Chapter 03 of Lay Me Odds - Book #2 of the Lady from L.U.S.T.

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Lady Spies

ASSIGNMENT: LOVE THE ENEMY TO DEATH

LAY ME ODDS — if you have the guts. My name is Eve Drum. I'm THE LADY FROM L.U.S.T. — the wildest, nuttiest secret agent who ever drove the Kremlin out of its vodka-guzzling skull. They aren't kidding when they call me the sexiest spy in the world. As Agent Double Oh Sex I take on the kind of assignments Jimmy Bond can't handle. All hell breaks loose when I go into action against the sinister forces of H.A.T.E. Don't tangle with me because I'll love you to death. I have a license to kill and I don't care whether I use my body — or a bullet. Sex is my deadliest weapon, but I'm just as good with a knife. Don't tell me about Judo or fast cars or brainwashing because I know it all. I'm good and you know it. Watch me use exotic Eastern sex techniques to turn H.A.T.E.'s villainous spy-masters into helpless blobs of desire. Swing along with me as I bump and grind through London strip clubs in pursuit of missing microfilm. Join the fun as I mix business with pleasure, martinis with molotov cocktails. With a Beretta in my bra, I'm an updated Fanny Hill, a tastier brand of Candy, a lethal Lolita. My crazy life is just filled with bloodshed, bedrooms and belly laughs.

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CHAPTER THREE

I pushed chips around on the poker table while I smiled up at Herbert Ahearn who was licking his lips while his eyes met mine. There was a devil deep inside his eyes, a wise devil who knew just where to grab a girl.

"Tell you what I'm gonna do, Herbie-werbie," I giggled. "I'll roll the dice for my fair body. If you win, you get me—and if I win, I get to call the shots. Fair enough?"

"Couldn't be fairer," he nodded. "Come along, then.” I swept out of the poker room with chips overflowing my hands, Herbie trotting at heel. The American tourists were flooding the big gambling room by this time, it was close to dawn and the huge B.O.A.C. Rolls Royce 707 that had brought them here had long since touched down on one of the long strips at London Airport.

There were men in white ties and tails, women in evening gowns, men in Brooks Brothers business suits, girls in pert mini-skirts by Paraphernalia. Everywhere I heard voices I could recognize, with a New England twang or a Southern drawl or the hard accents of a native New Yorker. My eyes went to the dice table.

A girl was putting down the dice, her lips quivering. I shouldered my way beside her. "Honey, this is my lucky night. Here.” I pushed three ten-pound chips into her hands and reached for the dice.

"My boyfriend wants my body in his bed,” I laughed. “we're going to gamble for me. All right if I throw a few?”

"Best three out of four,” Herbie muttered in my ear. The little blonde girl was still staring at me, but her lips had stopped quivering and she winked one of her false-eye-lashed lids. "Bail me out, sweetie,” she murmured, clattering the chips around in her palm.

The men laughed, the women smiled. They all nodded. I rattled the dice in my hand, as the box-man called, “The lady takes the dice. Make your bets, please!”

The craps table had a foot-high rail around it. The table floor was green baize, the field with its boxed number, its win or lose bars, its numbered squares neatly framed. There is a changer and a croupier who stand in indented spaces where the high board curves. In American, the croupier is called a stick-man, and the changer is a box-man. It is the duty of the stick-man to rake in the dice after each throw and present them to the next player. The box-man watches the bets, marks the point to be made, gathers in and pays out the losses and the wins.

There is a high board against which the dice must be bounced to fall back onto the table and roll, to prevent players from palming the dice or rolling them off their fingertips. A good dice-man can make those little cubes do strange things, without a craps board.

A couple of chips went down on craps, I noted. I rattled the dice. I hurled them. The squares hit the board, bounced back onto the field, rolling. One stopped to show a five, the other bumped over and came to rest with five dots up. Five and five make ten. Ten was my point.

I rattled the dice and threw them. Nine. Close, but not close enough. I threw again. A five. A fourth time I sent the dice banging into the board. One die showed a four, the other a six. Ten.

The girl with the quivery lips giggled. She had backed my play with the three ten pounders I had given her. She stared down at the chips she had won with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Herbie was scowling darkly. I rattled the dice, waited for the bets to go down—and hurled them. This was my lucky night. I threw a seven.

A dice player wins when, on his first roll, he turns up a seven or an eleven. He loses when he throws a two, a three, or a twelve. On his second toss, if he turns up a four, a five a six, an eight, a nine or a ten, his point is that number which he makes. He must make this point again to win. He gets as many chances to make this point as he needs, unless he rolls a seven, in which event he loses. Herbie looked as if he were choking to death. "I need one more, folks," I caroled. "Three out of four will do it. Ride along with me or against me."

I threw the dice and turned up an eight. I threw again and got a four. I threw a third time and showed seven. I lost.

Somebody groaned. The girl with the shivery lips smiled tremulously, still clutching her win chips to the breasts that showed so full against her fuzzy sweater.

"Bet, honey. I feel lucky. Get it all down on eleven.”

"You must be j—joking,” she breathed. "Call it intuition, darling," I giggled. She shook her head, her eyes apologetic. "Sorry, I won back all my losses on your first toss. I just couldn't bear the idea of losing it again."

The bets were down, the box-man told me. The dice flew out, hit the board, came rolling and bouncing back across the greenfield. A six and a couple of more rolls to the other die and then—a five.

"See, honey?" I smiled. She looked crestfallen for a moment but her breasts surged up as she took a deep breath. "I don't care. I'm even. I just came along for the ride, anyhow."

Herbie was turning, walking off. I gave the girl an encouraging pat on the back and ran after him. I caught up to him at the door.

"Herbie, wait. I want to cash in my chips."

"Why should I wait?” he grumbled. "Because I won and—I get to call the shots.” His eyes gleamed suddenly. He perked up and gave me a weak smile. "You mean that, ducks?”

"This is my lucky night,” I told him, brushing my breasts against his arm. "I'm betting I've drawn a winner in you.”

His palm patted my behind. "You have, sweetie.” I got my money, stuffed it in my purse, then went trotting off with Herbert Ahearn. Once or twice as we ran out onto the street, I stifled a yawn with my fingertips. I'd had a long day. I was getting pooped. Herbie waved down a taxi. Inside the cab, Herbie caught me yawning again. He leaned over and said, "Look, pet. I'm no ogre. I like a girl to enjoy her jollies, not suffer through them.”

"I do have a winner in you," I nodded. He chuckled, "So why don't we just pop off for a slumber-bye first? Really sleep, I mean. When we wake up, we'll both feel a lot more like indulging our private lives.”

I leaned over, kissed his cheek. "You won't be sorry, Herbie-werbie." I told him. I had not seen the living room of the Ahearn pad, though if his lobby were any sample of the room beyond the archway, I was in for pleasant shocks to my erogenous zones. His hand hit a wall switch. Dim lamps blazed up from either side of a wide sofa.

The first thing I saw was a big oil painting above the divan, of a shapely nude woman spread out in an utterly abandoned attitude, legs wide, one black stocking taut, the other loose, with the garter attached to a garter-belt, her only article of clothing. Her breasts were big and heavy. Her hand lay on an upright candle on a small table to her left, her right hand had closed its fingers around a banana she was plucking from a bowl of fruit.

It was not a cheap painting, it was a masterpiece. I turned my head and saw a grouping of four etchings later, I learned they had been used to illustrate the forbidden Nouvel Album Erotique–which showed two men enjoying the embraces of five (count 'em) unclad females in varying postures and deviations. I stared at the pleasantries that were going on, my mouth watering.

“Herbie,” I squealed. “Wherever did you get them?”

"In Singapore, years ago. That grouping was shipped from Paris."

"Singapore? Why Singapore?"

"I was born in Singapore. My father was an import-export agent. He was a rather high flier, my pops. He enjoyed the finer things in life, too. He started gathering up these bits of erotica, here and there. I've been adding to them, off and on."

“Joke, Herbie?”

"What?"

"Adding to them off and on, I mean.”

Herbie chuckled and guided me through the archway into the luxuriously furnished living room. There was a thick Turkish carpet underfoot so if you felt like running around on it in your bare feet it would tickle your soles. Some people get stimulated by tickling.

I let my eyes slide across the walls that were so heavily hung with mezzo-tints and oils, washes and water colors. I studied a print by Zichy in which a woman crouched atop a man's face, baring herself for his lingual adoration, then slid my eyes to an oil painting of a bit of dalliance on a sofa.

Oh, yes. There was a mahogany coffee table that held a copper statue of a woman squatting, offering her femininity for all the world to see, and a huge ceramic ashtray shaped like a flower with two red, widespread lips, that was not quite a flower. Three or four easy chairs (what can they do with chairs, now really?) stood here and there. Twin flower-boxes of black earthenware—on which were painted male and female figures engaged in the delights of the rod—made conversation pieces below the window sills. Thick drapes of an intense scarlet framed the windows.

This was the den of a sybarite, of a man who knew what he liked and surrounded himself with its emblems. My knees were a little weak as I stared at a picture grouping on the west wall displaying one man with one girl, with two girls, with three girls, with four girls. I gazed on wall-shelves which held lifelike statues of little wooden men and women joined in classical love postures. I recognized copies of the works of Rodin, of Epstein.

"You have a fortune here, Herbie," I breathed.

He shrugged. "I'm not married. I make enough money to indulge myself. Besides, a lot of this collection was brought together by my pops. I've only added a few pieces, really.”

I no longer felt tired, I realized.

So I turned in the bedroom doorway and placed my soft belly up against Herbert Ahearn. My arms went around his neck and my hardening breasts to his chest. With open mouth and slowly sliding tongue I kissed him, lazily, sensually.

He moaned a little, deep in his throat, as my thighs twisted against his aroused self. He slid his hands down my back to my jiggly buttocks, cupping and petting them. We were in no hurry, we had all the time in the world. Our tongues touched, sliding together and apart, curling about, as our lips mashed.

I guess I was moaning a little, myself. "Pet, you can't go to sleep now,” he whispered when he could. His hands were scrabbling my mini-skirt up in back so he could run feathery fingertips about the panty part of my body stockings.

"I'm almost afraid to see your—bedroom, Herbie.” His chuckle was soft and deep. He bumped me with his manhood, pushing me back a step. He kissed my lips open, then blew words between them.

"I learned a lot in Singapore, about what a woman likes,” he told me in a soft voice that sent creepy chills down my spine. "They have a more realistic approach to life in the hot countries."

A hand went away from my right buttock to touch a wall switch. Blue light glowed, putting a soft radiance across the rather large room. There was a bed, first of all, a great monster of a bed that measured twelve feet by twelve feet. Behind it was a something like a small library-bar-refrigerator in polished walnut, so that this headboard, if I may give it so homely a term, formed a part of the bed itself. The ceiling above the bed was a mirror.

Herbie nudged my behind with his excitement. "It splits into twin beds for sleeping,” he whispered, moving himself lazily. "I can show movies—preferably the stag type—serve a dozen assorted drinks—make a telephone call or even read a book, all without getting off that mattress."

"Herbert Ahearn, you're a genius.”

His hand propelled me another ten feet into the room. Its walls were papered in thin white and broad blue stripes. Hung here and there across those stripes were oil paintings and watercolors, etchings and a bas-relief or two, all on the same subject. I paid little attention to the walnut chest of drawers or the chair and small writing desk. Every bedroom has those, more or less.

I tiptoed forward to stare in shocked delight at the art work. A watercolor of two ladies engaged in oral pleasure, an etching of a girl and a dog at which I blinked in sheer reflex action, four lithographs by Dignimont, the creations of Otto Schoff, several surrealist paintings by Wilhelm Freddie, held me mesmerized.

There were works by well-known artists hung frame by frame with other pictures done by unknowns. The Satyr even had a few glossy photographs staring back at you, here and there. They were not just dirty pictures, they were excellent photographs, of and by themselves.

I remembered the ten treats of Venus with which I had indulged Count Guido della Faziola aboard his yacht, before stealing the snapshots in his wall safe. I wanted something a little different with this most interesting man who was known as The Satyr. But how different can you be? I mean, after all, a man and a woman have only so many working parts.

So while I studied the artistry of a Felicien Rops etching, I considered ways and means. I could repeat the Ten Treats, of course, but I would rather try my hand—or more intimate parts—in a different sort of giving. The Nine Niceties of Nina de Rochemont? Mmmm, maybe. I had a whole range of postures to choose from with the Shiek Nefzawi, but I could see The Satyr thinking about them right along with me, and I wanted his attention to be carnal, not cerebral.

Herbert was within whispering distance, being wedged so tightly against my behind, so I whispered. “Are you game to try something new?"

"Just name it, ducks.” The sound of my skirt zipper was loud in the stillness. Thumbs hooked my skirt, pushed it past my 35 inch hips. I wriggled those hips and the skirt went down to my shoes. Herbert raised his hands to my protruding breasts.

"I can't—that is, I don't know what it is,” I told him weakly.

Herbert rested his chin on my bare shoulder and stared down at my rigid brown nipples where they jutted boldly from my brassiere holes. He muttered, "You don't make sense."

"I do. Listen! We've both bedded a lot of people in our time, right? Is there any one way you've never done it with a girl?"

"Fraid not, love.” I stamped my foot. My body stocking was sliding down past my buttocks and along my upper thighs under Herbert's gentle fingertips.

"There has to be some way one of us hasn't tried.”

"Oh, I see what you mean. Darling, do you realize your kitzler is quite large?"

"My kitzler? Oh, my little man in the boat. Is it, Herbert?

His forefinger tip moved around and I could not control the sudden jerking of my hips. I stared down between my nipples at his hand. His forefinger and thumb tugged, tweaked and titillated me until my mouth was open and my eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

A woman is most sensitive in her clitoral bud. It is the seat of all her emotions. It wags her as the penis wags the male. It is as sensitive, as alert to sensual arousal as the male member. Unless it plays a part in the coital movements of the female, there is not nearly as much enjoyment for her in the sex act.

Call it myrton as did the Greeks, or columella as the Romans named it, title it "little pillar" or "twig,” it is the most erogenous of all the parts of the female body. Your Italian says it is “the shivery place," the Czech, “the tickler.” Through it runs the corpora cavernosa nerve which is attached to the vaginal walls, while the clitoral dorsal nerve wends its path through the lower part of the female body to tie in with the common pudendal nerve traveling up the spine. Located at the upper triangle of the vulva, it possesses a glans and foreskin, and is capable of erection. Some primitive people enlarge the clitoris, to make a woman more beautiful, some actually sever it, to prevent the woman from being a slave to her own passions. I felt

The Satyr was a member of that first group, the way he was carrying on with me, and I began to think I might just float away on him if he didn't cut it out.

My hips went back and forth, they swung lazily in a circle, they ground savagely. My breath was a bellows in the otherwise still room. Never stop, darling! Oh, never stop! I thought, swooning in the delirium he was causing. While these thoughts were running more or less chaotically through my brain, The Satyr was doing the teaser bit. He had me so molten by this time even my ears were banging away, so that I heard his voice as if from a far distance.

“Very large,” he was whispering. “Stop it, Herbert. You're driving me batty.”

"Are you complaining? Most women like me to take my time—not rush into things, so to speak.”

"No, I'm not complaining. I love it. It's just that—something neither of us has ever done—seems to me to be—to be . . . inninggg!”

This man was too much. He was hell on wheels around a woman. No wonder he got dates with any stripper he set his eyes on I writhed and twisted and convulsed while he went on with what he was doing to me, quite calmly.

I tried to break free and fell over my body stocking that was down around my ankles. I dropped to my hands and knees, I turned and rolled, fighting the long nylon legs, getting my shoes off and then kicking the hampering stuff away from my ankles.

Herbert stood and watched my scissoring legs and where they met, with interested eyes. To hell with modesty at a time like this, I was thinking. I was panting like a spavined horse.

I whipped around and ran for the big bed. I hit it and bounced. I turned over and jack-knifed my legs. "Come on, Herbert. Come on! We've got to try. And the sooner the better."

Between my outstretched thighs I saw The Satyr with what looked like a tiny silver rod, each end of which was set with bristly hairs, in his hand. He had taken it from a drawer and was carefully affixing it right where it would do me the most good. I swallowed, feeling my throat dry up as other parts of me grew more moist.

"Is—is that what I th—think it is?" I gasped.

He grinned, nodding. "An ampallang, honey. They use this in the South Seas, to give their women more pleasure. The Dyaks go for this type, I don't know why.”

"You—you have to be perforated to use one?”

"The way a girl has her earlobes pierced.” I knew that all through history, mankind has studied hard to improve on nature. Why should this area of human life not be so improved? There is the common dildo, shaped like a male membrum, but even that has been perfected in the rin-o-tama balls of Japan, twin globes one of which contains mercury which slides back and forth in use, providing extra sensations upon insertion. The Western world has its electrical vibrators.

The Satyr had been prepared to use the ampallang while still a boy, his father being what he was. There are other methods of achieving the same ends, metal rings can be slipped on, or the so-called French tickler may be used to increase the pleasure of the embrace. Man has never really been satisfied with anything in his world, I guess. Perhaps he searches for a lost divinity.

He came toward me on the run. I could not take my eyes from the artificialia that made him seem like a man from Mars. Or more appropriately—Venus.

He resembled a Green Bay fullback lunging for the line. He left the carpet about five feet from the bed and sailed through the air. His left arm was stretched out, fingers spread wide to break his fall. His other hand was occupied in a different form of aiming.

He thudded onto me. And into me.

I screamed when I felt that driving thrust. My body skidded back two feet. I started flowing around him even as my arms and legs caught hold of him. The ampallang was scratching away until I thought I might lose my mind. I went on screaming.

"Ever had that?” he managed to gasp. I rolled him over, he rolled me over. We rolled each other back and forth, our hips frantic in their pounding madness. The breath sobbing in our throats, my legs cramped where they held his middle. There was nothing but sensation, no world beyond the boundaries of our flesh.

A warning rumbled inside me, advance guard of a coming avalanche. It was a gathering knot, a blazing white ball that rushed and tumbled headlong, growing, always growing. It filled my body. It hung a moment: bloated, swollen, massive.

Then—

“Ahhh, God!” I screamed.

I convulsed. My teeth bit into flesh. My nails raked red furrows down a male back. My heels drummed the bed-sheet. My middle was a casing going crazy with a piston. I screamed and screamed until finally I went limp. I had been on an hour-long journey in the land of Ecstasy The Satyr fell off me like a straw man. He had been unbelievable.

We slept.

It had been a real long day for yours truly. I was utterly exhausted. I lay there like a dead girl with my arms stretched out, my legs like ten-ton weights. My eyelids were leaden. I didn't even dream.

The Satyr was gone when my blued eyelids lifted but I could hear the shower water falling. I moved my head back and forth. I let my eyes close slowly.

I sat bolt upright in bed.

"Herbert!" I screeched.

I hopped out of bed and ran for the bathroom. I flung open the door, seeing The Satyr behind a wall of water and steam.

"Herbert, what's the name?"

"Eh? What's that, ducks?”

"The name, the name! The man who gave you the microfilm. What's his name?"

"Oh! Say, we never did get around to that, did we? Oh well—you've been a good girl. No reason why I should hold out on you any longer. The name's Thom Morris. Bit of an odd one. Secretive. I don't know too much about Thom. Gives me a ring on the telly every so often. Only way we meet is when I get a phone call telling me the where and when."

I digested that, fuming. “You mean to tell me I can't get in touch with him until he calls you?”

"That's about it, pet.”

I would have kicked the bathroom tile except that my feet were as bare as the rest of me. I glowered at The Satyr soaping his hide inside those falling waters and suddenly I felt all grimy.

I reached in, grabbed his arm, and pulled him out. I slithered in under the shower waters and snatched the lathery soap from his hand. "Sorry, sweetie. I'm a mite dirty myself.”

"But I always spend half an hour in the shower,” he protested. "My day isn't complete until I do." He eyed me a moment from my red toenails to my wetly dripping blonde hair, then muttered, "Maybe we could share it, ducks?"

“Shower, sí. Sex, mon!” I told him. "There are a lot of things we didn't get to try, last night," he reminded me, stepping into the small cubicle.

We could scarcely help brushing against each other. The Satyr came to life and stood grinning at me, quite pleased with himself. I ignored him as best I could, but a thigh or a soft buttock nudged him every so often until I started breathing a little funny.

The Satyr has the instincts of a true huntsman. His palms were wet and soapy and he slid them up and all around my rather heavy breasts as they dangled while I soaped my calves. He caught my elongated nipples and squeezed them.

"Damn you, Herbert!"

"Yeah. Feels real good, doesn't it?”

"I don't have any time for playing around." It damn near killed me, but I pushed him away. I set great store by my love life, but I did have a job to do for L.U.S.T.

"Maybe some other time, sweetie. Not now," I smiled. He scowled. "I could get you to forget your duty to Uncle Sam, you know.”

"Maybe you could, at that. But there's always tomorrow or the next day. I'll be back to see you one of these foggy London nights, pet." I giggled, "I may not even phone you. Sometimes three isn't the proverbial crowd.”

The Satyr chuckled, thinking exciting thoughts. Inside half an hour I was dressed and in a taxi heading toward my base of operations, Grosvenor House in Mayfair. It is a real plush place, the Grosvenor House, and it suited me to perfection.

Five minutes after I walked in the entrance on Park Lane, I had David Anderjanian on the phone. I clued him in on the more pertinent facts, including my one-night stand as a stripper in Soho.

“And is he?" David wanted to know. "Is who what, darling?" I hedged. "Come off it, Double Oh Sex, or have you just? Is the Satyr worthy of the name?"

"Why, David! Whatever do you mean?”

"You know what I mean,” he growled. "All right, I gather it's pretty bad over there. Eric Downes is dead, the microfilm is missing, the only man who can give us a hint of where the microfilm came from is a will-o'-the-wisp. I'm coming over.”

“Oooooh, David—when?”

"First plane I can take.”

"I'll be waiting for you with open arms.”

"Like hell you will. Trot those delectable legs of yours down to Somerset and find that microfilm. Eric got it, he hid it, he was killed. Judging by the locked door and bolted window, whoever did him in couldn't get in to do his own searching. So you go down there and find it.”

Then he hung up on me, the crud.

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