Chapter 08 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 EIGHT

Helmut Fleischel whimpered when he saw me.

His eyes widened, his body shivered, his manhood acknowledged my irresistible femininity, my desirability. He stood naked in the doorway, and he began to sob.

"I'm sorry,” he whispered. "Sorry, sorry!" I moved the whip, I sent it snaking out in a curling length of pleated leather that made a faint snapping noise. I have seen bullwhip experts at work. I have tried my hand with whips such as the one I held. Once in a while I can make that stinging pop in the air.

I popped the whip once. Twice. The big blonde youth went to his knees before me. He was actually crying, great tears that ran down his cheeks and attested to the fantasy in which he was losing himself. I was his blonde mother, that strange woman who had first decreed he must become a slave to his own family.

He ran toward me, fell on his knees. He kissed the tips of my patent leather boots.

“Helmut,” I whispered. “Helmut, you have been wicked.”

"Ja, ja. Wicked. Wicked!”

“Confess to me, Helmut. Tell me what you have done.”

“With Hilda and Helen. I kissed them."

“Where did you kiss them, Helmut?”

“On their buttocks, their pretty pink buttocks. They made me do it, they would have hurt me by pulling my hair and spanking me with their hairbrushes. I did not want to do it."

“You lie, Helmut.” He was crouched at my feet, rubbing his forehead across the shiny patent leather of my boots in an agony of abasement. I could see his big strong body shuddering steadily, as if in a fit of the ague.

After a moment he groaned, “Ja, I lie. I did want to do it. I am glad they threatened me, glad they made me kiss them there.”

“This is very sinful, Helmut.”

"I know, mamma." He was lost in his fantasy. I was no longer Eve Drum, girl spy. I was the dead mother he remembered. Had she dressed this way for him? Was there something of the sadist in the mother as there was a masochistic strain in the son? She may have sported with the father in such manner, before he died. And seeing the son growing into youthful manhood before her eyes may have made her realize that she could indulge herself with him, as well. She had done with him as the potter does with the wet clay upon the wheel. Her desires, her vagaries, had laid their hold upon his young mind and flesh and made them into that which crouched before me now, shivering with the lusts that rode his body.

I might do as that other woman had done, so long ago. I reached down, caught his yellow hair, as much of it as I could tangle in my fingers. I yanked his head up while I bent above him, so that my brown nipples were right before his eyes.

I brushed my nipples across his face, back and forth. Helmut was pale with repression and with the hunger that revealed itself by the manner in which his lips opened and closed, opened and closed. The boys in L.U.S.T. don't call me Double Oh Sex for nothing. I have an instinct for this sort of thing.

To Helmut, I was his mother. I slid my thickened nipple between his lips. He cried out softly and began to draw upon it as if he were an infant. My hand stroked his head, I ran my scarlet fingernails about the base of his neck. I tickled him, I teased him.

“You like this, Helmut?” I whispered. He nodded, his mouth too full to speak. "It gives you pleasure?"

"Oh, yes,” his lips breathed against my wet breast. "There are many pleasant things you and I can do together, my darling. You must put yourself in my hands, you must be guided by me.”

It was getting harder and harder for me to talk. My own flesh was not insensitive to the mouth shifting from one breast to the other, nursing hungrily, almost savagely. I could not ignore the hands sliding up and down my thighs where they lay bare above the high boots. His fingertips grazed my inner thighs, made me shudder with pleasure, then slid around to grip my soft bare buttocks.

His greedy fingers dug in, tightly. Then his equally greedy lips abandoned my nipples to drop to the black corselet against which he rubbed his flushed cheeks. He was very strong. My hips felt as if they were in a vise. Then he was kissing me below the corselet, running his mouth back and forth along my lower belly. His mouth was like a fire burning me there above my golden puff.

I felt my hips moving. I could not control them. While I still could, I must get through to him. My fingers touched his head, held it motionless.

“Helmut, dear–listen!"

“Mmmmmhhh. . . …"

"You must not stay in Hamburg. Not now.” He leaned back to stare up into my face. Like a child he repeated, "Not stay in Hamburg?"

"Not if I say you are not to stay. Can you understand? You must obey me. Unquestioningly. It is the most important thing you have to remember. Nothing else matters. You must accept my every word as a command."

“I will obey. I will!”

“We are going to take a little trip," I told him. "Yes, mamma. Yes."

“We are going to Innsbruck. You will make all the necessary arrangements. You will hire a car. You will take care of all the details. You will pretend to be my husband.” His face broke into a radiant smile. His eyes went from my bared loins up across the corselet to my jutting breasts, then to my face. His eyes showed an eerie happiness. I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I was playing games with a human being, with a human mind, I told myself.

I might even, unless I were very careful, shove him over the brink of sanity into madness, I must force myself to keep in mind at all times the fact that there was a strange, forgotten world deep inside the mind of this young German. I had no need for hypnosis. Helmut was hypnotizing himself. To him, I was the mother he loved.

"I will forgive you if you do this for me, Helmut," I whispered into his shining face.

He nodded, dumbly. “I will do as you say.”

"You will take over the Pleasure Dome later, when you return from Innsbruck."

“When I return from Innsbruck." He put his eyes to the whip dangling from my hand. His tongue touched his lips and then his eyes turned to study my fleshy white thighs where they bulged out above the patent leather boots.

"Don't whip me,” he whimpered. I hesitated, then drew bow at a guess. “Have I always whipped you, Helmut? Have I ever not whipped you?"

He shook his head. But he said, "Except for—Helmut Fleischel bit his lower lip. "Except for what?" I prompted. Like a somnambulist, he answered, “Those last few weeks when we were happiest, mamma. You and me. Not Hilda and Helen. Just the two of us, having fun.”

“We left Hilda and Helen out of the things we did together, did we?"

"Yes, mamma. We had no need for them.” I shuddered. I was almost afraid to go on. This big youth was lost in his own mists of memory. He was not kneeling before me, he was on his knees before the woman who had borne him. I wondered what dark deeds they had done together, the boy and the older woman. I told myself I was doing this for Uncle Sam. I had to get to Innsbruck. I must meet Otto Karpf. I had to get my hands on that microfilm.

My heart was thudding in my rib cage. Twice I tried to speak but no words came out. Helmut must be my slave! He was the difference between success and failure.

I whispered, swallowing hard, "Shall we play our little game?" I saw him nod and lean back as if waiting for me to begin. I had not the slightest notion of what he expected, so I said, "Tonight you shall lead, my darling.”

His eyes touched my face worriedly, but he smiled up at me. "You shall not order me? But that is half the fun, to be ordered about. I love to obey you, you know that. You make me do such nice things for you.”

I slapped him hard across his face. "Stupid boy! I did order you. I told you to begin, that this night you shall lead our little sport.”

He took another clap across his other cheek, kneeling before me. He was babbling, "I did not understand. Forgive me. I will do as you say. I will! Please—no more. Don't hit me anymore."

He put little force in his words. I knew that he wanted to be whipped, he wanted to be dominated. The masochism in his makeup which had begun when his mother first punished him was at floodtide in his body.

He crawled around behind me. He lifted his face, he kissed my bare buttocks. He abased himself, he demeaned himself. His mouth was all over my flesh. I tottered on my high heeled shoes. I found I was growing wildly excited by what he was doing.

I managed to gasp, "Is this what—what Hilda and Helen m—made you do?"

"Yes, yes,” he cried between kisses. "And now that you have done it to me"You will punish me. You will whip me.” My right hand tightened on the whip handle. "I will punish you,” I agreed. Helmut crawled around in front of me. Kneeling, he turned his naked back to me, bending far forward. I lifted the whip, let the lash trail across his back. I saw him shiver and begin to moan like a man in ecstasy His manhood was bloated in excitement.

I stepped back. I brought the whip forward. The plaited leather laid a raw scarlet streak across his flesh. He did not cry out, he merely bent lower as if to abase himself more completely. From the very earliest times, man has been fascinated by the effect of punishment upon his erotic psyche. The priests of Isis in Egypt beat their flesh with thongs while the sacrificial fires were devouring the body of the victim of the goddess. It was a symbolic sharing of the pain which the victim was expressing in screams of agony. It made the priests holy men because they were offering up their own flesh-pains to Isis along with the sufferings of the actual victim.

The Romans celebrated the feast of the Lupercalia—on February 15 of every year—during which men ran around the streets with willow branches tied in the form of whips. They were free to lash any woman they found with these cutting branches. The idea was that a birching would stimulate their victims so they would be more receptive to sexual relations. I have no doubt they were. Otherwise the habit would have been discontinued a lot sooner than it was.

During the Middle Ages, wandering bands of flagellants might be seen traveling up and down the roads of Provence and Navarre. Each took turns wielding the whip, each was victim, each was flagellant. While their avowed purpose was that of punishment for sins committed, this constant use of lash and thong was guaranteed to rouse and stimulate both sadistic and masochistic desires.

Even today there are whipping clubs to be found in the larger cities of the western world, or in private homes where people have banded together to give vent to their animal natures. She who lashes, he who receives the thongs, are joining in a symbolic copulation.

So it was with Helmut. The plaited leather across his naked back, the red welts streaking his up-turned buttocks, were like the most powerful aphrodisiacs. He turned to let me see how affected he had become.

The sight of his arousal was as a good on my own flesh. I caught him across his upper thighs with the whip, marking him just below his straining flesh.

His body began to jerk back and forth. His lips were drawn away from the teeth that were bared like those of a man in a mad frenzy. He was lost in some memory, sharing with me this action that was something out of his past.

"Mamma, mamma, mamma,” he kept whimpering. He leaped for me, springing up from his kneeling position, as once he must have leaped at his mother, tortured beyond endurance. His strong hands picked me up and threw me on my spine across a low table.

I could not have fought him, even had I wanted to do so. He was out of his head with want, with the need for my flesh. He came between my thighs like a battering ram, and found his entry easy due to my own excitement.

All I could feel was that stabbing penetration. I think I screamed, for that distension of the flesh drove at me with an ecstatic fervor I had never before experienced. I went on screaming even as my booted legs came up to wrap themselves about his lean hips.

I banged myself at him while he rammed himself into me. We were not lovers, we were fighting one with the other to find the relief we so desperately needed. Just so might Helmut first have taken his mother. I am positive he now thought himself to be in her embrace.

The woman had whipped him until he had lost all sense of what was right, what was wrong. She was a female, he was a male. It was all he knew, all he understood. In his ecstatic pain, he was not a reasoning person, but a brute.

As a brute, he took me. As an animal, I accepted him, without thought, with only my emptiness aching to be filled. And he filled me for what seemed an eternity of orgasmic delight.

Just Helmut, just me. For a long, long time. When he was shuddering for the last time, when his arms had spasmed around me and while he was starting his collapse upon my corseted body, he began to sob unrestrainedly.

Reality had come back to Helmut Fleischel. His arms still held my body but his lips whispered pleas for forgiveness. I soothed him, I told him I had wanted him to do exactly what he had done. If there was any guilt attached to this act of sex between us, it was shared by both of us.

Apparently, this was what his mother had done.

He did not seem surprised at my words, he smiled through his tears and kissed my throat. His lips were a little apart, they burned my flesh with his kiss. And then Helmut started sliding his mouth downward.

His mouth touched my breasts, kissed them gently, not with passion but in some strange form of body worship. His body slipped further and further away as he lowered himself to his knees on the floor. His hands caught hold of my thighs and drew me forward to the very edge of the table.

He began to kiss me, as if to repay me for the mercy I had shown him. I squirmed and squealed, for Helmut was an expert at what he was doing. He paid homage to my flesh on his knees and with his lips and tongue. He gave me my reward, again and again.

Even in my delirium of pleasure, I understood that I had won myself a slave to order about, to whip or caress as pleased me. Helmut Fleischel would not stay on in Hamburg. He would see that I reached Innsbruck, just as soon as I wanted.

Helmut would do whatever I commanded.

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