The HONEY TRAP Eve Drum by Rod Gray - Chapter 01
2023 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / New Fox Fan Fiction
The First Fox Fan Fiction Novel is Still Available – Sample Chapter Below!
Fans of the Eve Drum Lady from L.U.S.T. series by Rod Gray can still get their hands on the first-ever Fox fan fiction novel, The HONEY TRAP. Previously titled The Return of Evil, this thrilling installment brings back the sexy and cunning spy, Eve Drum, as she faces her deadliest challenge yet.
In The HONEY TRAP, Eve’s old enemies have united, determined to take her down once and for all. But with her intelligence, skill, and undeniable charm, the Lady from L.U.S.T. isn’t one to surrender easily. Along the way, Eve finds true love and a new role in her career, making for an action-packed and emotional ride for fans of the series.
Rod Gray’s signature mix of sexpionage, danger, and steamy storytelling is on full display, delivering another unforgettable adventure. You can read the Prologue here and dive into Chapter One below to sample the story.
The HONEY TRAP is available exclusively at the Gardner Francis Fox Library in PDF format (60 pages).
CHAPTER ONE: LADY IN DISGRACE
I spent Labor Day Weekend working hard, having great sex with a rich old traitor (story of my life). He was one of the older traitors; they have less stamina but better homes. We were all alone in his summer house by the beach. His wife was dead, boo hoo, and his kids were grown, oh pitiful, and his “cottage” cost $1 million when he bought it in 1970, poor baby let me kiss away your pain. It was 1979 and the house had almost doubled in value, or my paycheck had lost half its purchasing power, maybe both. My job was to fuck him into a deep sleep and search the house for evidence that he was working for the Commies.
My sex life was always at its merry peak with a man I loathed, I’ve thought about that a lot. Something to do with knowing that I held all the cards in the relationship, that mine would be the last pussy he’d taste before the iron bars slammed shut on his little dick, something like that. Maybe that makes me a bad person, opinions vary, but it makes me a great lay and a great spy. At the New York offices of LUST (The League Of Underground Spies and Terrorists) they called me Oh-Oh-Sex, and I lived up to the name that weekend, maybe for the last time. I had been working for them for ten fuck-filled years. I was 31 years old, and I was ready for a change.
God, I screwed him silly in that big four-poster bed with the waves crashing just outside the window and the night wind whistling through the Adirondack chairs. He had been a great sexual athlete during the Roosevelt Administration, but too many cigars and steaks and bottles of brandy had made his face as red and gorged as my pussylips; but the remnants of a big, powerful brute of a man were underneath me, and I enjoyed stroking his 60 year old bull’s chest. I rode his hard cock naked and I brought him to the brink of orgasm again and again – I wanted this bastard to SLEEP. His gray-black chest hair was matted with sweat; I looked in the mirror and could see my body glowing by candlelight, my short blonde bob bouncing with every rise and fall of my pistoning interior. I think maybe that was the most beautiful view I ever had of myself, the night it all fell apart.
After an hour I thought he was going to have a heart attack, and I needed hard evidence in my manicured fingers before I killed him. I began to squeeze my inner thighs and milk him dry. I had a teeny-tiny little orgasm myself as I imagined him crying and gnashing his teeth as he sold this house to pay his mammoth legal bills, and then I thrilled as he gargled and moaned and shot a widdle dribble of white jelly into the depths of my pussy. Finally. He reached up to stroke my rock-hard 38-DD breasts, then muttered an exhausted “Thanks” and started to snore.
His cock went soft and slid out of me, and I went to work.
My father was a locksmith, and with my special spy training I could open just about any safe in the world. I slipped into a see-through negligee, padded into his office on silk-stocking feet, and got my tools out of my clutchpurse. I could still hear him snurfing merrily away. I thought I had all night to search. I took the candle with me; there was no moon that night. After half an hour I had everything I needed in my hands, a nice thick file that documented the secret GRU payments that had covered the mortgage on the house. Then I realized the snoring had stopped.
He was standing in the kitchen door with a butcher knife in his hand, and he was calling me names, words that began with B and W and C. I’d heard them so many times before, can’t they come up with a new word for chicks like me? He came at me naked, and it was child’s play to break his wrist and take away his bright metal toy. He sunk to his knees, blubbering in pain. I kicked him in the jaw, grabbed the papers and ran for it. The nearest payphone was 2 miles away down the strand, but I was going to outrun the old villain and tell headquarters to send a car. They were used to picking me up half naked.
I was running down the beach, looking like a Revlon commercial, making good time when he shot me. The shot just grazed my thigh, but I stumbled and went down. I cracked my head against a rock and I was groggy for a half minute. When I came to, he was stumbling towards me, still naked, holding his broken wrist awkwardly, the gun in his other hand, his thick cock jouncing from side to side like a pendulum, tick tock, grandfather clock. I pretended to be still unconscious. He crept up on me, panting, a grin of delight splitting his purple face in half. He loomed over me and pointed the gun at my head. “Die, spy bitch,” he spluttered, and I kicked upwards, my heel going deep into the groin I had loved an hour before. He screamed and his shot went wild. I rolled and pivoted my shoulder and threw the kitchen knife deep into the fat roll of his neck. He clawed at his throat and gave a dead man’s cough, thick red blood spraying the sand and my body. I stood up and worked the knife a bit; he was too feeble to put up a fight. His eyes were wide with horror as he heard the scraping of metal on bone. “You were a lousy lover,” I hissed in his ear, but I don’t think he heard it. He fell into the surf and died there, the fucker. I limped back to the big house and called the office.
Then all hell broke loose. Did I mention he was a United States Senator? Turns out there were limits on my License To Fuck, down there in the fine print.
24 hours later the head of my department had resigned, my boyfriend (and spymaster) David Anderjanian had been transferred to Japan, and I was on probation, pending a Presidential review (I hope they sent him pictures, I’m very photogenic – but you know that). My salary was stopped, my New York apartment was sealed, I was ordered to stay hidden and do nothing until they got back to me.
But doing nothing is not my style.