command. According to the glossy print I was holding, he was also quite a man. He stood by the side of a bed, leaning forward, half-gripping the knees of a brunette whose face was turned away from the camera. Her hands were clenched into fists on the bed-covers.

The next picture showed them joined. Her hands were buried in her hair, clutching it in her excess of pleasure. His mouth was open his eyes were closed. In the mirror on the other side of the bed, I could almost see him shuddering in ecstasy.

One picture showed him kneeling above the woman as she fondled him. Another showed him kneeling between wide spread thighs, worshiping her femininity. She knelt on hands and knees while, he enjoyed her as the stallion might the mare. The final photo showed the man on his back impaled by the woman. Her face was turned away in this shot as it was in all the others.

I sighed and slipped the pictures into the envelope beside their negatives. I went to my handbag and lifted out a plastic bag. I inserted the envelope, sealed it. The bag was watertight. When I swam away from the yacht neither the pictures nor the negatives would be harmed. I taped the bag to my middle.

The count stirred, groaning. He flopped over on his back and lay breathing steadily. I paused on bare feet, then tip toed closer. If he opened his eyes, I would strike—hard. My hand tensed for the chop.

The count never moved. I went past him, leaving my evening gown and garter belt and nylons, together with my shoes and handbag, on the chair where they were draped. I stepped naked into the companionway and closed the door gently behind me.

I ran down the carpeted corridor. Ahead of me was a short flight of steps. I went up them until I could look around the deck.

A deckhand in white ducks and a striped jersey was leaning against the port rail, smoking a cigarette. I could never reach the rail without his seeing me and giving the alarm.

“Pssst!”

He lifted his head and stared at me. I rose onto another step so that he could see my breasts in the moonlight. His eyes bulged. He licked his lips, he threw away the cigarette. I suppose he had shared a woman or two with the Count in the past, from time to time when his grace slept off his fatigue.

He came for me with a big grin. I did not want him to see the plastic bag taped over my belly so I shimmied my shoulders to keep his stare fastened on my jumping nipples.

"Hi there, honey,” he whispered. "You okay?"

"I never felt healthier. His grace only got me revved up. You feel up to fun and games?”

He leaned my way for a kiss. I made a cone of my fingers and gave him their tips in the throat, where the under-jaw muscles are. He gagged and pitched over onto the companionway shed. He made a soft thump as he dropped down onto the desk.

I ran to the starboard rail, put a foot up onto it, poised a moment and dove. I went through the warm Caribbean air and into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

I dove deep through cool water that was as black as pitch. I swam fast, I swam as far as I could beneath the surface. When I came up for air I looked back at the Lorelei. Stateroom and salon lights were blazing. Evidently Ron Masciani was still busy with Mari and Teddy diLorma with Lucy. Maybe they had switched girls. Or maybe they were sleeping like the Count.

Apparently my friend the deckhand was also unable to give the alarm, for the ship rode quietly at anchor. I turned and began to swim.

I swam steadily. Overhead the stars were bright blue dots in the dark vault of sky. The waters that slid past my skin were cool in this early summer of the year. I told myself that I only had a mile or maybe slightly more to swim. My rendezvous point was a hunk of rock about a hundred miles from Miami. I just hoped the submarine would be where it was supposed to be.

Far behind me I could make out the riding lights of the Lorelei. They faded slowly, growing smaller. They never completely disappeared. I used them as a guidepost to keep me on course.

The moon made a silver streak on the water. I tried not to think of the sharks that sometimes swim these waters, or the fact that a lot of ocean lay between me and the bottom. I kept thinking about the submarine that was waiting for me off Cat Cay, and of the scotch on the rocks I would down five minutes after I stepped into it.

My foot touched something solid. My hands went down, closed on a jagged length of rock. I hoisted myself upward, felt a section of rock scrape my knee.

I fumbled around for something reasonably smooth on which to plunk my bottom. Ah, here. I settled down and began to get my breath back. Far off to the east and north I could see the lights of the yacht, tiny with distance,

Time means nothing under the immensity of the stars. You feel very small and lonely at a time like this. I was cold, too. I began to shiver.

The water gurgled. The humped back of a sea beast broke the surface a hundred yards away. I had been expecting a submarine but its appearance caught me by surprise. I rose to my feet.

I dove into the waters and began swimming. The conning tower rose upward, shedding water. My hands slipped on the slick metal sides of the underseas boat before my fingers tightened and held. I ran across the deck to the conning tower. I crouched over the hatch, tapping twice, then once, then three times.

The hatch lifted. So that we would show light only for the briefest of moments as the conning tower's hatch rose up, I was sliding a bare foot toward the opening before it lifted six inches.

I suppose it was something of a sight for the boys in the control room to see a naked female descend the ladder toward them. My skin was all goose bumps and I was shaking with cold by now, but the pictures were still taped to my belly, and I felt a lot more glamorous than I am sure I looked.

David Anderjanian was waiting for me with open arms that held a quilted pink robe. As I descended the metal rungs I caught glimpses of the startled faces staring up at me. There was one boy—a child of eighteen—whose mouth was open a full three inches. Just beyond him I caught sight of the captain, smart in his duty uniform. As my long legs came down the ladder followed by my pink behind, the captain blinked and cleared his throat.

There was nothing in the manual about naked females boarding a submarine in the middle of the Bahama night, but the men reacted like gentlemen. Nobody whistled. Nobody said a word. They only looked.

I put my arms behind me, reaching for the robe. I was facing, the youngster with the open mouth. He was devouring my breasts and rigid nipples, chilled by the sea water, with eyes that ached in hunger. I winked at him, shaking my shoulders to make my heavy globes jiggle before I gathered the robe around me.

"The pictures?" David Anderjanian asked. I fumbled at my middle, wincing as I pulled loose the tape. I lifted the plastic bag and handed it to him.

"There must be easier ways to get dirty pictures, chief.” David merely sniffed. He unfastened the bag, opened the envelope, drew out the corner of a picture, and peeked. He flushed and nodded.

"Good work, honey. This is it.” He gestured me to follow him. We paraded silently past submariners at their posts who tried not to notice us. The captain's stateroom had been made ready for me.

“Hit the sack,” David said. “You must be tired. I'll be in later.”

"Oh, come on in now. I'm not sleepy. I want to talk about it. You didn't clue me too thoroughly, if you remember.”

David Anderjanian grinned. He was a big man, four inches over six feet, with sandy hair and a spill of freckles across his nose. His father was Armenian, but his mother had been a Swede, and he took after her. He opened the stateroom and stood aside for me to enter.

"I didn't, did I? Well, that was for security reasons. If they'd caught you, all you could tell them was your name and the fact that you were after these pictures.”

I seated myself on the edge of the captain's bunk. I asked, "Who is the Count? Why is he so interested in snapshots of Martin Sloan bedding down a woman?"

"Because Sloan is working on a highly hush-hush project involving an improved form of laser beam which can be used to bring down intercontinental missiles. As I understand it, they've developed the laser beam—you know what that is, don't you?"

“We—ell,” I said hesitantly.

David pulled a chair forward. "Laser stands for light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation.” It is red light caused when a flash tube hits atoms in a ruby—that's right, the jewel—which results in a concentrated beam of coherent red light that possesses some mighty odd properties.

"For instance, laser might carry radio and television programs, be used to operate on people, make faster computers, vaporize diamonds—and kill people.

"It can also, Martin Sloan is trying to prove, be used like a searchlight to sweep the skies for any atom bombs that may come our way. Since the laser beam travels at the speed of light and in intercontinental missile only gets up to fifteen thousand miles an hour, the laser beam would win hands down in any contest—providing it can be made to operate the way we want it to. That is Martin Sloan's job.”

"Oh,” I nodded.

"Make you feel more important?”

"I—I guess it does. Yes."

David said, "H.A.T.E. wants the beam, too, you see.”

H.A.T.E. was the Humanitarian Alliance for Total Espionage. In a sense, it corresponded with our own LU.S.T. We were natural enemies. When we met in the field, it was always a battle to the death.

"The Count is one of them,” David went on. “We aren't sure just where he fits in. Oh, we know his general background. Villa on the Italian Riviera, a big stockholder in one of the industries, going great guns in Milan. Outwardly a playboy without a brain in his head. Actually, a clever H.A.T.E. agent. But, whether he's a boss for a hireling, we don't know.”

"He owns the yacht. That ought to make him a boss-man.”

David grinned."H.A.T.E. pays for the frills, just the way L.U.S.T. does. The wardrobe you have hanging in the apartment we got you, that snappy silver Mercedes-Benz 300 SL you look so well in as you drive around, are all written off by L.U.S.T. So H.A.T.E. writes off the yacht that your Count owns.”

"Okay, you've twisted my arm. Now what about Martin Sloan? Why's his private life so important?”

David got that patient look I had grown to know So well while I had been in training for L.U.S.T. "Angel, don't you have any imagination? Our boy is happily married. He has three kids. He was the victim of a H.A.T.E. plot."

"Uh—huh.” I am a cynic by nature. David Smiled. "If you want, I'll get him to tell you himself. They fed him certain—ah—drugs, which made him extremely amorous. He was half looped on scotch to begin with. And the girl with the black hair is attractive.”

"Okay, he's a boy scout who lost his merit badge, I gather that we saved his marriage for him. Not because we have a thing against unhappy, people or divorce—but because he'd have gone to pieces and would have done anything to get back those pictures."

David adopted an attitude of intense surprise. "Eve, you're positively brilliant. So it's corny, so it's something out of a movie, But these things do happen."

"Yea, I guess. What now?"

David stood up. He put a hand to my shoulder and pushed me back on the bed.

"Not you too?" I asked. He chuckled. "Not me, no. Get some sleep.”

I was tired. I nodded. I drew my feet up under me, watching David stare as my thighs came into view. Then I was sliding under, the blankets and putting my head on the pillow. I pursed my lips and blew him a kiss.

"Nighty night, darling,” I said. "Turn off the lights as you go. And close the door quietly."

I was asleep before the lock clicked. When I woke, I saw that slacks and a sweater and some underthings had been laid out for me. I stretched and wriggled deeper under the covers. It had been a busy night. Lying here like this made me want to turn over on my front and go back to sleep again.

I turned over and cradled my head in my arms. I was just falling into a pleasant dream about David Anderjanian and me when the door opened. I lifted an eyelid.

David was standing there grinning, a piece of paper in his hand. I got a cold chill when I saw that fiendish smile.

"Go away," I said, burying my head in the pillow. "L.U.S.T. sends congratulations, Eve. You've done such a great job, they want you to continue on the case.”

"The case is over. You have the pictures."

"Ah, but the pictures are only the start.” I lifted my head and propped myself on my elbows, careless of the fact that my case officer could see my breasts hanging down. With my left hand I pushed back my loosened hair.

"You've got to be kidding,” I said slowly. David Anderjanian shook his head and chuckled. The chuckle was real nasty.

Chapter Three

He came toward the bunk where I lay looking at him from under my plucked brows. He waved the pieces of paper as if it were a baton and he a conductor getting ready for an overture.

“The Count is a H.A.T.E. agent, as we L.U.S.T. agents know. What we don't know is how big can their set-up be, here in the States?”

"And you want me to find out?” I asked disbelievingly.

"Exactly," he grinned, sitting on the edge of the bunk.

"You're putting me on. What can I do?"

"Go find out.”

I scowled at him, turning over and holding the covers above the bulge of my breasts, "You go find out,” I muttered. "Go raid that yacht of his.”

“We do that," he remarked virtuously. "He's out in international waters. There would be an incident with the Italian government if we did that.”

"Send a couple of scuba divers to blow the damn boat up." He nodded. “We thought of that. But that would only remove some of the H.A.T.E. crowd. We want them all.” His hand touched my thigh, patting it. "This is where you come in, oh sexiest of spies."

“Like how?"

“The girl in those pictures. She belongs to H.A.T.E."

"Her face was turned away,” I pointed out. "She's a smart cookie. She knew the camera was snapping away. She made sure nobody could pin anything on her."

David looked dejected. "I know that. I'm just hoping you might be able to recognize her from the body. You can study the photographs, see if you can find a birthmark or something.”

I glanced at him from the corners of my hot little eyes. “If you’re implying that I’m a gay girl, David Anderjanian—”

He spread his hands. "I said no such things.”

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The covers were pulled down a little by my action so that the upper swells of my pale mounds jutted, upward. David stared at them.

"At least, I don't think I'm gay," I went on. "Maybe it's because I've never had the opportunity."

"Look, Eve. Forget I said anything.”

"It might be interesting to give it a try.”

I put my hands up behind my head and caught hold of the headboard. David could see all the way down to my nipples. In my several months of training, David Anderjanian had never so much as made a pass at me. It was a little disconcerting to a girl who prided herself on her stark attraction to the opposite sex.

I tensed my arm muscles, pulling my body backward toward the headboard. My nipples came into view. David stared at them and licked his lips. I eased my grip but I did not cover myself up. I wanted to punish him. Let him suffer a little.

He shifted on the bed, turning away. I grinned at him. Well, maybe he was human, after all. He just was too proud to let me know he wanted me.

I wondered how David Anderjanian would do with the ten treats of Venus. I cuddled my buttocks deeper into the warm sheet, remembering pose number seven especially. When I had looked into that mirror I caught my breath. I sat up.

"David!” I screamed.

He looked scared, "Wha—what is it?”

"Those pictures!”

“What about em?”

"I have an idea.”

He did not look scared any more. He was studying my nakedness which was on view for his inspection all the way down to my navel. My breasts shook a little as I put out a hand, pointing.

"My robe, darling," I breathed. "Get it, please.”

He grinned wickedly, “Why don't you get it yourself?”

His eyes locked on mine. There was challenge and deviltry in his stare. All right, mister smarty-pants (and how I hoped they smarted!), here’s where I take your dare.

I threw back the covers and lifted my legs, David grew very red as I let them open for a moment before I swung them up over his head and around to the side of the bed.

"All right, David dear. I'll get my goddamn robe." I smiled at him sweetly. I got up and walked across the cabin to the chair where I had tossed my robe last night. I hoped my behind was shaking, I hoped David was staring at my back view and seeing how nice, and shapely my legs are and how soft and white my back. I hoped he was hurting from looking.

I lifted my robe and turned, giving him a glance. He was looking, all right. And hurting, as well. I took my time with, the robe, shaking it out, as if there were dust all over it, knowing my breasts would be jumping like balloons in a gust of wind.

"You'd better put that thing on, he growled." I pretended to be surprised.

“What?" He went on staring. He said, "The robe. Get into it.”

I looked down at my naked self. “Why? What's wrong?” David groaned.

"Oh! All right, David."

I slid an arm into the robe. "I honestly didn't think you were human,' I told him. “I thought maybe they drained all the manhood out of you before they made you my case officer.”

David stood up. He started walking toward me.

"Now, look.” I said, holding up a hand.

He grabbed me, held me against him. He kissed me with his open mouth and his tongue. I went limp against him.

He was a big man, maybe even bigger than the Count. He was lots stronger, too. I thought his grip would flatten my breasts against his chest.

He let me go. My breasts filled-out again. "Get into your clothes," he choked. "Or I damn well will forget all that L.U.S.T. has taught me and throw you on the bunk.”

"Yeah,” I breathed.

David shook a finger under my nose, of all places, “You belong to L.U.S.T. So do I."

I nodded eagerly, "We sure do."

"I'm glad you agree. Now get dressed and meet me in the briefing room in fifteen minutes.”

"You're full of jokes. What about that offer to throw me on the bed?"

"Some other time.”

"You'll never get the chance,” I threatened. He grabbed me and kissed me again. I wrapped my arms about him. I started to belly dance against him, but David was like stone. He grabbed my arms and pushed me away.

"You aren't human,” I wailed. "I have a will of iron,” he stated. I leered. David sighed and moved past me to the door. "You aren't going out—like that?" I asked. He shook his head. He stood facing the door and did not move until I had put on the panties, bra and knit suit he had brought from my Miami Beach apartment.

I went to the door and opened it, saying, "Be my guest."

"When this case is over...” he began. I sniffed and flaunted a shoulder at him. In the briefing room, he brought out the pictures and spread them on the table at my direction. He looked at me suspiciously.

"What are we supposed to be looking for?” he asked stiffly.

"The girl's face." He glared, putting out a hand for the photos. "You said yourself that her face was turned away from the camera at all times.”

"I know I did but there's a chance that..."

Last night there had been a number of mirrors in the yacht stateroom. I remembered turning my head to look at our reflections while the Count was going through his paces. There was a bureau mirror in these pictures. It might just be possible that the girl had turned her head away from the camera toward the mirror in one of them.

My finger stabbed out. "There!” I shouted gleefully.

"There what? Oh,”

He snatched the picture up, staring down at the reflected face we could make out plainly enough. It would show up better in an enlargement. I opened my mouth to tell this to David but he was ahead of me.

Over his shoulder he said, “Great work, number Double Oh Sex.”

I stuck out my tongue at him.

He brought back an enlargement in a little while, handing it to me. “You keep this. Study it. I'll have copies made and passed around. I'll alert the Central Intelligence Agency and the FBI to enlist the services of the Miami Beach police force. We ought to get some results inside a day or two."

"Lucky us,” I smiled. "I'm going to mention you in my report,” he told me. I applauded. He scowled "You have the wrong attitude, Double Oh Sex.”

“Will you stop saying that!” I yelled. He looked surprised, "I meant it as a compliment."

"If you feel so complimentary, why don't we go out to dinner tonight together. On the expense account. As a kind of reward.”

"Mmmmm. Maybe we could." He got that thoughtful look which meant I might be in for trouble. "You're giving me an idea.”

"I hope it's a pleasant one.” He nodded. “It is. I was thinking that if we're really lucky, we'll get word of the girl in the pictures before then. We can have dinner where she eats.”

I kicked out at him with a slippered foot, He dodged back, laughing. I said, "Maybe I ought to go out to dinner with George Norton. He appreciates me.

"You've never been appreciated by me or you wouldn't say that,” he informed me.

“You aren't married, are you David?”

"Not yet," he agreed cheerfully.

"Thirty years old and never a bridegroom,” I commented, shaking my head. "It looks bad. I have a theory about men like that.”

He went red and took a step toward me. "For that I ought to teach you how much I go for women,” he growled. Then he added softly, "I don't have a drop of queer blood in my body.”

I smiled like an angel. “We'll see," I murmured sweetly. A whirlybird met us ten miles off the coast of Florida. While David stood watching, I mounted the swaying rope ladder to the helicopter cabin and swung in by way of a strong hand offered me by a grinning, fellow L.U.S.T. agent. "Nice work, Double Oh Sex,” he murmured.

"Oh, not you too,” I sighed. Word always gets around. David stuck his head up over the bottom of the door. When he saw my face he said hastily, "I was only kidding.”

"Oh shut up. Just take me home. I need a bath.” He looked so gloomy on the way home, I felt sorry for him. After all, maybe he was being complimentary. It must be tough on him to send me off to an orgy on a H.A.T.E. yacht while he was cooped tip in that submarine. Maybe I would make it up to him tonight.

"David, what are you going to do now?”

"Escort you to headquarters for a briefing. Then I'm going home and take a nap.”

"Oh, good. I liked a man well rested.”

The pilot grinned. David has very red ears when he gets angry, I discovered. Well, I was going to pile up the zees, too. Last night had taken something out of me.

L.U.S.T. headquarters in Miami Beach are in an old hotel. L.U.S.T, has the two top floors. Nobody is allowed above the tenth, so the eleventh and twelfth stories are all ours. It is like stepping onto a movie set, coming out of the elevator after seeing the first-ten floors from the rattletrap cage that takes us upward. Actually our elevator is a special job, camouflaged to look like an Otis reject. It can do a number of surprising things like pump gas into it or fire-upward or down with hidden cannon. I never did find out why they spent so much moola on a silly elevator. Maybe it was part of a senatorial pork barrel.

Those first eight floors—gaah!

But the eleventh and twelfth were sheer Hollywood. Plush carpets. Redwood desks that seemed to have an acre of polished top. Behind doors that opened only to a special electronic impulse, were computers and maps and half a hundred science things about which I knew absolutely nothing.

I followed David meekly. He had one of the gadgets that opened the doors. I didn't. He opened an oak door for me. I walked into a blue and gray room where a man in his fifties was seated at one of those big desks. I knew he was a military man at first glance. His back was ramrod stiff, his hair was cut very short to his head, and his face was tanned to the color of bronze.

He stood up at sight of me, making a little bow. "Miss Drum, good to have you back safely." He had a New England twang in his voice.

"It's good to be back, sir.”

"General Moffitt,” murmured David. "General Moffitt,” I amended. The general waved David and me to seats facing him. He had a file—I suppose it was my file—before him. He kept looking at me instead of the file, so I smiled at him.

"Miss Drum, I have memorized the facts on you,” he said slowly. "Your success against the Count justifies our belief in you.”

I began to get suspicious. The general sounded a lot like David Anderjanian who always soft-soaped me before lowering the boom. I uncrossed my legs, and seeing where the general was looking, I crossed them again, slowly.

"Uh—where was I?” asked the general. I wanted to tell him he had been midway up my under thigh about where a garter-clasp was digging into me, but I merely, said, "About to clobber me with a new assignment."

“Yes. I—“

He broke off, looked at me and at David, who shrugged. He chuckled and threw up his hands, “You are deceptive, Miss Drum. You look—er—so innocent that . . . no, that isn't quite the word I have in mind."

"So physical?” I wondered.

He nodded. "Yes. So physical that a man never thinks you have a brain in your head. You do, which is great for L.U.S.T. but not so good for H.A.T.E. Now then, let's get down to business.”

He opened a drawer and lifted out a wooden box. He opened it and peered inside. Smiling, he drew out a pair of sheer panties and held them up.

"These are yours, Miss Drum. You will wear them on your next assignment, the details of which I'll leave to Anderjanian.”

I looked at the panties. They were brief enough to be modish but I did not like the row of tiny red rosettes that formed a fig leaf decoration at their crotch. I told the general and he laughed.

"Those little red roses may come—in handy. They are tiny but powerful bombs, Miss Drum. In the event you find yourself confronted by overwhelming odds, you whip off one or two of them, heave them—and duck.”

I went white. "You've got to be kidding! Me wear those things around my—that is, on my panties? Suppose I get hit by a car? Or stumble and fall? Oh, no. Not Evie girl.”

The general looked embarrassed. "Miss Drum, these mini-bombs are for your protection—not your destruction. An enemy agent might get the opportunity to ransack your handbag so that if you were carrying a revolver or some other weapon in it, it might be taken away from you. But your panties would be more or less safe.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed. The general flushed.

He lifted the second object, a silver cigarette lighter. "This is just what it seems to be, but instead of butane gas it shoots a chemical spray that proves fatal to anyone who breathes it. If anybody but you who tries to work it, it won't. There is a special way to activate its miniaturized mechanism.”

I got up and walked around beside the desk and bent forward to watch his fingers, touch the lighter here and there, very gently. He was not looking at the lighter, his eyes were touching my knit suit where it gaped above my breasts.

The general drew a deep breath. "One thing yet remains. A comb.” He drew a largish comb from the wooden box and touched one end.

A four inch steel blades lid out from the comb back. It glistened under the lights, very deadly. As the general's hand closed about the comb part, I saw the teeth bend to his grip.

"Cute, eh?”

"Oh my, yes,” I nodded.

"Well, there you are. Take them and put them to good use, my dear.”

“The panties, too?"

"They may save your life,” the general smiled. “The roses have to be thrown with some force, so don't worry too much about detonating them by falling.”

I shrugged. "If you say so.” But I lifted those frillies between my thumb and forefinger and eased them gently into my handbag. The comb and cigarette lighter followed.

"Miss Drum, if you don't smoke, you'd better buy a pack of cigarettes anyway. You mustn't carry a cigarette lighter without cigarettes. It doesn't look good.”

"I will, sir. Is there anything else?”

The general rubbed his hands together. "No, the rest I leave to your case officer.”

David grinned and rose to his feet. "We've alerted the FBI and the CIA and the MPF to the fact that—”

“MPF?” asked the general in a puzzled way. "Miami Police Force, chief. Now back to what I was saying. Everybody in those agencies will be looking for the girl in these pictures.” David drew them out and spread them on the desk top. The general opened his eyes wide.

“You’d better let me have a set too—just in case I run into her," he said hurriedly.

"Of course. These are for you, sir.” David agreed. In the hall I said, "I thought those were my snapshots.”

"You can always get another set.” I shrugged. I did not need them. I would know the hussy in her clothes or out of them, in a wig or with her hair dyed. Women get feelings sometimes about other women. I was having one of those cold little flashes right now.

David drove me home. He would not come to my apartment but said he was going home and to sleep. It sounded like such a good idea, I did the same thing. I stripped, I showered, I slept.

It was dusk over Miami when my phone rang. I crawled bleary-eyed from the sheets and reached a hand for the phone.

“Hello, Eve?”

"Good-bye, David.”

“Wait, now. We've found her. She's staying at the Fontainebleau. Every night she dines in the Louis Quatorze Room. After that she goes out on the town, sometimes with an escort, sometimes without.”

"I hope she gets indigestion,” I replied. "I thought you might say that. We'll dine with her—well, not with her, actually, but close by, certainly.”

I sighed. I knew when I was beaten. “What time, chief?”

He was there at six, while I was still in just my stockings and garter belt. I slipped into shoes and a negligee and ran to let him in.

"You said six o'clock," I muttered accusingly.

"Well? It's six. Hey, I like your dress.”

"Ha ha like in funny. David, nobody, but nobody ever calls on a girl when he says he will. She might be in the shower or getting dressed."

"I know, clever of me isn't it?”

“Eeeeek!”

I marched myself back into my bedroom, determined to dawdle. I was sitting at the vanity table fastening on false eyelashes when he opened the door and poked his head in. "Sorry. I forgot to tell you. Giselle eats at seven-thirty sharp. Say, you do look nice in that garter belt, angel.

I heaved a brush at him. Unfortunately, the brush hit the door.

My evening gown was laid out on the bed. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. No need to wear more than what I had on now, under that gown. Of course I would show plenty of what makes me a woman, but this was the name of the game.

I lifted the gown and wriggled into it."

"David dear,” I called. "Come zip me up.”

He kissed my bare shoulders and down my spine while he was fumbling with the tab, but it was no more than I expected. I wriggled a little to let him know, I was not displeased. I knew damn well he would do nothing more. Giselle what's-her-name was seating at seven-thirty sharp. Business always came first to a man like David Anderjanian.

He went and got my mink and draped it on me.

I was ready for the night's work.

Chapter Four

David and I had cocktails in the Poodle Lounge of the Fontainebleau Hotel while we waited for Giselle Roberts to show. David was very attentive, I must admit. He could hardly take his eyes off me, especially the low vee, of my black crepe evening gown where it played peeky-boo with my nipples. The inner swells of my pale breasts were on display for anybody who cared to look but only David had the chance to see the tips.

"Push your eyeballs back, darling,” I told him.

"If you'll push those back.”

"No can—do, sweetikins. This is the way they made the dress.”

"Mmmmm. Just don't do the shimmy.” I laughed and wriggled my bare shoulders. David went red. He said, "Bulls-eye!” and reached for his drink.

It was then that Giselle Roberts made her appearance in a dress that sent chills of jealous rage down my spine. It was transparent black net, with a band of chinchilla around her knockers, another band at her hips, low down so you could see everything but her privacy. There was another band around her ankles, to prevent the whole thing from blowing away in a mild breeze, I guess. It was high camp, all right, way up in the Rockies.

There was no sound in the Fleur de Lys room. Even the papier-mâche Louis Quatorze seemed to turn to follow the all but bare behind as it jiggled its path toward a chair. David did not breathe. He was trying to focus his eyes somewhere between the shaking buttocks and the pretty face under the spill of heavy brown hair. Roughly about where her over-sized mammaries were riding up, and down behind the strip of chinchilla fur.

"What a disgusting exhibition," I breathed.

“Ha! You're just jealous.”

My chief is always right. I was jealous. My trouble is, I am always too conservative. My low cut gown looked dowdy and drab, of a sudden. I had half a mind to leave right now. David said thoughtfully, "This is a very important case. Maybe I ought to take over instead of you."

"You'd be real cute in these panties," I snapped.

He grinned. I scowled, having tacitly admitted that I wouldn't cop out on him. To get back, I adjusted the right shoulder strap of my formal. A passing waiter stumbled and nearly dropped a tray of hors d'oeuvres, David whistled softly. My breast poked out, dark red nipple rigid.

"Terrif,” he complimented me.

I tucked my breast back into place behind the black crepe panel which formed the gown bodice. David was perspiring. I smiled happily.

"Hurt?” I wondered as he shifted in the chair.

"What do you think?" he growled. I slid a hand across to him under the tablecloth. I touched his manhood gently, finding him fully aroused.

"Wonderful," I breathed "Now, suffer.”

We ate slowly, timing ourselves with the woman in the disgustingly adorable chinchilla and black net ensemble. I was too keyed up to notice what I was being served, but David-crass, unthinking male that he was—seemed to be enjoying his filet mignon. He ate with a whole-hearted concentration that made me want to hit him over the head with my bomb-panties.

"The ladies room, Eve,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Giselle. The little girl's room. Achtung!”

Oooooh, that man!

"Okay already," I snarled.

I managed matters so that one of my black shoulder straps slid down my arm as I rose to my feet. It had worked well once, so why argue with success. I took the deafening silence in the room as a compliment. David did not even look up. I guess he was afraid of what he might do to me right there in front of everybody if he so much as peeked.

As I sauntered across the thick carpeting I gradually managed to get my shoulder strap into the proper place. I smiled as I walked, meeting grins from the men and frowns from the women. I felt a lot more competitive as I stepped into the private lounge reserved for women.

The ladies room of the Fleur de Lys is a wonderland of mirrors and carpeting, little fleur de lys decorations cunningly placed. Giselle Roberts and her pink body, naked under the net and chinchilla, stared back at me from a couple of those looking glasses.

I wasted no time. I walked right up to her and said, "Darling, I'm positively green with jealousy. Wherever did you get it?”

She knew what I meant. Women always know things like this. She gave me a dazzling smile and her eyes touched the vee of my black satin formal.

"It's a Luis Estevez original,” she informed me. "I brought it down with me from New York. Do you really like it?"

I lowered myself to a bench and put my hand on her hip, moving it around. She did not flinch, merely glanced down at me with a knowing smile. She was perfumed and soft under the net and chinchilla, and where my fingertips probed through the netting, her skin was smooth as cream. I let my fingertips slide down the crease of her behind.

"Are you always so informal?” she laughed. I shrugged. “I’m out with a slow drip. I have to do something to pass the time."

She looked at her face in one of the mirrors. It was perfect, even I had to admit. I realized she was just playing for time, she was thinking hard and fast.

She said casually, "What about afterward? Are you committed?”

"Not so anyone would notice it. The sooner I shake him the better for everybody, even him. He did say something about an aperitif in the Boom Boom Room, but I'm not in the mood for a sleeping pill.”

She brushed an imaginary speck from the corner of her lips with the tip of a pinky. "Feel like a party?"

"Do I ever!” She glanced at me out of the corner of her mascaraed eyes. There was a devil in those brown eyes. "It's far out, honey. Go-go all the way. Wild stuff. Sex. Pot. L.S.D. Anything goes.”

I smiled in delight. "Really?” I squealed. She nodded and brushed at more imaginary dust on the chinchilla and about her breasts. I could see a brown nipple poking through a net opening. Not to be outdone, I raised my evening gown skirt to adjust a garter-clasp. Her eyes went to the length of black nylon and the shapely leg it hugged, to soft thigh-flesh and the edge of my frilly panties. The devil look was in her eyes, and her tongue came out to touch her lips.

"An hour from now, outside the Poodle Lounge.”

"Roger, honey,” I breathed and put my hand on her fanny and patted it gently. I had never made it with a woman, I did not know how I might react with Giselle Roberts, but for the sake of the U.S.A.. I was willing to give it a whirl.

David was glooming over his salad when I returned to the table. He had sent one glance at Giselle and me as we moved together between the tables, chatting like old friends.

"You're a slow drip," I told him happily.

He looked a little surprised, so I clued him in on developments. David was so calm, I could have kicked him. The least he should have done was show annoyance at the thought of my making love to Giselle Roberts.

Instead he murmured mildly, "You could have told her I was your brother.”

"Well, you might as well be.”

He glared and made some remark about showing me later. "I've got to lose you,” I told him over the frozen soufflé with hot strawberry sauce. "I have a date in an hour with the H.A.T.E. harlot.”

“We can't afford an open quarrel. Hmmmm. Perhaps you can plead a headache. Rub your fingers around your temples. Go on. Right now.”

I playacted for him, In the polished silver side of the tureen that held the strawberry sauce, I could make out Giselle watching us.

"Darling, my head is killing me,” I complained.

David looked properly sorry. He put down the spoon with which he had been sloshing up the soufflé and appeared sympathetic.

“I'm sorry, dear,” he said, "I'm afraid I'll have to beg out of the aperitif.”

"Of course, of course,” he nodded.

I hissed, “You don't have to sound so eager!"

"I'm a slow drip, remember?" Somehow, he always managed to get in the last word. I kicked him under the table. Well-trained secret agent that he was, he gave me no evidence of pain. I vowed to make him suffer even more, one of these nights.

Giselle Roberts was waiting for me in a brand new yellow Camaro. She had changed her dress to a mod outfit under a light coat. Beneath the coat hem I could make out black organza trousers, but since the coat was buttoned to her throat I could not see what she was wearing—if anything—above the waist.

"I feel horrendously overdressed,” I told her. She smiled to secret thoughts as she said, "You'll add a touch of elegance, darling. changed simply because the swingers had seen it. They haven't laid eyes on this little number.”

"Neither have I, and I'm dying of curiosity.” She laughed, guiding the Camaro easily along Collins Avenue, over Dade Boulevard and the Verietian Causeway to the Expressway and out onto the Sunshine State Parkway. We exited a few miles north of the Golden Glades Road.

Half an hour later, Giselle was parking to one side of a big house that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and a vast spread of beach. The house was built in three levels, the bottom one of which was a vast steel and cement shelf that hung over the beach on cement cantilevers jutting out from a thick retaining wall. This deck held a swimming pool, the living room, a dressing room and patio.

The second tier consisted of a huge dining area bordered by a big kitchen. The topmost floor held three bedrooms and two patios, which could be reached from the landward side by a series of stone steps leading from the blacktop parking lot.

We went down the steps and past the bedrooms and the dining area to the vast oval living room that stared out at the ocean. The glass walls had been retracted so that this face of the house was open to the balmy night air. It was like holding a party out of doors.

And what a party. I let my eyes move here and there while Giselle got out from under her coat. She was wearing a beaded black net blouse that showed she was otherwise naked to her belly button. Below the navel she had on transparent black organza trousers. She really had a thing for nets, but the holes revealed a body to be proud of, with big breasts and half-dollar size nipples. In the organza harem pants, which were the most provocative things I had ever seen, her legs were slim and shapely. When she turned to call a greeting to a girl, I saw her buttocks as if through a black mist.

She was no more exotically dressed than the other girls, however. It was like a mod fashion show with the accent on how much body could be exposed through the maximum amount of covering. I looked more carefully at these party people.

There were girls in mod outfits that looked as if they would come apart at a tug. On two yard-high daises, two go-go girls were cavorting to the tune of Winchester Cathedral. A girl in a bolero of discs and chains under which she was naked, was hanging to the shoulder of a man with goatee and bald head. She had on a mini-skirt that showed a lot of skin between the top of the skirt and the bottom of the disced bolero.

The Nude Look was everywhere. Several girls in sheer cotton Dacron mini-gowns were doing the watusi. Other girls with long hair bouncing, were jerking their hips and shimmying their shoulders in plastic peek-through blouses and short short skirts. I felt like a grandmother in my evening gown.

Giselle brought me at her side up to the goateed man with the bald head. His name was Balder Cunningham.

“Balder?” I asked blankly. "From the Norse god,” Giselle laughed. "It's dreadfully appropriate, though, isn't it, considering his lack of hair?”

The man with the goatee chuckled thickly. He was short, with a very thick chest and immense shoulders. He was wearing evening clothes, a midnight blue tuxedo and maroon tie and cummerbund. He and I were the most formal persons there.

"My dear, don't fret,” he told me, patting my hand. "In a little while we may not be wearing any clothes at all.”

"Sounds like funsville,” I told him. A young man, tanned to the color of a mahogany plank, moved toward me, snapping his fingers and moving his shoulders. I tossed my mink over a chair-back and fell into the jerking pound of the dance. I felt my unbound breasts leap and jump. The tanned young man grinned and fastened his eyes on them as his arms pumped.

Behind me, I heard Giselle speaking with Balder Cunningham but could not make out what they were saying. She was probably telling him where she had picked me up I risked a glance at them. They were not looking at me, so I felt a little safer.

A bar was set up on the terrace lawn above which Japanese lanterns were hung. The young man brought me over there when the music stopped and handed me a double martini, telling me I had a lot of catching up to do.

The drink hit me like a bomb. There was something more than gin and vermouth in it, and I don't mean an olive or a cocktail onion. My insides began to loosen, my nipples stood up and my inner thighs grew damp. The young man put his arm about me and hugged me against him.

I felt him strong against my thigh as he bent his head to run his lips across my throat. Whatever I was drinking, he was too.

Somebody yelled. One of the go-go girls was yanking up her dress, baring slim white thighs and a black patch between them, her deeply naveled belly and her breasts. I stared at her breasts that bounced and leaped to her movements as she tossed away her dress without missing a beat.

"Wheee," I said. The other go-go girl was stripping too, but she had nothing on under the dress but herself. Her body was smooth all over. A man came to stand before her, riveting his eyes on her lower belly as he slowly sipped his drink. The young man beside me was moving gently against my thigh. He was starting to pant.

The party was meshing gears, Girls were lifting off sweaters and disced boleros, baring their breasts to the eyes and hands of their companions. Their eyes were over brilliant with too much drink and whatever else was in the cocktails. One young man was kissing the nipples of the girl he was with, going from one to the other while the girl was shaking her shoulders, making it a little difficult for him to get a good grip without using his teeth.

This bash was turning into a real orgy.

The orgy is not new in the story of mankind.

It began in the days when men wore skins and worshiped the sun as the one god, when the fall and winter seasons were feared because the crops vanished and the game animals often fled away to greener pastures. To lure back the fertility of the ground, and so the return of the animals they depended on for food, men and women coupled in orgiastic rituals, as if to show their god what it was he was supposed to do.

As male mated with female to bring forth boy babies who would grow up to be warriors and hunters, and so make great the tribe itself, so the sun must couple with the earth, to produce lush fruit and vegetables and the leaves and berries the game animals would feed on. First, of course, the sun god must be propitiated by sacrifices on the horned altars high atop the mountains, for these were the places nearest the cloud land where the sun god lived, easier for the god to see.

With the sacrifice the orgy went hand in hand, for once having seen the sacrifice, the god would also see the act which brought forth human fruit, the sexual embrace of man and woman. As men did for his seeing, so the god must do with mother earth, to fructify her and bring forth her children, the crops and leaves and berries. When this took place every spring, men naturally believed they had cajoled their god into following the example set for him by their orgies.

It was simple, primitive logic. In time, it became a way of life.

The music came on again, strong and loud. My young man slid around behind me and jammed himself up tight. His hands went into my evening gown bodice and caught hold of my hardening breasts. His palms were soft and exciting as they went under and up and around my shaking globes. His lips were on my throat, his mouth wide open. His hips kept nudging me steadily to the rhythm of the music.

I saw Giselle staring at his hands working under the satin panels of the formal bodice. I pursed my lips and blew her a kiss. She smiled and came walking toward me, a highball in her hand.

Giselle plastered herself against my middle, thrusting hard and rotating her belly lazily. I could feel a hard little protuberance against me. The young man worked behind me, she kept rubbing in front of me. The drink and the love potion and what they were doing to me made me bubble. I put my empty cocktail glass on a table and slipped both hands under the openwork blouse onto her generous breasts. I played with them while I stared into her half-closed eyes. Her nipples were long, erected. She blew me a kiss.

I leaned closer, vaguely aware that my young man was foraging with both hands under my evening gown skirt. He had gathered the material, bunching it at my thighs, working the black crepe upward. My legs were bared from the hips down and he was sliding his hands around in front, working his long fingers beneath the elastic waistband of my panties.

In horror, I thought: What if he detonates one of the rosettes stitched onto those black nylon scanties? Sweat came out in tiny beads under my shaven armpits. I moaned a little.

The young man and Giselle both thought they were getting to me. They were, too, but it was the added threat of these rosettes blowing up that really gave me a thrill.

"Easy, baby, easy,” I told the young man.

He was deaf to everything but his own desires. He got down behind me on his knees and pulling down my panties to just below by buttocks, he began kissing me. Giselle put her hand into my evening gown bodice and lifted my breasts out into the open. She bent and began to kiss them.

Over her back I could see what was going on in the rest of this open-air living room. A boy and a blonde girl were stark naked, performing the frug, the boy coming closer to the girl at every jerk. He was visibly excited. From time to time the girl would break the rhythm of her dance to reach down between them and clutch him.

Just beyond them a man, and a girl with long black hair lay coiled on the big divan. Her legs were apart, his hand was clutching her and gently moving. Every so often she would shudder and bite his neck. Other couples had paired off and were engaged in exciting one another.

I figured this must be the overture before the bash really got swinging. Nobody was doing any more than playing feelies and kiss-kiss, but everywhere you looked you saw variances on the general theme. Two naked women, had a young man sandwiched between them, tickling him here and especially there. He was a husky boy, built like a bull. He seemed to be in a daze. An older man held a girl who could not have been a day over sixteen on his lap where he sat in a chair. His hands were moving all over her thighs. The girl had her mouth open and her eyes closed. From time to time she shuddered convulsively and bit down hard on her lower lip.

Psychiatry might say that the orgy is a way of relieving the daily tensions of life. It is a form of revolt against the worry of everyday living. It was known all over the ancient world, in Ur, in Babylon, in Assyria. It was not unfamiliar to the Israelites who became acquainted with it in Egypt and happily threw themselves into the orgy before the golden calf.

To salve consciences, perhaps, the orgy was always associated with the worship of a god or goddess. Innuini, Isis, Ashtoreth, Ishtar, Aphrodite: always the love goddess was close at hand when men and women threw down the barriers and let themselves go. The Greeks had many names for the orgies: the Aphrodisia, the Pannychis, the Poseidonia. There were others, the varied and many forms of the Dionysia, the Thesmophia, the Oscophoria. It must have been exhausting, just trying to keep up with them all.

The Romans knew a good thing when they saw it. From the quiet days of the Republic, Rome gradually relaxed its austerity until it, too, knew the Saturnalia, the Bacchanalia, and Lupercalia, the Bona Dea in honor of Egyptian Isis, and the cult worship of Cybele and Priapus.

The orgies which were known in later days usually took place when a city was sacked—Rome, for instance, in 1527 by Spanish soldiers—and its women and girls were given over to the conquerors for their enjoyment. Of course, there was always the jus primae noctis during the Middle Ages, when the lord of the manor had first shot at the bride of one of his peasants. This was, in itself, a kind of orgy. And it was in these same Dark Ages that the celebration of the Black Mass began, and the revelries disguised under the term witches' Sabbath took place with their attendant sexual excesses.

"Please," I heard myself say. "Oh, please!" Giselle laughed softly, and bit down on a nipple. I yelped and she wiped the bite-marks with her tongue.

"We're just starting, honey,” she whispered. Her hands went to my evening gown, where it was bunched at my white hips. I raised my arms as she lifted it up and over my head. The blacks formal went flying. Since my panties were already down to my upper thighs. I was showing my dark privacy and all of my pale behind. I was no more shameless than anybody else, of course.

Only a couple of the women still had any clothes on. One older woman was wearing a girdle and nylons. Another had a brassiere around her out of which her heavy breasts were poking through circular cut-outs.

And Giselle. She had been so busy stripping me that she still wore her beaded blouse and the black organza trousers. I put my hands on the blouse hem and raised it. I crooned when I saw how swollen her breasts had become.

I caught hold of her breasts and toyed with them, shaking them, kissing them, biting the thickened nipples gently. It was her turn to squeal and yelp for mercy. I discovered that I did not mind this love-play with another woman in the slightest. It was kicks.

The party climbed onto another plane when a woman screeched as a young man fell onto the heavy carpeting with her. Her legs went wide then tightened about him and they were rocking back and forth in utter frenzy. Another couple sat in a big armchair, the girl straddling the man, driving her hips like well-oiled pistons. A woman lay over the back of a chair, her pallid rump facing a young man who was moving steadily, steadily, his face rigid in delight. It was the Garden of Worldly Delights of Hieronymus Bosch with the veils torn loose. It was frenzy in high C.

I was swept up in the general hysteria. Giselle and the young man with the mahogany tan which I saw covered his entire body, when he took his clothes off, had me sandwiched between them. I thought fleetingly of Giulio Romano and wondered if he had ever thought of this position as Giselle cugidled me against her front and the young man moved against me from the back.

I was sobbing in pleasure. My fingernails were buried in the white shoulders of the woman whose body was able to afford me such unusual "delight. I had read of the young French girl called Mademoiselle Sapho in Mairobert's Confessions of A Young Girl, so notorious for her especial qualifications as a woman lover. Giselle Roberts need not suffer by comparison.

I think I screamed a couple of times. 'A man caught Giselle and drew her away from me. A second man took her place, pushing the youth out from under me. I saw Balder Cunningham still wearing his tuxedo, bent above a woman, slapping her naked buttocks with a big hand. The slaps echoed loudly in the air. The woman groaned from time to time.

The man embracing me was very strong. My lungs felt as if they were on fire as I tried to breathe in his bear hug.

"Give me a chance,” I panted. He only shook his head, savage in his enjoyment. I thought I would be split in half by his furious lunges. After a time I sobbed in pleasure, and did not want to let him go even when he shuddered and collapsed in my embrace.

He crawled away. I looked up. Balder Cunningham was standing over me, smiling, He held a highball glass in a hairy hand. He bent and held it out to me.

"Drink it, my dear. It will refresh you."

"What is it?"

"A special concoction of my own. Laced with brandy.” I sipped it. It tasted good. I tipped my head back and drank. When I put the glass back in his hand, there were only ice cubes in it. Balder Cunningham nodded approvingly. He held out his hand to me. I caught hold of it and was lifted to my feet. The big man patted my buttocks gently.

“Come upstairs, my dear.”

"Oh? What's upstairs?”

"A very special entertainment. I admit only a chosen few to my little bedroom soirées. You are one of the lucky ones.”

"Giselle? Will she be there?”

He nodded, smiling affably. Like a spider to the fly.

Chapter Five

The master bedroom of this extremely modern house was fitted with curving glass windows that overlooked the ocean. Just beyond the windows was a plaster-white sundeck where a slim woman lay outstretched upon a beach blanket. Her skin was a honey color, and she was a real blonde. Somebody whispered that she was a movie star down on her luck and that she was to perform for us for a five thousand dollar fee. There were about a dozen of the chosen few, five women besides myself, including Giselle Roberts, and five-men other than Balder Cunningham. These five were the most muscular of them all, and I wondered fleetingly if there were any reason why these husky specimens had been selected, apart from the most obvious one, that they were superbly equipped to make a woman happy.

One of the women was the matron in the girdle and stockings and evening shoes. She was sitting down and fussing with a blonde boy who was letting her amuse herself with his body. He was obviously having a good time. The other women were dark Latin types, and made me remember Count Guido della Faziola.

Balder Cunningham clapped his hands.

Instantly, there was silence. It spoke well for his authority over these people. I guess H.A.T.E. trained its operatives well, just as L.U.S.T. did. I did not know how many of the women and youths were H.A.T.E. agents, I knew Giselle was, but I had to guess about the others.

Balder Cunningham said, "We have a guest to amuse us this evening. If you glance through the windows, you'll see her reclining on the sun deck. She should perform nobly for the amount of money we're paying her.”

One of the youths went to the window and peered more closely. "Her!” he exclaimed, turning toward Cunningham. The powerfully built man nodded.

The man said, "I can remember seeing her in . . . well! I was half in love with her when I was a kid.”

"The mother complex,” smiled a woman. The young man shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

"Fetch her, Harold," Cunningham ordered. Harold went out onto the sun deck. He bent over the woman and put his hand on her lower belly. She jerked, her eyes came open and she started to sit up when she remembered where she was. A look of utter misery crossed her features. The young man said something and she nodded, trying to appear unconcerned.

She was very beautiful. Her breasts sagged slightly but they were big and full, and her body was still slim. She had very lovely legs and hips. She rose gracefully to her feet, and pasted a broad smile on her red lips.

She came into the room like a princess, but there was a sickness in her eyes that sent a stab of sympathy deep inside me. She knew what was about to happen; she was like a slave bought in a Roman marketplace two thousand years ago.

The women took turns with her for over an hour. She was made to service them as they offered themselves for her adoration. The matron teased the helpless woman with a hand so that the poor thing was in a frenzy of need when it came the turn of the men.

I had to play the game. I will not say that some vein of sensuality far down in the pit of my psyche did not enjoy what she did to me, but as I stared down into her face I kept seeing the sick shame and humiliation. I wanted to drag her out of there and tell her to run along home.

The men were like animals after we women had done with her. The big blonde youth who had brought her in off the sun deck vaulted onto the bed as Giselle rolled off. His hands lifted her hips as he knelt on the bed and he took her brutally, without sympathy for any pain he might cause her. I suppose she had been a boyhood crush. Most boys fall in love with a movie star in their pre-pubescent days. He had placed her on a pedestal but after watching what she did with and for the women in the party, he felt only rage at the destruction of an idol.

He thrust and grunted and snarled. The woman cried out once, pleadingly, as his fingers sank deep into her soft buttocks to hold her helpless. I saw Balder Cunningham move to the edge of the bed and stare down into her contorted face with something like unholy glee in his black eyes.

Then the big blonde youth was finished. He thrust her away with a disgust obvious for all to see. He rolled off the bed and stood up.

"The slut's all yours, Bill?” he growled. Bill turned her over on her belly and lifted her loins until she was kneeling before him. She moaned and shuddered and her hanging head went back and forth against the sheet as he took her. It lasted for a long time.

The next two men worked as a team. One flipped her over on her back, the other crouched above her face. She performed for them, even when they switched places. It was exciting to watch. I think the sense of degradation the woman felt was a part of our arousal. I found myself with Giselle our knees pressed into the edge of the bed as we fondled one another, staring down at them.

Then they were done and the woman lay exhausted. Balder Cunningham made a motion with his hand and the men caught the woman and holding her firmly, flipped her on her front. They put pillows beneath her belly so that her white buttocks were raised invitingly.

"Ohh—haven't they done enough to me?" she wailed. "My dear, I am the one who's paying the tab for your services. And I haven't done a thing yet,” Cunningham told her.

They tied her wrists and ankles to the bedposts so that she lay spreadeagled, unable to do more than writhe. Giselle caught my hand and drew me away.

"Balder likes to be alone at a time like this.”

"Wha—what does he do?” We were at the doorway, the last ones to go down the spiral stone staircase. Giselle halted, turning and gesturing. I looked past her, saw the goateed man lifting what seemed to be a cat-o-nine-tails. I swallowed hard.

"Is he going to use that?”

"It looks more deadly than it is. Its modeled after the cat used on English men-o-war in the eighteenth century, but it's made of soft leather so that it stings like sixty but doesn't mar or tear the flesh.”

She closed the door behind her and followed me down the stone steps. I had not reached the lower terrace living room before I heard a scream so shrill it set my eardrums throbbing. I came to a halt. Giselle bumped into me.

"The Marquis de Sade had nothing on him," she whispered.

"The poor thing,” I breathed.

"She's getting paid a lot of money.”

The screams went on. Somebody turned the stereo set up high to drown them out. A young man with swarthy features but handsome as the proverbial Greek god, came over to dance with me. The music was slow and dreamy. It was something to stand with my front plastered to a naked man and go through the routine steps of ballroom dancing.

The youth was excited. He got me hot too, shoving against me. His right hand went back and forth over my buttocks. He was just about to lead me to a lounge when I saw Balder Cunningham coming down the steps. He was wringing wet with sweat, but his face looked blissful.

He gestured to Giselle. Giselle tapped me on the arm. "Sorry, Bobby, but I have to borrow your partner."

"You want me?" I asked. Giselle said “Somebody has to give me a hand with her. She's probably in bad shape. We've got to get her dressed and put her in a taxi."

Balder Cunningham stared at me with his black eyes when I moved past him. His eyes touched my buttocks as I followed Giselle up the stairs. I wondered if he wanted to use his whip on my behind, too.

The movie star was doubled up in the middle of the bed, moaning and clutching herself between her twitching thighs. There was blood on her fingers and her soft buttocks were streaked red and black and blue.

"I thought you said he never broke the skin," I snapped at Giselle.

"He never has, honey. Maybe the idea of beating up on a movie star kind of got to him."

The woman was gray with pain. There was blood on her lower lip where she had bitten it. She rocked back and forth like an idiot, moaning.

I moistened a face cloth and brought it to her. I bathed her as gently as I could. She lay with closed eyes, limp as a rag doll, letting me move her as I would.

Giselle handed me a towel.

Together, we got her into her clothes. Giselle held up the check so the woman could see it. "Five grand isn't too bad, honey,” she said. "You'll be sore for a day or two but then it will be like a bad memory, that's all.”

The woman spat an obscenity. Giselle shrugged.

We got her dressed. There was a taxi waiting in the parking lot. The woman was in obvious pain as she walked from the bedroom out to the back patio on rubbery legs. We watched her get into the taxi.

I turned.

Balder Cunningham was standing with his back to the far door, looking at me. I felt a cold chill run down my back. There was no expression at all in the black eyes that stared at me.

“Who are you?” he asked harshly.

“Wha—what?”

"I asked, who are you? Why did you speak with Giselle tonight? What led you to her, of all people?”

I tried to laugh it off. Ha ha. I was scared witless. I had seen what this goateed man had done to the movie star, just for kicks. He would do worse to me when he learned I was a L.U.S.T. agent,

Giselle was very silent, looking at me.

I shrugged. "She was damned attractive. I guess that's why. Is there any reason I shouldn't have talked to her?”

"I'm not sure.”

He came across the room like a big cat. He was huge, his strength must have been very great, but he was oddly graceful for his bulk. His bald head caught a bedroom light, reflecting it so that his skull seemed almost to glow. He put out a hand and caught my breast. His fingers tightened viciously.

White-hot pain lanced through me. I screamed. I clawed his hairy wrist, trying to free my flesh from his cruel fingers. He was not gleeful now, he was not getting his kicks. This was strictly business.

My body bucked savagely. I shrieked, "Oh, please! Please What are you doing this for? Oh my God!”

“Who are you?”

"Eve Drum. Eve Drum.”

“Why did you speak to Giselle?”

"She appealed to me. Oh, God—really!”

Giselle said, "I think she's telling the truth."

"We can take no chances," he growled. He let go of my nipple. I put my hands to my breast, cradling it, crooning to it in my pain. I was aware of the tears running down my cheeks when they dropped into my open mouth and I tasted their salt.

"I ought to tie you down the way I did the other one,” Balder Cunningham mused, "but I'm too tired. I exhausted myself with her.”

Thanks be for that, I thought.

The man smiled at me. There was no mirth in his smile, only the deadliness of the king cobra. He went across the room and touched the communication switch. A hollow voice asked, "Yes, chief?"

“Three double Martinis, extra strength,” he ordered. He flipped the switch and looked at me. "I hope you'll forgive me for my impetuosity, Miss Drum. I have reasons why my—er—activities should not come to the 'attention of the police.”

"Don't we all?" I muttered, trying to smile. I would play bygones be bygones with him, if this was what he wanted. All I wanted was to get out of here with a whole skin. I wanted to climb back into my panties before Balder Cunningham got the idea of examining them closely. The only thing that kept me sane was that my panties probably could not be distinguished from any other panties that had been discarded during those first hectic moments of the party.

A knock on the door interrupted us. The goateed man shouted to come in and a pretty girl wearing only a tiny apron at her middle and a maid's cap perched on her red-hair, came in with a tray.

Cunningham picked up two of the glasses, handing one to me, one to Giselle. He lifted his own glass."

"To the margin of error that may exist where you are. concerned and to which you owe your life, my dear.”

I said fervently, "I'll drink to that.” I needed a good belt. I downed the martini without stopping. Giselle was smiling at me oddly, I saw as flowered the cocktail glass. Balder Cunningham was just finishing his own drink.

"Is—is that all?” I asked. The man nodded. "Oh yes. You're free to go.” I took three steps toward the stairway door when my legs gave way under me. I dropped and lay on the floor, unable to move. I saw Balder Cunningham's feet as he stood over me and stared down at my naked body.

“I am sorry, my dear—if you aren't a secret agent. Unfortunately, we can take no chances. If you are, then you know why this is happening to you. I don't know how or why you spoke to Giselle, but she was under instructions in case any stranger ever spoke with her, to bring him or her along to one of our little bashes."

I was dying. The voice was getting weaker and weaker in my ears. I tried to rise, to run, but I could not move a muscle. I did not want to die this way, of poison administered in a martini. I wanted to go on living. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry, but my tongue felt like lead and my tear ducts were dry as the sands of the Mojave desert.

The room grew dark.

I was dead.

Well, not quite dead. Or if I were dead, there are stars in the afterlife—and mud. For I was lying in a bed of slime, tied hand and foot with a strip of tape over my lips. I was out in the open, there were the familiar stars above me. And I was alive.

There was a strange smell in the air. I could not discover what it was, though I turned my head this way and that. Apparently I had been carried from the Cunningham house to a pit of mud and flung into and I was fully dressed, even to the panties snugging my loins. My pocketbook was in my hands,

This was not so bad. I would dig my heels into the mud and work my way toward the high wall that rimmed the sea of ooze. I thrust my heels into the mud, I arched my back. My position drove my head back into the slime so that I was staring upside down behind me. I froze motionless in utter horror. I had just been complimenting myself on my good fortune. If Balder Cunningham were the chief H.A.T.E. agent here in Florida, I was a damn lucky girl to be safely out of his clutches. He could have tortured me. If he had, I honestly don't know whether I would have broken. The memory of the woman's screams were still vivid in my mind, and the goateed man had been doing that for fun.

But now—.

was staring upside down into the snout of a huge alligator sliding lazily across the bed of mud. Its jaws were opening and closing so I could see the rows of gleaming, white teeth. I squeezed my eyelids tight.

I lifted my eyelids, The alligator was still there, only nearer. I whimpered against the tape binding my mouth. I tried to scream. There was a faint shrillness in my throat, but no more.

I swiveled around in the mud, using my tied legs as a lever. I wriggled and twisted. I splashed mud all over myself. It was useless.

The alligator was at my legs. He opened his long snout and caught hold of my calves. The shrillness in my throat rose half a dozen octaves.

I had seen these alligator wrestling pits here and there in Florida. There was one in the Indian village. I wondered if I were on its muddy floor or whether H.A.T.E. had its own special pit. The alligator was dragging me toward a dark pool of water in which it made its lair. The grip of its teeth was agonizing.

I tried to struggle but that only made the teeth of the big reptile sink deeper into my flesh. I tried to pray but I had forgotten the only one I ever knew. The alligator was about eighteen feet long, a giant of its kind. It was too, strong for me. I just relaxed and let it slide me along in the mud.

My hands hurt. I realized I was clutching my handbags with fingers stiff with terror. Giselle Roberts must have stuck it between my fingers before they tied my wrists, the way they put things in dead people's hands before they slam and coffin. I guess she figured the alligator would eat that, too, leaving no clues at all behind.

L.U.S.T. would never know what happened to me.

I thought of David Anderjanian. I wanted to bawl.

We were almost at the pool edge now. I thought longingly of the little rosettes in my panties, of the knife in my pocketbook, and the cigarette lighter. None of them was any good to me.

Hey, wait! Maybe that damn cigarette lighter might work.

I fumbled at the clasp of the pocketbook. I got it open. My fingers slid inside. I touched the comb but not the cigarette lighter.

We were closer to the pool, now. My feet were getting wet. I had to find the lighter fast or it wouldn't work. In less than a minute me and my damn lighter would be under water.

I caught it between the first and second fingers of my right hand. I tightened those fingers. My grip was not a good one, I could feel the smooth silver lighter slipping. Frantically my legs were wet up to my knees now—I squeezed as tightly as I could. The alligator was turning in the water to get a better grip.

The lighter came up into my palm. I lifted it out. I could move my hands even if I was tied at my wrists. I maneuvered the lighter into position and bent at the waist, turning my back to the alligator. I heard the hiss of the gas.

The alligator teeth eased their grip. The General had said the gas would kill anything that breathed. An alligator breathes. Therefore, it would kill an alligator. Simple logic. I never did find out whether the alligator died there at the edge of its pool. All I cared was that its teeth were gone from my legs.

I rolled over and over. So my face got muddy and I got a nose-full of slime every other moment. I was alive and free of that damn reptile. Free! Free! Over and over I rolled, splashing mud everywhere.

I banged into the wall around the pit. With my back against the concrete I eased upward until the top was under my fanny. My knees were shaking now, in reaction. I fell over onto the other side, under a straw roof where the spectators stand when looking at the alligator wrestling.

I lay there and shuddered for ten minutes. After a time I dug around for the comb-knife in the pocketbook and used it to cut the cords that held my wrists. It took a long time. I managed to give myself a couple of healthy gashes on my forearm before the cords fell away.

I cut the ropes holding my ankles. I stood up and leaned against a roof-pole. I breathed the Florida night air with gratitude. I was a mess, I was muddy and wet and looked like something out of a monster movie, grade B. But I was alive.

I staggered out of the spectator section and onto the sidewalk. The moon was low in the sky, it must be after four in the morning. I thought. I could detect a tint of red to the east where the sun would rise in another hour or so.

Two men came out of the shadows.

I recognized them instantly. One was Bobby, the other was Bill. They were laughing and nudging each other at sight of me in my walking mud bath. They had switchblades in their hands.

They advanced on me, giggling.

Chapter Six

I backed up slowly.

"Look, boys—there's some mistake.”

"Yeah,” laughed Bobby. "Yours.”

Bill moved his knife around, saying, "It's too bad, you're a cute chick. Maybe you should have let the alligator have you. How did you get away, anyhow?"

I lifted my skirt to my hips. "I showed him this, Bill.”

“Jeez, she sure is cool, showin' herself off like that!”

"Or hot,” laughed Bill. “Look what she's doing.” I guess it must have seemed like I was patting myself where I would get my kicks. Actually, I was ripping loose a couple of those roestte bombs. I lifted my hand and tossed them.

Bill and Bobby were not expecting an attack. They were taking it slow, they were going to have some fun with me, I guess, with their knives and their bodies, before they mercifully killed me. The rosette landed a foot ahead of them on solid concrete.

I threw myself back and sideways. The explosion shook the ground. I thought I heard Bill cry out in fright but the sound of the bomb letting go drowned it out. Something went past me and hit the dirt a dozen feet away. It was part of an arm.

I was sick for about five long minutes. I took one look at what was left of two husky young men—I had to make sure the bomb got them both—and then I went running off through the Miami moonlight, holding my hand to my heaving belly. I didn't want to be around when somebody came in answer to that loud bang in the night.

I found a phone booth five blocks away, slipped inside and brought out my dime. David and I had agreed that it might be too dangerous to carry my transistorized walkie-talkie that was shaped like a cigarette case, on this assignment. H.A.T.E. agents have been known to go looking in girls' pocketbooks. A few moments later a sleepy voice answered.

"Lo?"

"Come and get me, chief,” I replied brightly.

I told him where I was, then I sank to the floor of the telephone booth and leaned my head against the wall. I was still in that position when David pushed the door open and hauled me out, more than half asleep.

“What happened to you?" he gasped, seeing me all over mud.

“What didn't?” I wailed.

I gave him my story as he drove me to his bachelor pad to get cleaned up. To my surprise, he was actually sympathetic.

"You poor kid,” he growled. "Damn that Cunningham!”

He was silent, so I figured he was commiserating with me on my general dishevelment and good luck at escaping with my life. I even felt a little tender toward him.

As he was wheeling his car in against the curb, he spoiled it all by saying, "We'll get you a change of clothes before you go out again."

"Go out?” I screeched.

“Well, sure. Hit while the iron's hot and all that jazz."

"Listen, Charley—you and the rest of L.U.S.T. can go out! I'm staying home for a while to rest up!"

He reached over to pat my thigh and got his hand all muddy. I laughed in girlish glee.

“Yeeeechhh,” he muttered. Then recovering his normal nastiness, he added, "Giselle Roberts will be along to her room in the Fontainebleau in a little while. I want you to be ready for her, as soon as she's asleep. We'll take her by surprise."

I said something not nice about Giselle Roberts. “Exactly.” David pounced. “You want your revenge.” I glanced at him. “What’ve you got in mind?” He opened the car door and helped me out, telling me he would explain when I looked more human. I trotted along beside him like a hound at heel, thinking about the things I'd would like to do to Giselle Roberts. They were nothing compared to what I would like to do to Balder Cunningham, but they were enjoyable enough.

“What about clothes?" I asked in the elevator. "I'll send somebody for your things. You can shower while we're waiting.” He grinned and added, "I could stand a shower myself.” He looked down at his muddy hand.

I laughed hollowly. I was in no mood for splashing around under a shower-head with a man. I was muddy, wet, bedraggled. I sloshed in my shoes. I dripped. I left shoe-prints on the spotless lobby floor and in the elevator.

As David opened the door to his bachelor pad, I began lifting off my soggy evening gown. It was over my head before I was five feet inside his living room. I tossed it, heard David protest with a growl as he dove to catch it before it hit the beige fluff that was his wall to wall carpeting. I whistled softly. Apparently us L.U.S.T. agents did all right for themselves when they hit the real high pay bracket that David Anderjanian was in. The walls were covered with a honey silk, the pictures that hung on them were encased in rich mahogany frames. A walnut cabinet was a masterpiece of the furniture maker and held a Fisher stereo receiver and Garrard turntable. Two loudspeakers were nearby. Chairs that seemed to beckon with a gaping arms, a table or two holding a number of best sellers, Playboy and Esquire, Time and Fortune, were like an advertisement out of their pages.

"David, I never knew!" I murmured. He grinned, staring at me, "You fit—right in, sweetie-pie.”

"All this on what you make?" He waved a hand, "I'm independently wealthy. The shower's this way, beautiful.”

I only had my stockings and garter-belt on as I stood there in my shoes. I wondered how he could keep from hurling himself on me until I saw my reflection in a mirror. I was splattered with mud, like a statue the Red Guard of Communist China was demonstrating against.

I ran for the bathroom. I laved myself with soap and hot water. I washed the mud and the memory of what had happened tonight out of my hair. I sang a little song to myself, running soapy fingers over my breasts and thighs. I thought about David Anderjanian.

Maybe it was the fact that I'd been so close to death a while ago—in the alligator pit and with those H.A.T.E. bully-boys—but David was suddenly very appealing to me. He was a big, strong Viking of a man, and I needed something like a big, strong Viking to get the bad taste out of my mouth.

A psychologist might have said the fear of death had stimulated my desire to enjoy life to its utmost, because I had been so close to losing it I needed no excuse, really. When David put his hand in with a bath towel for me, I grabbed his hand and yanked.

He was only wearing his shorts. "I was about to change into some other clothes,” he explained, staring at me. "I got dressed a bit hurriedly when you telephoned.” He cleared his throat and added, "Giselle hasn't shown up at her hotel yet. We have at least a good half hour to kill.”

"Then let's murder it good,” I whispered. His hands touched my warm, smooth hips. I put my hands on his shorts and pushed them down.

"Oh, my!” I exclaimed. David was just wrapping his arms around me when the telephone jangled. Its clangor was like a bell separating two fighters at the end of a round.

"The hell with the phone,” he snarled. "David, you'd better answer it.” I led the way, with David following my bared buttocks. I lifted the phone and handed it to him. Then I put my arms about his neck and tiptoed my way real close. I moved my thighs from side to side and kissed his throat.

David croaked, "Hello?” He listened while I amused myself with him. I am a great tease. I saw his face get very red and felt the involuntary shiver of his muscular body. He listened to the voice over the phone but he watched what I was doing.

He clapped a hand over the phone. "Take it easy! I've got the general on the line.”

I giggled. David looked as if he were dying, but enjoying the way he was being killed. The general must have thought so too, because David said, "I'm quite all right, sir."

“Are you ever,” I nodded, smiling happily. David hung up. He reached out for me but just then the doorbell buzzed. He swore savagely. The doorbell sounded again, insistently. A voice shouted that something was, important.

David said, "You answer the door."

"I can't.” I pushed him into the bathroom and grabbed a bathrobe off a hook. I threw it around my nudity and belted it.

There was a L.U.S.T. agent at the door, with a valise. The valise belonged to me. I explained that David was in the john right now, and that he could give me my own valise, The man said, "We've made contact with the Roberts dame. She's just now gone into her hotel. You can wait a while, then get over there in about three quarters of an hour. All OK, double oh sex?”

The gag was, going the rounds of the whole department. sighed wearily, “Okay, okay. We're on our way." His male eyes took in the overlarge robe and what it did not hide. I guess it showed a lot in the open vee neck. I drew it closed and winked. With a sigh, he went out into the hall.

I shut the door and leaned against it. David came out of the bathroom, looking dispirited. "You've lost interest in me,” I accused. He smiled wryly. "Let me slip out of this robe,” I smiled. I began the shimmy, that contortion of shoulders and upper torso that made Gilda gray so famous. I was willing to bet that the Follies dancer had never shimmied her way out of a bathrobe, though. My breasts pushed out first, swinging and swaying. Then my shoulders emerged and the force of gravity took over. The bathrobe pooled around my bare feet on the carpet.

I stepped out of the fallen robe and ran to him. He caught me in his arms and we kissed with open mouths and thrusting tongues, pressing into one another, letting the need of our flesh, come to full power. David was once more a big, strong Viking.

I was just about to lead him into the bedroom when the phone rang again, like an all-seeing Big Brother. David lost his temper. He swore in three languages while pounding a fist into his cupped palm. So I answered the damn phone.

It was the general. “Giselle Roberts is in her hotel room. Get over there right away. Where's Anderjanian?”

"He's busy right now, chief.” David was indeed very busy, kissing a path down my spine. I wriggled to the lips that were building a fire in my flesh while his fingers were around in front of me, moving across my nipples to my sides and beyond my belly to—.

"Oh dear," I breathed.

"What's that?" growled the general. "Sir, we'll be there right away,” I panted. "Anderjanian knows what to do,” the general assured me. "He does indeed, sir," I agreed, shuddering. Teeth bit into soft flesh. I yelped. "Are you all right, Drum?"

"Never better, sir. Good-bye, sir!”

"Dammit, I'm not finished yet. Wait, Drum!" Drum could not wait. I dropped the phone onto the carpet, one part going one way, the receiver another. Nobody could telephone us with the phone off the hook. Reassured, I whirled on my tormentor.

I gave David a push so that he fell down on his back and lay there looking up at me. My hips began to revolve slowly. "Did I ever tell you. I used to take lessons in belly dancing, chief?" I asked. "No? Well, let's you and me pretend it's graduation night, shall we?"

My belly drew inward, then sprang outward to form a small bowl of pink flesh. My hips were gyrating up and around, sliding back and forth in a modified hula. David lay there with his mouth open, staring up at me.

Belly dancing is one of the earliest form of entertainment known to man. Slave girls performed its intricate convolutions for Queen Sabr of Hattusas, just as the little flute girls one sees on Egyptian tomb walls did their own version of the dance du ventre for the Pharaohs. The women of Gades were famous—or infamous—for its performance, and were hired to show off their ventral spasms in taverns and inns from Lydia to Londinium. Salome won the head of John the Baptist with her own interpretation of its rhythms.

At the symposias—drinking parties—of ancient Greece, talented dancing girls swung their hips and revolved their bellies to the tunes of flutes and cymbals. One such hetaira, Asparia, became the mistress, of the renowned Pericles of Athens.

What the ancients discovered, the Turks and Arabs took over as their own. The art masterpiece that shocked Paris in the middle of the nineteenth century, Dancing Girl at an Albanian Inn, by Gerome, portrayed a belly dancer putting on a show.

Today, you have to go to Istanbul or Algeria to see the real thing. In some smokey inn you may listen to the wails of oud and bousoukee while a girl with long black, hair swings her bare brown hips like a frantic dervish, exciting all the male onlookers and some of the female audience, as well.

My middle was swaying lazily in a rotating movement. All I lacked was the proper music. That slow and lurching tempo of the darbuka drums and clicking zil castanets to which the flesh swings as if to a part of its very self. My belly pushed out, it drew back. It went around and around as if set on springs. My breasts swung wildly above my bouncing pelvis.

I dropped downward without missing a beat.

David cried out thickly, as I took him. I kept on belly dancing. Hagar had probably put on a like display of her ventral muscles for Abraham, but I doubted that anyone had ever performed for a man the way I was doing for David Anderjanian right then. My hips swung and looped, my belly convulsed, my breasts bobbled.

David arched like a living bow. His face was red with strain as he stared up at me as if at some vision of delight. Well, to him. I damn well was a vision of delight.

I went on belly dancing and David stayed there with me, for a long time. The explosion hit us together. I went utterly rigid as a splash of fire ran from my toes up to the roots of my hair. As I started to spasm again, I felt David slamming wildly under me, mouth open and eyes closed.

I collapsed and lay on top of him for long minutes. When he could move, he kissed my throat.

He whispered, "Never like that . . . ever before. double oh sex, you're a ring-tailed wonder.”

I giggled, "Get your mind off my tail."

"I wonder how much time we have?" He slithered around until he was lying half on top of me, kissing my tired belly and running his fingertips up and down my damp thighs.

"Don't tell me you want more?” I asked.

"We've only begun, you darling.” I was just getting interested again when the phone erupted. Giselle Roberts was now sound asleep, our informant told us. They could hear her snores over the bug.

David lifted me to my feet, "Party's over. It's time to go back to work."

We got dressed, me in the Italian style blazer suit that had been in the valise, David in his tweed suit with a Hathaway shirt and Christian Dior tie. When we left his apartment, we looked like any married couple. David carried a black attache case. The drive to the Fontainebleau where Giselle was staying took about ten minutes. Another two minutes in the elevator and we were in front of her hotel room door. David opened the attache case. It was fitted with half a hundred various objects. I selected a strip of plastic and bent to insert it between the door lock and the jamb plate. I wriggled it until it caught, forcing the bolt back. David had his hand on the knob. He pushed inward and the door opened.

We stepped into the room. Giselle Roberts lay sprawled on her back, snoring faintly. The covers were up around her neck. I pointed to the attache case. David opened it and watched as I drew out a section of white tape.

I waited while David tiptoed toward the vase of flowers in which had been placed the bugging device. He lifted it out, deactivated its mechanism. We would be alone with Giselle Roberts, in perfect privacy.

Now I moved toward the bed, the tape held taut in my fingers, I poised it above the sleeping woman, aiming for her mouth. My hands dropped with the tape, fastening it tight to her flesh, fingertips smoothing it for an instant to make sure the tape gripped the soft red lips I had kissed a few hours earlier. Giselle exploded upward in reaction, her eyes wide but bleary with sleep. As her sleepiness faded and she recognized me, she made a frightened sound deep in her throat.

David was on the other side of the room. Giselle did not see him and so she threw back the covers and came for me, stark naked except for the tape over her mouth.

I ducked her clawing hands, I gripped one of her wrists and caught her with a hip throw that drove her through the air and into a chair where her evening gown lay draped. She was spitting like a cat as she landed, legs apart and bottom smacking hard against the cushions.

She was starting up when I put my hands in her loosened black hair and tightened my fingers. I yanked hard. She was trying to scream through the tape, but only made a mewling sound. She hit the floor with a solid whump. I yanked her up by her hair, turned and aimed her at the bed.

So far we had, made very little sound. The chair cushions and now, the mattress and bed springs absorbed the sound of her falling body. I was after her, landing with both knees in the small of her back. The air whooshed from her lungs. I chopped at her neck with the edge of my hand. She lay motionless. David started to come forward but I waived him back. I was going to play this by ear. I waited patiently like the cat with a frightened mouse.

When she stirred, I grabbed her black hair and yanked her head back. "Bitch, you hear me?” I snarled.

She nodded. "You know what your pals did to me? They put me in an alligator pit, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. When I got out of that little dilemma, two of your husky lover boys came at me with shivs. I got rid of them, too.” I drew a deep breath and yanked her arms behind her back. I caught a length of rope David tossed me and tied her wrists. Tight.

"Now, damn you—you're going to suffer for what your buddies did to me,” I snapped.

I took off a shoe. Maybe the leather sole of my granny oxford was no cat-o-nine tails like the whip Balder Cunningham used on the movie star, but it stung as I whacked that white backside. I hit her five times before she began crying. I rolled her over onto her back. Her face was wet with tears but I realized her big brown nipples were standing stiffly. Maybe this doll was enjoying her punishment. I thought about the alligator and those knives and I started cuffing her breasts with my palms. She jerked and tried to throw me off, but I had a knee in her belly and she could do very little to stop me.

"Any time you're ready to talk, just nod your head,” I said. I knew that David in the far shadows of the room would have his portable recorder out and turning when she began talking.

She turned her head to one side. "Okay, sweetie,” I smiled. "You asked for it, remember.” Her wrists were tied behind her back. She was stark naked. I spread her shapely white legs and knelt on them above her knees. Then I started toying with her, caressing her with my fingertips, very gently.

She stared at me with wide black eyes, in utter disbelief. The spanking had started her, I was intent on keeping her going. Pain, was not the way to handle Giselle Roberts. Pleasure was, I could see her middle contort and roll slightly as I went on teasing her. She was getting hot and there a pleading look in her eyes.

I could hear David Anderjanian breathing in the shadows, but Giselle was too concerned with the reactions of her flesh to my fingers to hear anything. She tried to widen her thighs.

I stopped and sat back. Giselle Roberts whimpered and lifted her middle. She was begging me to go on. I asked, "You ready to talk?"

She shook her head violently. I shrugged and put my hands on her again, but this time I was not quite so gentle. I caught her flesh and twisted. She gave a long, silent scream and her hips humped, trying to dislodge my grip. Tears ran down her cheeks.

The abrupt transition from pleasure to pain shocked her. She lay staring up at me through brimming eyes. Ripples ran down her soft body.

"You're a H.A.T.E. agent, aren't you?” I asked. She went on staring up at me. "I can go on like this for hours, honey. Nobody expects you to be up and about for a long time, last night's party being what it was. Now be sensible.”

I reached down and began to fondle her. When she was moving slightly, I took away my hand. "Ready to talk, sweetie? Or shall I do this again?”

I wrenched tightly and she spasmed, her body trying to arch upward and escape my clutch. Only my weight on her thighs kept her on the bed.

"Nod your head when you're feeling conversational,” I told her.

They say that pain is akin to pleasure. A point is reached at times when the agony one suffers turns in some strange way, into enjoyment. This has been an 'in' thing, since the time of the Marquis de Sade, but punishment and pleasure is a lot older than that. In Greece, the rites to Aphrodite and Dionysus included flagellation, to stir up the desires. At the Oscophoria, a feast to honor wine itself, the whipping was done with grapevines. The goddess Aphrodite was even given the appellation 'kallipygos' to honor the buttocks that received the strokes of the lash.

The Roman Bacchanalia, the Saturnalia, the Lupercalia, all featured whipping as an integral part of the eroticism attending these feast days. In France during the reign of Francis I, a day called L'innocente was set aside during which girls and women might have their skirts raised and their buttocks struck with twigs, by any passerby. Whipping Toms plagued the streets of London in the middle years of the eighteenth century, snatching at women and young boys, laying them over their knees and spanking them until driven off by the Watch. Less than a century later, in this same London, spanking societies were commonplace.

There may have been something of the masochist in Giselle Roberts. I slapped her, I spanked her, I fed pain to her flesh with the devotion of a true flagellant,

At the end of half an hour, she was a nervous wreck. I was more, than a little wild myself. Only the fact that such high stakes were involved gave me the gumption to go on with what I was doing would much rather please than punish, even such a woman as Giselle Roberts. But I knew that we had to break her, in one way or another. We had to know what H.A.T.E. was going to do next.

She was quivering steadily when her nod came, very weakly. I leaned over her, digging my fingers into her big breasts and tightening them.

"You mean that? Do you?" Her nod was a lot stronger. “You belong to H.A.T.E." She nodded.

“Balder Cunningham's a H.A.T.E. man too, isn't he?”

“The nod again. "Is he your chief?”

In half an hour I had the general picture. Balder Cunningham headed up about a dozen H.A.T.E. agents. The two boys I had killed were "H.A.T.E. musclemen. Count Guido della Faziola and his two friends were also H.A.T.E. personnel. The Lorelei was standing by for action, a final coup that would get H.A.T.E. what it wanted.

I could not learn what that coup was by a series of nods and head shakes, however. I had to take the tape off for that. I turned and looked at David Anderjanian for instructions. He came out of the shadows and stood staring down at the naked woman. He bent over her and peeled away the strip of tape very gently. I expected Giselle to scream, so my hand was poised for a karate chop.

She only lay there and stared up at David, the tears still in her eyes. She was a beautiful woman and she was spread out for him to see every last inch of her nudity. She could tell he was affected by the sight.

She whispered, "Take me...Please! I'm so excited I'm going out of my ever loving mind. Please, please!”

"After,” he smiled down at her. She licked her lips, still staring up at him. “What do you want to know?" she asked.

“What H.A.T.E. plans to do next.” She opened her lips and closed them. She whispered, "They'll kill me, you know, if I say anything.”

David sat on the edge of the bed so that his hip was against her hip and his shoulder touched my upper thigh where I still knelt astride her. He bent his head and kissed her nipples slowly, taking his time. Beyond his head I could see the stark ecstasy in her eyes.

"Nobody will do anything to you,” he said after a long time. "We'll take you into protective custody. Nobody will get to you. You've probably guessed I'm a L.U.S.T. man by this time, so you know I can do what I say."

She licked her lips, then nodded. "All right. If I don't talk this damn agent of yours will drive me loony. I just can't take any more. She lifts me right up to heaven, then when I'm about to make it she drops me into hell.” She shivered. "Somebody's got to take care of me if I talk. You know what I mean?”

David nodded. He stood up and began to strip. I was still kneeling on her legs, looking from the woman to the man. "Look,” I said, "If I'm in the way by any chance, I can go get lost."

“Don’t you dare move, double oh sex. Stay right where you well, anyhow.”

“It can't be done," I said, with perfect logic.

David shot me a dark look. “We'll manage. I'll think of something. Remember, we're both working on this case.” He was naked except for his boxer shorts that revealed quite clearly that he was all man, and ready to prove it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. He kissed Giselle on her throat, on her big, hard breasts, and ran his wet mouth down to her belly. Against her quivering flesh he breathed, "Now talk, honey.” He moved his head a little lower,

"Oh, yes,” Giselle whimpered, “Ohhh, yesss!

She began to babble. H.A.T.E. wanted the laser beam gun which was the perfect answer to any attack by nuclear warheads. If the U.S.A. had the laser-gun and the Other Side did not, then the U.S.A. had a big advantage. It could even start and win a nuclear war, if it wanted.

H.A.T.E. was very desperate. Martin Sloane and his anti-missile laser were top priority. No cost was too great, if H.A.T.E. got the weapon, H.A.T.E. had thought it had Martin Sloane where the hair was short with those pictures. Then along came a spy for L.U.S.T. and swiped them out of the Lorelei wall-safe.

David nodded at me. "That was double oh sex's work."

Giselle gave me a hard glance. “You really get around, don't you?”

She winced when I bounced up and down on her spraddled legs.

"You haven't really told us anything we didn't know." David explained gently, not kissing her any more.

“I will, I will,” she shouted. He began kissing her, she started talking again.

H.A.T.E. had intended to blackmail Martin Sloane into giving them the blueprints. Now they must change their plans and kidnap him. It was that simple: With Martin Sigane in their power, their experts at psychological warfare would soon enough make him spill what he knew. In less than a year, The Enemy would have its own anti-missile laser. Result: stalemate once again and a possible rise of temperature in the cold war.

“When is the kidnap set for?"

"I don't know. No, please—I really don't!

David crouched above her, having pushed me to one side.

I felt a little resentful. After all, two hours ago he had been admiring my abdominal muscles. Now, he was interested only in Giselle Roberts. Ah, the fickleness of men!

I really could not get a mad on, though. I had made Giselle suffer pretty badly. I might as well let her have her jollies. She was going to be in jail a long time.

I watched David move into position, I watched him lunge and saw Giselle close her white legs about him. The bed heaved and shook to their gyrations, bouncing me tip and down. I fell flat on my face, I got to my hands, and knees as they rolled against me.

Whether I liked it or not, I guess I was going to be a part of this love-fest. I tried to getaway but when I put my hands out to shove them off, David gave the a twisted grin.

"Yeah, honey—come on join the fun."

"Three's a crowd." I told him, sliding backward off the bed. It was then that. Giselle reached out and caught hold of me, preventing me from sliding any further.

"Get up here, double oh sex,” she panted. You had your fun with me, now let me have my kicks with you.”

“We—ell,” I muttered doubtfully, but even while was muttering, my hands were lifting off my Italian style blazer suit, leaving me in a garter-belt and black nylons and one shoe tossed the lone granny oxford aside and crawled over Giselle.

I was facing David. He put his hands on my breasts as leaned forward to kiss him. Giselle was busy with us both.

We L.U.S.T. agents make the darnest sacrifices!

Chapter Seven

It was a top level conference.

The general was seated behind his desk, David Anderjanian crowded my hip on the office couch, and Martin Sloane was nervously crossing and uncrossing his neatly trousered legs in the big easy chair. Two L.U.S.T. men were standing with their backs to the far wall. A pretty blonde steno operated the tape recorder. "I don't like it,” said Martin Sloane. He was a tall, lean man with a thatch of curly reddish brown hair on top of his boyishly appealing face. He had good shoulders and his middle was lean and hard. There was a nervous tic at the corner of his right eye which kept winking, winking, winking.

He wore a brown suit and a brown foulard tie. His socks were beige and his calfskin loafers were ox blood red. He was quite a good dresser, I thought, for a main brain.

"I don't blame you for not liking it,” soothed General Moffitt, spreading his hands apologetically, "but under the circumstances, I don't see what else we can do.”

Martin Sloane turned his head and glowered at me. I smiled sweetly. His eyes lowered to touch my nyloned legs. They drifted up to survey the firm mounds under my knit suit bodice. He cleared his throat.

"I have nothing against Miss Drum, you understand,” he went on. Too bad, buddy, I thought. You might be interesting with something against me. His eye kept winking at me, making me want to giggle. He said, "It's my wife I'm thinking about. What will she say when she hears I have a bodyguard that-er-a girl, body-guard who—well, anyhow."

"All this had been arranged, Sloane," David interposed smoothly. "Your wife will be told you're going to work on something extra hush-hush, she is to be sent with the children to visit her folk in Nebraska, all expenses paid.”

"She'll raise the roof.” Martin Sloane declared.

"She won't know anything about it.”

"Are you sure of that?”

He sounded a little top eager but maybe this is because my girlish ear is attuned to the call of the male in all its forms. Martin Sloane, when he said he did not like the idea of my being his Bodyguard, was a cock-eyed liar. His problem was his wife.

I knew a way to take care of that problem. The question was: would my way be needed? I sat back and listened to the males talking all at once; trying to convince Martin Sloane that he would have no family trouble if he did what L.U.S.T. wanted him to do.

The talk went on for an hour and a half. Martin Sloane and his winking eye kept glancing at me very so often, but he knew his wife. He looked like a boy with his nose flattened against a candy-shop window. All the goodies were there and he wanted in, but it was not to be.

The General came close to losing his temper. "All right, all right,” he bellowed “What do you want us to do, lock you up in your laboratory and never let you out."

Martin Sloane paled visibly. "Hell, no!" he screamed. "The other side is after you, man. They'll get you unless we have an agent on your tail day and night.

"Night too?” he asked weakly.

"Of course, night. You think H.A.T.E. has a thing against the dark? They'll spirit you out so fast you won't know whether you're coming or going. You'll come in to one of their torture dungeons and when they begin using willow switches against certain extremely sensitive portions of your body—“

"Jeez,” said Martin Sloane, going white.

He looked at me. I sighed and spread my hands. "Okay, okay. I'll handle it. I have a plan.”

General Moffitt beamed. David Anderjanian scowled.

He knew me better than any of the others and he knew damn well hadn't forgiven him for that little orgy in the hotel room with Giselle Roberts. There was only one thing about it that I minded, of course. He need not have been so eager. Giselle Roberts was part history right now, as well as being a state prisoner in some out-of-the-way spot, but the memory lingered on.

David asked doubtfully, “What do you have in mind?”

"I'm going with Martin to see his wife,” I smiled happily. Martin Sloane jumped up and waved his arms. "Are you crazy? If Midge sees you she'll sue me for divorce, no questions asked. Absolutely not! No! I refuse to be a party to my own funeral.”

"Martin, don't you trust me?" I wheedled. My tone of voice stopped him in mid-shot. He looked me up and down, and grinned, “Well, now. This all depends.”

"If I tell you that your wife will beg you to accept me as your bodyguard—would you believe me?"

"No," he said quite honestly. "I'll have to make a few changes, of course,” I smiled. He looked blank, then glum. "If you think you can disguise your—ah—womanliness so that Midge won't spot you as a knock-out a mile away, you've got the proverbial other think coming.”

"Thank you, Martin,” I giggled. The General wondered, "What plan do you have in mind?”

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't tell anyone. Security reasons.”

"Security reasons? But dammit—I am security.”

"Not enough," I replied, shaking my head. I held out my hand. Martin took it, lifted me off the couch. I tucked my arm in his, dimpling my cheeks at David Anderjanian.

"When your see me next, I'll be Martin's official bodyguard, gentlemen,” I cried gaily. I tugged the laser scientist with me as I headed for the door. When we were out in the corridor, I told Martin, "To my apartment, honey. Then while you read a good book or sop up a little television, I'll go to work on myself."

"I really should warn you, Miss Drum. Midge is a very suspicious person. She will see through any sort of disguise you wear.”

"Of course she will. I'm not going to wear a disguise. I'm going as my real self, unaided by cosmeticians and other assorted forgers."

He looked extremely dubious, but he drove me to my pad in his late model Toronado, looking much like the condemned man who has decided to be brave about it all. I parked him in my easiest easy chair and locked myself in the bathroom. I showered, I rubbed my body dry, I combed out my hair until it was straight, then parted it in the middle, and combed it back over my ears, forming a bun behind my head. I found a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with ordinary glass for lenses, that was part of my L.U.S.T. make-up kit. I put on a shapeless tent dress.

Martin almost fell off the chair when I walked out into my living room. He asked weakly. “It is you, isn't it?”

"It is, Am I glamourless enough for you?”

“For me, yes. For Midge—unh—unh.”

I beamed at him. "Forget about Midge. I'll handle her. Now tell me about her, what foods she likes, what her favorite colors are. If we walk in on her an hour from now what is she likely to be wearing?”

Married people know so much about each other! It was kind of shameful, me listening to Martin Sloane explain how his wife had an old Bathrobe she wore while getting breakfast, with her hair up in curlers, how she sang hymns to herself while cooking dinner—she timed certain dishes this way—and how she screamed at their three kids when they made too much noise.

She wore sheer nighties only on evenings when she wanted to be made love to, she liked soap opera and the Ed Sullivan show' she went out to play bingo every other Thursday night. So on Thursday evenings, then, she wore a housecoat at dinner time, and got dressed later, while Martin did the dishes. Tonight was Thursday.

"Great. Just right,” I told Martin. "Let's go.”

On the way, I briefed him as to what, to say and how to act. He was nervous about all this, he kept taking his hat off and running his shirt sleeved forearm across his moist forehead. He protested that we would be unable to fool his wife, he was an idiot for listening to me, he wanted me to get out of the car so he could drive home by himself.

“Courage, Martin,” I encouraged. "If you do what I tell you, we'll be playing house tomorrow, you and I.”

He thought that over for a while, letting his eyes fake me up and down. The tent dress I had on was like a big, shapeless bag over me, but I had pulled its skirt hem up to the middle of my thighs so he could see plenty of stockinged leg. I like to think that the sight of my gams put some stiffening in his backbone.

As he braked before his house, Martin moaned, "Oh, boy." I gave him a push and followed him out onto the sidewalk. The Sloan home was a modest two story clapboard house with an attached two car garage. There was a tricycle on the blacktop driveway. The evening paper lay tossed across the flag-stoned terrace. It was a familiar, homey scene to Martin Sloane. Every step he took made it seem even dearer to him, He took out his key-ring with the air of a man about to commit suicide. He opened the door and pushed me inside to run interference.

Midge Sloan was standing in the front hall, staring at me with wide eyes. She was a very attractive woman, somewhere in her mid thirties. Her black hair was faintly streaked with gray, done in a cap cut. Her breasts were big and round, they pushed the housecoat out away from the rest of her, even though she held the flaps together with a hand. From what I could see of her legs where the housecoat fell open, she had no reason to be ashamed of her lower body, either.

"Well,” she said slowly.

I guess, even Mrs. Sloane could not quite believe that her husband had brought his doxie home with him. There must be an explanation for all this and she waited for Martin to give it.

I advanced on her, holding out my hand. "You're Midge. I'm so glad to meet you. Do you know what security has had the nerve to do?”

"Why, no,” she murmured. She looked baffled but curious. "I'm supposed to be his guardian,” I laughed, pointing at Martin who tried to shrink behind the hat that he kept turning over and over in his fingers. "Can you imagine that?”

Midge could not, quite obviously. Her eyes touched my ankles and went up to the shapeless tent dress. The dress was really just as baggy as a tent, it was a vast stretch of plain blue Dacron. Then she came to my face. I had left off the cosmetics, I had donned the glasses, but her eyes were like x-rays going here and there. She sniffed coldly.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" she asked. She swung to face her husband and her voice grew shrill. "Marty, what are you trying to pull? This girl—your bodyguard?

"Please, Mrs. Sloane—it's true!” I cried.

And because it was true, maybe there was something in my voice that gave her pause. She hesitated, glancing at me. She shook her head in bewilderment.

"I just know I'm missing something," she muttered,

"Mrs. Sloane, please sit down,” I smiled, gesturing toward a chair. She was faintly rebellious, she was positive Martin and I were trying to put one over on her. Yet she did as I asked, crossing her legs and showing a generous length of taut nylon and a garter-clasp together with a few inches of white thigh flesh, where the housecoat fell away.

"I am a wearer of the red and white belt in judo,” I began. "I am an expert marksman with the pistol. I, can use karate when I must, and I can throw a knife with reasonable accuracy. I am a secret agent for the government.”

Midge Sloan kept looking at the baggy tent dress, her eyes cloudy with suspicion. She seemed not to hear me as I said, "Your husband's life is in danger. You must understand that, Not only his life—but your own as well. The secret agents of another country are after the knowledge your husband has about—the project he is working on."

She lifted her eyes to my face. They were still disbelieving.

“A man would be known for just what he was—a bodyguard.” I tried to look modest as I added, "Now, me—well, H.A.T.E. would believe me to be his girl friend, just as you believe right now.”

“Aha!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

“But I'm not his girlfriend, I'm his bodyguard.” I shouted just as triumphantly. “We surprise H.A.T.E. when and if their agents zero on us. In that way, we hope to nab them all. You see, we've got to catch these secret agents simply because we can't go on guarding your husband forever.”

“You mean, when he gets tired of you, he'll have a ready made excuse to comeback to me," she muttered.

Martin was right. His Midge was a tough nut to crack..  shrugged and spread my hands. "If I had any credentials, I'd show them to you, Unfortunately for situations like this, L.U.S.T. is very hush hush."

"Lust?” she screamed, forgetting to hold the housecoat together at her throat. The flaps fell apart. With a faint flush, she grabbed at her housecoat and bundled herself up again. I smiled down at her, "May I point out that with such an attractive wife, Martin certainly wouldn't want me for a girl friend. Even if my name isn't Jane, I'm quite plain, as you can see.”

"Externals,” she breathed.

“What?”

"Externals,” she yelled. "What shows on the outside—and I can't see very much of that in a tent dress—doesn't look like much, I admit. But without those cheaters, with some rouge and lipstick on and your hair fixed differently, you would be very good looking.”

“Why, Mrs. Sloan—thank you!” She glowered at Martin. "You're pulling some hanky-panky here, Marty. I just know you are. Nothing will convince me you aren't.” Her stormy eyes touched my tent dress. "I'll bet under that thing you've got a figure like a pin-up girl.”

"Would you like to see?” I asked eagerly.

My little plan was working to perfection. She nodded grimly and got to her feet. Martin Sloan looked like a corpse warmed over. His tic was winking like crazy, his cheeks were pasty, his eyes were dull, his smile was ghastly. As he watched Midge march herself ahead of me up the staircase and toward their bedroom, he saw his marriage going up in alimony payments.

I went after Midge Sloan on eager feet. I was positive my plan would work. It had to work. I liked Martin Sloan as a person. I wanted to see him stay married to his Midge. But she was so damn suspicious! I just hoped that what I had in mind would work.

She was waiting at the door of the master bedroom, one hand out as if to point the way. "Luckily, the children aren't here to see their mother's humiliation,” she told me as I slipped past her through the doorway. "They're at a children's party some blocks away.”

She came into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, leaning against it. Her eyes were hard and cold. "Now take that damn thing off!”

I bent and caught the hem of the tent dress, lifting it up and over my head. I was wearing gun-metal nylon, a black lace garter-belt with red lace panties, and a brassiere that had holes in them so that my nipples could poke out.

Midge Sloane said, "Oh!”

I walked toward her, my breasts bouncing gently in the bra cups that had cost me fifty dollars. I put my arm around her and brought her toward the bed. She stiffened slightly against my arm. She was still dazed by all of my female equipment, I think.

"You darling,” I whispered.

“Wha—what?”

I leaned forward, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, and kissed her pouting red lips. They were soft and moist. I swear her lips clung to mine for a brief moment before she lifted an arm to thrust me back.

“What do you think you're doing?” she squealed. I laughed softly. "Ooooh, was it ever clever of you to get us alone like this. And the way you showed me these lovely treasures of yours! Absolutely brilliant, dearest.”

My hand slipped into the gaping housecoat and settled over a big white breast. Gently my fingers closed around it. I bent and kissed the dark brown nipple.

Midge Sloane gasped. Things had been moving a little too swiftly for her, but now her innate womanliness—surged to the fore. She lifted her hands and caught my back drawn hair in a tight grip. She yanked.

I bit down on her nipple and she cried out thickly.

Her hands fell away. I whispered, "Do you like to hurt, darling? Is that how you get your kicks?"

She had not the faintest idea of what I was talking about. All she knew was that she had been caught up in a night mare ever since I had walked through her front door. And that her nipple hurt like crazy. She lifted her hand to rub it but I pushed away her hand and applied my soft mouth to her bruise.

"No," she whispered after a moment. "No, please!”

For answer I pushed her back on the bed. Her housecoat was wide open now and her large breasts stood up, their normal softness a thing of the past. Her brown nipples were gigantic. Her face was flushed and her eyes were closed.

"You're so smart.” I whispered to her uninjured breast. "You knew right away I went for girls and that men—eeccch! Darling, however did you know?”

Her head rolled on the bedspread. My hand was sliding up her inner thigh, along the taut stocking to her thigh meat. Her legs were quivering.

"Oh, my God, what's happening to me?” she whimpered. "You know what's happening, you sweet thing.”

"No. Please, it isn't the way you. . . ohh!” She jerked when my fingers touched her. She was moist, so I knew that protest as she would, she was getting some sort of bang out of this. I was succeeding beyond my wildest hopes. Midge Sloan must be made to think me a gay girl, so she would feel her husband would be safe with me. I just hoped she had never heard of bisexuals.

My fingers moved gently, and she moaned. Her face was twisted in a mask of horrified pleasure. Apparently Martin never got around to playing with her before he took her. Well, there are husbands like that, I guess. I would be doing her a favor if I sent her Marty back to her a more understanding man.

Midge pulled my lips down to her open mouth. She kissed me hungrily, her arms went around me and—.

The doorbell rang. The chimes were like shock waves running down our spines. Midge opened her eyes. Her face filled with terror and realization. Maybe she had been fantasying me as Martin.

"The children,” she wailed, She tried to break free, but I held her tightly. I said, “Wait! Listen! Any time I ever heard kids come home from a party, they made enough noise to wake the living dead.”

The house was oddly silent. My intuition got up on its hind legs and pawed the air. Something was very wrong, down below. Midge nodded, staring up at me with wide eyes.

“It isn't the children, Who is it?” I did not need to answer. I leaped off the bed and, ran to the window. Martin Sloan was coming out the front door with two men close behind him. I saw the glint of late afternoon sunlight on a revolver behind his back.

My hands pushed up the window. Midge was so close behind me I heard her gasp as I put a foot on the windowsill and crouched to leap. My eyes went across the tile-work of the roof where it made an inverted vee above the downstairs entryway. If I could reach the gutter, I could swing down by way of that metal trench to the ground.

I jumped. Midge cried out softly. My fingers caught the gutter and broke my fall. I dropped into a flower bed on all fours. I crouched, getting my breath, then I ran.

The H.A.T.E. men would not kill Martin. He was too valuable to them. The worst they would do would be to knock him out and carry him into the big car I saw waiting beyond the Sloan Toronado. My feet made no sound as I ran on the grass.

I dodged between the H.A.T.E. men, chopping down with my hand on the wrist of the man who held the gun. I didn't dare risk his shooting Martin Sloan. I was counting on the fact that these characters didn't expect any attack. Having forced their victim out of his house and on the way to their car, they would feel they had already succeeded in their abduction attempt.

The gun did not go off. It dropped between Martin and the H.A.T.E. man, and lay there until I fetched it a kick that drove it fifty feet away, arching through the air like a football off a Gogolak toe. Almost in the same motion I brought two rigid fingers, held in a vee, smack into the startled eyes of the gunman.

He screamed and dropped, fingers clawing at his bloody eyes. His fellow was staring at me, frozen in surprise by my near nudity and my devastating attack. I gave him no chance to recover.

I brought my right foot up fast so that the thin stiletto heel of my shoe drove into his right leg just above the knee. The heel was so thin and my kick so vicious, the shoe stayed there, embedded in his flesh. The man grunted in pain and bent forward. The edge of my left hand took him across the side of the neck. He went down and never moved.

I ran for the revolver, one shoe on and one shoe off. I guess I made a rather startling sight in the black lace garter-belt and red lace panties and that fifty dollar brassiere. I saw a man staring from the corner. I saw a woman in shorts and halter go rigid behind her Scotts lawn mower.

I snatched up the gun and ran—hopped back. I bent and yanked free my shoe and slipped my stockinged foot into it. Martin Sloane stood there, staring at me with big eyes. He made me remember George Norton, the night I had saved him from the four H.A.T.E. kidnappers,

I lifted my eyes. Midge was framed in the window, her hands on the sill, her housecoat completely off. All I could see of her was her white face and those big knockers hanging down.

"Get inside,” I snapped at Martin. "Call the cops!”

"Yeah,” he breathed. He turned and ran.

I did not wait for the H.A.T.E. boys to recover. I bolted for the front door right on Martin Sloane's heels. But I turned in the doorway and kept the gun up, covering them. When I saw the woman in the shorts and halter move from her mower to walk toward the street I waved a hand, "Stay back, lady. Those men are killers. If they wake up shooting, I don't want your blood on my head.”

The lady stopped abruptly. She swung about and ran for the safety of her house. The man on the street corner must have heard what I said, because he began backing up toward the corner again, slowly, staring at the fallen men.

The police sirens made a wail in the late afternoon as three prowl cars came roaring down the street. Windows were open and heads were poking out by this time, from almost every house on the block. Midge had slipped back into her housecoat and had thrown a wrap about my near nakedness.

She snapped at Martin, "Well, don't stand there gawking, Marty. Go over to the Nolan's and make sure none of the kids leave the party. No, you idiot—go out the back way. And Martin—don't come home until I call you."

Martin ran. Midge came up behind me and whispered, "I apologize, honey. When I saw what you did to those men, I realized you were some body-guard. Wow! Mind if I stay here with you and wait for those cops?"

She patted my behind with a gentle palm and giggled. I glanced at her in some surprise. She was pulling out the elastic of my red lace panties and sliding her hand inside them. Her palm rubbed back and forth over my bare buttocks as she went on talking.

"Funny thing, I've often wondered what it would be like to make it with another woman. Once in school—but I guess everybody has that sort of thing happen, one way or another. I'd never have believed you were that sort until you came at me like that. Martin never plays with me the way you did. I just wish he would.”

Her fingers were getting bolder. She laughed softly as I wriggled my hips. "Maybe you could slip him a hint or two while you're guarding his body. Bring it back to me safe and sound, honey. It isn't a bad body, as bodies go. If only it weren't so concerned with its own pleasures.”

"He's selfish?”

"On again, off again. Pow!” She took away her hand when we heard the sirens. She slid back into the living room. "I'll be upstairs when you get through,” she called softly.

The Miami police were aware of the sub rosa battle that was going on between H.A.T.E. and L.U.S.T. They nodded when I gave the code word, stale but, that was an anagram of those two agencies.

told the policeman I would make my report to L.U.S.T. and L.U.S.T. would mail them a copy. Meanwhile, the H.A.T.E. boys were to be kept incommunicado. The squad car boys were very understanding. They hustled the dazed men off to headquarters, promising one of them they would get a doctor to look at his eyes.

I closed the front door carefully. Midge Sloane was waiting for me upstairs in her bedroom. My plan had gone over with a little too much of a bang. I had to go on acting the part of gay girl or Midge might upset the whole apple-cart.

The things my country asks of me!

Chapter Eight

Midge Sloane had been busy while the police were below The bedroom curtains had been drawn, two vanity amps with pink shades were lit so that a soft radiance flooded the room, and she had changed her clothes.

She wore a black lace jump suit that covered her from throat to ankles, and adhered to her curved body like another skin. Under it she was naked, a white smoothness dappled in black lace, through which her dark nipples protruded like blunt fingers. There was an added darkness at her groin, and on her feet she wore exotic gold harem slippers with upturned toes. A heavy coating of lipstick made her mouth resemble an overripe fruit. Her graying black hair had been freshly brushed. Rhinestone dangles from her ears matched the necklace at her throat and the bracelets on her wrist.

She was a walking invitation to excitement. "You're beautiful,” I whispered. "I've never worn this outfit>" she told me, her eyes gripping mine like magnets. "I bought it for Martin but I never quite had the nerve to wear it.”

I walked toward her, still playing my part. "If you had, you'd know he would never go around looking for strange women, as you seem to think he does.”

I was close enough to touch her and my hands moved to her heavy breasts, lifting them slightly, letting them fall from my fingers to bounce gently. My thumbs touched the rigid nipples, moving them around where they stuck up through the openings in the black lace. She sighed and moved her thighs, sliding them back and forth. Her eyes were half closed, swimming in pleasure tears,

“You're tea—teasing me,” she panted.

"Making love is like drinking an exquisite cordial. Nobody swallows it all at one gulp. One must taste. One sips a little at a time, to heighten the impressions, to add to the delight.”

I bent my head to sip, Midge moaned, shaking. I let my fingers wander down her sides and across her curving hips, I touched her belly and below, lingering for a long time until she came close to losing her control. She caught my face in her hands, drew my lips to her mouth. She strained into me, her hips pressuring my middle as we kissed.

"Please,” she panted. "Please, please..."

I touched her where she was dying to be touched, I heard her soft cry as it ran between my parted lips, I grew aware of the sting of her red-fingernails in my upper arms. She was using her weight to drag me with her onto her bed. I let myself be dragged.

As the soft bedding caught us, she seemed to explode. Her cries were soft, evocative. She ran her lips down my throat to my shoulders and the swells of my breasts where they thrust up over the red brassiere. She used her tongue on my nipples where the bra did not protect them, but this was too slow for Midge Sloane. She caught the bra ribbing and yanked the cups down.

I felt the fires inside me burst into flame. I sought to rise, to turn her, to take the initiative, but this older woman was stronger than I thought. She held me with my back to the coverlets and worked on me as a man dying of thirst might gulp at water. Her hands were tiny animals stripping me of my red panties, yanking at them and tugging until I lurched my hips upward to let her ease them down. Midge went after me like a wild woman.

I caught her carefully coiffured head, trying to stop her from driving me out of my skin with enjoyment. She made a growling noise, deep in her throat, shook her head and went on with what she was doing. I felt my thighs contract and jerk. I gave little shouts of happiness.

A woman has one big advantage over a man. A woman can go on enjoying herself under continued stimulation for a long time. I never did find out exactly how long Midge Sloan and I were in her bedroom. Pleasure was a cotton puff filled with electricity that wrapped about us both, that made a plaything out of Time, that defied the world beyond the bedroom walls and windows.

The love of woman for woman is as old as sex itself. Long before Sappho was born, Phoenician and Egyptian women were practicing this giving of mutual pleasure, on to the other. Before them, it was known in Babylon, in Sumer, in Ur. Ancient vases from Pamphaeus and Euphronius depict the hetaerae of Greece—who learned from their phoenician sisters—about to indulge their passions. Probably there are vases under the rubble of Tyre and Sidon, Sodom and Gomorrah, which also show much the same thing.

Besides Sappho, there was also Megilla of Lesbos an Philaenus of Leucadia to make this love form fashionable. The goddess Aphrodite assumed the name. Anosia when worshiped in this manner. The feast known as the Aphrodisia Anosia, celebrated by women alone in a tribadic manner, derived its name from this appellation.

The Roman world knew these female lovers. In the days. when a woman could send to the slave market for a pretty maidservant who, under threat of the lash or a worse torment, would consent to serve her mistress in any manner she wished, the lesbic ladies could indulge their inversions as they wished. They had their sapphic feasts—the Bacchanalia. and the Bona Dea—at which they drank themselves into smoking lust, whipped up their fleshy frenzies, with willow branches, and sought release in one another's arms.

The Orient—China, Japan, India—was not far behind the women of antiquity. Court records tell of this lesbian love, the harems of the Turks and Arabs were notorious for the skills of women loving other women. The Arabian gulamiyeh, the woman who plays the part of a boy with another female exists even to this day.

We fell apart on the bed eventually, our muscles just too tired to go on. Midge was smiling an odd little smile as she stared up at the ceiling.

"Poor Marty,’” she breathed. I turned my head lazily to look at her. "Why do you say that?”

"If only he'd do what you did, he'd find a different woman here in this bed he's gotten so accustomed to. I love Marty, but that has nothing to do with us, Eve. I haven't gone off the gay end in a hell of a long time. I'd forgotten what it was like. If Marty did those things to me, I'd never miss it, honestly.”

"You want me to hint to him?" I grinned.

She turned her head and fixed me with her dark eyes. There was a tender thoughtfulness in them. "Ordinarily I'd be hissing like a cat if anyone suggested any such thing to me. Coming from you, it sounds different. You don't go for men. I feel Marty is quite safe with you. And so . . .

"I guess I really wouldn't care if you put a bee in his bonnet. Sure, tell him he's a damn unthinking male animal, that if he wants his jollies the way he likes them, he's got to give me mine, too.”

"Roger. The message is clear," I chuckled. Her eyes clouded. "Somewhere along the way we lost touch with each other. I wonder how often that happens with married people? A lot, I'd guess. I want to get back in the groove with that man of mine, honey.”

"I know you do. And you will.” She giggled, "Just don't go stealing him away from me.” I put my hand on her and moved it around. "You know better than that. Girls are my weakness, sweets.”

She sat up suddenly, staring at the night table clock. "Oh golly! It's almost eight. Marty will think I've died. I'll call him, tell him to bring the kids home. We've got to pack if we're going to make that plane.”

She was all energy, bounding out of bed, running to the phone and dialing. I studied her figure. Midge Sloane was going to make Martin Sloane a lot of happy wife, if I could do anything about it.

I crawled from the bed and stood up, my legs, shaking. We had been rolling around that bed for close to three hours or more. I reached for my clothes and began to dress. Behind me, I heard Midge telling her husband to bring the kids home, that she must pack. I did not hear what Marty said, only what Midge replied.

"Of course I'm going to the folks, dear. Your clever Miss Drum has explained the matter to me thoroughly. And besides, that little display out on the front lawn made me realize how very much in danger your life may be. Now I want you to promise me you'll take good care of yourself if I . . .”

There was a little pause, after which Midge laughed. She whispered, "Of course, dear. Of course!" As she hung up, her smile was oddly promising for her absent husband.

When the children descended on the Sloane household, filled with patty goodies and roast beef—they and Martin had eaten dinner at the Nolans—I helped Martin get them into their traveling clothes while Midge flew around in her room, packing bags and valises.

Once Martin whispered, "How'd you do it?"

"It was easy," I told him. "No, come on—tell me.”

I grinned at him. "Don't us secret agents get to keep our secrets? Actually I hypnotized her. We take courses in how to hypnotize people, you know, just in case.”

I think he believed me.

“I sat beside Midge all the way to the airport. I shepherded the kids into the terminal while Midge and Martin had their goodbye kiss. I did not anticipate an attack from H.A.T.E. so soon after their recent failure. Since the Miami police had been told to keep everything buttoned up, H.A.T.E. might not even know where their agents were. Or so I hoped.

Then, Midge and the youngsters were going through the door out across the field toward the waiting TWA Star Stream 727 that was to take them to Chicago, where they would transfer to the Omaha flight. On the steps of the mounting stairs, Midge Sloane turned and waved to us. Martin and I waved back. Then we both blew kisses at her. I wondered what she was thinking as she stepped into the pressurized cabin of the big 727.

We paid our coins and went up on the viewing deck to watch the Star Stream trundle down the distant runway and soar into the right sky, its lights blinking in a red and white pattern. The drone of its huge Dyna-Fan engines was deafening.

Then Martin and I walked along the runway, back toward the Terminal Building and the airport parking strips. We were both silent. I was reflecting that neither Martin or I could go back to his house, nor could I take him to my apartment. If H.A.T.E. was to think me his mistress, we had to have a love nest.

Still, the name of the game was to force H.A.T.E. out into the open, so we could smash it here in Florida. Sooner or later, H.A.T.E. would know that Midge Sloane and the Sloane children were not at their home. They might not look for them, but they would certainly go looking for Sloane himself.

It was my job to let H.A.T.E. find him.

In a nice, safe way, natch.

Once we were in the car and driving along the Tamiami Trail, I lifted out the transistorized transmitter that looked like a cigarette case and beeped David Anderjanian.

"David here, Eve. Let me check.” There was a silence. Martin drove carefully, not too slowly, not too fast. After a moment he said, "I don't think we're being tailed. I've been watching the cars behind us. Nobody followed us from the airport.”

The boy was getting into the spirit of the thing. I nodded approvingly. "Keep on looking, Marty. It means both our necks.”

The cigarette case made noises. "Eve here, David. Go ahead.”

"Meet me at the Golden Glades turn-on. I'll fill you in by word of mouth. Our friends have been driving past the Sloane house. Apparently they've become alarmed at the nonappearance of their muscle boys. Over and out, double oh sex.”

There was a dirty chuckle and silence. Martin had heard the words. He eased the car into the right hand lane, saying, "Looks as if we got Midge and the kids out just in time. I want to thank you for that, Miss Drum—no matter how you did it.”

I let my eyes touch his profile. I decided he was not wise to what had gone on in his bedroom. Oh well, my credo had always been, the end justifies the means. I patted his nearer thigh.

"Just remember I'm a smart cookie, Martin. I have ways and means nobody else ever thought of.”

He laughed weakly. David was waiting in the flashing neon lights of a liquor store, tall and handsome in his gray flannel Brooks Brother suit. His right hand was lazily stroking his left lapel. This was our L.U.S.T. sign for all okay. Martin pulled his Toronado in against the curb. The door opened. David slipped in, and we were off again.

“We’ve taken a little apartment for you both,” David said as soon as he had settled himself comfortably. "It's over on Biscayne Boulevard. It's a regular love nest.”

“What he means is,” I told Martin Sloane, "the place is bugged up and down and backwards by our agents to prevent H.A.T.E. getting in and capturing us.”

David grinned. "Eve's right, of course. We can't lose you two. So make sure you behave yourselves. Sorry about that, old man.”

Martin grunted.

We had been signed in as man and wife. A moving van had been backed up to the apartment house it was a nice one, I give L.U.S.T. credit for that—and my things and some clothes for David had been installed in the furnished apartment. I will say this much for L.U.S.T, it does not scrimp and save when it is on a job. Nothing is too good for its agents,

The furniture in the living room was done in a delicate French provincial. There was even a color television set in the same styling. A matching sofa with hand-tufted back, in a golden bisque finish, was flanked by two lamp tables, each with a tall bronze lamp,

The kitchen had a brand new Chambers range with a copper cone above it, and a small brick grille where steaks or chops could be broiled over a charcoal flame. Two ovens inbuilt into the wall, the kind that clean themselves by a mere switch of the dial, cute Andersen windows that looked out over the bay, and a vinyl tile floor by Armstrong. It was a bride's dream come true.

"I can be happy here,” I admitted to David. "Me too,” grinned Martin Sloane, looking into my bedroom.

“Eve is here on a job,” David reminded the scientist sternly. I could have kicked him.

"Oh, sure, sure, I know," Martin nodded. "Besides, the place is bugged,” I reminded him. Martin looked glum, and David laughed. “Well,” I said, walking toward my bedroom. "I guess it’s about time I fixed us something to eat. I’m starved.”

“Hey,” exclaimed Martin. “I'd forgotten you hadn't eaten. I had a roast beef dinner at the Nolans. And Midge will eat on the plane.”

David asked, “You two want to eat out? It'll be on L.U.S.T.”

"I'm tired,” explained, "I've had a busy day.”

“You have at that nodded my chief.

He didn't know the half of it. I bet Midge Sloane was sound asleep right now, winging her way toward the Windy City. I closed my bedroom door behind me. I started to strip down.

A shower, a brisk rubdown, and then lounging pajamas. If the L.U.S.T. boys had brought me any loungers, that is. I found some, brand new and still in the tissue paper they had come in. They would fit me. L.U.S.T. was very thorough about such things, one of the girl office workers would have gone out to purchase them, somebody, with my general measurements, so as not to arouse any suspicion,

I let the mingled hot and cold water beat down on me for half an hour. It felt so good I just leaned back against the tile-work and made believe I was out in a country pool under a small falls. I almost smelled the fresh, crisp air. I not only got real clean that way but my laggard appetite sat up and began to remind me I was a human being who needed to eat for energy.

I examined myself carefully. Midge Sloan had been pretty wild, but fortunately she hadn't left any tooth marks on my fair flesh. I looked pretty okay, as a matter of strict fact, I decided when I had wiped away the steam, and stared at my naked pelt in the full length bathroom-door mirror.

The lounging pajamas were green silk crepe with harem pants banded at the ankles with gold bead-work. The pullover part had a dog collar of the same gold beads, I had seen a pair of these darlings that cost upwards of six hundred dollars. As I said, L.U.S.T. never cut corners where it came to spending money.

I put golden dangles on my ears and pushed my feet into gold lamé slippers. Some wife. Some housekeeper. Some cook. I can so cook, told my gorgeous reflection in the vanity bench mirror, blowing a kiss at my big red mouth.

I went into the kitchen and proved it. Since I was just about starving, I wasted no time with crepes suzettes or pheasant under glass, even if I'd had the makings. I yanked a good thick steak out of the freezer unit and peeled off its wrappings. I put a match to a bed of charcoal briquettes and waited for them to come to a glow.

In between lighting them and putting on the steak, I mixed up a batch of martinis, stirred them gently, and dropped little cocktail olives in three glasses. David was still hanging around, unable to tear himself away.

I asked Martin and David to join my repast but they said no, thank, they would just as soon concentrate on the martinis. However, being gentlemen, they came into the kitchen with me while I grilled my steak and mixed myself a chicory salad with crumbled chunks of Roquefort in the oil and wine vinegar.

I ate like a famished wolf. When I was done, I pushed the plate away, stood up and said, "Nighty night, dear ones. The bed inside has a Simons mattress—right, David, I checked for bombs and makes me think of sleepy-bye time.”

I kissed David on the cheek, bit Martin on the neck, and sauntered from the kitchen into the living room and from there on into my bedroom. I closed the door. I ran to the bed, threw back the covers and dove in, Jane Derby loungers and all.

I woke up a few minutes past eight. "Eeeeek,” I said. "Martin has to be at the lab by nine.” I ran into his room, shook him into that comatose state I have since learned passes for his first waking moments. He mumbled, “Jussa little bit more, Midgie. Jussa lilla bit . . .”

I yanked off the blankets and slapped his hip with a palm. "Wake up, oh keeper of the family purse strings. Another day of work dawns. And I'm not Midge.”

"Not Midge,” he mumbled. Next moment he was standing in front of me, eyes wide. “Not Midge? Oh my—ohhh!” Memory made him grin wryly. "We keep on like you really are my wife, I guess? I go to work, you keep house. Stuff like that?”

"Stuff like that," I nodded. “Now dress.”

I drove him to the research laboratory where he was such a big shot. I let him kiss me arrivederci I watched him until he reached the gate where another L.U.S.T. agent would escort him to his workshop. I powdered my nose while. I waited, making sure there were no suspicious characters lurking in cars or idling on the sidewalks.

Then I drove to L.U.S.T. headquarters.

I needed weapons. The General signed a requisition that filled my big shoulder bag with packages of chewing gum (bombs), a compact (that held a powerful little gun that could kill at any distance up to a hundred feet) and a key ring (it wailed like a banshee and triggered off an alarm at L.U.S.T. headquarters).

I picked up the red convertible with the two playboys in it on the way home. It cut onto N.W. 20th Street from a parking position where its motor had been idling, I suppose. I caught it in my rear view mirror because I was expecting some such thing. I grinned and drove along like the carefree mistress I was supposed to be.

I parked near the apartment and sauntered toward our supposed love nest, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Two men got out of the red convertible. They did not look at me. This only added to my suspicions, because I was wearing a mini-skirt and I do have damn nice legs if I say so, myself. Most men would look, and these boys in the bright, sport shirts were no swishes.

They let me get into the elevator before they made their move. They dove for the closing doors just in time to grab them with their hands, ready to slip inside.

I said, “Boys, I want to be alone.” My hand jabbed the eyes of the man on my left. He fell backward with a little yell, releasing his hold to put his hands over his face. The other man froze a moment kicked his hand with the heel of my shoe. My mini-skirt went up to a frankly immodest height as I did, but where my safety is concerned, my modesty knows what it can do with itself.

“Owww.” yelled the man with the bruised hand. "Bye now,” I smiled as the doors closed. While the elevator rose, I opened my bag and brought out my compact. Those H.A.T.E. characters would be really vicious, now. I wouldn't stall them with a poke in the eyes or a chop on the hands.

The doors opened. I waited. Nobody moved. I slithered out of the elevator and put my back to the wall, aware that my heart was slamming like crazy. If they came at me from different directions, I would be in trouble.

I walked toward the door of the apartment. My eyes went every which way at every step. They were waiting where the stair-case made its drop, quiet like mice until the sound of my heel beats told them my approximate location. Then they came for me.

I whirled, I lifted the compact. I pressed the firing mechanism. The foremost H.A.T.E. boy took the tiny bullet in his right shoulder just as he got to the top of the steps. I yanked up my mini-skirt and belted him one in the belly with my right foot while he was still bending over in pain. He went back and into the other man, who lost his balance. They were still clattering down the stairs when I slipped my key into the apartment door.

I went in and threw the burglar chain latch. Then I ran for David's bedroom. I threw up the window. Yes, the red convertible was down there, empty. I fumbled in my handbag for the pack of chewing gum.

Two minutes later they came staggering out of the building, a boy holding shot boy. I let them get into the red convertible before I dropped the chewing gum packet on them. The explosion was loud and deafening and very satisfying.

I beeped David after closing the window. "Look, chief,” I said, "this is getting monotonous.”

"So you miss old David already, do you?” I told him about the dead men and the wrecked car that was even now drawing a big crowd. I could hear voices through the closed window and the wail of a prowl car siren.

"I'm eliminating H.A.T.E. all by myself.”

"Sit tight, honey. We'll handle explanations from this end. Oh, yeah—and congratulations.”

"Hah,” I exclaimed, but I felt good. I spent half the afternoon readying my smooth young body for Martin Sloane, as any loving mistress would. I took a nap, I showered and rubbed myself all over with sweet smelling soap. I eased in an exotic perfume with my palms. I chose frilly scanties and a fancy new wool dress to cover my nakedness.

Promptly at four-thirty I left the apartment carrying my shoulder-bag, my compact clutched in a hand, ready and willing to fight to the death if H.A.T.E. sent any more of its toughies after me. There was nobody. An old lady—at least she looked like an old lady—sitting on a bench in the sunlight, gave me the L.U.S.T. secret sign. I took it to mean that she had had the Toronado under observation ever, since the red convertible blew up.

Still, I shivered as I stepped on the starter. All it needed was a few minutes work on the motor and the Toronado would blow up, had no fear when Martin Sloan was with me, H.A.T.E. wanted him alive. I was the expendable one.

Martin was waiting for me inside the main building lounge, peering through a window. He hurried out, breathless, and began asking questions even before he kissed me.

“You all right? Those men didn't hurt you? You don't want to chicken out on this, do you? Are you sure?”

“Relax, Martin. I'm fine.”

He settled back in his seat, his eyes roving over me. My skirts were pulled up to the middle of my thighs so he was seeing plenty of stockinged leg. After all, I was supposed to be his mistress, so what difference did it make? My dress was a knitted wool in black and blue stripes which I wore with just a lace bra under it, and a tiny garter-belt.

"I feel like a bigamist,” he grinned.

"Easy, honey. We're only playing house.”

He eased closer, his hand, coming to rest on my skirt where it ended on my stockinged thigh. He stroked me lazily. His hand dipped beneath the skirt and his fingertips marched up my inner thigh. I moved my legs to dislodge his hand but he was too engrossed in discovering what little I wore beneath the mini-skirt, and getting quite excited about it, to be dissuaded by any hints.

If I hadn't grabbed his hand and pushed it back, where it belonged, almost think he'd have tried to make it with me right then and there. And that made me remember Midge, his wife, and her complaints about him.

"Martin, what do you do when you get home, usually? I wondered out loud, sliding the car into the express lane.

"I take my wife to bed Immediately."

"No, seriously. Only a bridegroom does that."

“Well,” he gloomed, "if you really want to know, I have to amuse the kids until supper's ready.”

"If you didn't have any kids?"

"Midge would have some chore or other for me.” I thought about that all the way home. Trouble with Martin Sloane was, according to his wife, he was a speeder. He needed to be slowed down, to be taught the delights of lingering by the way. There was no reason why I couldn't help out two of its citizens at the same time that I was helping my country.

If I could return Martin to his wife a better man, I would feel an added sense of accomplishment in my role as secret agent. And so I began to make plans.

I parked and waited for Martin to slide out and come around to open my door. I lifted my legs and eased out, opening my legs as he stared between them. He got nice and red when he saw I had no panties on. Step number one, to give him a preview of coming attractions, was now a fait accompli.

He hugged me when I stood up in front of him, but I gave him an elbow in the ribs, saying sweetly, "Not in public, angel. Haven't you any manners?”

"Awwww, Eve.”

"Patience, darling. Patience.” When I walked into the apartment a few feet in front of him, lifting off my striped wool dress, Martin thought the time had come. He rushed me like a wild boar, lifting and carrying me toward his bedroom.

"Hey," I said. "Go slow, go slow.” I kicked him with the high heel of my left shoe. He dropped me, hopping about on one leg and cursing.

"Martin, you're impossible,” I told him. "You're a tease, just a goddamn tease." My dress was up under my armpits. He was staring at my nyloned legs and bare thighs, my dark privacy framed by the garter-belt, and the nylon cups that showed my breasts. Lazily, swinging my hips back and forth, I lifted off the wool knit and let it dangle from a hand.

"Martin, you don't know how to love a woman.” He scowled as if I had impugned his manhood. I took a step closer and patted his cheek. "But you will, darling. You will. It's going to be my gift to Midge.”

“What's Midge got to do with this?"

"If you act this way with me, you must be even faster with your wife, right? You probably just pick her up and throw her on the bed.”

He did not deny it. He just gloomed at me.

I put hands on his tie, began undoing it “You must be tired, after a hard day's work. Let's get you out of these clothes and into something comfortable."

I stripped him down to his shorts, taking time-out between garments to put his jacket on a hanger, his shirt over a chair-back, his trousers on a clamp. He was wildly excited. I think he was even angrier than he was excited, however, because he just stood there like a zombie, scowling blackly, If I thought I was going to get him to beg, he seemed to be telling me, I was barking up the wrong tree. I moved past him and patted him with my hand, My action snapped him out of his mad. He jumped at me again, determined to put an end to this tomfoolery.

I caught his left wrist in my right hand and chopped down with the edge of my left on his forearm. There is a nerve in the forearm a little more than two inches from the elbow, which if hit properly, can temporarily paralyze the entire, arm, I caught it a good one.

Martin Sloane yowled.

I grinned at him as he skipped around, bent over and clutching his arm. I said, "Darling, you've just got to learn. You do not, repeat: you do not go around throwing girls on a bed and having your kicks without any regard for their enjoyment. Not even your wife.”

He stared at me as if I had grown two heads. I spread my hands and added, "Look, I don't know how long we're going to have to live together before H.A.T.E. comes out in the open. You can make it paradise or you can get the sulks and nothing else. Now do we understand each other?"

"I understand you,” he grumbled. "You're a love rebel, a goddamn anarchist where it comes to men and women.”

"You're just a selfish beast who thinks only of himself," I told him sweetly. "Think about it for a while.”

I walked into the kitchen, positive that he was looking at my behind wobbling gently under my garter-belt strap, and maybe even risking a look or two at my nyloned legs. Let him look. If he wanted any of the goodies, he would learn how to conduct himself. Otherwise, it was no show.

I had already set the kitchen table. I lighted the two candles and lifted out the duckling Bigarade. It was a masterpiece of the culinary art, if I do say so. On a large round dish, the edges of which were covered with black and red cherries and orange slices, a length of baked duckling basted with my special shredded orange-skin sauce and boiled in curacao, floated in its own juices plus the orange liqueur. The smell was absolutely divine.

Martin was standing in the doorway. I let him stand there while I lifted out a chilled bottle of Volnay Hospice de Beanne, 1945. I uncorked it and filled my wine glass. Then I helped myself to the duckling, lavishly pouring the fragrant sauces, cherries and orange slices over the steaming meat.

“What's that stuff?” Martin grumbled. "Duckling Bigarade, sweetheart,” I caroled. "Come try it."

"Only because I'm starved,” he told me. "I haven't forgotten or forgiven what you did to me.”

He filled his plate and attacked the dinner, sipping the wine from time to time. He ate without speaking for about ten minutes. Then he looked at me for the first time.

"Who cooked it?"

"I did,” I announced indignantly. “Hah! And another “hah” for good measure.” I reached out and shook my finger under his nose. "Just because you're an ignorant lout and an uneducated boor, Martin Sloane—don't imagine that everyone lives the same way you do. I appreciate the finer things in life. This just happens to include food. But you're so used to bolting a hamburger—just as you'd bolt sex with me if I let you—that you cannot understand the devotion of a real gourmet."

He pushed his plate at me. "All right, all right. Let me have another serving. What's the wine, by the way?”

I explained that certain foods deserve specific wines, and that 1945 was a great year for most wines. The Volnay was of the vintage 1945. It added piquance to the duckling.

Martin finished his second helping, then pushed the plate an inch away. He stared at me over the candles. "Did you really make this? Honest Injun and cross your heart?'

I made a small x above my left breast, drawing his attention to the fact that the thin nylon cups were all that hid my otherwise bare charms from him. Martin licked his lips.

He said in a hollow voice, "I guess maybe we should have a little talk. I gather that you don't go for me caveman technique.”

“Is that what you call it?

He watched me remove the dirty plates and wine glasses and pile them in the sink. I bent over the oven and opened the door. My dessert was glazed to a nicety.

Martin said with a catch in his voice, “Are you trying to drive me out of my ever-loving mind?”

"Oooops,” I giggled "I forgot. No panties. Well, maybe this other concoction of mine will get your mind off your problem?”

"Impossible," he muttered. I lifted out the rhum au baba, a circlet of glacéed cake with fresh fruit in its middle, coated over with a sugar and rum mixture. Its delicate aroma filled the kitchen.

Martin gulped.

“If you'd only put some clothes on, I could concentrate on the food.” he groused,

This was part of his remedial love-making course, but I didn't tell him so. Let him find it out for himself. I sauntered with the rhum au baba just below my swinging breasts to the table.

He sighed, reaching for a knife instead of a nipple. I guess he had made up his mind to let me set the pace.

We feasted on the dessert, then enjoyed coffee, following this up with a cognac. Martin was positively glowing.

“There, now. Aren't you glad you didn't bolt your food? That you took your time and let me serve it properly?"

“Well, of course,” he nodded.

There was a little silence. He frowned, then glanced at me inquisitively. "Are you trying to give me a message, Eve?”

"Good boy, I think you'll do.”

I stood up and wriggled my fingers at him. "Time for dancing. Come along." He stood up and followed me obediently. I think he was in something of a daze.

I switched on the radio, twirled the dials until I found some soft music. I stepped into his arms, snuggling close despite his masculinity, and cradled myself against him. He danced quite well for a man in his condition. Three times around the room, with my naked thighs brushing against his shorts, and he was trembling.

I hooked an arm about his neck and drew his lips to mine. We clung for along time, his hands moving up and down my back to my buttocks, clinging and petting them, then up and around to where my breasts were mashed against his chest.

I was not made of ice. I felt the effects of his fondling. I told myself I was not going to give way to my emotions, not this night. My job was to be a teacher, no more.

I had an idea.

I escorted Martin into the bedroom.

Chapter Nine

My fingers slipped to the elastic band of his shorts. I began pushing them down. Martin watched what I was doing, hardly breathing.

“Honey, have you ever been to India?” I asked. "In—India?” he gulped. “Or maybe you've read the Kama Sutra?”

He shook his head twice. “Or seen the pictures in the Kama Kala?”

"No,” he muttered.

"But you have.”

“Oh, yes. I've always thought it might be great fun if I could find a man to share a number of these extraordinary positions with me.” He would have to be a real man. A man man. Not somebody with a low boiling point.”

Martin gulped, then said bravely, "Okay. I get the point.” I smiled down at him. "I just wish I had those pictures here. They are really something. My memory is sometimes faulty.” I brightened and giggled. "But I'll remember enough.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Martin nodded. "First we assume a love-play position,” I instructed him, stepping to his side and hooking an arm about his middle. I caught his hand and carried it to my thigh. He needed no coaching now his fingers were as eager to caress as my flesh was to be caressed. I gave a little moan and my hips jerked involuntarily.

We were facing the vanity mirror in which we were reflected. Instead of his naked body and my own, I was seeing in imagination the carved figures on the facades of the ancient temples in India, at Khajuharo and Konarack, those memorials to venery which are so famous the world over.

During the Tenth Century in India, while Europe wallowed in the Dark Ages and the Vikings were invading England and Ireland, the great Hindu temple at Khajuharo was being sculpted with the figures of men and women in the various erotic poses which were so much a manifestation of the Indian philosophy. You will see the dancing girl, the devadasi, forever enshrined in stone as she and others like her share the embraces of a male lover. In their collars and belts, their otherwise brown bodies bared to the kiss of Sun or man, they dance, they love, they express their devotion to the Lord Siva for all the world to see.

Two centuries later, the temple at Konarak—known as the black pagoda—was built in the time of the Ganga Dynasty. It was dedicated to the Sun God, it was festooned with lovely nautch girls in all the poses of the Bharata Natya dances. It was a veritable stone study in the erotic lore of the people who worshiped within its walls.

There is shown all manner of love-play, the three-kisses, the poses by which a woman takes a man and man a woman, the mouth congress called auparishtaka, the many complicated form is of desire. It is a testament to life, to the spirit of love that moved between man and woman to the philosophy of a nation. It was designed to last as long as there might be men and women to observe, to understand to emulate. As I was emulating those stone lovers, with Martin Sloane. As the nautch girl fondled her lover, so I fondled Martin, As she lifted his thigh to her shoulder, so also did I. I assumed the poses and positions each for a little while, as Martin groaned and shook spasmodically.

“No more, no more,” he panted. “I can’t stand it!”

He fought a battle with his flesh, with the desire that made him shiver. He saw me before him and in the mirror of the vanity table. His teeth were sunk in his lower lip as he resisted the urge to forget this nonsense and take me as he might any other woman.

When I knelt and lifted my breasts on my palms, he gasped, "Those In—In—Indians thought of everything.”

“Almost,” I nodded, feeling a little sorry for him, rising to my feet, lifting, my left leg. Martin groaned. "It won't work.”

I ran across the room to get a hassock. I pushed it in front of Martin, stepped on it. Understanding burst in lover boy.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”

"Maybe Indian men weren't as tall as you.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention,” he groaned. "I'm just happy that hassock is exactly the right height.”

He moved silently, breathing harshly. After a moment or two, he asked, "Is it right for you?”

"Oh, darling—yes, yes, yes!”

I risked a glance at the mirror over my shoulder. My moving buttocks caught my eyes together with the powerfully muscled legs of my lover. I felt that I was the sculptured devadasi, that the statue was no more than myself caught in the middle of a most intense emotion.

Over my shoulder, Martin Sloane was staring at our mirrored bodies. The sight must have driven his last bit of self control from him. His hands dropped from my left knee and my hip. His palms slid down to cup my buttocks. I dropped my left leg until I was supported by his hands and my toes.

There we were shuddering together, crying out in our flesh fury. Martin had his arms about me, his fingers sunk into my flesh. My teeth were deep in his shoulder, biting like a cat. Waves of ecstasy shook us together, again and again. I could sense the quivering of his legs as he poured out his desire for me, and tried to hold him upright.

My strength was not enough. We collapsed together on the floor, Martin below me. "Martin,” I whispered after a while. “Mmmmm?”

"Do you understand now why I made you wait? Why I made you take your time?"

“Well, I—I guess I do.” I put my weight on my arms and rose up so I could stare down into his face. "You guess you do? Martin, haven't you any idea about how to please a woman? Must you always think only of yourself?”

He said slowly, “You sound like Midge.”

"I sound like all women, dammit. No woman on the face of the globe likes a man who goes slam-bang, thank you ma'am at his lovemaking.”

Martin looked thoughtful. “You mean I rush into it?”

"Right the first time. Making love to a woman is not just having sex relations with her. There is a difference.”

He was silent a long time. He asked, "Did Midge put you up to this? No, there's no need to answer that question.  I guess I've been a damn fool.”

I slid off him and stood up.

“I've always been pretty selfish,” he said. "I never in my life took time out to think of other people. Maybe it's because I was an only child, my folks were always buying me things, asking me about this or that.”

He shook his head. "Learning came easy to me. I wanted to get the highest grades and I did. I wanted the flashiest car and my Dad bought it for me. It was always Me First and the hell with the next guy. It must have carried over into my love life.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for cigarettes. "Somebody along the line should have reined you in. Didn't anybody?”

He grinned, "Funny about that. A number of girls tried it. I figured they were just trying to bug me, so I dropped them.”

"You can't drop me,” I smiled. "Something like that, yes. We have to stay together, for my own good. It makes me think. Maybe the world isn't as much my oyster as I thought it was. Maybe it's about time I started to give of myself, rather than just taking.”

“You really mean that? I wondered. “Yes, I do. If I ever get out of this bind I'm in with H.A.T.E., I mean I'm going to be different.”

I blew smoke at him. "You'll be happier, if you do. Midge will appreciate it. You won't have to go tom-catting around for your jollies.”

He sighed, "I hope you're right.”

I looked at my wristwatch. It was close to midnight. I said, "Up, Martin. To bed. The witching hour nears."

He grinned, "I thought maybe a quickie...”

“That's a dirty word, Martin." He grinned and got to his feet. "All right, I'll remember it. And I have had a busy day. Is it okay to kiss you goodnight?”

He kissed my cheek like a husbands of too-long-standing. I patted his flank, saying, "Tomorrow night we'll eat out, Martin. We'll dance, and do a little drinking then—since it's Friday we'll have a party when we get home.”

I was under the covers before Martin Sloane was out of my bedroom. I thought, with a throb of blissful satisfaction, that when I was done with him, Martin would be the perfect husband to his Midge. It was some slight repayment for all the trouble his work on the missile defense weapon was causing him.

I got up early and fixed his breakfast. I wore a pink negligee, my hair was properly set, I was the mistress not the wife of several years. I told myself I would write to Midge Sloane and counsel her about wearing old bathrobes and going around with her hair up in curlers.

Martin did not want to go to work. I had to push him out the door and follow him so as to chauffeur him to the research laboratories. On the way home I saw a L.U.S.T. car following at a little distance. I got a real warm feeling, knowing that somebody cared.

My cigarette pack radio was beeping when I let myself into the apartment. It was David Anderjanian.

"Eve, we have reason to believe H.A.T.E. is getting ready to pounce. The Count and two of his friends have landed from the yacht. They were trailed to the house where Balder Cunningham lives."

"Maybe they were called in to identify me.”

"No, I think there's another reason, but we can't figure it out yet. However, we'll keep on watching.”

He signed off after promising he would keep in touch. I had the day to myself, so I went back to bed. I set the alarm for three o'clock, giving myself plenty of time to shower and dress for our night out.

David woke me a little before three. "Your friend the Count and his two shadows are on their way back to the yacht,” his metallic voice announced.

"Good. Maybe they'll sail home to sunny Italy.”

“I don't like it, Eve. They're making plans.”

“I’ll be careful.”

"Do be. We can't keep you in view every minute.”

"Martin and I are going dancing tonight. One of those go-go places. If H.A.T.E. wants us, they'll have to come right out in the open.”

"Yeah. They'll shoot you and grab him.” David sounded morose. I tried to cheer him up by saying,

"My compact has plenty of life in it, sweetikins. And I like staying alive myself. I'll leave my circuit open, if you want. Then you can hear everything.”

Not a bad idea.” I clicked him off and lay there staring at the ceiling. I wondered if I would ever be able to return Martin Sloane to his wife all healthy and happy. H.A.T.E. was making it very difficult. Oh, well. The hell with H.A.T.E.

I showered. I slithered into bikini panties and a specially wired bra built into my low cut evening gown. I would seem to be rather bare from the waist up, but it was an important part of my plan. The bra had an inbuilt, transistorized bugging device which, once I snapped it on, would pick up anything being said around me for a distance of twenty feet. Or maybe more, if the voice were loud enough. Under the gown, it would seem that I was not wearing a brassiere at all.

The gown itself was black velvet, almost knee length. To the world at large, I was the smart young housewife out for an evening on the town with her ever-loving husband. I put dangles in my ears, each was another version of the panty rosebud bombs.

I was ready for love or H.A.T.E.

I drove through the evening rush hour traffic slowly, spending almost as much time looking in the rear view mirror as I spent studying the traffic through the windshield. If H.A.T.E. were following me, it was doing a damn smooth job of it. But then, H.A.T.E. always did a smooth job.

Martin got into the car with a big grin, carrying a white orchid in a paper box. He kissed my throat, moving his lips up and down. I purred.

I drove to Biscayne Boulevard where the neon lights make a red and blue pattern on the sidewalks outside the go-go places. I parked on a strip of blacktop and waited for Martin to open my door, using the few seconds of privacy to flip my bra to the on position.

"We won't go dancing yet, dear,” I told him. “We want a nice dinner first. I know just the place—.”

The Vesuvius looked, like a dive from the sidewalk. It had a big dirty window with a menu pasted on it with scotch tape and a couple of seedy old ferns stuck here and there in torn tissue paper along a little ledge.

Martin asked, "We're going to eat in there?”

I giggled and squeezed his arm. "Laugh now, weep later, when you taste the special shrimp sauce with spaghetti.”

"Oh! Italian food."

"Real Italian food, Martin. You'll see." We ordered antipasto and minestrone, spaghetti with shrimp sauce, osso buco and potato gnocchi. Martin let me do the ordering, he was content with the flagon of Chianti waiter brought to the red and white checkered tablecloth, setting it down as if it were a treasure in and of itself. It was, in a way, it lay golden on the tongue.

The antipasto was that rarest of all dishes when eating out, it was a blend of Genoa salami, roast pepper rings, ripe olives, sardines, mushrooms filled with ham, clams casino, anchovies and pepperoni. Martin could have made a meal of it, but I cautioned him.

The minestrone was nectar to the taste buds, and the shrimp sauce was out of the known world. Each type of pasta must be taken with the sauce best suited to its flavor. The spaghetti was made for the delicate fragrances of these tiny shrimp.

I was getting full. So was Martin. But we were game, and when the osso buco was set before us, one whiff of this Milanese dish was enough to get our taste buds back in shape. The veal was tender in Marsala wine, about to fall off the bone, and the gremolata sauce was the perfect seasoning.

The potato gnocchi were a golden brown. When we were done, Martin said, "I haven't eaten like this in I don't know how long. I'm stuffed to the teeth."

"Good. Then you'll have plenty of energy for dancing.” A waiter hovered in the shadows, advancing with chilled oranges in wine. It was enough of a change—he taste was bitter-sweet and very pleasant after such a meal—that Martin and I finished them, every one.

We were half drunk on food and the Chianti we made our way out of the Vesuvius. I risked a fast glance around the street and saw a L.U.S.T. man lighting a cigarette in the shadows of a candy store. He made no sign, so I assumed the coast was clear to keep on going.

The discotheque I picked was extremely popular with the young mods. Martin and I did not qualify here, you had to be less than twenty to belong, really, but there were a lot of others like us doing the frug or the watusi to the blaring electric guitars of the Mad Mods on a platform. After all the older ones paid the tab, for the most part, they ordered the liquor the kids couldn't afford.

Martin paid somebody five dollars, so we got squeezed in at a table with a bearded youth and his girl friend. The young man sat there with his eyes closed, humming softly to himself, the girl was staring with big cow eyes at the frantically moving go-go girl in one of the three golden cages raised above the heads of the dancers and hung on chains.

The go-go girl was wearing a sheer slip dress that came down to her upper thighs and gave the impression that under it she might be stark naked. I watched her thighs churning, jerking, always moving, noticed that her breasts kept bouncing, bouncing, bouncing beneath the scanty tunic of silver lamé. I wondered if the girl sitting with us was a gay one.

Martin said, “Let’s dance, hon.” We got out on the floor and began gyrating right along with the young ones. Martin watched my breasts jiggle for a few moments, then let his attention wander. I could hardly blame him. I was dressed like old Mother Hubbard compared to some of the little dolls around me. There was one blonde in a mini-skirt and bolero and slippers. This was all she had on, so that her young breasts slid back and forth in unashamed nudity. A little beyond her, a redhead in a crocheted cotton thing with plenty of holes in it to show her pink flesh beneath it, was rocking away with her head tilted to one side, eyes closed and mouth open.

There were other examples of the latest trend in discothequenicians which seems to be that above all, you must be yourself. If your id is best expressed by cotton crochet with you naked under it, then by all means, you must be true to cotton crochet,

"Wow,” said Martin a couple of times. "Funsville, huh?" I panted, working away.

One of the girls in the golden cages overhead was stripping of her jersey dress. A couple of voices took up the chant, "Nude is not lewd, nude is not crude, nude is love.” It made no sense but it kind of got down inside you after a while. Martin seemed a little stricken when he looked up into the cage where the girl was frugging.

The jersey dress came floating down. Somebody caught it, held it tightly. A voice giggled that the go-go girl went home with whoever caught her dress. The one who gripped it so hungrily, never taking her eyes off the white body in the cage, was the pretty blonde girl at our table.

When we got back to our table, I said to the girl, "Do you know her?” indicating the dancer with my upraised eyebrows. The blonde girl shook her head slowly, her lips smiling dreamily.

"I will, though,” she whispered. I glanced at her boy friend, the bearded one. “What about him?”

"He watches. He makes suggestions. If we can get him interested enough, he joins in. It's quite a compliment when he wants to take part.”

"I'll bet,” I said.

The blonde girl went back to staring up at her inamorata for the night. The bearded youth had not opened his eyes. I think he was high on pot.

Martin said, "Some night I'll bring Midge here. Maybe she can catch one of the dresses and we'll have an orgy.” He shook his head. "I read about places like this but I don't think I ever believed what I read.”

"You're too old to be a believer,” the blonde girl murmured. “The future is not for you. It has passed you by.” Martin looked a little staggered. "Hey, I'm not dead yet." But the blonde girl had forgotten him, she was rubbing the jersey dress against her cheek and sighing.

Martin hooked my elbow. "Let's get out of here,” he growled. "I can't take much more.”

I rose and took two steps away from the table when someone cried out. I glanced up. A sheer nylon coverall with a patterned print design was being dropped from the golden cage above me, right toward my head. Off to one side, somebody flipped a cigarette. I laughed and reached up for the shimmery thing—.

A hand hit my shoulder, knocking me off my feet. "Sorry, lady—this chick's mine." A gangly youth was catching the transparent garment so that it folded lightly about his head. A tiny arc of brilliance shot through the air between us. The lighted cigarette hit the dress and the dress exploded with a whoommpff.

It took less than three seconds, all told.

The gangly young man was screaming, rocking back and forth as he staggered between the tables, clawing at his face. The dress was a sheet of flame all around his head and upper body. Girls and women were screaming, standing, men were bellowing in fright and anger. Someone yanked off his sports jacket, spread it and wrapped it about the flaming head of the young man.

The smell of scorched flesh and burning hair was strong in the room. I was still perched against the table where the push had driven me. Martin was at my elbow, face white and terrified, his eyes bulging.

"My God, my God,” he kept saying over and over. I knew what he was thinking. That might be me under the smoking sports jacket, me writhing and sobbing in pain as the young man was twisting and screaming. H.A.T.E. had picked a strange time to strike, but a time that was most appropriate from their point of view.

I whirled and stared at the golden cage. The girl was crouched there, staring down in horror, her hands covering her mouth. From her point of view, the wrong person had got burned. H.A.T.E. had found away to coat her dress with some highly inflammable substance—napalm? Naptha? so that when the girl dropped her dress and I was right under it a second agent merely had to flip a cigarette and I was out of the action.

The girl would not get away. A couple of L.U.S.T. agents were moving toward her cage which was too high for her to pump. There was a faint sound—the silencer on a gun—and the girl sagged suddenly, dropping to the plastic disc which was the cage bottom.

The L.U.S.T. men leaped forward, separating. I gripped Martin by the hand. "Let's get out of here.” I breathed. I didn't want to stay around to be the target of a police interrogation. Let L.U.S.T. tell the police what they had to know.

We ran as best we could, pushing our way through the crowd that was moving toward the screaming young man. Others as publicity shy as ourselves were also making tracks for the street outside. We fell in with a group and in less than a minute, were moving down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.

Inside the car I let my head drop against the seat back. My stomach was churning like a Mix-Master. It was all I could do to hold down the osso buco and the oranges in wine. I swallowed hard a dozen times until my nausea eased.

Martin was saying, "—been you, it could have been you. Oh God, what kind of people are we dealing with?”

"People who want—want that weapon of yours,” I whispered. "

“Damn them! Damn them!” he snarled, fist hammering the steering wheel. He turned and stared at me, asking, “Do you, want to report in or whatever it is you secret agents do after something like this?”

“Yes, but—not here. Drive around, Martin.”

He drove down Bird Boulevard and along Coral Way, then up the Dixie Highway for a few miles. I fumbled out my cigarette case and raised the antenna.

“We've been in touch, Eve,” I heard David say, his voice worried, "You all right?”

I remembered the bug in my special bra. I said wearily, "Outside of the shock to my nervous system, I'm fine. David, if that poor boy hadn't been 'gone' on the girl in the cage jealous for fear we'd steal her away from him. . ."

I could not go on. I sat there and shook. David spoke to me through the metal and plastic of the electronic gadget.

"Go home and stay there, Eve. Fast.”

Martin heard the imperative riote in his voice, and nodded grimly. His foot moved down on the accelerator. The car shot forward.

David went on talking. "I've dispatched agents to the apartment to check it out so is safe for you. Where are you now? Back on Biscayne Boulevard? All right, you should be home in half an hour, Give us that much time: Then lock yourselves in."

I clicked off the radio and sat staring blindly out at the moving cars. I wondered if the young man who had gone up in flames would be able to see or if the blazing dress had destroyed his eyes forever.

I began to sob softly, in stark terror.

Chapter Ten

Martin Sloane was very understanding. He slipped his arm about my shoulders and tugged me over until I rode along with my head nestled on his shoulder. He drove skillfully with just one hand on the wheel. Of course, he was driving slowly and over on the far right-hand side of the road. Still, he was pretty good at it.

His fingertips dipped down into my low cut bodice, ran back and forth across the inner swells of my breasts. They made me tingle, caused my nipples to rise to attention. I wriggled on the seat. Maybe danger was a stimulant, I wasn't sure, but I did know he was getting to me.

“Mmmmm,” I hmmmmed.

"Like that?”

"Oh, yes. More.”

I slipped my hand in my brassiere and lifted out my left breast and then the right. They hung swollen in the flashing lamp-lights as the car moved along. Martin ran his palm over them, gently and lovingly. He really had improved I thought. He was concerned now only with making me enjoy myself.

After a time he said, "Eve, you know you're right.”

"About what?”

"About taking my time, about not rushing into love making like a bull in heat. Actually, I'm dying to take you right here and now. But by taking my time, by playing with you, I find I'm enjoying myself in a different way.”

"Won't Midge be surprised,” I murmured. He laughed and pinched my nipple. "I owe it all to you. You're quite a gal, you know?”

Me, sexologist. I patted Martin and found him ready willing and able to play the part of a man man. I squeezed him, heard him gasp.

"I'm getting anxious myself,” I giggled.

"Oh, no. I'm not going to rush things. I feel that this is exam night, tonight. I'm going to show you how good a pupil I am. If you feel up to it after what happened, that is.” "You've made me forget all that,” I told him. It was true enough. H.A.T.E. could take a running jump for itself. I was going to ignore H.A.T.E. for the next few hours.

"Can't this cargo any faster?' I wailed. He took away his arm, I slipped my breasts back inside my built-in brassiere. My brassiere! It was still on. David and the rest of the LU.S.T. crowd could hear everything we'd been saying!"

I fumbled for the off switch, pressed it.

Nothing happened.

I damn near died.

The electronic bug in the brassiere could pick up sounds anywhere, in the vicinity of fifty feet. Inside the apartment, this might be a severe handicap. I could scarcely tear it out of the gown it was built into, without ruining the dress itself. And I did not dare do that for fear of letting Martin know that L.U.S.T., had been listening to him talk. No man would relish that sort of news.

Martin whispered, "Pull up your skirt, honey.”

I wanted to shush him. I thought of David Anderjanian listening in and grunting and saying something like, "That double oh sex is really turning on the heat again!” but I did what he asked.

Up came my black satin gown and now my legs were bare and white all the way to my hips. Martin slid his hand up and down the nearer thigh.

“You have gorgeous gams. Absolutely breathtaking, with or without stockings.”

I wanted to tell him to shut up. I bit my lip, instead. This it was a calculated risk I took as a secret agent. I had to suffer in silence. The only trouble was, I could scarcely keep silent, not with what Martin was doing with his fingertips.

I moaned. I twisted my hips, I widened my white thighs and then snapped them shut. I moaned again. My fingers were inside the gown bodice, working away at the switch that had become stuck. I guess Martin thought I was fondling myself because he said something about doing that to me if he had a free hand.

Martin pulled into the apartment parking lot.

What was I going to do about that damn brassiere? I slid out, half ran for the door. Martin shouted something but, I could not wait. I had to strip off the gown, hit the electronic bug with a hammer, if I could find one. I ran as fast as I could but Martin caught up to me at the elevator. "Honey, I'm in just as much of a rush as you are, but you've got to let me do this my way. I want to show you what I've learned from you.”

Please, stop talking! I begged silently. David Anderjanian was probably rolling around the floor, laughing himself to death.

He kissed me as we stepped inside the elevator, a searing kiss with lips and tongues and pelvic bones and all. When the elevator jerked to a stop, Martin was panting like a locomotive going uphill. I was sobbing right along with him. The hell with the electronic age, I thought. If L.U.S.T. wanted in on what was going to happen, let it.

We fled from the elevator toward the door of our little love nest. If H.A.T.E. had been anywhere around, it would have had a field day. I was in no mood to defend myself. Luckily its agents had already made their try for the night. The door opened. Martin was pressing into my rump, hitting my soft backside with his virility as if to remind me what was about to happen. Fortunately, he didn't say anything. I am always grateful for small favors.

The door slammed. Martin leaned against it, breathing heavily. When he could catch his breath, he said, "Two nights ago I would have leaped on you, yanked your skirt up and taken you right here on the floor. You've taught me patience, Eve. I'm going to undress you—slowly, honey. Real slowly.”

Shut up! Shut up! I thought frantically.

He came toward me, putting out a hand. A shoulder strap first, to bare your precious flesh. Flesh I must kiss . . . so. And see how the strap drops down, I'll run my lips along your upper arm ... like this. . . .”

The other strap dropped. So did my cocktail evening gown, right down to my navel. My breasts were bare. The inbuilt brassiere was right below them, catching the sounds of his kissing.

He started talking again. I could have kicked him. "I used to think Midge had big ones. Yours are real love jugs, Eve. Oh, they're so perfect, I could spend hours just adoring them this way ... and like this...”

His hands were on the gown where it hugged my hips, pushing the black satin down. I had to do something. I could not, I repeat, I could not let all L.U.S.T. listen in on us.

Martin was kneeling before me, running his mouth across the soft flesh of my quivering belly. I wanted to get away from his lips, to smash that electronic bug, but my legs were shaking so much, I could not move them. It was like one of those nightmares where you knew you hand to move, your life depended on it, and you could not.

I felt my gown going down past my upper thighs. I was stark naked except for my evening slippers, staggered as his arms went around me and his mouth got a lot more personal.

I had to spread my legs to keep my balance.

I could see the tiny device that was causing me all the anguish. It was five inches from my right heel, that tall, curving column of solid leather that held up my hundred and ten pounds of female flesh.

All I had to do was—.

I lifted my leg. I aimed my heel.

Martin breathed, "Oh my darling—yes!”

I forgot about the bug.

I lived only for Martin Sloane and what that man was doing to me. Oh, was he ever a quick learner, a fast study as they say in the theater. He really had a flair for this sort of thing. He had the screaming in seconds. I clung to his hair, I withed my hips. I even shouted a few naughty words.

The hell with L.U.S.T. listening in.

I just enjoyed myself. I babbled, "Oh, lover! Don't you ever dare stop these wonderful exams you're taking. You're going to get an A plus, darling—oooh, are you ever! And a keep up the good works—that's right, that's right!?”

He went on getting in his licks until I damn well collapsed on top of him, unable to stand up another second. My middle was pumping away a mile a minute. I reached for him, dragging him over on top of me.

"Now!” yelled. “Now, damn you!”

“We maybe ought to wait while I tease—”

“The hell with that,” I screamed. Martin needed no more encouragement. He fell on me, driving me down onto something small and hard. The bug I wanted to laugh—the idea of smothering the damn thing with my behind was ludicrous but effective—yet who could laugh at a time like this?

We made love forever, it seemed. Instant Heaven, that never stopped. Well, we stopped after a long time, though Martin assured me he could go on and on. But by this time, I thought my rump was bleeding from the electronic gadget sticking into it.

I had to get off it. I felt it was drawing blood. I wriggled out from under my Frankenstein monster, this man-man I had created, so to speak. I snatched up my gown.

I ran.

In the bathroom I closed and locked the door. I snatched off an evening slipper and held it poised like a battle ax "Damn the mechanical age!” I panted, and whaled away. My aim was always good. Inside of seconds the bug was a shattered mass of tiny fragments, I brushed them onto my palm and dropped them in the toilet bowl. I flushed it, watching my nightmare disappear. Then I sagged against the wall.

I was too late to save what was left of my self-respect, but at least I had the satisfaction of striking back. Then a thought hit me: now I had destroyed the bug that kept L.US.T. in touch with me, suppose H.A.T.E. should close in? I wanted to scream.

I staggered from the bathroom into my bedroom, casting a glance at Martin Sloane sleeping soundlessly on the living room carpet. I went and got a comforter from his bed and put it over him. Then I crawled into my bedroom and yanked the antenna on my false pack of cigarettes. "Double oh sex here,” I snarled. “Where's David?”

"We're reviving him, ma'am," a voice laughed.

"Funny, funny! Tell him I broke the bug. It wouldn't shut off.”

David's dear voice chimed in with "L.U.S.T. agents are really, very resourceful. Took you long enough. What are you, an exhibitionist?”

"Now look chief—.”

"All right, all right. I'll have another one delivered in the morning. It's too late now. Besides, we have men watching you all over the place. H.A.T.E. couldn't get at you with a hydrogen bomb.”

"You mean, I can go to sleep with an easy conscience?”

"I don't know about your conscience, but you can go to sleep—if you want to waste your undeniable bedroom talents in any such silly manner.”

I rammed down the antenna with an angry hand. Martin snored. I shrugged. I guess I might as well waste my talents by sleeping, as David Anderjanian suggested. I didn't have anything else to do.

The new bug was delivered in a spray of carnations from 'an unknown admirer'. I had to step over the still snoring Martin Sloane to answer the bell ring. I slid back to the little window, saw one of the L.U.S.T. boys I knew in deliveryman garb, and undid the lock. It was almost eight o'clock, next morning.

"H.A.T.E. has gone into hiding—after the fiasco at the go-go club," he informed me,

I just grunted. I am not civilized before eight o'clock in the morning. I took the little white paper box, opened it, lifted out the flowers. Smelled them and prodded around until I found the bug. It was distinguished as a gold pin with a scarab on it. Sort of ancient Egyptian.

I turned it on, then switched it off. It seemed to work fine. I stepped over Martin, put the flowers on the night table and fell face down onto the bed. I slept.

Martin woke me, standing beside the bed in his pajama pants. "Hey, honey—open those baby gray eyes. It's past midday. I'm hungry."

I opened one eye,

"Breakfast in bed?” he asked cheerily.

I grunted and rolled over. I could smell coffee. Sleepily I nodded my head. Martin bent down to kiss my nose.

“Eve, I have a great idea. Today we'll go on a picnic. Down the coast and around, and about. What say?"

"Do I have to pack a lunch?"

"I'll do it. You just rest.”

I nodded and fell asleep again in mid-nod. I dreamed I shrank and that Martin was carrying me in a big picnic hamper filled with jelly sandwiches and that I had a thing for jelly sandwiches, I kept eating and eating them until I was bulging out the sides of the basket. Then the tap came off and there was Balder Cunningham with a big grin on his face and a gun in his hand that he was aiming at me and—.

"Aaaaagh!” I screamed and failed out with a hand. Instantly I was sopping wet with ice cold orange juice, scalding hot coffee and buttery toast. Martin Sloane was bending over the bed. A tray had been in his left hand, and he wore a look of utter stupefaction on his face,

"Gee, honey—I'm sorry. I wanted to surprise you but I must have scared you and . . .”

"Forget it,” I mumbled wearily.

"It's par for the course, these days. I just move from one nightmare to another.”

"Icky,” I added, lifting the wet sheet off me. The empty juice glass, the cup and saucer and spoon, the toast plate and a knife all rattled around somewhere on top of me. I sank back onto the bed and sighed.

"Go away, Martin. Let me mourn by myself for half an hour. Then I'll join you in the breakfast nook. Good-bye, Martin darling.”

Half an hour later, wearing a red and white Pierany knit and flaunting my gold bug, I sauntered into the kitchen. The wet bedclothes were in a bundle, ready for the laundry, my girl body was soaped and washed and perfumed, my false Fashion Tress yellow hair was done up in a topknot and I felt like a million dollars. Us secret agents have to be able to bounce back.

Fruit juice and toast and coffee later, I reached out for the picnic basket Martin had found and filled. I peeked. No jelly sandwiches. Good Roast beef and ham. And two thermos bottles, one of coffee, one of martinis.

"We're off!” I shouted loudly into the bug. The day was one of those perfect Florida gifts to man, sunny, but cool enough to be pleasant, with a slight breeze going. The sky was a soft blue with fluffy clouds on the horizon. Martin and I ran for the Toronado and jumped in, with Martin in the drivers' seat.

"Where away?” I wondered as he swung the car out into traffic.

"We are going sightseeing, my dear.” He waved a big hand. "You see before you the state of Florida, named for Flora, goddess of growing things. We are going to visit the little known corners of the state, the ones nearest to see, that is, while, I regale you with choice and little-known tidbits of historical interest.”

I let him babble on, seeing a new side to Martin Sloane This was not the scientist, nor the lover, nor the man L.U.S.T. was sworn to protect. It was the little boy, showing off. I clapped my hands, curled myself up on the seat and waved him on.

"For an instance, my dear—what was the longest war the United States ever fought ?Hah? It took place right here in the great state of oranges and sunshine. The Seminole Indian war, my sweet—lasted over twenty years before they signed the final peace treaty.”

The Toronado picked up speed along the Dixie Highway. “Where in the United States can you find a man-made bat tower? No, no, not the bat cave of Batman and Robin, but a real, honest to goodness bat cave, built just for bats to live in.”

"You're kidding,” I accused him.

"Indeed I'm not," he announced indignantly. "You can see it in the Florida Keys—on Sugar-loaf Key, go be exact. It was built to house bats which were to batten on the hordes of mosquitoes annoying the residents of that portion of the state back in 1929. Unfortunately, the bats would not stay in their nice little tower and eat mosquitoes. They went flying home to Cuba, whence they had been imported."

"Commies,” I laughed.

Martin chuckled. "Before the Commies you had the pirates—real mean boys like Gasparilla—who actually hid some of their ill-gotten loot along the Florida coast. Blackbeard's supposed to have buried millions of dollars worth of gold plate, jewels and doubloons on Amelia Island, just offshore near Jacksonville. As much as two hundred thousand has already been found.

"South of us, off Long Key, fourteen Spanish galleons sank in a furious storm—probably an early hurricane in the year 1715. They've found silver ingots from one of those ships, so it proves they're still there: The silver assayed out as almost one hundred per cent pure.

"Up north—around the Crystal Bay area—more than fifteen million dollars in pirate gold is said to be buried. Nobody knows too much about it, but back in 1870 or so, an adventurer is said to have unearthed some of it. So the greater bulk is still waiting for somebody to find it.”

"Let's us go treasure hunting, Martin!" He grinned. "Sure? But how?”

"Oh, I don't know. We could stop somewhere along the coast, take off our shoes and go digging with our toes.”

He whooped with delight. "As good a method as any, since luck's involved most of the time in any find. We'll do it. Keep looking for the right spot.”

We were moving along U. S. 1, as if we had not a care in the world. Once in a while a boat would sweep past through the inshore waves of the Atlantic or a helicopter might fan the air with its rotors high overhead, but for the most part there was only the traffic sliding past or keeping up with the sixty miles per hour that the Toronado was doing.

We ate at a place called the Barge along the Keys a restaurant hung with nets and cork bobbins and such, where the cocktails were ambrosia and the chicken was cooked in wine.

We had started late in the day, so it was dusk as we came out to the car. The air had turned heavy and hot so that the clothes stuck to our flesh. I pulled my Pierany knit away from my front and wriggled as a trickle of sweat ran down my spine.

"What I wouldn't give for a nice shower,” I panted. Martin waved a hand. “Why settle for a shower? We have the whole ocean to bathe in.”

I considered the implied suggestion. "We don't have any bathing suits, but that shouldn't stop us. Can you find a nice, quiet spot?”

"Leave it to eager beaver Martin Sloane.” He drove for twenty minutes, then turned off onto a stretch of hard-packed sand and braked. The moon was a big orange in the Florida sky, the air was warm with early summer. It would be heavenly in the water.

I caught the hem of my dress and yanked it up. Off came my bra and up went my arms as the sea breeze cooled my damp flesh. I waited until I was outside the car, standing on the sand, before I shoved down my panties and kicked them into the car. Last of all, I removed by Fashion Tress wig.

"Last one in's a stink mink!”

“What's a stink mink?" Martin yelled. "I don't know. It just sounds good.” I dove into a breaker, slid into a world of wet, cool darkness. I swam through the wave, surfaced, and found Martin swimming beside me. We stroked for fifty yards, then moved our arms and feet to hang suspended in the water below the stars.

Somewhere, a whirlybird roared through the night. It was almost as if we were alone in the world. The beach was a dim length of pale sand, with a backdrop of bushes and beach grass heightening its appearance. The water was black with little white foam—lets tipping its heaves. I splashed Martin, laughing.

It was good to be alive, good to be cool after the earlier heat. My hair would be a mess, but a lot I cared. I was having too good a time. Martin moved closer, ran a hand down my back.

“Your flesh feels different under water. Smoother—no, not smoother, that isn't the word—but slippery. Yes, slippery."

"So's yours,” I smiled, running my palm down his chest. We fiddled around with one another, Martin finding out how slippery different parts of my body were, settling on my breasts as most slippery of all—though he amended that by adding their natural shape gave them an added advantage here—and my feet as least slithery.

We were in a lazy mood as we came wading up out of the water. I ran my palms down my sides, shedding water. I shivered as the sea breeze played across my spine.

We were halfway to the car when the spotlight blazed up. We stood stock still, blinded for a few moments. I figured David Anderjanian had come sneaking out of the blackness to play some trick or other.

The voice said, "Ah, good evening, Mister Sloane. Good to see you enjoying yourself. And with your inamorata. How touching."

My muscles tensed. I knew that voice. Balder Cunningham was standing out there in the blackness holding a gun on me. With the bright light in my eyes I could see nothing but blackness, outside Martin naked by my side, but I knew that voice. I expected to feel a bullet smashing into me at any moment.

Oddly, I did not feel frightened. Just mad at myself at having relaxed my vigilance this way.

The bullet did not come. The H.A.T.E. chief was toying with me, I decided. The voice began again.

“Up until this afternoon, I would have finished off your girl friend as soon as she came out of the water. But new orders came from my higher-ups. Since you are so obviously happy in the presence of this conquest of yours, my superiors figure that we shall bring her along with us when we leave the country. She'll be a companion to you in your—ah—exile.”

"Now look,” Martin began harshly.

"No, Martin Sloane—you look. We are done playing games. We have been after you a long time. Always L.U.S.T. has managed to protect you far too well. We have lost agents, good men, in trying to get the laser missile-destruct prints and in trying to abduct you.

"Today, we managed to shake them off by employing two of our agents to pose as you, in a car as similar to yours as we could make it. Our man and our girl are on the west coast right now, somewhere around Tampa, I should judge. We made the switch-over where the bypass to U.S. 1 runs around Homestead to Florida City.”

Balder Cunningham chuckled. “A car scraped fenders with your shadows' car, delaying it just enough that—after you had traveled the bypass your shadows were permitted to see your doubles taking off for the Tamiami Trail. They went after them, very efficiently.”

There was soft laughter. "Martin, I'm freezing,” I said, shivering. Balder Cunningham said, "I'm sorry. I've permitted myself to be carried away with my own success. The lady may don her garments. You too, Sloane.”

We marched to the car in the spotlight. I stepped into my panties and yanked them up, trying not to mind the fact that the H.A.T.E. chief was eyeballing my bouncing breasts. I hid by globes behind the bra. Then I lifted and slipped on my Pierany knit. I fumbled with the dress for a few brief seconds, during which I managed to activate the gold pin that held the bugging device.

Now L.U.S.T. would learn where we were, at any rate. I got in beside Martin. The spotlight was turned off. Balder Cunningham came walking across the sand, gun in his hand. Behind him I could make out several shapes. Other H.A.T.E. agents, I guess. They were busy gathering up the power spot and putting away their weapons.

"You will follow our car,” the bald, bearded man said conversationally. "Another car will follow you. You will make no signals, you will not attempt to draw attention to yourselves. Do you understand?”

Martin nodded, "I understand.” Balder Cunningham said softly, "In the event that you decide to be heroic, let me point out that your little girl friend here will be the one who gets the bullet.” His finger touched the back of my head. "Right about here. There will be little noise, our most expert marksman has a silencer fitted to his target gun. There will be a pop—and you can guess the rest. Eh?”

Martin looked a little sick as he nodded. "I won't be stupid.”

The fat man murmured, "Excellent, excellent. Now shall we get our little caravan on the road?"

A car was waiting as we backed off the hard packed sand. Martin closed in behind it as a second car nosed in near our rear bumper. The front car started up, we followed and were followed in turn.

Martin muttered, "Do you think they can hear us if we talk?”

"They must have bugged the car while we were skinny dipping,” I assured him. "That's the way they'd do it in the movies.”

We drove in silence through Key Largo and over the Barnes Sound bridge and northward along U.S. 1. As we moved toward Miami, I started to get the shakes. Balder Cunningham had not recognized me, but this was no assurance that he would not, once we arrived at our destination and he had better light and more time in which to study me. Recognition as a L.U.S.T. agent would not improve my status. I doubted very much that H.A.T.E. would permit Martin Sloane to bring along a secret agent even as his girl friend. There are limits to diplomacy.

I hoped the bug was working. It would be just my luck to have the damn thing absolutely non-operative as the other bug had been too damn operative. I had to hang on and hope.

We slid through Miami without incident, I realized suddenly that we were bound for the house over-looking the ocean in which the H.A.T.E. party had taken place, the party which I had attended with Giselle Roberts.

I reached for my pocket book.

It was almost time to go into action.

Chapter Eleven

My fingers closed around a package of chewing gum.

I lifted it and held it so that Martin could see it. I made a slight throwing motion at the car ahead. Martin nodded. We were coming along the Dixie Highway here, nearing the Golden Glades interchange. The lead car would be swinging for the exit road soon. I would let it leave the exit, giving us pass it, before I threw the bomb.

I stood up, My arm went back and forward. The package of gum made a little glint of light were it caught a beam from an overhead road lamp as it sailed through the air.

"Duck,” I breathed, “and step on it!"

The gum-bomb blew up, lifting the lead car as if by a huge hand, and hurled it to one side of the exit road. It burst into flames. Martin hit the accelerator. As we hurtled past, I saw the stricken faces of the two H.A.T.E. men inside the blazing Buick.

A shot ripped out behind us. I was down below the seat top but the bullet hit the windshield behind me and for a second I shivered, waiting for the lead pellet to ricochet into my back. It went screaming off into the night.

By this time I had my compact in my grimy little paw. I risked a glance, lifting the compact. The H.A.T.E. marksman, the man with the silencer gun, was leaning out the lowered right hand window from the suicide seat where he was seated.

He was taking dead-aim. On me. I triggered the compact and saw part of his face go all dark. From blood. The silencer gun went flying from his hand. He hung over the window frame, limp. I thought I heard Balder Cunningham cursing.

"David,” I screeched into the gold pin. "Come and get!" Martin was driving like a bat out of Hell. The Toronado, careened around a corner, tires screaming in the night. We were on the road that led to the H.A.T.E. hideout. I recognized a stretch of the roadway.

"Get us off this road,” I yelled at Martin. "Sure—when I can find a side road."

I fired at Balder Cunningham, not so much to hit him but to speckle his windshield and so make visibility that much poorer. The glass assumed a spiderweb pattern suddenly. The big black Cadillac Swerved back and forth, recovered itself and came thundering on at us.

Something brushed my cheek. I saw the little red blossom at the end of a gun as a man fired. The last H.A.T.E. agent outside Balder Cunningham, who was doing the driving was taking a hand in the goings on. He had yanked the dead body of the expert marksman inside the car and now he himself ducked in and out of view as he snapped off shots.

The Caddy was inching up on us. "Faster,” I yelled at Martin. "I'm doing ninety now," he shouted.

I got off two more shots at the man who kept moving in and out of the open car window. I missed both times. The swaying of the car under me didn't add to my effectiveness with the compact-gun.

“Oh no,” whispered Martin.

I turned and looked where he was looking. Two big cars were barreling down the road, right at us. They were going to crash us and hope for the best where Martin Sloane was concerned.

The headlights got larger, brighter. Then at the last minute, the car to our right swerved in front of us—hit the front left fender of the other car and drove it sideways of the road and into a wild tangle of berry bushes. The scrape of the fenders, the shouts of startled men, were an orchestration to the shots the man in the Cadillac was squeezing off at me.

I snarled, "Damn your eyes!” and framed him right in the middle of the compact.

He was a little slow in ducking for cover. The bullet hit him, slammed him into the door upright where he hung a moment, helpless. I took steadier aim and fired. A dark spot came into view on his white shirt front. He sagged down. Behind us I heard gunshots as the men in the L.U.S.T. car that had swerved to head off the H.A.T.E. car traded bullets with the H.A.T.E. crowd. I heard a man scream in pain, then there was a long silence.

Martin drove hunched over the wheel. His face was white with tension. He was muttering words under his breath. I couldn't understand them, the wind carried them away. Under us the car was a humming projectile racing along the straightaway, screaming at the curves, rocking and swaying like a demented monster.

Balder Cunningham would not quit. There were two dead men in his car, he was alone, but he came on with a savage relentlessness that made me feel he had some sort of nasty trick up his sleeve.

He did. As Martin rounded a horseshoe curve, he saw two battered old cars placed bumper to bumper across the road. He cried out thickly, in horror. There was no turning to evade them. We were hitting close to a hundred miles an hour. I guess Balder Cunningham figured if he couldn't have Martin Sloane all in one piece he would take him damaged, and hope for the H.A.T.E. medicos to make him well again.

I tried to brace myself, too late. I saw one of the battered cars swim up into view larger and larger. I told myself, Heaven, here I come! I closed my eyes just as Martin swung the wheel. There was no room to evade the wrecked Pontiac before us, but he hoped to hit its rear end a slanting blow.

The Toronado jerked and thudded. Metal screeched, a tire blew with a thunderous pop. I was flung forward like a rag doll, thinking, Not the glass! Don't let me go through the glass! I whacked into the dashboard, feeling numbness where my arm landed hard—.

The world went black. . . .

My eyes opened to a white brilliance. I lay on my back under a beamed ceiling, strapped down on a wooden table. A broad belt held my belly, two more belts held my arms stretched out at right angles, and my legs and feet were in those stirrups doctors use when they examine lady patients.

I was no patient, but I was sick all right, sick with terror, sick with despair. But Balder Cunningham was no doctor. He was only a torturer.

Someone had stripped me stark naked. I lay there helpless, unable even to wriggle my hips, fair game for any distorted, pain-plan the bearded Cunningham might dream-up. I had seen him with the movie star, and how much suffering he had caused her. And that had been for kicks.

And Martin Sloane? Where was he?

The sweat came out on my forehead. It is a terrifying thing to be nailed down on a table at the merciless pleasure of a man who hates you, who wants to make you talk. I have often thought of the Paris underground and the Nazi questioners who conducted their torturing. Even while I admired the raw courage of the French patriots, I had shuddered for the pain the Nazis inflicted on them.

I heard footsteps. A door opened. There was more than one man entering the room, but my head could only—move left and right, and the men were coming into the room behind me. Upside down, I saw the bald head and bearded jaws of Balder Cunningham. He was smiling wryly.

“So,” he nodded. “You are awake. Good,”

"Santa Maria benedetta!” breathed a familiar voice. Count Giulio della Faziolà was staring down at me with wide eyes, recognition alive in them. He came a step closer, peered down into my face, nodding his head.

“What's the matter?” Cunningham asked sharply. “She is, the same one. Si! I cannot be mistaken!”

"Same one? What are you talking about?”

"She is the oh so clever girl spy who stole the pictures of Giselle and Martin Sloane from my stateroom. She has covered her body with a brown dye and tinted her hair very yellow, but it is the same one.”

“L.U.S.T.,” breathed the bald man.

I felt his fingers tangle in my hair, yanking it. The pain. was pretty bad; and I yelped. He tugged harder.

"Spy bitch,” he snarled. “You will talk to me, very shortly. We will have a nice conversation, you and I.”

The Count was regarding me with pity in his dark Latin eyes. "Poor dear. It's such a waste, too. Balder, couldn't we just forget all this and let me take her back with me to Italy? I'm sure she would promise to be a good girl.”

"Don't be stupid! Now come along, we have things to do before I can enjoy myself with this little L.U.S.T. lady.” Guido della Faziola sighed, “It is a shame. She is so well versed in so much interesting knowledge. I feel certain I only tapped the well of her erotic wisdom.”

"You did, you did,” I assured him. "Just get me out of here and I’ll gladly travel to Italy or wherever you say, your grace.”

His face twisted in compassion as he spread his hands. "If it were up to me, I would, cara mia. But signor Cunningham is the boss. He is in control of our operation here. I—.”

"You talk too much," snapped the bald man, pushing the Count ahead of him toward the door.

The door closed. I lay there in a welter of silence, unable to hear anything but my own breathing. I knew why, of course. By turning my head to the left I could see a stone and brick wall in which were sunk wooden fittings containing dozens of whips, anklets, manacles, various torture devices.

There was a rope fitted with knots dangling from a wooden peg. This was used in what was called woolding, the cord being placed about the victim's forehead, then tightened, tightened, tightened until sometimes the eyes popped out. There was a wooden cross with an adjustable arm in which a person could be placed for the strappado. A funnel and a pitcher for the water torture, a gadget of spiked wooden slabs for a wedge to be driven so as to break the legs inserted between the slabs: they were all there.

I had never seen any of these things used, but as I have said, I read a lot. Just as love-making has always interested me, so too has its opposite, the causing of intense suffering. I lay sweating, wondering which of these gimmicks Balder Cunningham was going to use on me.

Or would he choose from the assortment on my right? As I turned my head, I could see the other wall of the chamber. In front of it was a wooden dais fitted with sharp spikes, a two-pronged fork for putting out eyes, an iron mask with an electric cord dangling from it, to make the mask red hot while it was being worn by some suffering secret agent.

There were other pain-makers, too. Balder Cunningham was a real sadist. He thoroughly enjoyed his work. Something told me he would enjoy it most especially with me. He felt that H.A.T.E. had a score to settle with Eve Drum.

The waiting was almost as bad as the actual torture.

I do not know how long I lay there, strapped down naked and helpless, before the door opened again. The door closed. Balder Cunningham came to the side of the table.

"Your friend Martin Sloane is on his way to our European headquarters now. He has been drugged so that he will offer no opposition when the Count takes him on board his yacht.” He smiled gently. "I thought you might like to know the extent of your failure—before I discover the extent of your pain tolerance.”

He put his hands on my breasts and squeezed until I screamed. He went on squeezing, I went on screaming, until his face was red and flushed. I had never felt such agony. Red needles were in every fiber of my flesh. I tried to jerk my breasts from his hands, but the strap across my belly held me almost motionless.

He took away his hands when I was close to fainting. He was an expert not only in causing pain but in knowing when to stop before his victim fell unconscious. His laughter boomed out.

"Oh, I'm going to have fun with you,” he nodded. "I love a screamer. It does something to me, listening to those screeches.” He was practically drooling with delight.

He went to the end of the table and bent before my stirruped legs. He said, “What I did to your breasts will seem like child's play to this."

“No, please . . . don’t do . . . ahh, God . .!” I screamed.

I tried to twist free of his hands. My hips could move less than an inch and this was not enough. I screamed and screamed until my throat was raw, my head thrown back, my mouth wide open. My entire body was wet with the sweat of pain and fright.

Balder Cunningham gave a great sigh. He stood up and smiled at me between the vee of my naked legs,

"My dear, it is a shame that I cannot go on enjoying myself for an unlimited time. Unfortunately; with the abduction of Martin Sloane, my work here is done. I will go, but I shall return—if I am needed again. However, don't get your hopes up, I still have a couple of hours—and I can do "a lot in two hours."

He went and got a chair and seated himself again at the end of the table, drawing a small wheeled car of instruments toward him. He was chuckling under his breath.

"I have made a study of pain, my dear. Do you know they have an instrument for measuring agony? Oh, yes. It's called a dolorimeter, perhaps from the fact that dolor means sorrow. If you're in pain, you're—."

I nearly went mad. I did not know what he was doing. I could see only the top of his bald pate, but I could smell scorched skin, and burning hair. My hips fought the belly strap, my arms tried to tear themselves loose from the belts that gripped them. My legs rattled the stirrup casing as they shook wildly. My mouth was foaming, the spittle dribbling down from the corners of my lips onto my neck. My eyes came close to popping out of their sockets.

The pain eased.

Balder Cunningham leaned back in his chair, smiling at me. "The dolorimeter chart registers pain from one and two—toothaches, arthritis, most cancer pains through six, which is the top limit most men ever suffer—to ten and a half.

"The ten and a half limit is reached by women in labor, the passing of kidney stones and—”

I exploded again while sheer agony ran up my body and down it, as if ten thousand devils were jabbing me with pitchforks. My middle humped and banged, my arms rattled the strap catches.

“—and a lighted cigarette pressed into the flesh. Yes, I see you believe what I tell you, judging by your yells. Does the burning cigarette really ache that much?"

My head was moving left and right steadily, like a metronome. I was moaning steadily. My entire body was one single flame of pain and I was panting like a winded runner.

"Kill me, please kill me,” I groaned.

"Oh dear, no, Not for a couple of hours yet. You see, "I must learn the names of all your L.U.S.T. operatives here in Miami, for future reference. You will tell them to me, my dear Eve Drum.”

His laughter was like a bark. "Are you surprised I know so much? We knew of your existence, naturally, and that you stole the pictures from the Count. In your present—ah, ought I say 'disguise'?—I naturally did not connect you with the girl who wore out the Count with her sexual calisthenics.

"Now, then. Who is your contact man?”

"Go to hell!” I snapped. "Oh, marvelous,” he exulted. "I was afraid you were going to tell me right off, and that would deprive me of the most fun I've had in a long time. You remember the movie star I whipped? That was delightful, my dear—but you are absolutely sensational. Now then . . .”

He showed me a device for gripping and twisting the flesh. He laughed at the expression on my face as I stared at it in utter horror.

"It has always been my ambition to achieve an eleven on a dolorimeter. So far I have failed. The most is ten and a half. But eleven—ah, what a goal. In our European headquarters I possess a dolorimeter. I am sorry I do not have one now.”

The device touched me. It gripped. The thing began to turn. I went mad, then, for a little while. I knew he was turning the handle so that the spiraled shaft would rotate the grippers. He was shouting laughter all the time, I could hear him through the haze of pain that was my own personal hell.

My body jumped and shook. My arms were knotted cables, dragging at the straps that held my wrists. I slammed back and forth—as much as I could, gripped as I was—and bumped my middle up and down. The pain was so intense, everything swam before my wide, staring eyes. Again and again my arms writhed, like snakes, twisting and turning. I tried to shake away the agony, I sought to win free of the leather thongs that held me. I fought them. I battled the pain. I was like a madwoman, the straps were enemies of mine, just as Balder Cunningham was an enemy. My wrists struggled, trying to rip them loose. My ankles tried to kick themselves free. My middle bucked, thumping my behind on the table boards. It was useless. Fight as I would the pain was always there, like fire on the flesh.

Eventually, I fainted. I was out for only a few seconds. When I came to, the bearded man was standing by the side of the table, the twisting device poised above the nipple of my right breast.

"The name of your contact?" he asked.

My mouth was filled with blood. I had been biting my tongue and my lip, I discovered. I swallowed and shook my head back and forth. The device went down and caught hold. I began to weep, softly and in despair. Nothing could save me. I knew this. L.U.S.T. agents might be out hunting me, but they would never find me. Not in time to save me, at any rate. Balder Cunningham, would have his fun with me, then he would kill me.

The only way I could fight back was keep still. I was determined to bite-off my tongue if I had to, to make sure I told nothing. Maybe Balder Cunningham saw my determination in my face for he removed the wooden pain-maker and nodded.

“I almost made a bad mistake, just now. I shall forego my pleasure for a little while, my dear. At the moment you are high on patriotism. You will die rather than admit a single name.

"So I shall leave you alone. I shall—go and find a sandwich and a cup of coffee, to replenish my strength for what I will do to you when I return.”

He chuckled, looking down at my nakedness. He said, "I have learned the skinning trade of certain African tribesmen who can remove the skin from a man—or a woman—with such delicate control that the victim will go on living for a long time.

"It's really too bad I don't have unlimited time. I would personally guarantee you would tell me what I want to know. But in two hours?” He shrugged. "It may not be long enough. Still! We shall see.”

He turned and walked away. The door opened and closed. lay there sobbing. I understood well enough I was beyond hope. All I could do now was try and sell my death as high as possible, by maintaining my silence about David Anderjanian.

I shook in a sudden paroxysm of anger and something rattled. Damn David Anderjanian! Why hadn't he found me? Why had he left me to Balder Cunningham and his torture devices? I shook again, and again there was that same metallic rattle.

I wriggled my legs, my hips. Nothing. I shook my arm and I heard the rattle. I tugged with my right wrist. The strap gave slightly.

My heart began to bang inside my ribs. While the bearded man had been torturing me and I had been straining to move away from the agony he was causing, my body must have possessed almost maniacal strength. They say that maniacs have the power of ten men in their fits. Well, I had been a maniac when Balder Cunningham had been having his jollies with me, all right. I had been an insane person, no doubt about it. Somehow, during a muscular spasm, I had loosened the strap across my wrist.

The strap was loose, but it still held. I hurled myself to the left, I tugged with my right arm, but the leather still clutched me. I was really weeping now. Big tears of frustration ran down my cheeks, the breath was burning in my lungs, I was shaking with fright and the need for haste. I simply had to free myself before Balder Cunningham came back.

The metallic rattle infuriated me. Something was loose beyond the table edge, but I could not see it, I lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Force was getting me nowhere. I had to stop and think, to make myself be calm. I was doing something wrong. But what? I'd been yanking the strap up and toward me. Perhaps if I did the opposite . . .

I pushed against the strap, shoving it toward the edge of the table. There was a click, the strap flew free. My arm came up and above me. I cried even more now, with relief.

I could reach the strap hook for my left arm, and then, through a veil of blurring tears, I bent at the waist and undid the belly strap. Now I set about working on the stirrups that held my legs. An ordinary woman might not have been able to make it, but my body was firm with muscle.

I jackknifed myself at the waist, reached up, caught part of the stirrup, used it as a lever to force myself upward. My body shook with strain but the memory of what Balder Cunningham had done to me gave me the endurance of a Mohawk.

The stirrups released me. My legs came down with a thump. I lay there a moment, panting. I needed time to relax, to gather myself for what was to come. But there was no time for me, I must be up, ready for the H.A.T.E. chief when he came back.

I rolled off the table and almost fell down. The agony of my tortured flesh brought a sharp cry to my lips. My hands tightened on the edge of the table until the knuckles were white.

"Get a grip on yourself, Evie girl,” I whispered like a madwoman. “Or sure as hell that bald bastard will, with one those little gadgets."

It was sheer mind over matter, but I made it. I tottered from the table—each step was agony—and to the nearer wall. I fumbled among the torture devices, finally selecting what looked like a rolling pin with metal spikes protruding from it.

I weighed it in a hand. There were two handles, one at each end, for rolling this contraption up and down a victim. I was not going to roll it. I meant to use it like a baseball bat. I nodded when I could grip one of the handles with my hands.

I crept toward the door. I waited five minutes before I heard his footsteps. My back was to the wall nearest to where the door would open. I gripped the roller.

The door swung inward. Balder Cunningham was two steps into the room before the sight of the empty torture table registered on him. He opened his mouth, started to turn and I hit him full in the face with the roller, swinging it like a baseball bats at arms length and gripping one handle with both hands.

I swung it with every ounce of my strength, backed by the recollection of the tortures he had used on me, and the tortures he planned to use. I am not exactly a weakling. I drove the spiked roller deep into his face. Blood spurted and he shrieked.

I tried to tug the thing out, but the spikes had caught and held. Balder Cunningham screamed as I tugged. He lurched and lost his balance. My hands, let go of the roller. The bald man fell face down on the floor and the spikes drove into his flesh even deeper. He was bellowing and groaning as he sought to get rid of that thing of wood and metal that was like a leech, clinging to him.

I leaped, knees bent, I hit the small of his back with all my weight. The breath went out of him in a whoosh. I chopped at his neck with the edge of each hand.

"Damn you,” I cried. "I'd like to torture you the way you did me. If I had the strength. I'd lash you down on that table and go to work on you.”

"No! Please! I cannot stand pain.”

“Beg! Beg me, you bastard!”

"Yes, yes! I'll beg! I will. I'll do anything—tell you what you want to know. Just don't hurt me any more. Please, please . . .”

"Where is Martin Sloane?”

"He ought to be at the marina right about now. There's a boat waiting to take him to the Lorelei.”

I relaxed a little, but I still knelt on top of him. He was working with his hands, catching hold of the roller handles and trying to rid himself of the thing. I took no pleasure in torturing him. I was mainly concerned with getting free and sending L.U.S.T. to rescue Martin Sloane.

"How long will it take the boat to reach the yacht?"

"An hour, maybe even two, depending on how rough the sea is . . . now may I get up?”

I slid off him. I was getting to my feet when he turned. He had worked free of the roller and slipped his hand inside his coat. I caught the sight of metal as his gun came out.

My mind accepted the fact that his face was a bloody mess, that he would probably be blind in one eye. It also saw and noted the gun as a Belgian Bulldog, a short, popular handgun in European countries. All this took place in a fraction of a second because I was kicking upward with my foot even before he could take aim at me. The mind sometimes works at such lightning speed that we seem to act almost by instinct. My naked toes hit the gun barrel, driving it upward. At the same time, Balder Cunningham fired.

The impact of my toes and the recoil of the Belgian Bulldog knocked the gun from his grasp. It sailed through the air. I dove after it.

A scream of pure terror made me glance backward. The bullet from the Belgian revolver had severed a rope near the ceiling that had suspended a solid iron chair off the floor and out of the way. The chair had long, needle-like spokes thrusting up from its seat and arms and back. It was not these spikes that had frightened Balder Cunningham, but the chair itself.

The chair dropped full on him, with a sudden scrunch. It caved in his chest and belly. He lay there twitching spasmodically, impaled by that tremendous iron device. His eyes were closed but his mouth was open. His flesh was turning gray with death. I leaned against the torture table and retched.

I was sick for about five minutes. Then I gagged a couple of times and staggered toward the door. I wanted out of this place. I needed fresh air in my lungs and a touch of sanity to my life. The door opened onto a narrow corridor that was deep under the house where I had participated in the H.A.T.E. orgy a few weeks before.

I found my clothes and my handbag in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I ignored my clothes to grab up my handbag and yank out my transistorized walkie-talkie the one disguised as a pack of cigarettes. I lifted the antenna and pressed the activation stud.

"David? David—are you there?”

There was a little silence. A voice said harshly, "Who's this?”

"It's Eve, you idiot. Eve Drum.”

“What's the code word, Eve?”

"Damned if I know. But you listen to me, David Anderjanian, Martin Sloane is on his way to Europe with H.A.T.E.—and if your want to save him you'd better come pick me up at the ocean-side house where I went to that orgy party! You read me, darling?”

The communicator went dead.

Chapter Twelve

I heard the whirlybird before I saw it.

The night was warm and still, as if all the world were holding its breath. I was fully dressed, dancing around the parking lot with impatience for L.U.S.T. to come and get me. When the communicator had gone dead, I'd about given up hope. Then David had come back on again.

"Sorry, Eve. I had to give orders. We'll come for you in a chopper. Save your story until I see you.”

The riding lights of the big helicopter were like a sight of home to me. I stood on my tiptoes and waved my pocketbook. Then the rotors were circling above me and the whirlybird was dropping downward lazily, with that swinging movement so common to a chopper craft.

The big CH-47 settled slowly. The door came open and David was out and running toward me, his opened coat blowing apart to show his white shirt and striped tie. His arms went around me, he lifted me off my feet and swung me around.

“Double oh sex—Jeez! I’d given you up.” His bear hug was causing me pain but I managed to work up a laugh for him.

"I'd about give myself up, darling—but go easy. I'm still sore from what that ape did to me.”

While the two other L.U.S.T. Boys, armed with sub-machine guns, toured the seaside villa for more H.A.T.E. agents without finding them, I briefed David as to what had happened in the torture room. His face was pinched with strain as he listened—I guess the big lug liked me, after all and his voice when he spoke was hoarse.

“We'll get em now, honey. Thanks to you.”

"I just hope we get Martin Sloan, that's what I hope." I had gone to a lot of trouble—trouble? Ha!—to perfect the amorous techniques of our boy Martin. He was quite a lover, and I quite frankly take all the credit. I'd told Midge she would get him back in better shape than when she gave him to me. By all the sex in Essex, she was going to.

We clambered back into the chopper, the gun boys with us. The craft lifted, swung up and sideways into the Miami sky. Below us, Collins Avenue was a string of fairy candles burning on a purple shore. Those lights were reflected on the waters of Biscayne Bay like ghostly lanterns. Up and eastward toward the rising sun, with the rotors churning steadily overhead, we were carried.

“What kind of boat was it?" David asked. "I don't know. Probably a cabin cruiser of some sort. How many boats are going to be out on the ocean, this time of night—or early morning. You must know where the Lorelei is anchored? Find something that's traveling that way and tell them to heave to.”

“Very crude, Eve. Not workmanlike at all.”

“—your workmanship,” I grated. “I want to get Martin back—to his wife, that is. I promised her."

David grinned at me. I kicked him with the points of my shoe, quite casually, almost by force of habit. Both of us were too busy peering from the cabin windows to the darkness below, hunting the running lights of any passing vessel, to put any real energy into our constant quarrel. We saw a Nassau liner in the distance and overhead the red and green flashers of a big Trans-World jet. That was all.

No H.A.T.E. boat was anywhere.

David touched power into his transistorized walkie-talkie, calling the General. He wanted the exact location of the H.A.T.E. yacht. He pin-pointed our position. The General put the big L.U.S.T. computers to work.

In ten minutes we had our answer.

"Alter course two degrees to port. The Lorelei is anchored eight miles off Guana Cay.” The voice droned on as I stared down at the ocean below.

The pilot nodded, moved the control-lever. The whirlybird swung like an eagle on the wing. It whipped low across the waves, at no more than a hundred foot height. The drone of its engines drowned out everything else as we sat there silently, hoping with our hearts and hunting with our eyes.

A faint sound touched our eardrums, so negligible as almost to be non-existent. Then a red dot appeared in the growing brightness of the dawning day. A big Chris-craft Constellation was sliding through the waves, two miles or so ahead of us.

David grated, "It could be H.A.T.E. Their course is the correct one, if they're bound for the Lorelei.”

We overtook them swiftly. David reached for the mike. "Ahoy, below. Heave to and identify yourselves. This is the United States government speaking.”

Two men ran out on deck, speeding for a tarpaulin covered mound. They whipped-away the tarp, revealing a gray .37 mm cannon of obviously Russian make. Their practiced hands swung its long barrel upward.

The pilot was an Air Force man on special assignment. He whipped the whirlybird upward and sideways, bringing it right over the cabin cruiser. The deck cannon could not lift to an overhead angle. It was helpless.

One of our L.U.S.T. boys dropped his M-16 automatic rifle and grabbed for an M-79 grenade launcher. This M-79 fired two types of grenade, the normal explosive and a special one that filled the air with shrapnel. He leaned out a lowered window and let go. There was a red flash twenty feet above the cruiser.

I winced as the bits of metal spewed across the decks of the Chris-craft. I saw the two men beside the cannon claw at themselves and crumple. The helmsman dropped like a poled ox when a swathe of metal fragments all but cut his neck in half.

The cruiser began to veer. Three more men came out of the cabin. One of them was Count Guido della Faziola. He cast a look upward, his black eyes like burning holes in his head as he ran for the antiaircraft gun.

His hands caught the deadly gray .37 mm, cannon. He hit a pin with his hand, the pin sprang loose, and now the barrel tilted upward, right at us. Another moment and the cannon began to spit shells. I could see them whizzing past the 'copter windows like red fingers out of Hell.

The second L.U.S.T. man cursed and caught up a short barreled M-17 grenade launcher. He braced himself as the whirlybird swerved almost sideways to the cruiser, the end of his weapon pointing straight downward. His finger squeezed the trigger.

A scarlet blossom touched the Count. He blew apart, an arm flying upward, a leg outward. I wanted to be sick, remembering the night I had been with him in the Lorelei stateroom.

The grenade did more than kill the Count. It opened a gaping hole in the Constellation's port side prow. The boat began to pitch and swing as it shipped water.

"Martin!” I screamed. David nodded grimly, "We've got to get him out.” One of the two men left on deck was firing up at us with some sort of foreign machine-gun while the other gripped the wheel. This second man abandoned the wheel when he saw the Chris-Craft was going down. He turned and leaped for the side rail of the Chris-Craft and dove into the Sea. He was probably thinking that his chances for survival were better in the sea than in the boat.

Martin Sloane was still in the Constellation, however. I clawed at my Pierany knit, yanking it off over my unkempt hair. My Fashion Tress wig was long since gone, I think I lost it in the car while Martin and I were running away from Balder Cunningham in his big Caddy—so my natural brown locks were tangled and dirty. But the hell with my hair, the hell with modesty. Martin Sloane was sinking fast in that Constellation.

I kept on my panties. They felt like the bottom half of a bikini swimsuit.

"Drop me down a little closer,” I yelled at the pilot. David started to say, "Eve, what in hell—?”

"I'm going after him. What else?”

"Hey, lady—you got guts,” was the pilot's comment on my insanity. But he was a magician with that whirlybird. He zoomed low, just above the settling hull of the Chris-Craft,

David helped me over his legs to the door. Another L.U.S.T. agent swung the door wide. I dove through the opening.

The wind slapped me flat on the belly, almost whooshing the air from my lungs. But I took a deep breath and it was a damn good thing I did, because the water came up and slammed me in the face. I went down deep.

The Constellation was a big black shape alongside me as I turned toward it. I grabbed for its bow rail. My hand slipped off, then came back and tightened. My fingers gripped that metal bar like pincers. It inched by way along, saw the open hatch with the door wedged against the ladder to the flying bridge.

I let go my hold and swam for it.

Luckily for me and Martin Sloane, the Chris-Craft was settling slowly. I made it past the galley, and through the lounge. There was a closed door against which I kicked with my bare foot as best I could before I got smart and tried the doorknob.

The knob turned.

My lungs were heaving by now. I needed air badly, but not as badly as the inert body. I saw drifting aimlessly in front of me. I reached out for it, grabbed a handful of hair and started swimming backwards.

It was a near thing at the door. I was just about passing out myself and Martin Sloane was damn heavy. It was getting black down inside the Constellation, that seemed now to be sinking faster and faster. I fought panic, a lack of air, and a big two hundred pound chunk of unconscious meat.

I got him through the door, then along the lounge and past the galley. The galley hatch showed a pale rectangle of light ahead of me. I thought to myself, just a little longer, just a few seconds more! And then the rectangle was behind us and a sheet of pale water stretched high overhead.

I started upward.

How I blessed the rigorous training I'd had from L.U.S.T. at that Virginia farm hideaway which was so hush-hush. I blew a mental kiss to the man who had been my swimming instructor. The memory of his biting tongue gave me the guts to see this nightmare through to its finish.

We broke water and my open mouth sucked in air like a motorized pump. Martin seemed lifeless but my hand on his chest told me his heart was still beating, if very weakly. High above I could make out the chopper craft sliding downward, coming at me from an angle. David was poised with one foot on the cable lift, clad only in his shorts. He jumped moments before the bosun's seat hit the water. It splashed toward me, raising little ripples. I grabbed it and hung on as tightly as I was clinging to the unconscious Martin Sloane.

David swam to me and helped me lift Martin into the harness. I am afraid I let David do most of the work from then on. It took all my strength just to keep my head above water. In short, I was pooped. When he had fastened Martin securely, David turned to me, grabbed and held me against his body as we watched the cable-seat lift the unconscious scientist upward toward the chopper craft.

I was shivering with cold and exhaustion. I felt thoroughly miserable. But for once, David Anderjanian was understanding and sympathetic. He even kissed my temple where my hair lay plastered by the water.

I watched hands reach out of the helicopter door, grasp Martin and swing him inward. He disappeared, then the bosun's seat was dropped downward again. David fastened me securely and treaded water while I was carried upward. At this height, I could see two H.A.T.E. agents swimming toward David, about fifty yards away.

I yelped and pointed.

Overhead a quiet voice said, “Don't worry about those, cookies. I've been covering them for the past five minutes.” I saw the blue metal muzzle of an M-16 automatic rifle and the grinning face of one of our L.U.S.T. boys. He nodded as he reached a hand out for me.

"There's no fight left in them. All they want is to be rescued,” he chuckled, and gestured with his chin. Looking down as I swung inward, I saw their waving arms and open mouths. The chopper blades were making too much noise, swooshing about overhead, for me to hear their yells.

Then David was sliding into the whirlybird, reaching past me for a towel. I was still shivering, wrapped in a big bath towel of my own, but I felt warm inside as Martin Sloane opened his eyes.

"Ohhh,” he groaned. David grinned, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "You'll be fine, Martin. Just fine. And I think you can go home to your wife and kids in another day or so.”

"Thank the good Lord,” Martin breathed and passed out. I had the feeling he was tired of me and L.U.S.T. Especially, of L.U.S.T. I sighed. He had been fun, after all.

David was superintending the dropping of a rubber life-raft that would inflate by the pulling of a cord. As the raft fell away, he reached for a mike.

"Hang onto" that, his voice boomed. "I'll send another chopper out to pick you up. It won't be too long. I just can't fit you in here, were too crowded."

Then David turned to me and drew me into the crook of his arm. He murmured, "Go to sleep, honey. Mission accomplished, and all that jazz.”

Two days later while I was still in bed, Midge Sloan called me on the phone, voice bubbling with happiness. "I don't know what you said to that man of mine, honey—but you sure did the trick. He's like a new man—a different man.”

"Takes his time, does he?" I laughed.

"Drives me utterly mad. I love him all over again. But what's this, kama something book he wants to buy?”

"Give him the money, Midge. You'll like what happens." She giggled and hung up.

My country was happy, L.U.S.T. was happy, Midge Sloan was happy. Who was I to be an exception to the rule?

“David, honey," I called. “Come to mamma.” He came running. Then—.

I was happy, he was happy, we were happy.

END

Thank you for purchasing Book ONE of Gardner Francis Fox's Sexy Spy classic: LUST be a Lady Tonight.

Find out more about Mr. Fox by visiting

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve