Read chapter One from The Italian Connection

Chapter One

The Cherry Delight series

Digitally transcribed for the Gardner Francis Fox Adventure Library

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I lay naked in my coffin. However, I was very much alive. My big brown nipples were standing up so stiffly, they actually ached. And my genital folds were positively twitching in sexual excitement, to say nothing of my slightly over-sized clitoris which was poking up between those scarlet lips.

Now believe it or not, I was hard at work. Fact! But since I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O.—the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization—some of my work takes me into the damnedest places. Like this expensive silver and mahogany coffin, for instance.

The handsome young man with the feather in his hand with which he had been tickling my rather large mammaries and my even more intimate private parts, drew a sobbing breath. Mark Condon is my contact man with N.Y.M.P.H.O., which means he brings me the orders which the bossman of the organization, called The Controller, wants me to carry out.

Right now he was drawing the ticklish fronds of that ostrich feather up and down my girlish body, pleasing me no end and getting me in the mood for polite rape. You see, I had a date with a Cosa Nostra member and everybody, including the Cosa Nostra boy himself, wanted me in the right mood. His eyes were bugging out as he saw how hard my breasts were, how my slight mound of belly quivered when he ran the feather over it, and the way my pubic hair bristled as those fronds became extremely intimate with certain personal possessions of mine.

“You s—sure you k—know what to do?” he panted. “Relax, already,” I told him, smiling sweetly. “You’ve done your part of the job, you’ve gotten me in the mood for fun and games.”

He had gotten himself in the mood, too, I saw as I sat up in the coffin and peered over the edge of what was standing at attention in his glen plaid slacks. Ordinarily, I’d have been more than willing to fry his bacon for him, but we had no time for fooling around. I had to be shipped across town to the Giuseppe Turessi Funeral Home within the hour. I felt sorry for Mark, it really was hard on him, playing with my nudity like this, but it was part of his job.

My name is Cherry Delight. Okay, okay. I was baptized Cherise Dellissio, but friends and lovers have since tabbed me with the more euphonious Cherry Delight. And I love it, because it’s true. I am just what the name implies, a delightful red-headed pussy. I am also a member of the Femmes Fatales, that special branch of N.Y.M.P.H.O. which consists of a few very, especially selected sexy girl operatives whose job is that of call girl and killer, spy girl and seductress.

I have also been trained to crack a safe, to pick a pocket as neatly as any professional dip, to fight in an assorted varieties of ways, including judo, karate, and even Burmese boxing. I can talk half a dozen languages, I’m able to hit the bulls-eye with a revolver or automatic nine times out of ten, and I’m reasonably expert in any field you can name that might help me against the crime lords. As a result, I’m unleashed like a hunting hound when there is a need for my services.

Like now.

Our enemy is the Mafia, that underworld branch of a Sicilian society that has spread out across our world. It makes its money from vice and prostitution, from gambling and the numbers rackets, from protection payments, from takeovers of legitimate businesses, usually by threats and intimidation, from drugs, from usury, and from whatever else that turns a buck. I’d stake my sweet life that the Mafia even runs a number of governments.

It is very hard, if not downright impossible, to fight an organization like that by recognized legal means. Police and judges have been known to take bribes, and witnesses are often murdered or threatened, so the legal remedies of court trial by jury are worthless. Even if you bring in a few members and get a conviction, others spring up to take their places.

The Mafia operates outside the law, so the only way to fight them is to play the game by their own rules. Which is why the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization was formed. It works with Federal and local agencies in the United States and outside its boundaries, it has contacts with Scotland Yard and the Surete, with Interpol and the police forces of quite a few nations. A N.Y.M.P.H.O. agent is given carte blanche to get the job done, no matter who gets hurt in the process, and with no questions asked about the legality of method.

Which brings me into a coffin. The Turessi Funeral Home was suspect. My organization had it tabbed as a meeting place for gangsters, an unofficial headquarters where information and mob secrets were gathered, sorted out and then relayed on to the big bosses. Now the real control of the Mob is not here in Uncle Sam land, it’s in Europe. Where? Who knows? Part of my job was to find that real boss of bosses and to eliminate him. The Controller figured that if I could scratch the Mafia chief, it might thrown the rest of their outfit into a power struggle for the top spot. This would give the police departments of the world a little breathing room.

There was more to it than a search out and destroy mission, however. We people from N.Y.M.P.H.O. use wiretapping and underworld informers to keep us abreast of what’s going on. And we’d heard via the goon grapevine that something big was in the wind. The Mafia boss of bosses had his grubby paws on some kind of gadget that would make our own job harder than ever.

What it was, nobody on our side knew. This was where Cherry Delight, Mafia Hunter, got to run with the hounds. It was my job to learn what that gadget was and to lay hands on it while at the same time—if at all possible—I must prevent the crime lords from using it for their own ends.

First of all, I had to get into that mortuary. Alive, naturally. This part of it was easy, because Giuseppe Turessi who runs the joint, had asked for a Femme Fatale. So I was being shipped naked and with a case of the hots to Joe baby, whose taste in females was something more than notorious.

So why a coffin? Well, Joe Turessi was a boss, which was pretty high up in the “confederation family” of Mafia crime lords. He also had a bit of a sexual fetish of which he was ashamed. Besides, he didn’t trust his Mob brothers, he was afraid they’d rat on him if word got about what he did in a certain upstairs room of the funeral home. The boss of bosses might think him ripe for sexual blackmail and have him removed, which means killed, in this instance. So he made certain arrangements with Femme Fatales, and here I was. Joe Baby liked his job and wanted to keep it.

Since our N.Y.M.P.H.O. boys had been on his trail for some time, they didn’t want him replaced, either; it would have meant a lot of work getting to know and understand his replacement. So my N.Y.M.P.H.O. bosses decided that they’d play along with him and send him his call girl in a coffin.

The coffin was my cover, in more senses than one. What’s more natural to ship to a mortuary than a coffin, outside maybe a dead body? My pink nudity would be delivered to Joe Turessi, he would lift the coffin lid and out I’d pop like an entertainer from a cake at a convention. A cute red-haired pussy present for a Mafia boss.

Of course, the coffin was fitted out with a can of oxygen and an inhalator, and here and there cleverly hidden holes had been made so that fresh air would come in. The silken lining of the coffin was zippered, I could push it down and out of the way so I wouldn’t suffocate.

The feather was drifting idly back and forth between my thighs, up against my labial folds. My hips lurched, my breath came faster, faster. I couldn’t help the low moan rising from between my parted lips.

“Damn you, Mark,” I breathed. “Stop torturing me.”

“The Controller said to tease you good,” he panted.

His eyes were fastened on my big breasts which were like water-filled balloons, right about now. My brown nipples were up so high they hurt. That damned ostrich feather was like hands and lips traveling all over my nudity. If the Controller wanted to make sure I gave Joe baby so good a time that he’d take me with him to Europe, he sure knew how to get Mark Condon to go about it.

Mark was suffering too. His blue eyes were like glass and the sweat-beads on his brow were even more pronounced. The hand that held the feather was shaking. And down there in his pants, his male member was standing at full attention.

Any other time I would have hopped out of that damn coffin and onto that rigid meat-bar, but duty is duty. I had a case of the hots that musn’t be wasted on Mark Condon. It had to be used to make myself indispensable to Giuseppe Turessi. He just had to take me to Europe with him.

“Please. Close the lid. Let’s get going,” I whispered.

Mark licked his lips, nodded. He tossed aside the feather, lifted his hands to the lid and slowly brought it down, closing off the world. I lay in darkness, shivering faintly. Sure, sure. I was hotted up, but I was also being sealed inside a coffin, not quite sure whether I would ever come out of it.

I knew how important my job was, I was gung-ho on seeing it through. Just the same, I was cut off from the world around me and morbid fancies began trotting through my head. Suppose somebody made a mistake and thought mine was a dead body? Maybe this Joe Turessi was a smarter guy than N.Y.M.P.H.O. believed him to be, he might guess I wasn’t just a call girl but a secret agent working for an anti-crime organization. In which case, he might nail shut the coffin lid and send me to some cemetery.

I felt the coffin being rolled along the floor, lifted and carried. It was slid into a delivery truck. I heard the truck motor revved to life, felt the truck begin to move. I quieted a little, telling myself the ride would not take more than thirty minutes, a mere half hour. I closed my eyes. It would be nice to drift off to sleep, to be awakened by an amorous man. But who the hell could sleep? I didn’t want to be buried alive. I love life, the things the world can offer a healthy, vital girl-girl. I twisted restlessly inside the coffin, it seemed I could not breathe.

My hand reached for the inhalator, fumbled it to my face. I turned the valve and breathed deeply. The cool oxygen felt good to my lungs, it soothed me. I quieted and lay motionless. The trip could not take much longer, I told myself. After all, a half hour isn’t very long. And yet it was an eternity.

All things come to an end, though. Even such a ride as this, with me sweating inside that coffin and telling myself I was an idiot to have become a member of the N.Y.M.P.H.O. team and most especially, its Femmes Fatales branch. I could have had a nice, safe job as somebody’s personal secretary, somewhere or other.

The truck jerked to a stop. I held my breath. Would I feel the thud of a hammer and nails on the coffin lid, nailing me in there forever? No! The coffin began its slide down the truck floor, it was lifted out, carried.

The coffin was set down. This was the moment of reckoning. It was now that the nails would come thudding into the lid, if Joe Turessi suspected who I was and why I was here in his mortuary. There was a long silence. Come on, come on my mind screamed. Let’s get this show on the road.

The lid rose up. I found myself staring into the flushed face of a middle-aged man, his black hair dusty with gray, as was his tiny mustache, while his sideburns were flecked with white. But his black eyes were alive, roving across my big breasts as if kissing them. They slid down my pink-skinned belly to my fluffy red Venus boskage. His tongue came out and went around his full lips.

“You darling,” I breathed, reading his thoughts. I did a little shimmy, making my breasts slide back and forth. The lust fever which Mark Condon had put in my erogenous zones with that ostrich feather was about to be satisfied. My bare arms came up, I slid inside the coffin until I was sitting up.

Joe baby reached for my hands, eyes sparkling. He had a hump hunger inside him that told me he liked what he saw as I gave my hands to his and lifted upward in the coffin until I was standing stark naked in front of him.

I bent forward, my breasts dangling, bloated with rut need, swollen into huge, blue-veined love jugs. The nipples were long, thick. I bent a little more, brushed his flushed face with my titties. Joe Turessi groaned.

“I want this to last a longtime,” I whispered, almost smothering him in the masses of my breasts.

“You betcha, kid. Me, too.” He was not the slick, polished Mafia member I had expected. There was a part of the ghetto still inside Joe Turessi, and it showed. His tiny mustache tickled my nipples as he moved his face back and forth, kissing my breast-flesh. My eyes went down to his striped trousers. He had what the French call pine d’officher. In other words, his erection was making like a tent-pole in his pants.

I lifted one leg upward, as if looking for a place to step. His eyes widened as they slid up my inner thighs right to the scarlet folds of my pussy, half hidden in crisp red genital hairs. I posed like that while his tongue came out again to run around his mouth.

“You’re teasing me, doing that,” I whispered. He caught on fast, saying, “I like do that to you, kid. I’d like to get in there between those swell gams of yours and show you how I can work my tongue.”

“But not yet?” He laughed softly. “Not yet, nah. I’m gonna take my time. Ya see, I like to watch. I wanna see you walkin’ around bare-ass and then wearin’ clothes. It’s kind of a thing with me.”

“Oooooh, you make it sound so exciting!”

“It’ll be exciting, kid. You wait’n see.” He cupped his hands, offering them as a stirrup for my foot. I put my bare toes in his palms, leaned forward and began to slide downward. Of course, since he was so close, my bare legs brushed his face all the way up to my pubic hairs. His lips nestled amid those hairs for a brief moment, I felt his lips kissing, then his tongue giving my wet folds a little lick.

“That feels terrif,” I panted, rubbing back and forth against his face.

It did, too. After what Mark Condon had done to me, I was ready to indulge this man in any kind of sex he wanted. I think he sensed this because he drew back his head and stared up at me with slightly bulging eyes.

“I ain’t begun yet, kid. Wait’ll I really get goin’ on ya. I’m gonna eat that hair pie of yours like nothin’ you ever felt. You’re the kinda doll I go for!”

Score points for my side. Well, this was why I was here, to rack up so many Brownie points that Joe Turessi wouldn’t be able to do without me and the agamuniacal attentions I would give him. It was the name of my game. Then he would invite me to accompany him to Europe so I could lay hands on whatever it was he was going to Europe to get from his fellow Mafia mobsters.

As I say, this was the battle plan. I set myself to bring it to fruition. I slid down on my middle-aged lover boy until my perfumed belly-flesh was against his lips and he was covering that flesh with kisses and tongue-licks. He was panting hard, I could see the sweat-beads on his high forehead.

Down I went until his lips closed over one of my nipples and drew it deep into his warm, wet mouth. He suckled slowly, lovingly. I tabbed Joe Turessi for a mouth man, he liked to get his lips and tongue on any part of the female anatomy that attracted him.

The other breast now. His teeth bit gently into the base of my thickly swollen nipple as he tugged the rest of it deep into his mouth. He was quivering, standing here with his arms wrapped about my slim middle, feasting on my titties. When he loosened the grip of his arms I slid down a little more, threw my arms around his neck and placed my open lips on his.

We French-kissed like that a long time. His eyes were glassy when we parted. “I ain’t never met nobody like you before, kid. I go for you. I really do. You’re something else, real special.”

“I want to be—for you,” I whispered, kissing him hungrily. “But you mentioned clothes, honey. What kind of clothes?”

Sex has many aspects. Turessi might be a sadist, in which case those clothes would hurt, in some way. There would be something tight for my breasts, something rough to chafe my tender pussy-lips But I didn’t exactly think so. Joe Turessi was getting his jollies just by kissing and licking me. This told me he wasn’t a sadist.

So I opted for the fact that he was a voyeur. He liked to see women in sexy garments. Nothing wrong with that. What male doesn’t? I knew how to handle his kind, all right. And if he had some especially nice undergarments, maybe he’d give them to me to take to Europe with him. If he asked me to go with him, that is. It was my job to make sure he did. My bare feet rested on the cold floor tiles. I pretended to shiver, causing my breasts to do their sliding jig back and forth, then up and down. Joe baby ate them with his eyes.

“Brrr! It’s cold here,” I half laughed. He slapped his forehead with a palm. “I’m sorry. I been so selfish, looking at you all naked, it’s a damn shame to cover you up. You’re great without clothes.”

“But chilly.” His hand caught mine, brought me at the run with him across the floor of the mortuary storage room where the coffins were kept for display purposes, and out into a carpeted hall. We went for the big stair case, side by side.

“Let me go first,” I suggested. If he liked to look at a woman, I’d give him the opportunity. I skipped in front of him, went up the treads. He was below me, he had a perfect view of my rounded buttocks, the backs of my curving thighs. He could even see the hairs at my crotch as I moved one slim leg and then the other, mounting the staircase.

I heard him panting like a creaky bellows. A little more than halfway up the stairs he caught my bare hips in his arms and buried his flushed face in my behind, kissing the soft flesh. He acted like a schoolboy, or a man long away from feminine companionship. Well, maybe he had been away from womenfolk a long time, for all I knew. If he had a fetish about womenfolk and clothes, could be he didn’t get much of an opportunity for giving it full play. Well, that was why I was here getting my behind kissed. I had to make him need my special branch of sex play so much he’d take me with him when he went to pick up that gadget from his Sicilian bosses.

His tongue licked across my buttock-flesh. His voice whispered words in Italian. Now I can talk Italian with the best of them, but my backside so close to his lips interfered with his enunciation so I couldn’t make out what it was he said. But I took it for an indication that he was having a ball.

I wriggled my fanny in his face, rubbing it back and forth. “Go on, honey,” I pleaded. “Don’t stop. You sure know how to make a girl feel good. I go for you, I really do.”

He rumbled laughter, kissing my buttocks again, but as if saying farewell to them for a little while. “Here I’m keepin’ you standin!” here, and we got all those clothes to put you in.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” I caroled. I turned and shook a finger at him merrily. “You have a groovy way of distracting a girl, honey-bear How do you expect me to pay attention to what you want when you’re loving my rear-end?”

He stared up at me with his black eyes, cow-like in his delight at my performance. I mentally hugged myself. My game plan was still on the tracks and roaring along at express speed. I bent and let my hand slide down his front, across his neatly striped trousers. I’d have bet a cookie any other girl friends he’d had here had been interested only in the money they were going to get, not in showing Joe baby a good time. He acted like it, anyhow. Me, I enjoy my work. My fingertips encountered something like a big bone shoving up against his pants leg. He eyes got glassy as my fingers went up and down that erection.

“Is this what I think it is?” I cooed. He swallowed, nodding. He was sweating a lot, now.

“We’re going to have fun with this, aren’t we?” My hand wrapped about his elongated penis. I squeezed it a couple of times while his open mouth made choking sounds. Then I let him go, whirled and ran for the top of the stairs.

He stood a moment, tottering on the tread where he was standing, mouth open and eyes half closed. I heard him cry out, “Never have I met a girl like you. Never! It will not be easy to … leave you. . . .”

“Then don’t,” I told him, turning on the landing, lifting my arms on either side of my head with my legs spread slightly.

His eyes devoured my nudity, starting at my ankles and going up my curving calves to my dimpled knees and then to my full thighs. They zeroed in on my bushy mons veneris, held for several moments—I told myself he could see the red clitoral bud jutting from between my genital folds—before sliding up to my belly. When his stare finally got around to my breasts, I gave my shoulders a little shake.

My eyes didn’t need the hall mirror in which I was reflected to know that my tits were doing a jiggle and bounce. My nipples went up and down and sideways as my breasts-jerked only slightly, they were so hard and swollen. My ribs could be seen, if Joe baby wanted to count their ridges against my pink flesh, and then my moving belly. I couldn’t see my thatch of red pubic hair in the mirror, but the man below me could.

“Marrone,” he whispered. “Where are those clothes?” I challenged. “Never mind the clothes” he sobbed, starting up the stairs.

“Oh, yes,” I cried. “You got them because you wanted to see me in them. I want to put them on for you. Besides, it will make you even stronger—the waiting.”

He nodded blankly, stumbling on the carpeted treads. I backed away from him on bare feet, waiting for him to show me the way into the bedroom. I figured he wanted it that way, it was part of his hangup about clothes and women. I wondered what quirk had directed his sexual energies to this voyeuristic end.

Discovering this was no part of my job, so I let him slide his arm about me without asking questions, and walked as he did toward a partly opened door. His right arm lifted, his hand pushed open the wooden door.

I was staring into a room filled with mirrors.

There were mirrors on the walls, the ceiling was a number of mirrors cunningly joined together and even the floor was of reflecting glass. I made the proper sounds, oohing and aahing as I stood on the threshold.

This boy really liked to see what he was doing with a dame

He waited for my reaction, not breathing. Maybe some girls in the past, to whom he’d showed this little sex sanctuary of his, had rebelled at this part of it. A lot of women don’t like to be watched while they’re making love or being made love to. Me, I’m different. I like sex any way, which way.

I ran into the room. I was a hundred girls, all at once. My naked body was framed in the ceiling, on the walls, even on the floor. I threw my arms wide, I did a bump and grind, watching my breasts leap and shake.

Joe Turessi sobbed, staring at me. “The clothes,” he panted. “The clothes. Put them on. You gotta!”

“Where are they?” The only things in the room outside of my naked bod were a bureau and a low bed, king size, seemingly without foot-boards or head-boards. The bed had them, but they were hidden by a black satin counterpane. That black satin would show off my nudity to this man the way a rare pearl is displayed on an ebon velvet pad.

Joe baby ran across the room, opened a mirrored door. I could see evening gowns, sport clothes, knitted jerseys, jump suits and hot pants, all the paraphernalia that makes the female attractive to the male.

“Why, honey-bear?” I wondered out loud. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

His eyes ate into mine. “I’ll tell—you. I wouldn’t tell nobody else. But there’s somethin’ about you that makes me know you’d understand. You’re not like the other holes I’ve had. You’re special, kid. But first you gotta get into them clothes.”

He ran to the only other article of furniture in the room besides the bed. He opened a drawer and drew out a pair of black nylons and a lacy garter-belt. He tossed them to me, telling me to put them on.

“Sit on the bed,” he whispered, face flushed. So I plunked my buttocks down on the edge of the black satin counterpane and took the nylons out of the package. They were brand new, so was the garter-belt in its paper receptacle. I rolled the stocking up, wriggled my pink toes so he’d see they were painted red to match my hair, then slid them into the nylon. Up my shapely leg I rolled the nylon slowly while Joe stood there goggling, eating my inner thighs and my exposed crotch with his hard black eyes.

“I was brought up in a crummy neighborhood, ya know?” he began. “I was the only boy inna family. I had two sisters and my mother. She was young, then, and pretty. My sisters were pretty, too. My room—well, it wasn’t very big, just about room for a bed. But there was a crack in the plaster between my room and theirs. Jeez! It’s hell to be poor, kid. I know. Alla time I was growin’ up, I used to lie there inna dark and peek into the next room an’ watch my sisters getting undressed for bed or dressed to go out.”

His face lost its dreamy look, grew hard as he glanced at me. “I never shot my mouth off like this before, ya know? You tell anybody about this and. . .”

There was no need for him to say any more. He’d give a contract on me so a hit man would make sure I left the land of the living. Maybe my face got white, because he chuckled suddenly, nodding.

“Don’t mind me, kid. I’m suspicious of everybody.”

I waited patiently. As a member of the N.Y.M.P.H.O. family, I am well versed in many subjects, psychology being one of them. What had happened to little Joey Turessi was not so unusual. He’d been exposed to the female bodies of his sisters and his mother at an early age, maybe his libido always remembered them and needed something to put him in mind of them whenever he wanted sex. It happens all the time, but he was uptight about it, feeling guilt associations. He probably even had youthful erections, seeing female nudity for the first time. And so his fetish was fixed for him even before he knew about such things.

“First time I ever had a woman, I was a flop. Couldn’t get it up. I felt crummy, thought maybe I wasn’t a man. You know, impotent. Then one night years later I asked a woman I knew to take her clothes off for me. I promised her some money. She did what I asked and—marrone! I was up like a bull in rut. Sure I tumbled the dame, she expected it for all the bread I promised her. And my eyes were open.”

All during the time he’d been talking I’d been putting on the stockings. Now with both of them on my legs, slightly crumpled at my thighs as I stood, I reached for the garter-belt and drew it around my middle. Joe baby ate me with his eyes. I bent over so my heavy breasts dangled between my arms and did up the stocking vamps to the garters.

“After that,” he went on saying, “I knew what to do when I hadda dame. Before I had her, I made her undress. But this got borin’, so I had her get dressed.

This gave me the hots, too. After a time I realized that what was givin’ me the greatest satisfaction was to see a dame in different clothes, like they was my sisters or my mother puttin’ on their different dresses.

“I was okay, after that. Hell, I couldn’t tell this to nobody. Every capo in the outfit would laugh at me if it got out. So I had to be careful, you know? Like havin’ you here now. The rappresenta—the big boss —wouldn’t like to know I hadda get my kicks that way, see? I’m a capo myself, a lieutenant, and I don’t want to lose my place in the structure. That’s why I had to sneak you in.”

I decided to take his mind off himself and fasten it to me.

I stood and pirouetted in front of him. My reflection leaped into motion on all sides. My nyloned legs were smoothly curved columns, my pale thighs above were pillars of sexuality and my plumply mounded buttocks framed by the garter-belt across my middle were invitations to venery.

There were evening shoes near the bed, rhinestoned Kimels. I pushed my feet into them and hip-swung a path across the mirrored floor toward my host. I put fingers to his coat, slid it off. I undid his tie, unfastened his shirt buttons. In seconds, I had him down to his Fruit of the Loom boxer shorts. His erection was up away from his front, jutting out like Omar the Tent-maker.

I slid my nails along that flesh-bar. “I could be all women to you, honey,” I breathed, letting my hard nipples slide across his hairy chest. “What with wigs and makeup I could make myself into any number of females.”

I felt it was about time to make my pitch. After all, I do work for N.Y.M.P.H.O., and my job was to get myself invited to Europe with this man, to find out what the Mafia big bosses had in mind for him and stop them, if I could. I was working in the dark, but I’m quick-witted enough to roll with the punches and change my tactics when I see how the wind is blowing.

He didn’t say a word, which I took as a good sign, so I let my hand slide under the out-thrust shorts and run gently along his rearing manhood. Joe Turessi moaned and his eyes had a faraway look.

I thought I could read the signs; he was reliving something out of his boyhood past. I whispered, “Who am I, Joe, honey?”

“A woman. After a party at our place. She was…”

“. . . wearing an evening gown?” He nodded, shaking. “A cheap one. But still. . . .”

“Go get it for me, darling.” Now my father is a doctor; a psychiatrist, to be exact. As a child I’d read his medical books, his tomes by Stekel, Freud, Jung and Adler. I thought I understood Joe Turessi perhaps better than he knew himself. He was a voyeur, certainly, but he was something more than this, he was also a bit of a masochist.

I’d have bet a cookie that he had a touch of the Oedipus complex brush as well. He had seen his mother in that room, getting undressed or in a nightgown or maybe naked, half a hundred times. He’d watched her roll on her stockings, watched her get dressed. Deep down in his psyche, so far down he never even thought about it, he had a thing about his mom. I’d bet she was at the bottom of his hangups.

It was too early to go for broke with him, though. I held my breath while his eyes cleared and he looked at me. “Get the evening gown for you?”

“Please, darling? You pick it out.” An unholy glee came into his face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I’ll go get it for you.”

He almost ran to the closet, hunted among the gorgeous dresses hanging there. He turned and I saw a black satin evening gown, low-cut at the breast and without any back at all, to speak of. His hands trembled as they touched it.

I decided to risk it. “What was your mother like, honey-bear?”

He was still in the grip of feverish desire and of that youthful memory to which he clung unwittingly at such times. “She was a lot like you. Beautiful. Young. But with brown hair not red like yours. Her breasts. . . .”

His eyes touched my swollen titties. He sobbed and shook his head. He could not go on talking about it, so I didn’t press him. I knew enough.

He brought me the dress, a Givenchy. His mother had probably never heard of Givenchy. I took it from him and slipped it down over my head. He was very close, so near that the tip of his bloated manhood touched my stockinged thigh. As the skirt of the gown fell, it brushed him there, made him cry out hungrily.

I doubted that he had ever been this close to his mother when she had dressed. I think he had seen her dress or undress from his room, at one time or another, and he’d fantasied—as boys and men will do—on an event which gave him a lot of pleasure.

In other words, he and I were acting out one of his most delightful fantasies. We were not only performing his normal bag, that of merely watching a woman dress and then undress for him. We were on another sexual level: we were in the middle of one of his most precious daydreams.

I could have hugged myself. I was sure that this was the Open Sesame I needed to get him to take me to Europe with him! I had stumbled on the magic key to unlock the secret doorways of his libido. And there is nothing stronger in a man than his libido, believe me. It makes him into a world conqueror or a money tycoon when it’s sublimated, it turns him into a Don Juan when he channels it along sexual limes.

I moved back and forth in the evening gown with its rhinestone decorations. I wore no jewelry, that would have added to the illusion he was seeing, of course, but I had no jewelry on me other than my Piaget wristwatch. I was going to make him need me at his side as much as he needed the air he breathed.

I moved up against him, plastered my front against him, my arms about his neck, and glued my lips and tongue to him. My hips lifted and bumped. I felt his savage erection between my thighs and closed them on its tip. Joe Turessi was sobbing softly even as his arms banded my middle and held me tight.

I let my hands slide down from his neck, along his back to his shorts and inside them to his buttocks; I dug my long red fingernails into his flesh. He grunted, but he was pleased. Then I inched his shorts down until they pooled at his bare feet.

“Lift my skirt, darling,” I breathed. His hands did my bidding until the evening gown was bunched about my slim waist. He pressed closer, my thighs widened; I took his stiff flesh between my soft inner thighs, rubbed it. I had to make his fantasy about his most secret desires come alive. If I failed to do this, I was going to let N.Y.M.P.H.O. down.

Not to mention the danger that might result to my native land and to its honest, law—abiding citizens.

I drew him by the hand toward the bed. I pushed him until he sat on the edge of the black satin counterpane. I stood between his slightly parted legs and lifted the long skirt of the evening gown.

“Kiss mamma,” I breathed. His eyes glazed over. My heart pounded triumphantly. I was right. This man did have an incestuous thing going for his mother. And I was helping him unleash it, letting it all hang out. But only by this method would I be able to bind myself to him so closely that he wouldn’t be happy without me somewhere around so I could play Mom to his sexuality.

His mouth roved over my upper thighs, my belly. Those lips buried themselves in my pubic bush. He kissed, I felt his tongue searching amid the hairs for my rigid clitoris. His tongue-tip touched it, tapped it, licked.

I did some moaning myself, echoing his own sobbing passions. My hips went back and forth slowly, moving against his mouth and tongue. My fingers twined in his hair.

“Now, darling?” I asked gently. “Yes, yes. Now. Now, please!” I turned around, exposing my trembling buttocks to his stare. Then I straddled his legs as he closed them and sat back, parting my labial folds and grasping his bloated manhood. I inched down slowly, hearing him cry out in utter pleasure as I took more and more of him inside me.

I let my buttocks rest on his belly for a moment. My interior muscles—the constrictor cunnae—I put to work, flexing and loosening them as might the fingers of a milkmaid about the teat of a cow. I held Joe Turessi in the most intense physical pleasure he had ever known, I believe.

Only after a few minutes, when I felt he was ready for it, did I begin to rise and fall, very slowly, very lazily, on his sex shaft buried to his balls in my genital tunnel. He was sobbing, cursing softly under his breath. His hips rose and fell, his manhood surged up and fell away. He pumped at me savagely, then tenderly.

His hands were going over my hips caressingly. Those hands lifted to slide under my armpits and around in front to where my naked breasts were bobbing gently to my posting motions. Feet planted firmly on the mirrored floor, I was going up and down; back and forth, while the sound of our moist flesh meeting made an exciting sound in the room.

“Honey-bear,” I whispered. “Mmmmm?”

“You’re the most potent man I’ve ever met. I wish. . . .”

I let my words fade, hang in the air between us. “Wha—whadda ya wish?”

“I wish this was more than just a one-time stand.”

“Oh, yeah. . . . me, too.” My hips moved more rapidly. I didn’t say anything more, I wanted him to think about what I’d said, to reflect on it. He had to believe the idea of taking me with him to Europe was his own, not mine. Meanwhile, I must set myself to making him need me all the more.

I rose up away from him. He yelled in fury at being deprived of his pleasure, but I lifted off the evening gown and sent it flying with a flip of my hand and wrist. He had been lying back on the bed, his legs bent at the knees and dangling over its edge. Now he raised up on his elbows and stared at my nakedness in the garter-belt and black nylons.

“I wanted to be naked too, darling,” I smiled. Understanding burst in him. His erection, covered with my secretions, glistening like a greased totem pole and jutting upward from his loins, was almost about to burst, too. He lay back, waiting.

“Okay, okay. But—h—hurry,” he panted. I got on my hands and knees above him. My breasts hung down inches from his lips. I dipped my left shoulder so that my left breast slid across his mouth. His lips parted, drew me in.

He nursed hungrily, like an infant. I fed him my other breast. Then, while he was still sucking, I lowered my hips to capture him again inside me. In this woman-above position, I could control the action, and did. I rammed up and down on him, I slowed the action until my hips were barely moving. Then I circled them, as though I had a hula hoop about my middle.

I was staring down into his contorted face. I saw his eyes roll back, his body stiffen. His mouth jerked convulsively, spittle came to the corners of his mouth. He jerked and jerked and went limp.

“Joey, what’s wrong?” I whispered, terrified. He didn’t answer me. How could he?

He was dead.

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