Chapter 05 of Lay Me Odds - Book #2 of the Lady from L.U.S.T.

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Lady Spies / Sexpionage

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 FIVE

There must be a connection between David, me and telephones. Back in Miami Beach, we had been interrupted in our sport by that thrice-damned instrument a number of times.

Now the London phone company was about to break us up.

Just as I touched him, just as his hand was catching my left leg and drawing it toward him so his lips could caress my thigh, the jangle intervened. I had to get off the bed to reach the phone.

“Hello?" David Smiled and turned over on his left side. He put his hand under the Lady Windsor and ran his palm up and own my bare leg, right up to my buttock. His fingertips were feathers, tickling me. I wriggled.

"You-know-who here,” said The Satyr.

“Well, hello," I caroled. “Has our friend called?”

"Yes, indeed—and is paying me a visit in half an hour. I know it's late, but if you want to come over. ... ?"

"Be right there," I told him. David was lifting my raincoat, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss a red welt left by the whip. His breath was hot, his lips were moist, and my flesh reacted.

"Darling, don't," I whispered, not moving. "Don't be mean, Double Oh Sex,” he breathed, lips sliding up over my hip.

"That was The Satyr. Thom Morris is going to stop by his place tonight. I really have to run, David."

His teeth gently into a soft buttock. "Do you?”

"Please, David. You have to be strong for both of us. I'm weak where you're concerned.”

"Good,” he laughed—but he took away his lips. The towel was on the carpet. David was much better. I sighed. "I'm sorry as hell about this. If you think I should stay and pass up meeting Thom Morris. . . .”

David lay back and closed his eyes. "Go,” he said softly. "And hurry up about it. I don't know how long I can hold back if you stay much longer.”

"Poor David." I whispered, running to the closet to catch up some clothes. "I'm sorry—but I really am glad to see you're feeling healthy.”

David said a naughty word. My Movado chronograph told me it was close to two in the morning. I might have problems getting a taxi. I knew that there were usually taxis waiting at the rear door of the Grosvenor House or on Park Street right behind it, most of the time. There is a lot of night life in London, with people coming and going at all hours. I crossed my fingers as I slipped into my pantyhose and wriggled it up over my thighs and hips.

"That's the damnedest, most seductive thing I've ever seen,” muttered David, propped up by an elbow on top of the bed.

I turned and waggled my behind at him, while I reached for a dress. "It's utilitarian," I told him, sliding a Jean Patou white silk crepe down over my head. "Keeps a girl modest in these mini-skirts."

“Of course. I should have known." I stuck my tongue out at him and ran for the door, snatching up my Lady Windsor and a handbag. The sight of my fingers wriggling a good-bye at him was the last thing David Anderjanian was to see of me for quite a while. After handing the doorman a pound note, to pay him with interest for his loan, I found a sleepy cabbie on Park Street and gave him the Mornington Crescent address I sank back into the seat and gathered my wits about me. I wondered if Thom Morris would demand another two hundred pounds for telling me who had given him the microfilm.

If he did, I promised it would come out of David Anderjanian's pocket, not my pocketbook. It was time L.U.S.T. picked up a tab or two.

London was stirring, breathing all around me as the taxi moved up Oxford Street to St. Giles Circus, then left onto Tottenham Court Road. The streets held only a few passerby, but there were quite a few taxis and private cars, big Bentleys and smaller MG Midgets to be seen. I wondered if any of their passengers were going on a stranger mission than Eve Drum.

My finger on the buzzer brought footfalls to the door of The Satyr's digs. The big black wooden door opened to a hand and The Satyr stood there in a dressing robe, in bare ankles, his equally bare feet pressing into the lobby carpet. "Why didn't you tell me dress was informal?" I quipped as I stepped in to stare at the two shadow boxes with their perpetually loving couples.

Beyond the archway, the living room was lighted by dim lamps. It was mood stuff done in blue, as if to highlight the pale white body of the woman who lay stark naked on the sofa, her hands clasped behind her graying black hair, smiling at me.

“Darling, come een and join the fun,” she breathed. I whirled on Herbert Ahearn, thinking about poor David and how I had left him. "I thought you said I was going to meet Thom Morris here!" I snapped.

The Satyr gestured. "Meet Thomasina Morris, pet.” The naked woman giggled. "I aff many names, darling. Thomasina Morris ees my English one. I aff many accents too. I am a woman of many personalities. All bad, I might add."

I ran my eyes from slender white ankles up past dimpled knees to rather fleshy thighs. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Her body was shaved, her belly pouched very faintly, and her breasts were even bigger than mine, with rigid brown nipples. Her face was smooth, but there were tiny crows—feet at the corners of her eyes.

I answered her smile with my lips and my eyes. I tossed my handbag onto a nearby chair. "What’ve you two been doing while I was taking a taxi ride? Whatever it was, I'm sure I interrupted something pleasant.”

The Satyr sat down on the edge of the couch, nudged her thigh with his hip. Lazily the woman caught a fold of his dressing gown, started drawing it toward her as if she were sliding back a stage curtain. I stared. The Satyr was at his very satyriest.

“Well, I really did interrupt something,” I laughed. "Excuse me!”

The woman gurgled laughter. "I luff to tease. I aff been teasing heem, no more. I am big tease, eh?”

Her red fingernails were scratching lightly. Herbie-boy was quivering, biting down on his lip. I moved a little in the chair, crossing my legs and pressing my thighs together, lost in admiration of how Herbert Ahearn was responding to her strokings.

"I'll go away,” I told the woman, "if you'll tell me who gave you the microfilm."

“Who should you go avay, sweetheart?” she murmured. I had never shared a man with another woman. I like my privacy when I make love. I was curious, however. As I say, I have read a lot.

The triple play in Erosville is as old as Adam and Eve—and Lilith. It is the core of the French menage a trois, in which a man takes up with two women, or maybe even two men with one woman. The psycho-dynamics of troilism is that a family is formed by them, the father, the mother and the child. It is a refuge for insecure people, also for those afflicted with latent homosexuality; or so the books Say.

Wife swapping is a sub-division of troilism. One mate or the other—usually it is the wife who instigates these proceedings, or puts the final approval to them—may have a touch of this homosexuality or be bisexual. He or she get their kicks from watching a wife or a husband indulge themselves with a woman or a man.

Exhibitionism plays a big part in troilism. A woman may enjoy letting others see how attractive she is when partially dressed or nude. She will derive an extra enjoyment by proving her desirability as a female in front of others, when being made love to. We human beings have many foibles. Governments are gradually coming to understand this fact. Past legislation, that has tended to inhibit and arrest certain types of sexual behavior, has been repealed in favor of newer, more understanding laws. In England, the Wolfenden Committee heard testimony favoring legal allowance of any manner of sexual acts between people in private. Back in the states, various state congresses are also beginning to favor such a change. The world is undergoing a revolution in sexual mores as once it underwent socioeconomic revolutions like the American War of Independence and the French Revolution.

This is no new thing. The ancient world had its Greek love festivals, so did the Roman. In the Middle Ages, there were the Love Courts. Man being what he is, a creature who can make love in all seasons, is guided quite often by the animal side of him. The mores of his sex swings like a pendulum all through history. The Victorian Age is a thing of his past. Today it is a swinging world.

Thomasina Morris was one of its wildest swingers, I was discovering. She was smiling at The Satyr, glancing up at me from time to time. Her hips were moving in a steady rhythm.

My own hips were keeping time as I sat in the chair across from them. I could not tear my eyes away from The Satyr and her pale white hand. Herbie-boy was leaning backward, his body shuddering from time to time, eyes closed and mouth a little open.

It was going to be a night, all right. What was left of it, anyhow. I stood up, I crossed the room to the sofa, pulling up my mini-skirt, reaching behind me for my zipper tab. The woman said, "Eef you like, I will tell you the name you want, right now. I am not like naughty Herbert, who thinks of money even before he thinks of making luff. I aff enough money. I never aff enough luff.”

I eased my Patou crepe over my head. My breasts hung huge and hard, and Thomasina Morris laughed softly at sight of my erected nipples.

“You are hurting, dear. Is good. So ees Herbert." She smiled, "Me, I am not insensitiff to pleasure, either!"

Her left hand abandoned Herbert to slide up my thigh and across the taut nylon at my middle. I shivered.

"Have you ever read Astynassa, who was Helen of Troy's maid-servant?" I breathed.

Her eyes grew brilliant. “The Erotic Postures? The ones Suadas mentions?"

I nodded. “Astynassa mentions that Helen herself invented some very fancy ones that involved herself, her maidservant and Menelaus her husband. If Helen of Troy was one half as knowing as her servant has made her—no wonder they fought a war over her.”

Fingertips brushed my golden puff, back and forth. "I never knew there existed a copy of the Postures. I know Suedas had a copy handy when he wrote, but I've always assumed it perished, maybe during an early sacking of Rome."

"My great-grandfather was a librarian for a German baron, a man who collected erotica. When the old baron died, my great-grandfather helped himself to a large number of his rarer items—intending to sell them. For some reason, he decided to keep them. They have proved educational as well as—entertaining."

Thomasina laughed. "I myself am German, my love. My mother was a baroness. I know many of the old families collected such books. So. You have Astynassa? What about the Dodechtechmon?"

I winked at her. “That too, baroness!” She wriggled in delight at the title. "Nobody calls me baroness anymore. It makes me feel like a goddess. Thomasina is such a silly name, I don't know why I picked it."

Herbert opened his eyes and looked at me. "Ducks, I'm in positive torture. Please, ducks—please!”

The baroness chortled laughter. “Poor darling! He's been in a state for half an hour before you came. I really think we ought to help him out."

She disentangled her long white legs from behind him. She had been crushed between The Satyr and the sofa-back Now she lifted her legs so that her knees brushed her chin and was about to roll on her left side and put her feet on the floor when The Satyr struck. Turning, he lunged. The woman grunted, eyes wide and mouth open. "Herr Gott,” she breathed, shuddering. She was lying on her left side, but she turned slowly, pivoting on him, until her shapely white legs were draped over his hips while he himself remained on his side. Her breasts jellied to his savage thrustings and her mouth was a red O of orgasmic pleasure. His hands clawed at her hips and thighs, holding her. "I wanted you to—have him first and—" she was panting, moving against her will. "I do not like—to be taken—like a bitch in heat and

She could not help the spasms that convulsed her. Her legs squeezed downward, heels forcing him deeper. Her eyes opened wide as did her mouth, silently, then shut tightly. Her middle was a savage pump, beating, beating, beating.

I bent above the dancing brown nipples. I touched them with the palms of my hands. "Honey-child,” I breathed. “The name?"

She was shuddering steadily now in the throes of ultimate pleasure. There are women who can enjoy the orgasm almost without cessation, to balance off the frigid ones, I suppose. Though there are few, if any, nerve-ends inside the female organ, nature has fashioned the perineum, that area about the genital or anal structures, and made it highly sensitive to stimulation. The fact that the clitoral bud is quite often brought into play at such times increases the sensual pleasure a hundred-fold.

The orgasm is a gift of nature which relieves muscular and nervous tensions in a man or woman. It is the to-be-desired culmination of sex play, the goal toward which all lovers strive. The Bartholean glands are flowing, the pulse rate is speeded up, the blood pressure builds toward a peak. At the same time, the lungs require more oxygen and so there is that deep, fast breathing during which the facial features assume truly grotesque contortions.

And then occurs that final contraction of muscles and nerves accompanied by unconsciousness or a state of semi-consciousness in which the person undergoing the orgasm is almost completely unaware of reality. They neither know nor care how they look, if anyone is watching, or if pain is being inflicted upon them. They are really out of their world.

The baroness was tensing, shuddering, head jerking, arms flung wide and fingers clawing at the empty air. She was sucking deep draughts of air into her lungs. Her eyelids lifted and closed. She was hooked on her own body and knew nothing else.

She did not hear my urgent whispers. She was too deep within the Nirvana of forgetfulness, the other—where of bodily pleasure, to heed anything but her own happiness. To the baroness, there existed nothing but the man and herself, nor did she desire anything but that, at this moment. I sat back on my heels, a little in awe of what was taking place. The Satyr and the German noblewoman were quite alone in their private Elysian Fields. I was a third thumb, without a hand.

I would never learn the name of him who had given her that microfilm. Not for a while, at least. I felt like phoning David and telling him to come over. I was getting a little desperate, watching their jollies.

I got to my feet and moved around the living room, but everywhere I looked, there was evidence that I was a too, too human real live girl without a lover. The pictures hanging on the walls increased my heightened wants, the agony of my heightened senses.

I found myself face to face with a wooden Phallus Temple from Japan. Under a slanted roof painted with representations of the female organ, seven daikons had been placed, painted wooden effigies of the male member. I shook, I actually had a fit of the ague, looking at those damned things. I put out a hand, I drew it back. I guess I just stared and stared, because next thing I knew hands were cupping my breasts and a soft mouth was kissing my throat.

"Did you think I add forgotten you, darling?” whispered the baroness, making cooing sounds deep in her throat. “Ahhh, no. Non! Nein! Nyet!”

I glanced over my shoulder at the couch. The Satyr was out like a light, snoring gently. The baroness was kissing my soft white back all the way to my pantyhose, catching the elastic in her fingers and rolling it down and over my thighs.

Her lips kissed. I cried out. "Herbert Ahearn is a human being, with the sexual weaknesses of a human, my dear. I am—inhuman."

I could not fight her soft kisses, the touchings of her tongue. I shivered steadily, I moaned.

"Please." I heard myself whimper. "Please, oh please."

It was fun to be a pupil, for a change. Quite often I am the teacher, the instigator of the foreplay, directing its course and duration. In the hands of the baroness, I was but a child. These European women have centuries of lovemaking ingrained into their flesh. It has something to do with heredity, I am told.

I was her plaything, this night. It was all I could do to gasp, "The name? Please tell me the name so I can . . . so I can . . ."

My bare buttocks felt the hot breath of her soft laughter. “Of course, my pet. You must go to see Herr Wolfgang von Horstmann in Hamburg—along the Herberstrasse. You probably know it as the Reeperbahn.”

She gave my buttocks two final kisses, then got to her feet. “He runs an entertainment emporium there, the Pleasure Dome. Xanadu and all that. The poem, you know?"

I nodded, even as she put her hands on my upper arms and turned me to face her. She smiled down at my swollen breasts jutting through the holes in my brassiere. She leaned forward, brushing her thickened nipples against my own.

“There iss no need to take it off. I do not think you could, anyhow. But come, we shall leave Herbert to his dreams, you and I."

I felt as if I were in a dream myself, locked inside a walking nightmare of sensual excitement. The Baroness had seen my study of the Japanese daikons in the little shrine box. She reached out to them, ran her fingertips across all seven of the painted effigies.

“We shall not use these. Herbert has a better one in hees bedroom. One which we may both use.”

Understanding burst in me. "Oh... You mean the double dildo?"

Her eyes were gleeful under her upraised eyebrows. "So? You know it? Aff you effer used it?”

I shook my head. She seemed cheered by the news. “Gut, guti Ve shall initiate you this night. It ees my favorite of all favorite ways.” She hesitated, glancing at The Satyr as she led me toward the bedroom archway, then added, "He was marfelous tonight. I think he was aff crazy. Nefer haff I known him to be so potent. It was a vunderful experience.”

Her hand touched a small switch and once again I saw the Satyr's bedroom in all its blue radiance. The baroness padded to the chest of drawers, bent over and brought out a smooth wooden object shaped somewhat like a blunted scimitar, each end being a perfect simulacra of the male member.

She turned and came toward me, carrying the dildo in her hand. Her laughter was soft as she noticed me eyeing it. “You will enjoy it, I promise,” she whispered.

Her hand turned me and brought me to the bed. Usually I am the aggressor, it was pleasant to be guided by this older woman, to let myself be arranged sideways on the bed with my feet hanging over the edge of the coverlets. The baroness tossed the dildo aside. She whispered, "Close your eyes, my luff. Pretend . . . pretend I am your liffer . . . your boy friend. . .”

I smiled and let my eyelids sink. I could scarcely visualize this woman as David Anderjanian, but the brush of her moist lips across my nipples, the feathers of her fingertips hunting my erogenous zones, lifted me out of my imagination into a misty mid-region of wakefulness mixed with sensory delight.

I squirmed, I whimpered, I gasped. She worked on my body a long time. I was quivering in an Eden of erotica when her lips and tongue abandoned me. I hung poised a moment, shaking, shivering, and then—I screamed. I convulsed. I opened my eyes, saw that she was joined with me in our mutual harmony of happiness. The pleasure zones of my female flesh were alive and throbbing. It became too much of a strain to look at her. I let my eyes fall shut, closing out the world. My hips worked steadily, hungrily.

No one knows how old the artificial male organ may be. Clay replicas of the penis have been found in ancient, long-dead cities such as Ugarit and Mari. The Bible mentions the images of gold and silver with which the women of Jerusalem committed their whoredoms. These objects were sold quite openly in Rome. For very rich customers, they were made of solid gold. The Roman god Priapus was nothing more or less than the male membrum, the symbol of life itself to the pagans. Priapian images, surmounted by a bearded head, could be found along the Roman roads, at crossroads, in country towns, on city street corners. They were an honest lot, those old Romans.

The god Mutunus Tutunus was known to every bride in the Rome of the twelve Caesars. Upon this wooden rigidity, the young bride sacrificed her hymen before joining her husband in the bridal bed. Long the object of veneration—the male member was the symbol of the recurring life force that waxed and ebbed with seasonal changes in the very earliest days—it had become a marriage deity. The Greek word phallus meant the representation of the male member, rather than the penis itself. It was carved from horn or wood, in most instances. In time, the term olisboi was given to these apparati with which women satisfied their passions. The poems of Herondas of Cos mentions a visit of two women to the shop of one Cerdon, who apparently had other uses for leather than making sandals for their feet. In Greece as well as Rome, at festival time, pastries in the shape of the god were bought, eaten and enjoyed.

In India, the adoration of Priapus becomes lingam-worship. The god Siva is always in an aroused state, and so is venerated by his followers. It was Siva, who, according to the legend, emasculated himself, thus denoting a kind of death, though he is re-born later on. This recurring death and re-birth is another form of the fall and winter, spring and summer, death and birth of the crops and plants on which early man depended for his very existence.

In Paris, call it godemiche; in England, dildo in Italy, diletto. But by whatever name it is known, the instrument is happiness to a lot of tensed-up women all over the Earth. It was happiness to the baroness.

And to me.

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