Nautipuss. Goddamn shame it's only available on kindle, because copy-pasting is a terrible chore. Fuck amazon in general and in particular. (So you better appreciate my work):
"The audience cheered, in sophisticated fashion.
“You dig that, huh?” said Monique (in French).”You wanna see more of Monique? Take a look.”
A stage hand dashed into the spotlight, unzipped the back of her short, black, skin—tight gown, whipped it off, retired quickly. Monique, revealed in a revealing black lace bikini, smiled at the audience—and sang an even raunchier song.
About the things she liked to eat. The audience cheered. Even the American tourists who didn’t understand French cheered—Monique’s gestures and lip smacking and tongue twisting made her meaning clear.
Also, she was built. Like a brick Eiffel Tower, Monique was built. More cheers.
Monique grabbed a portable hand mike, began to saunter among the tables, singing suggestive lyrics to the male customers at point-blank range.
She reached my table, pressed against the tabletop, thrusting her bare belly and her ninety-nine per cent bared breasts right at me while she sang. I smiled at her, reached forward and playfully poked her in the stomach.
At least, that’s what Monique and the audience thought. Actually I’d discretely pressed a dime-sized piece of gummed paper to her belly, just below her navel. The piece of paper was flesh colored and went unnoticed by the audience—and Monique.
She sauntered on her way, then ended her song in the middle of the stage. She bowed to the audience; smiled, snapped her fingers—and a stagehand quickly dashed up, removed her black lace bra.
She sang another song. More cheers. She winked at the audience. Snapped her fingers again. Another stagehand ran up, unfastened her bikini pants, whipped them free—and as Monique bared herself brazenly to the audience—all the lights went out.
As Research had told me they would.
The Wild Bronco was swathed in total darkness. Save for one tiny glowing circle the size of a dime. The flesh colored bit of paper I’d gummed to Monique’s belly.
I sighed. Time to stop relaxing—and start working. I whipped out my Walther PPK with the bulbous, efficient silencer, aimed carefully at the glowing spot that indicated Monique’s soft belly—pulled the trigger several times.
The gun made no more noise than a champagne cork popping.
“What a swinging joint this is,” I heard an American tourist’s voice say in the darkness. “I just heard three champagne corks pop, one right after the other.”
Then the lights went up.
A few yards from me Monique was swaying on her world—famous feet, an expression of annoyed distaste on her face. Grouped neatly on her belly were three red holes. Then her eyes rolled back in her head—and she fell backward, gracefully and erotically.
She was dead, of course. My Walther was loaded with dum-dums, and the hollow nose of each bullet was filled with concentrated cyanide. A handy if expensive extra—even a flesh wound was fatal within a second or two.
Monique wasn’t the only girl who toppled slowly backward, however. Behind her, the entire line of can-can girls—now fetchingly dressed in garters, bracelets and rhinestone neck chokers—toppled backward together.
Curses. Research had neglected to tell me that Monique’s number ended with the chorus girls lined up right behind her, belly to buttocks.
My super—powerful Walther slugs had not only drilled through Monique’s naked belly—but through the naked bellies of the twenty girls behind her.
What an unfortunate goof.
All twenty-one chicks fell backward with a meaty thud, just as if they’d been playing tug of war and somebody had cut the rope. The audience clapped.
“So realistic,” said a lady tourist behind me. “Just exactly as if they’d all been shot in the tummy. The French are so clever.”
Brigitte Bandung took her long—handled cigarette holder from her mouth and murmured, “I believe they have all been shot in the abdomen. How droll. Just like the old days in Indonesia, when we liquidated naked female prisoners in various amusing ways.”
A dapper man in a tuxedo—the manager of the club, no doubt—darted out on the stage, inspected the supine row of girls, shook his head in annoyance, snapped his fingers for some stagehands. Stagehands appeared and, with typical French insouciance, began to dray the defunct dolls off stage by their ankles.
...
“Hi, General,” I said after I heard his familiar growl on the phone. “Mission accomplished. Monique, the alleged enemy of the Free World, has been liquidated.”
“Discretely?” asked the General.
“Oh, more or less,” I said.
“Good,” said the General. “I have another lethal assignment for you, by the way. But no rush. Take the night off—take tomorrow, in fact. Relax. Eat some of that good Kansas City Steak.”
“Well—okay,” I said. “Where can I get Kansas City steaks in Paris?”
“You’re in Paris, Illinois?”
“No, General,” I said patiently. “Paris, France where I just liquidated Monique, the French chanteuse.”
Silence. Then: “Tsk, tsk. You were supposed to liquidate Monique Mulligan, a Kansas City stripper. Somebody goofed.”
“Not me,” I protested. “I liquidated her good.”
“No doubt,” said the General. “Well—no use crying over minor mistakes. With a large organization like SADISTO, occasional slip-ups are inevitable.”
“How true,” I said. “Want me to catch a plane to Kansas City and do in this Monique Mulligan?’’
“No—no, I’ll have 0002 do the job. She hasn’t killed anybody in a week. No sense in letting her get stale, or soft. No, you just stay in Paris tonight. But 0008—don’t liquidate anybody else, understand? It’s bad enough that you’ve already done in one innocent French girl”
“Right,” I said, hanging up. Well. You can’t score a hundred every time, I reflected. Too bad I’d shot an innocent French girl—twenty-one innocent French girls—in the tummy. Still, could they be all that innocent? Unlikely. How many girls working in a joint like the Wild Bronco could retain their innocence long? Very few, I decided, feeling much better.
...
I answered the phone, narrowly missing a late French cyclist.
“0008?” drawled a sultry female voice. “This is Moon Flower, better known to you of the so-called Free World as ZZZ99.”
“ZZZ99—of MINGFLING?” I gasped, momentarily losing control of the Jag and sending a late-strolling French pedestrian cartwheeling down the street.
“The same,” chuckled the sultry female voice. “As you may have heard,” she purred, “though I feel better Red than dead, I am no peasant. I never make love with my dainty shoes on. I heard you were in Paris.”
“How did you get my unlisted secret phone number?” I grunted.
“From a girl at SWISSBANG—we have the same hairdresser. She got your number from her boy friend at BELGBASH, the Belgian outfit. Got a date for tonight? If not—I live at 22 Rue Bleu, second floor. Red door.” She hung up.
I headed my Jag at full throttle toward Rue Bleu. At last I had a date for the evening. If I survived, that is. But then, what’s survival compared to love?
CHAPTER 2
THIRSTING FOR LOVE, I knocked at the red door on the second floor, 22 Rue Bleu.
Instantly the door opened and a shapely Chinese chick was standing before me.
I grabbed her and covered her face with kisses, my hands sliding up her trim perfection to savor the warm contours of her body.
“Moon Flower!” I gasped. “Perfidious though you may be politically speaking, it’s a pleasure to” The Chinese chick was rudely jerked from my arms. I looked up blinking.
The chick I’d been kissing was now sprawled on the floor rubbing her scalp. Evidently she’d been jerked backward by her long, lustrous black hair.
And standing before me was the girl who’d done the jerking.
How could I possibly have made such a mistake. This girl was also Chinese—but taller, more regal and infinitely more beautiful. Also more shapely. Even through the thin silk robe she wore, I could see the full, rounded contours of her proud, arrogant breasts—her wide, imperious hips.
“Fool!” she snarled. “How could you mistake this servant girl—for Moon Flower!”
“An understandable mistake,” I said apologetically. “After all, I’ve never met you in the flesh before and—"
“And,” she sneered, “just because there are five hundred million Chinese in the world, you think we all look alike. How could you mistake me for a—a stupid pig of a vassal?”
“That’s a pretty right-wing way of speaking for an agent of MINGFLING,” I said curtly.
Moon Flower bit her shapely lip. “You’re right. Rise, loyal pig of a servant girl—quickly, you clumsy trollop!” she added, aiming a kick at the cringing Chinese girl’s shapely backside.
The Chinese maidservant scuttled away on all fours, bowing obsequiously in all directions.
“Alone at last,” purred Moon Flower. “Shut the door, please—I have nosey neighbors. Two C.I.A. agents, a girl from U.N.C.L.E. and hordes of freelance spies.”
“You must be pretty important,” I said, kicking shut the door.
“I certainly am,” sneered Moon Flower. “Look!” And she dramatically opened her silk gown, let it slither silkenly to the floor. She put her hands on her hips, flaunting her golden nakedness. “Count my notches,” she boasted.
I stared at her naked golden body. Stared harder. Sure enough, under her left breast was a row of tiny, tattooed red strokes.
“Forty-eight notches!” I gasped. “You’ve liquidated forty-eight agents of the Free World?”
“Not counting children,” she boasted.
“How ghastly,” I gasped. “If I wasn’t here as your guest, for erotic purposes, I’d sure get a kick out of liquidating you.”
“And,” purred Moon Flower, “if you weren’t my invited guest—for erotic purposes—I’d love to make you notch forty-nine. As it is—shall we be friends—for the remainder of the night, at least?”
“What else?” I said, leering at her incredible charms. “Kiss me, you agent provocateur!”
She smiled, an exotic, dangerous smile. “Not afraid of my famous Kiss of Death, you virile barbarian?”
“Kiss?” I queried, “of Death?”
“But of course. One of my most droll gambits. For several years now I have been giving myself weekly injections of cobra venom, gradually increasing the dosage until now I am quite immune even to the bite of a Queen Cobra. When a man-displeases me—I kiss him passionately, crush a tiny capsule of cobra venom between my teeth—and then bite him passionately on the lip. My victims always groan with delight-before going into their death agonies.”
“Interesting,” I said, making a mental note to pass the tip on to Research back at SADISTO HQ.
“I trust you completely, of course, but truce or no truce, would you mind opening your mouth?”
She smiled and opened her lovely jaws. Gleaming white teeth, sharp and predatory looking; a pair of sensual Oriental lips; a passionately writhing tongue but no capsule.
I pulled her roughly to me, kissed her brutally on her full lips. Her sumptuously contoured body surged against mine, her belly a hot provocation, her hips a thirsting invitation, her breasts pneumatically insinuating against my chest.
[Skipping the sex scene]
Time seemed to slow, almost to halt, and a few seconds of rapture seemed to endure of eons until, at last, the red haze of ecstasy faded and we drifted silently through darkness, through silence...
Then I sucked in my breath with a gasp and rolled from the golden body, now gleaming with the sweat of our lovemaking, and lay beside Moon Flower while her great breasts heaved as she fought for breath. A moment later she slid off the bed, her body as supple as a golden python.
“A drink?” she purred, deftly pouring golden liquid from a golden decanter into golden goblets.
“Love one,” I said, rising to my feet with an effort, ignoring the goblet she held out toward me and picking up the one she’d poured for herself.
“Silly boy,” she laughed. “Think I’d poison you just because our truce is over?”
She laughed again—but casually dumped the contents of the goblet I’d refused into a vase of golden flowers (which instantly wilted, then shriveled up), poured herself a fresh goblet. We drank a silent toast.
“Too bad,” she murmured, “that the accident of politics makes us sworn enemies. I’ll miss you, after you’ve gone.’
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said, dressing myself rapidly. I straightened my tie (and at the same instant worked loose a tiny gelatin capsule),stifled a yawn (and slid the capsule into my mouth) and smiled at her.
She smiled back, turned her back on me for a moment to put down her empty goblet. In the polished surface of the decanter I saw the tiny reflected image of her right hand flip a capsule into the tiny reflected image of her mouth.
She turned back. “A goodbye kiss?”
“Of course, darling,” I said, reaching for her.
Our lips touched—and instantly I bit down on the capsule in my mouth and then bit deep into her lower lip. She pulled back with a yelp, then snarled and flung herself forward, snapping at me like a hopped-up snapping turtle.
I shoved her playfully back with a fast-moving knee to her groin. She fell sprawling on the bed, snarled at me, cobra venom dripping from the corners of her shapely mouth. She struggled to her feet, then swayed suddenly, as her eyes went wide with panic.
“Lethal bites,” I chuckled, “is a game two can play at. Too bad your carefully built up immunity to cobra venom won’t protect you from the massive dose of rattlesnake venom I just injected into your lower lip. The neurotoxin of cobras is chemically different from the hemotoxin of the pit viper family. And since, heh, heh, rattlesnakes are restricted to the Free World, I guess you haven’t been able to build up an immunity.”
She said nothing. She was too busy writhing in death agonies on the floor.
I stepped over her luscious, writhing body, struck a small golden gong. A moment later her Chinese maidservant entered—to stare alternately and with equal dismay at the sight of her mistress’ heels drumming a tattoo on the carpet—and the sight of my Walther PPK, which was aimed at her dainty belly.
“Care to defect to the Free World?” I asked pleasantly. “If you’ve picked up any secrets eavesdropping on Moon Flower, the Free World would love to have you around.”
She defected on the spot. I gave her cab fare and directions to SADISTO’s secret Paris headquarters. Within an hour she’d be on her way to Washington. Where she’d be interrogated, brain washed, congratulated-and then dragged off to SADISTO’s underground rifle range to serve as a live target.
At SADISTO we get our money’s worth out of defectees.
CHAPTER 3
BACK IN WASHINGTON I reported at once to the General, who was sitting behind his desk fifteen stories beneath the rolling hills of Maryland.
“Scratch ZZZ99 of MINGFLING,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I gave her a rattlesnake bite. Her maid should be here shortly—for her interrogation and our target practice.”
“Well done,” said the General, pouring me a drink. “While ZZZ99 was writhing around in agony, how did you give her the coup de grace? With a broken bottle? A rusty knife? A garlic pointed stick?”
“Why,” I said, “I just left her there. Writhing. But nothing could save her-she got the concentrated venom of fifty diamondback rattlesnakes injected into her lower lip. And, since there aren't any rattlesnakes in China, Asia or Europe—how could she have built up an immunity?”
“They have rattlesnakes,” snarled the General, “in Cuba. Also Chinese technicians. Maybe she was immune all along-and just put on an act to fool you.” He scooped up a red phone, put through a call to Paris. A moment later he slammed down the phone and scowled at me. “She was immune. At least, a naked Chinese girl answering her description was seen dashing into the Albanian Embassy nursing a swollen lower lip. ZZZ99 is still in action. Another goof on your part, 0008.”
I said nothing. I was too mortified.
[008 is sent to investigate some underwater attacks only to discover an all-girl submarine doing the Nemo shtick, led by the Arab princess "Captain Demo"]
The door opened and in marched five girls. One was the blonde with the sextant I’d seen earlier. The other four were dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive-skinned lovelies. Arab girls, no doubt. They were dressed simply but nautically: jaunty black sailor’s caps, wide black belts and black sea boots. Otherwise they were entrancingly nude and built.
Jaunty, golden brown breasts jutted proudly from their youthful chests. Their waists were slim and supple, their hips wide and exotic looking.
The girl in the middle, a firm fleshed desert doxie of about eighteen, looked scared. Like her eyes were doing controlled rolls of panic.
“L’spgle abu quark!” said the girl next to the prisoner—a girl whose haughty sneer and golden belt buckle indicated she was an officer.
“So!” hissed Captain Demo in Arabic. “You broke a coffee cup, eh? I warned you what would happen to the next crewmember who bungled. Have you anything to say before punishment is meted out?”
“Gulp,” said the girl, in Arabic. “It—it won’t happen again!”
“Not to you it won’t,” chuckled Captain Demo. “Guard! March the prisoner to the Punishment Room!”
All five girls saluted then turned and marched out the door and down a metal corridor. Captain Demo followed—and I followed Captain Demo, my eyes fixed to the arrogantly swaying contours of her hips and buttocks, my mind in a whirl. What ghastly punishment was I about to witness?
I found out five minutes later. By then the Nautipuss floated dead in the water, riding a thermal anticline, no doubt, and the entire crew was lined up in the punishment room, a huge steel chamber that also doubled as badminton court and mess hall, I learned later. Now it was to be the scene of a grisly, medieval rite.
In the center of the room a rough-hewn wooden platform had been erected. I recognized it: an Arab gerborya—an execution device once fashionable in the tribal kingdoms bordering the Red Sea and the Gulf of Oman.
Superficially, it resembled a gallows, but without the gallows tree or rope. Just wooden steps leading to a wooden platform about five feet high. The front section of the platform was hinged. Only a five-foot pole propped under the edge kept it from dropping.
Through the center of the hinged section of the platform projected a long, inch-and-a-half-thick wooden pole, the end of which was tipped with a gleaming steel point. The platform was slotted from the pole to the edge—when the platform dropped the pole would remain standing upright.
Stoically, the young girl to be punished mounted the steps, walked slowly and reluctantly out across the platform toward the pole. It was too high; the steel tip reached almost to her navel. Captain Demo barked orders, and two of her girl crew members hurriedly adjusted the base support of the pole, removing wooden wedges until the tip of the pole had dropped seven or eight inches.
On the platform, the nude victim took a deep breath, walked forward-until she was standing directly over the glittering steel point of the pole.
“Attach the lanyard,” Captain Demo snapped. Quickly a rope was tied around the prop that kept the platform from dropping. The rope was paid out; led through a pulley attached to the opposite wall, then back to the platform, where the end was tossed to the naked prisoner who caught it deftly if morosely.
“You’ve never witnessed a gerborya execution before?” murmured Captain Demo her eyes gleaming with madness, sadism or both. I shook my head.
“A most ingenious—and economical—execution device. The prisoner plays the role of victim and executioner both. Droll, no?” She turned back to the platform.” We’re ready any time you are, Crew Member 53!”
Crew Member 53 swallowed hard saluted smartly with her right hand—and with her left jerked on the lanyard she held. The rope tightened, the prop pole jerked back—and the platform dropped abruptly from under her feet.
The result was predictable—and grisly. As the platform dropped, so did Crew Member 53. But more slowly, since she was being impaled on the pole.
Judging by the slow rate she slid down—and around—the pole the tip couldn’t have been any too sharp. She didn’t slide quietly either. Her horrible screams shredded the air while her arms and legs thrashed wildly, uselessly. Not more than thirty seconds elapsed from the time the platform dropped and her screams ended—but it was a long thirty seconds for me. And for Crew Member 53, no doubt.
Slowly, slowly her body continued to slide downward in the dead silence that had followed her last shriek. Her head had fallen back; her glazed lifeless eyes staring upward, her mouth hanging slackly open. And then, horribly, as her body continued to sink the tip of the steel pointed pole slid out of her mouth like a giant metal tongue.
“That concludes the punishment for today,” snapped Captain Demo, letting out her breath in a prolonged, rather satisfied smile.
“Crew return to your posts. And no more bungling!” Her crew saluted, faces impassive, then scurried away to their appointed tasks.
Captain Demo turned to me. “Interesting, eh? What did you think?”
“I think,” I said, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up, “that you have splendid discipline aboard the Nautipuss. I mean aboard an American nuclear submarine you wouldn’t get a crewman to pull his own lanyard that way. Not if it meant sliding down a pole the hard way.”
Captain Demo’s lip curled. “I’ve heard discipline is slack aboard Free World submarines.” She frowned “Not that Crew Member 53 showed much self-discipline. The last girl I had to punish didn’tscream or kick at all. Just kept saluting briskly until the shaft pierced her heart.”
I suppressed a shudder. Captain Demo, gorgeous hunk of female flesh that she was, was sure a bestial type. But then—why should I expect otherwise? For one thing, she was obviously a bit nuts. More than a bit nuts. A whole bag of nuts.
[Demo recruits new crew members from the captured girls]
As she spoke, the TV screen in front of the bound redhead came to life. A taped, full color picture of Captain Demo appeared on the screen. “Hi, there,” said her recorded voice. “I’m your new owner and captain. As a proud member of the Nautipuss team, you must learn to obey my every whim—instantly. If you don’t, this is what will happen to you.”
The taped picture on the screen changed. To a close-up of the execution platform in action. Having already seen the gerborya in action, what came next didn’t have so much shock impact on me. But it sure shocked the redhead. Gagged though she was, she let out a horrible shriek. Meanwhile, on the screen, Arab girl after Arab girl yanked at the rope lanyard—to slide screaming and writhing to their horrible doom. Eight in all, not counting today’s punishment—which evidently hadn’t yet been taped and incorporated into the teaching machine’s program.
After that came videotapes of several other punishments. Of a more varied nature. One voluptuous Arab girl got dropped into a tank full of voracious moray eels. Another fought a girl-eating octopus—and lost. A third got a real charge—a lethal charge—out of battling an electric eel. And a fourth got explosively decompressed—she really went out with a bang. Before she went all to pieces she blew up like a balloon.
“I can see,” I gasped, “why enlightened self-interest makes your crew members obey orders.”
Captain Demo nodded curtly. “Well, enough of business,” she drawled. “Now for pleasure—my pleasure. Follow me, slave, to my tent.”
...
Instantly I thrust my lips down to sample the soaring summit of her left breast.
I felt her fingernails sink deep into my back and neck, raking me—and pushing me harder against the great tender mountain of her magnificent mammary.
“If you bite me now,” she gasped, “you will ruin me—and die a death more horrible than any man in history!”
Just for that I bit her. Hard. Sinking my teeth deep into the sweet-tasting flesh of her areola.
She gasped, flailed at my back with closed fists. I gave my teeth a final clench, then released her breast, raised my head and grinned at her.
“Impetuous fool!” she gasped. “How dare you hurt me—and risk my wrath?”
I grinned down at her left breast, now ringed with bright red tooth marks.
“I’m not scared of you,” I lied. “Or of any female. I just nipped you. Want me to break the flesh next time?”
She stared up at me, then gasped, and her eyes glazed with desire. Her bronze hands grasped the quivering cone of her right breast, offered it to me. “Not quite,” she gasped. “But bite me again—just a bit harder.”
Just as I’d figured, I mused—as I bent my head and sank my teeth deep into her soft, pointed mound—a bird who likes it brutal.
I bit her harder this time, first teasing and tormenting the quivering prisoner of her nipple, harder but not hard enough to draw blood. Not quite.
And she dug it. She snarled and hissed and spat Arabic curses—but she dug it.
And my spirits began to rise. Doubtless her previous” love slaves’, terrified by the prospect of death by torture, had treated her gently, perhaps even impotently. Maybe by showing her no respect, no tenderness, I could gain her twisted respect—and live a while.
I began to move over her gorgeous, gigantic body, nipping and biting her bronze belly, her soft arms, her luscious legs. I flipped her, roughly, and, sitting astride her full thighs, began to slap and whack her great rounded buttocks with the flats of my hands.
I whacked her until my palms stung, until her bronze rump was suffused with pink. She yelped and squealed and groaned and cursed—but she dug it. I was sure of that. When a man is sitting astride a girl’s legs while she’s prone on her belly, it isn’t hard for her to twist and roll over—and aim a fist.
If she wants to. CeeDee didn’t want to. Not really. Well, it figured. Slap a sadist and you’ll find a masochist, as the saying goes. I bent my head, picked the fullest portion of her right buttock—and bit her hard.
Perhaps a shade too hard. She yelled at the top of her pagan voice. Instantly, so it seemed, half a dozen Arab girls, long curved daggers in both hands, had ringed us at close range.
“Get lost, you idiots!” CeeDee shouted in Arabic. “I didn’t yell for you.” The Arab girls discreetly faded away—fast.
“So,” I sneered, slapping her bonding buttocks brutally, “you’re basically scared—insecure, eh? Don’t think yourself capable of handling a real man like me—except with a bunch of dagger girls waiting in the wings to rescue you. I figured you were soft,” I added with a nasty chuckle—and whacked her buttocks harder.
She writhed, twisted up and around, her face contorted with rage. “How dare you speak to me like that?” she shrieked—and aimed a fist at my (if I say so myself) handsome nose.
I parried her blow easily, snaked out my right hand, flicked her hard—and painfully—on the right nipple.
Another yelp—and again she threw a fist at me. A fist I casually parried. This time I threw a fist at her, a slow—moving fist, but one hard enough to make her left breast jump as if hit by a bullet.
“Ahhhk!” she gasped (which in Arabic means you impudent infidel swine!)—and lashed at my face with curved talons—fingers rather. Fingers tipped with very sharp fingernails.
I jerked my head back at the last moment, and her claws whizzed by my face.
“Want to get rough, eh?” I jeered, and sank my left fist deep into her belly.
She gasped, doubled up. I straightened her with a playful jolt under her jaw—then slapped the tips of my fingers hard across her acutely sensitive nipples.
She screeched with pain, flung herself at me, jaws wide to bite me—where no real lady would
dream of biting a naked man. A naked gentleman, at least.
I clouted her on the side of her head with my open palm—then slid forward to grip her throat.
She squawked and gurgled as I cut off her air. Squawked and clawed frantically at my hands. Blood flowed down my arms—but I didn’t slacken my grip.
This chick might be rough and tough and brutal—but she didn’t know the first thing about unarmed combat.
I choked her until her tongue protruded, then I relaxed my grip.
“You—cad!” she gasped. “I’ll—have you—sliced to ribbons!”
...
She licked her—still—bleeding lips. Then she smiled. “No man has ever talked to me that way before,” she gasped. “I never realized it before but—but you’re my kind of man!” She flung herself at me. Amorously. “Take me!” she gasped. “I’m yours! For the time being, at least.”
Good, I thought to myself as I reached for her and crushed her voluptuous body to mine. So far, so good. I’ve got her figured out.
Not that I had any illusions. She liked style of my making love, to be sure. But she was still a loony. Sooner or later I’d say or do something that would displease her—and get thrown to the not—so—tender mercies of her crew.
...
First, I had to escape alive and in reasonably good health. So as to make my personal report to the General. Also because I wanted to stay alive for purely personal, selfish reasons.
Second, I had to destroy Captain Demo—and her dread undersea craft, the Nautipuss. What else?
Oh, yes; rescue the naked girls now penned in the slave quarters, waiting to be drafted into the Nautipuss’ crew. If feasible and convenient, that is.
When CeeDee had complimented me on lacking chivalry, it had been a well-deserved compliment, if I say so myself. Evidence of chivalry, in fact, is grounds for instant dismissal from SADISTO. Secret agents simply cannot take the time and risk involved in rescuing damsels in distress.
...
How well I remember the first de-chivalrizing session I attended, when I was but a fledgling SADISTO agent...
The General himself (we were shorthanded back in those days) was my instructor.
Early one morning I received instructions to meet G on Level Five of SADISTO’s underground headquarters. Level Five, I knew, contained SADISTO’s huge underground obstacle course—simulated desert, jungle, swamp and mountain terrain, all housed in a massive underground room bigger than ten bowling alleys.
I’d already negotiated the course five times, with live machinegun bullets—aimed to kill, not scare—whizzing over my head. I assumed I’d have to crawl, wriggle, slither and climb the course again. Not so.
I found G sitting by a card table, a chess board in front of him.
“Ah, Trevor,” he said (I didn’t have my triple—zero number then). “Just in time for a friendly game of chess. Your move.”
Puzzled, I sat down across from him, moved one of my pawns. The General made a counter—move. And so it went for eight or ten moves.
And then—then a trapdoor in the roof a few yards away snapped open—and down plunged a screaming teenage girl! She was blonde and naked and beautiful. And she fell with a splat right into a simulated pool of quicksand!
I sprang at once to my feet. “Good grief, General!” I cried. “A trapdoor must have come open by accident—look! That gorgeous blonde girl is wallowing in quicksand just a few yards away! We must rescue her!”
“Sit down,” snapped the General. “Your move—and if you don’t look sharp you’re going to lose your knight.”
I sat down. Moved my knight out of danger. “General,” I said, “that voluptuous naked blonde is sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand. Her horrible screams, mixed with tearful pleas for aid, are battering my ears. Yours too, no doubt. Shouldn’t we do something?”
“Yes,” the General said. “We should go on with our game. There—you just lost another pawn.” I made my move—only to lose another pawn.”
General,” I said, as calmly as possible, “that luscious blonde is sinking fast. Already the quicksand has swallowed up her full thighs, her shapely buttocks, her flaring hips, her dainty waist. Now her billowing breasts are sinking from sight. In another few moments—
“I’ll have won this chess game,” snapped the General. “Confound it, Trevor! If you pass all your tests and win your triple—zero number you’ll be assigned to numerous lethal missions. And on mission after mission, you’ll have to accomplish, your objectives despite the hideous screams of beautiful girls being liquidated. You must learn to disregard such things. There! I have your queen boxed up.”
And so he did. I knocked his bishop out of the game, though. And, as the blonde’s lovely screaming mouth filled with quicksand and mud, I checked his king and, while the blonde’s golden tresses sank after her like a defeated army’s banner, I won the game. I also felt quite sick.
I felt even sicker when, five minutes after we’d started another game, the same trapdoor snapped open and a fantastically lovely redhead fell with a splash into the same pool of quicksand.
But this time I was prepared. This time I spared but a few casual glances as her voluptuous nude body sank slowly down, and down—as her piteous shrieks tore the air—as her dying gurgles were stopped by mud and sand.
“General,” I said as I checkmated him adroitly, “aren’t your training methods rather—brutal?”
“Of course,” he snapped. “We at SADISTO pride ourselves upon our brutality—though, of course, we’re only brutal for the direct or indirect cause of Freedom.”
“Those girls who just sank screaming into quicksand,” I asked, pretending to stifle a yawn. “Were they captured enemy agents?”
“No,” the General replied. “They were just—girls. One was a teen—age hitchhiker who made the mistake of hitching a ride with one of our Collectors. The other—I think she was some coed who came to our doors by mistake. Thought she was, heh, heh, joining the Peace Corps.”
“Rather rough on them, wasn’t it?” I remarked.
“Right,” the General snapped. “But consider, Trevor. We’re training you as a three-zero SADISTO agent. Shortly you’ll be sent upon vital missions—missions upon which the fate of millions may depend. Probably will depend. We must be certain you’re reliable—that you’re fully trained.”
“Yeah, trained,” I said. “But innocent girls—”
“Are the kind you must not bother about during future missions. Do you think the villains and enemy agents you’ll be grappling with—if you pass muster—will be menacing guilty girls?”
“I guess not,” I admitted.
“Well then. We have to accustom you to going about your business quietly and calmly despite the agonized screams of innocent, voluptuous girls. And the only way to train you realistically is to use genuine, innocent girls. Just as we use real bullets to teach you to duck quickly.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can see the logic of your approach. But—”
“But nothing,” G growled. “What’s the horrible demise of a few dozen innocent girls—compared to the training of a trusted, callous SADISTO agent? An agent upon whom the fate of millions may depend?”
“You’re right, absolutely right,” I said, feeling ashamed. “Bring on the innocent girls.”
The General smiled. Had I known him as well as I do now, I’d have shuddered with horrified anticipation at the sight of that particular smile.
But I didn’t know the General, then... I simply grinned boyishly, and played another five games of chess—while five more innocent, beautiful, splendidly naked girls died screaming a few yards away.
Of snake bite—rat bite—mad dog bite—crocodile bite—and the sadistic application of a red-hot poker.
I won five chess games out of seven—and was busy congratulating myself on having passed the General’s test, on having proved myself capable of cold, logical thought while listening to the tragic screams of gorgeous young girls meeting untimely and highly unpleasant ends—I was, I say, busy congratulating myself on having passed the General’s Ultimate Test when——
Even now I can hardly bear to think about it.
“One more chess game,” the General suggested, a nasty twinkle in his eye.
“Play this game casually and coolly—and you’ll be awarded your triple-zero. You’ll be a genuine bona fide SADISTO agent. Licensed to kill, main, and impregnate as you like—for the sake of the Free World.”
“Set up the pieces,” I’d said, quivering with excitement. Me, a triple-zero man! With an unlimited expense account, a silencer-equipped gun, all the girls I asked for and—
And then I shouted in horror. As well I might. While I’d been setting up the chess pieces I’d noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a huge metal lion cage being wheeled up close to our chess table. I’d also noticed another set of cages, containing starving hyenas, being wheeled up next to the main cage.
I’d thought little of it. So another lovely, innocent young teenage girl was about to bite the dust the hard way. So what? I almost had my triple—zero number, didn’t I?
A trapdoor in the roof opened and a greased rope was dropped down. Intent on my opening move, I barely noticed it. A second trapdoor opened, and a full—breasted blonde tumbled into the cage, saw the hyenas about to be shunted into the cage with her, began to climb up the greased rope with frantic haste and terror-ridden screams.
Pondering my countermove to the General’s ploy, I paid no attention—until something familiar about her screams jerked my head around. Then I yelled.
“General!” I yelled. “Stop the, uh, games! That’s no innocent girl in that cage—that’s my childhood sweetheart, Audrey! The girl I loved in vain all through junior high school! The girl I necked with and then sexed with all through high school! That’s Audrey! The girl of my youthful dreams, the girl I still carry a torch for, even though she married a TV repairman in Grand Rapids! Stop everything, I say! A ghastly mistake or unforeseen coincidence is taking place!”
Meanwhile, poor Audrey, looking as lovely as when I’d last undressed her in the back seat of my car years before, was frantically shinning up the greased rope—while half a dozen starving hyenas snapped at her shapely ankles, lunged at her succulent-looking buttocks.
“This, heh, heh, episode is no accidental coincidence,” the General told me. “We naturally researched your past—discovered that you had a strong crush on this Audrey female. So—we snatched her discreetly from her TV repairman husband, spirited her here and, heh, heh, are now making—use of her.”
General!” I cried—while the hyenas snapped evermore hungrily and poor Audrey climbed the greased rope faster—“General, this is too much!”
“Nonsense,” the General said, toying thoughtfully with his knight. “Do you think all the girls you’ll encounter in future missions will be strangers, girls you care little about emotionally? Of course not. If your career is typical of most secret agents there will soon come a caper—I mean an assignment—wherein you’ll meet a girl you’ll have an affair with, fall in love with. And, if you’re an average agent on an average assignment, the enemy will capture her—threaten to torture her unless you surrender, tell all, or both. For the sake of the Free World, we must be sure you won’t allow yourself to be swayed by a young female screaming in agony—even if the young female is the girl you love. Simple logic, no?”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But Audrey...”
“Your move,” said the General. So I did what I had to do and took one of his pawns.
“All the same,” I said, while Audrey scrambled increasing lack of success up the greased rope, and the hyenas leaped higher for their live meal—” all the same, I don’t feel you’re behaving like a gentleman”
“I’m not,” said the General. “SADISTO agents can’t afford gentlemanly instincts.”
“I suppose not,” I sighed—while the leaping hyenas began biting larger and larger chunks out of poor Audrey. “Well, if I must choose between losing all semblance of decency—or flunking out...”
“That’s the spirit!” said the General, frowning as I menaced his rook. “Frankly, Trevor, I was afraid that deep down you didn’t have the bestial qualities we demand. I’m happy to see I was wrong.” He moved his rook—right into my trap.
I moved my knight—and had him cornered. While poor Audrey, my childhood flame, sank lower and lower on the greased rope—and the hyenas chewed choice chunks out of her shapely front, rear and sides. Her screamed pleas for aid, for mercy, for help—directly addressed to me by name grew fainter and fainter. Until finally only the satisfied chomping of hyena jaws disturbed our chess game. The next morning I was awarded my triple—zero number...
I’ve sometimes wondered, looking back, if I’d have withstood that Ultimate Ultimate Test if I hadn’t secretly nursed a fierce grudge against darling Audrey for jilting me and marrying that TV repairman.
Who can tell? And at this date, who cares? Possibly the TV repairman. Then again, possibly not.
...
How well I remembered my first week as a full-fledged triple-zero SADISTO agent... The morning after I’d been awarded my oh-oh-oh number (in an impressive, if bizarre ceremony that owed much both to Voodoo and Black Mass rites) I’d been summoned to G’s office.
“0008,” he’d said, “you’re due for some intensive training. Your technique is crude relatively ineffectual, limited and lacking in imagination.”
I’d been stunned. “But General!” I’d protested. “Just yesterday you told me I had a natural inclination for cold—and hot—blooded murder! Remember, in training, how effectively I used my knife on that gorgeous, captive Albanian spy? She was dead ten minutes after my knife first drew blood—she never had a chance. I mean, even if she hadn’t had her hands tied behind her back and a blindfold on, she wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“True,” said the General, “but—”
“But remember how skillfully I choked that North Vietnamese girl?” I broke in. “And in free—fall, yet! True, I had a parachute strapped to my back and she didn’t—but I finished her off long before her lovely lifeless body hit the ground.”
“Yes, certainly,” said the General, “but_”
“But remember how I brought down voluptuous running targets at long range—with crossbow, longbow, throwing knife, bolo, rifle, shotgun
pistol, assegai, slingshot, light bulbs filled with napalm, muzzle loading cannon and rock throwing?”
“I remember,” said the General, “but—”
“But remember how I picked off that teenage pro-Chinese South American Indian girl—with one puff of my poisoned blowgun?” I protested. “Remember how deftly I dropped hand-grenade depth-charges onto those nude Chinese Communist girls swimming below me in twenty feet of water? Remember how adroitly I roasted those fleeing Bulgarian beauties with nothing but raw courage and a flamethrower? Remember—”
“Shut up!” snarled the General. “I’ve no complaints about your abilities as a killer. You show a natural aptitude toward that aspect of your work. You dispatched over a hundred captive enemy or presumed subversive girls—efficiently and swiftly.
“Yeah,” I said, “and—say, how come I only got to kill girls—that is, captured enemy females—during training?”
The General scowled. “Our female agents kill men for practice during training—our male
agents liquidate captured enemy girls. It’s the normal, heterosexual thing to do. We don’t want any snide rumors started about SADISTO. Remember the trouble State had a few years ago with nasty rumors? We at SADISTO intend to stay above reproach.”
I nodded. Privately I didn’t agree. I mean, I’d have liked to have practiced killing a few men. Maybe men didn’t react in quite the same way to the impact of a soft-nosed bullet—or a kick in the groin with a steel-tipped shoe. Still, I knew better than to argue with the General. He signed my paychecks.
“Yes,” he continued, still scowling, “I have no complaints about your value as a killer—for the Free World. I did, at first, suspect you might be a bit soft and sentimental—but after you coolly played out that chess game while your childhood sweetheart, Audrey, was being eaten alive by starving hyenas a few feet away, I knew you had the right spirit in you.”
I nodded. Poor Audrey. I could still hear her horrible screams. Still, she should have known that marriage to a TV repairman would lead her eventually to a bad end.
...
On the one hand, I certainly didn’t want to help loot, rape and pillage the cruise ship S.S. Miami Maiden. On the other hand... On the other hand, what boy, adolescent, young man—or fully grown man—hasn’t secretly dreamed of being a pirate, of looting, raping and pillaging a fat rich merchant ship? Few.
And now I was under orders to loot, rape and pillage. Further, a tiny movie camera inside my helmet was recording everything I did. Under other circumstances, I could merely pretend to rape, loot and pillage. As it was the camera would reveal, in exact detail, everything I did. Or didn’t do.
If I failed to be bestial enough—Captain Demo would see that I died, horribly. And slowly.
...
A gorgeous young girl, who looked like a fashion model and probably was, stepped in front of me. She was wearing a revealing string bikini—more string than bikini—a bikini that revealed her bosoms as all too flat, her hips too narrow. True, her face was lovely—but what pirate cares about faces?
“Good grief!” she gasped. “What are you up to?”
“Not rape!” I snarled. “You aren’t my type!”
With a duel flick of my razor-sharp cutlass I cut her bikini bra and panties from her body. No, she wasn’t my type. I skewered her with a few deft lunges of my cutlass. Down she flopped.
...
A snarling tourist type jumped in front of me throwing cash—probably somebody else’s. With a cruel smile and one mighty swing of my cutlass—I cleaved him from toupee to belt. Still snarling, he separated into two sections and fell sideways—in both directions. How satisfying!
His gorgeous young wife jumped into the corridor, holding a drink, wearing a mu-mu, bleated in terror.
I sliced her to luscious ribbons with half-a-dozen deft swings of my gleaming—if blood drenched—cutlass. Down she collapsed, in assorted fragments.
...
My luscious captor, Captain Demo, was real mad at me, in fact.
“When I ordered you to board the S.S. Miami Maiden to loot, ravish and kill,” she’d snarled at me, “I didn’t mean you should kill girls too—just men.”
“Well, you might have said so,” I’d sulked. “Anyway, I only slaughtered ugly, overaged, underage or otherwise undesirable females.”
“Perhaps,” she’d sneered. “But after this, let me be the judge of which girls get butchered and which get taken prisoner. I need girls, lots of girls, to fill vacancies in my crew. Thanks to the harsh but necessary discipline I enforce, I have a constant need for young girls to brain wash and train as crew members.” So she’d locked me in my cabin.
...
Captain Demo also loaded aboard a supply of Lance-jets, the underwater rocket projectile firing pistol made by Gyrojet. It looked, I noted with interest, just like the pictures in the December, 1965 issue of Gun World: a long, mean looking pistol firing long, mean looking shafts resembling finned needles—or slender spears. A little under a foot in length, the underwater shafts would leave the gun with a gentle hiss of bubbles—and skewer anything fifty yards in front of them.
I wondered what use Captain Demo had for them. And made the mistake of asking her.
“Why,” she said with a smile, fingering a rocket projectile Lancejet in her right hand, “to kill or maim any soft—bodied enemy target I should meet under—water. For instance” she snapped her fingers. A blank—faced, naked Arab girl crewmember opened a door thirty feet away.
“For instance,” chuckled Captain Demo, “if that girl was an underwater enemy...”
The Lancejet in her hand rose, hissed—and a metal spear thinner than a pencil and ten inches long flashed rom the gun, a bright star of flame marking its lightning fast passage—right into the stomach of the unsuspecting Arab girl. She screamed and collapsed, the spear all but buried in her soft, unprotected belly. Captain Demo smiled, reloaded, fired another metal bolt—and an instant later it was buried to the hilt in the writhing crewgirl’s left breast, the tip still spurting flame as it thrust itself even deeper into her heart.
“See?” she crooned.
“Ulp,” I said. “Yes. Sorry I asked.”
“Any time. Just remember—weapons loaded aboard the Nautipuss are for use, not display.”
“Use—on whom?” I asked. “Aside from your innocent crew members, that is.”
“Why, for use on my enemies—the Free World, Communist World and Neutral World.”
I gasped with dismay. Nobody, but nobody was safe from the mad schemes of Captain Demo. She really should be destroyed, along with her pirate submarine. But how?
Aloud I said, “Say! That’s swell! Mind if I examine one of those Lancejet guns?”
“Not at all,” she said, and handed me one. At the same time snapping her fingers. I examined the gun. It sure looked lethal. The projectiles looked like nothing so much as overgrown meat skewers—with solid fuel rocket propellant in the tail.
A moment later another door opened—and another innocent naked Arab girl crewmember appeared. “You snapped your fingers, Captain?” she inquired.
Captain Demo nodded, turned to me. “There’s your target—try the gun for yourself.”
I went cold—and then hot—inside. What a dilemma! Captain Demo thought I wanted to try the gun on a live target—and had summoned said live target for my amusement. What to do? If I refused to shoot, on moral grounds, I was as good as dead. On the other hand...
swung the gun around—and then right back. Captain Demo was also holding a Lancejet gun. I might shoot her—but she’d shoot me. There was only one thing to do, alas, so I did it.
“What fun!” I cried with simulated sophisticated amusement—and aiming quickly, fired the gun at the now horror stricken naked Arab girl. The gun hissed in my hand—and the needle sharp steel shaft flashed toward her, accelerating furiously as the fuel in its tail burned.
An instant later it was buried deep in the Arab girl’s tender tummy, midway between her navel and her G-string. Or where she would have been wearing a G-string if she’d had one, which she didn’t.
She let out a horrible squeal and clutched the still flaming shaft buried in her belly. Then she slowly slumped to her knees.
“Finish her,” advised Captain Demo, handing me a new round. I nodded, frantically fitted the new round into the gun, fired, had the gloomy satisfaction of seeing the shaft sink six inches deep into the Arab girl’s left breast and heart. The Arab girl’s eyes rolled, her hands flailed in the air—and she toppled over. Dead.
Only then did I realize how I’d goofed. For an instant, just an instant, I’d had a deadly weapon in my hand—and Captain Demo hadn’t. I should have killed her instead—but hadn’t.
Curses! The General was right. Chivalry was an agent’s worst friend. If I hadn’t chivalrously finished off the agonized Arab girl—I could have finished off Captain Demo.
Well, live and learn. I turned, toying with the idea of bashing Captain Demo over her lovely head with my now empty Lancejet. Too late; she’d reloaded her own rocket gun.
I smiled, put down my weapon. “Sex, anyone?” I asked with a leer. “Anytime,” Captain Demo breathed heavily—and a moment later we were grappling lustily on the deck, oblivious of the two corpses a few yards away.
It was furious and frantic—and fun.
Why didn’t I demolish Captain Demo with deadly karate blows while we were interlocked? A good question. She was bigger than I was, for one thing. For another—maybe she knew more karate than I did.
At any rate, I let the opportunity pass. The opportunity to demolish my captor, that is. The opportunity to sex the stuffing out of her—and be sexed in return—I eagerly seized. This was my kind of combat, the fun fight, the joy joust, the climactic combat, the rapture round, the ecstasy engagement, the sin strife, the bliss battle, the sex scuffle, the glorious struggle for sexual delight which both parties win and neither loses, the one struggle where every move is a delight to your opponent, every victory a dual one.
[Next 008 is sent to capture some nubile Polynesian girls with tranquilizer darts]
“Curses,” snarled Captain Demo. “No men, old people or children around, eh? Too bad. I was looking forward to drenching this island with blood. As it is...”
She barked an order—and a dozen of her naked girl crewmembers charged on deck, each clutching a stocky pistol. The vahines in the canoes around us howled with dismay—not at the sight of the pistols, but at the realization that the Nautipuss had an all girl crew. Polynesian cuties may have their faults, but lack of heterosexuality isn’t one of them.
Then the lead canoe load got a good look at my saturnine profile and, with happy squeals, the girls clambered aboard the sub’s deck and charged for me. At least, I heard them chattering excitedly, there was one male mariner they could greet warmly and amorously.
“All right crew,” snapped our evil captain, “open fire!”
A dozen pistols opened up. The vahines shrieked and fell back, began dropping with soft thuds to the metal deck. “Stop!” I cried.
“Stop the slaughter! This is monstrous! You can’t kill these innocent, voluptuous, bare-breasted girls, it’s illegal—and immoral—and—”
“Fathead,” snarled Captain Demo. “I’m not killing them. I need young girls as replacements for my crew. Don’t you know tranquilizing dart guns when you see them?”
I looked again. She was right. No wonder the guns had only made soft chuffing sounds. How mortifying. Me, a trained SADISTO agent, failing to recognize a weapon!
By this time a dozen shapely bodies were sprawled on the deck. The rest of the vahines were making for shore as fast as they could paddle, screaming with girlish terror as they went.
“They won’t escape me,” gloated Captain Demo. “Un-ship and lower the launch! We’ll have a nude girl hunt ashore!” She turned and thrust a tranquilizing tranquilizing dart firing pistol into my hand. “Good sport, eh? A crack shot like you should bring down dozens of, heh, heh, quail.”
“Uh, can’t I just stay on board and watch?” I asked.
“No! You’d try and sink my ship in the lagoon—then swim ashore and hide. You’ll join the hunt—or die right now.”
“Count me in,” I said quickly, hopping into the launch even before it was lowered over the side.
“I trust you know how to use one of these guns?” asked Captain Demo as the launch chugged toward the now deserted beach. “Give ‘em three darts. One will slow a girl down, two will make her groggy, but it takes three to knock her out.”
...
“A humane, life saving gadget. These darts are fired by compressed air—highly compressed air, for greater accuracy. If they were entirely needle shaped, they might—in fact would slice right through a victim’s body. With fatal results.”
“Ah,” I said. “So—
“Right,” said Captain Demo. “The metal disc slaps against the target’s flesh—preventing the dart from penetrating more than an inch. Hence few casualties result. None, if you aim for and hit the fleshy parts of your targets’ bodies. Don’t try for any head shots—an inch of metal dart in the brain might prove fatal.”
...
What a dilemma. Another dilemma. On the other hand—
And at that instant a voluptuous, bare-breasted Polynesian chick jumped out from behind a tree. She wasn’t just bare-breasted, either, I noticed with rising interest. In the haste of her flight she’d lost her grass skirt.
Nut-brown, nude and paganly erotic looking, she stood before me panting, her youthful, compact and firm breasts rising and falling rapidly, tremblingly; her lush belly and thighs gleaming like mahogany sex symbols.
“Kulka lulka pronko dabble?” she gasped. Which meant, I knew, “What’s the matter with your captain—she some kind of nut or something?”
“Glaga,” I said, meaning yes. Now what? Could I? Should I? I raised the gun, lowered it, raised it again.
No question about it—I had to shoot her. If I didn’t she might escape—only to die from nerve gas. On the other hand, if I dart-gunned her down she’d end up a live captive aboard the Nautipuss. And, either as a slave girl or crew member, she at least had a chance to escape alive later.
“Sorry, baby,” I said, aiming the dart pistol at her shapely tummy.
“Quinka (mercy)!” she cried.
I ignored her, pulled the trigger. The gun went chff—and an instant later her belly dimpled violently as the dart slid into her flesh and the metal disc slapped, with a noise like thumb and finger being snapped, against her soft flesh.
“Glaga (ouch)!” she squealed.
I aimed again, pulled the trigger again.
Bullseye. The dart hit her right nipple dead center, making her breast jump as if jabbed with a broomstick. She squealed again, turned to flee.
I fired a third time. No bullseye this time, but good enough: the dart slid into the side of her left breast, thee metal stopper disc slapping viciously against her yielding flesh.
She began to run, took three steps, fell with a thud to the sand and rolled over, unconscious, vacant eyes staring up at the palm trees.
I walked over to her. Nudged her hard with my barefoot. No response. She was out cold. Not dead—her breasts were slowly rising and falling—but unconscious as she could get.
I felt—a strange emotion. Technically I should have felt dismay, distress, remorse, regret, sorrow and sadness.
But I didn’t. I felt (alas) elated—excited—delighted. I felt just the way I’d felt when I was a young adolescent and first sneaked into the woods with a rifle and bagged a doe with my first shot.
Stretched on the sand before me lay a shapely teenage Polynesian girl—that I’d brought down with three well-aimed darts. What a trophy! How well she’d look, stuffed, over my fireplace at home...
No—that was monstrous. Also, I didn’t have a fireplace.
But the same feeling of elation, the same I-am-a-successful-hunter emotion remained. I’d selected a target, aimed at it—and bagged it. I put my bare foot on her nearest breast, beat my chest and uttered a muted Tarzan yell. 0008, the mighty hunter, had scored again.
Careful, boy, I told myself. You may be turning into some kind of nut.
I analyzed my feelings. It didn’t take long. We SADISTO agents have been trained to analyze our feelings in a split second.
How could I, a relatively normal man, feel happy over having brought down a shapely teenage girl with a pistol?
Easily, I decided. Because, thanks to the two-day cram course in psychology I’d taken, I knew that my feelings (while lamentable) weren’t all that abnormal.
Probably every normal man, at one time or another, has toyed with the idea—just the idea, I say—of slapping some shapely chick on the rump. Or the belly or thigh or breast. Sometimes the rounded surfaces of a girl’s body look as if they’d been designed to be slapped.
And the metal discs on the darts had slapped the vahine’s flesh quite hard.
Again, most if not all normal men have, at least once or twice in their lives, toyed with the idea of jabbing a pin into some voluptuous girl’s rounded curves.
Who can explain why? The sadism latent in all of us (carnivorous beasts that we are at heart) is partly to blame. Then, too, all men have a perverse urge, at times, to injure the thing they love best—and most men best love the most rounded portions of a girl’s anatomy.
Finally, most normal men are frustrated part or most of the time. And when a man is frustrated he has the urge to lash out. And what’s the prime cause of male frustration? Girls. When the normal man strolls down a beach he sees perhaps fifty gorgeous young girls, girls with full breasts and flaring hips, girls with luscious legs and soft bodies.
And at least forty-nine, and probably fifty of those fifty girls are then and forever unavailable to him. They’re married or engaged or in love—or he just isn’t their type. Understandable from the girls’ point of view—but tremendously frustrating to the average normal male.
He wants to touch and stroke and squeeze and fondle and love every one of those fifty chicks—and, so far as he’s concerned, they’re forever out of his reach. Small wonder the average normal man, at times, muses about kicking one or two of those girls in their shapely fannies when they next bend over—or jabbing with a pin those soft slopes of flesh that will forever be denied o him.
I repeat, no normal man exists who has not at least once toyed with the notion of slapping a girl—or jabbing her with a pin.
Female readers may gasp in horror. To them I say—what normal, average girl hasn’t, once in her life, toyed with the idea of kneeing a man where it would hurt most? The average girl learns while still young, from her older girl friends, that the surest way to put an overly aggressive male out of action is to bring her knee up—hard.
And what girl, having learned this attack technique, could fail to toy with the idea of actually doing so?
To return to the main thread of my discussion: most men think about slapping and/or jabbing a girl with a pin. And, with my tranquilizing, dart, firing pistol, I was both slapping and jabbing a girl—the needle sharp dart was skewering into her soft flesh, and the metal disc that prevented the dart from burying itself slapped her belly and breasts as hard as a marble fired from a slingshot.
All the same. All the same, the average normal man only thinks, once in a while, about doing such things. Not one man in a hundred ever slaps a girl really hard for sexual kicks.
And probably not one man in fifty thousand ever jabs a girl with a pin—or the inch long tip of a tranquilizing dart.
Some men do both, of course. In my travels as a SADISTO agent I’d frequented illegal sex havens, in Port Said, Singapore, Karachi and Pasadena, where naked girls allowed lusty male sadists to slap them with rubber paddles for a fee—or throw darts into their breasts and buttocks for an even larger fee.
But the men who engaged in such ‘sports’ didn’t fully enjoy themselves, I believe. Or very few of them. Because before, during and especially after—they felt guilty.
Ashamed.
Abnormal.
No sooner was their temporary sadistic lust allayed—but guilt set in. Or so I’d noticed.
On the other hand—I really had no choice. If I didn’t shoot darts into the voluptuous, naked body of a teenage Polynesian girl, she’d escape. Hide out. And die, horribly, from an overdose of nerve gas. Far from injuring my victims, I was saving their lives.
What a wonderful rationalization—I mean justification—of my actions.
Due to circumstances beyond my control I had to shoot and bring down naked girls with my dart—firing pistol. For their sake. Hence I was free of any sense of guilt—free to enjoy myself.
“Tally ho!” I cried, and plunged into the jungle inquest of more victims.
Moving silently (thanks to my bare feet and thorough SADISTO training) I loped along a jungle path.
Five minutes later I caught a flash of smooth brown flesh. I crouched, stalked my prey and, a minute later, parted a palm frond to see my next victim a few yards away. She too was peering through a palm frond, but on the other side of the clearing.
Bending over as she was, her ripe and rounded buttocks presented perfect targets. I aimed, fired—and an instant later a dart was sunk deep into her left cheek. I fired again, fast, even as she yelped and straightened up. The second dart sank with a slap into her right cheek.
She whirled, her big, bare breasts swinging.
Chff! I fired again—and her left breast jumped as if hit by a .22 bullet.
She turned to run, took two steps, fell with a heavy thud to the jungle floor.
An instant later I heard the crash of foliage, turned to see yet another nude Polynesian maiden frantically fleeing. My gun swept up, my trigger finger tensing automatically as soon as the gun was leveled.
Chff! Got her high in the thigh. Chff! Got her in the side of her breast. Chff! Another buttock shot.
And a moment later down she crashed. What a ball! Three victims in five minutes! And without nagging guilt feelings—just lusty elation. How many adult horror novels—and lascivious science fiction stories—had I read in which armed men hunted nude girls through the woods?
And now I was doing just that. For a good cause. I wasn’t out for sadistic kicks. Not me. I was trying to save lives.
But in doing so, there was no harm in enjoying myself, was there?
I loped on through the jungle. A young, busty, long—haired vahine jumped from cover in front of me, backed away, collided with a tree and then stood with her back to the palm tree, her jaw and breasts quivering with fear.
I leered at her, took careful aim. Smack! Her left breast jumped as if kicked. She squealed. I fired again. Her right breast jumped even harder.
She shrieked, clutched her breasts—from the nipples of which now protruded a pair of gleaming steel darts tipped with bright nylon feathers.
Now for the coup de grace. I aimed a few inches below her navel, pulled the trigger—and her belly buckled as if slammed by a fist, a bright, dart deeply embedded in her soft flesh.
Her eyes rolled—and she fell like an axed tree.
On I loped, stopping and firing whenever I saw a shapely target.
Teenage girl after teenage girl fell before my soft-spoken pistol.
Some fell running, some while trying to climb trees (real sport that—shooting naked girls out of trees); some gave up and stood still with their hands in the air. Stood still, that is, until I started firing darts into their soft bodies.
Girl after girl fell before my pistol. Tall girls, fat girls, fifteen-year-old girls just blossoming into bosomy, buttocky womanhood—mature girls in their early twenties, leggy girls and busty girls, pretty girls and fantastically beautiful girls.
I shot them all with equal skill.
And, to be honest, felt the same thrill of conquest as the luscious vahines toppled, slid, crumpled or thudded to the ground.
Talk about sport! If horseracing was the sport of kings, well, that just went to show that kings had never tried hunting naked girls through a forest with a pistol. What a collection of thrills!
First the thrill of finding my quarry—a nude, voluptuous, squealing girl. Then the thrill of aiming, firing, and seeing my dart head for the target. Then (alas) the thrill of seeing and hearing the dart slam deep into soft, luscious girl flesh. And finally the thrill of seeing my target crash inert to the jungle floor.
What a sport... Why wasn’t it practiced commercially?
It shouldn’t be hard—well, not too hard to arrange. The girls weren’t hurt, after all. Not seriously, at least.
An enterprising promoter shouldn’t have much trouble in finding fifty girls willing to be chased through the woods and shot with tranquilizing darts for, say, five hundred dollars. Lots of girls will let a man whip them for a fraction of that price.
No, finding the girls would be no trouble. Then just lease a big section of woods in a remote area. Build a luxurious hunting lodge. And sell hunting licenses to rich sportsmen.
Plenty of rich men spent thousands tens of thousands flying to Scotland to shoot grouse, or to Kenya to hunt big game. They’d pay plenty to fly to Maine or some such place—to hunt girls.
I could see it all. The fancy hunting lodge, the fancy call girls catering to the guests’ every sexual whim, the big profits from the bar every evening, the extra profit of selling tranquilizing guns and darts to the rich sportsmen...
And then, at ten every morning, the happy hunt would begin. Burly or bloated businessmen lurching red-faced through the woods, a tranquilizing dart firing rifle in hand. Nude, squealing girls flushing like quail and running—but not fast—as the jaded sportsmen blazed away at their naked charms.
Then, at evening, the same group of sportsmen gathering proudly before the lodge, being photographed in front of their day’s bag of girls—who’d be strung, still unconscious, by their heels from a horizontal pole.
Heavy, boisterous drinking (with more big bar profits) late into the night, with each of the sportsmen bragging about the bust measurements of the girls they’d bagged, the clever shots they’d accomplished.
Meanwhile the girls would be coming to in another part of the lodge. A shot of penicillin to ward off infection, a band-aid on the tiny puncture wounds they’d gotten (better give ‘em tetanus vaccine shots)—and they’d depart, happy to have made five hundred dollars for a day’s work in the country. And late that night another batch of fifty fresh young girls would arrive, to be stripped and briefed on their duties as running targets the next day...
...
I’d had a real fun day. Forty-three shapely girls had fallen before my trusty dart gun. Now the six-hour hunt was over. The girl crew could trudge around collecting the unconscious bodies. Me, I’d have a stiff drink, and then give the bronze-fleshed Captain Demo a tough—I mean strong—jolt of my masculinity. After that, another drink, and a few minutes devoted to planning her destruction and the sinking of the Nautipuss, and I’d call it a day.
A really rewarding day. A day in which—I broke off my thoughts abruptly.
I’d just stepped from the jungle into the sandy clearing where the launch was beached. And there was Captain Demo. Hanging by her shapely neck from a palm tree.
And, sitting laughing and talking on the sandy strand, were several dozen vahines—and the entire all girl all naked crew of the pirate sub.
A vahine saw me, sprang to her feet, started toward me. I casually lifted the dart gun so that it pointed at her tummy.
“Gara hara faru lona taleah gola—tiki Captain Demo dabi namu wulu!” she laughed.
I gasped. Translated from the Polynesian, her words meant: “Hi, friend. The girls from the ship told us you’re on the right side. Guess what? That crazy Captain Demo stood under a coconut palm—and got herself bopped on the head by a coconut. So we vahines tied her up, gave her a fair trial and hung her. Wanna sex?”
“Love to,” I said in Polynesian. And, while we wrestled ardently on the sand, I tried to make sense out of what had happened. It wasn’t hard. With Captain Demo dead and dangling, her crew wouldn’t have had much urge to remain loyal—they’d joined the Polynesian chicks.
The girl beneath me writhed and surged on the sand, her limber body lunging against me, her breasts surging and swaying beneath the weight of my chest. I tried to pay attention to what she was doing, what I was doing, what we both were doing—but I wasn’t fully enjoying it because of all the rasping sand, and I kept wondering.
What about Captain Demo’s officers? Had they switched—or fought? I turned my head, looked around. They hadn’t switched. All six of them were dangling by the neck from adjacent palm trees. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Captain Demo's mad scheme to terrorize the world!
And then I forgot about submarines, duty and all the rest—and concentrated on the jabs of joy and the wriggling torso of the luscious teenage Polynesian chick under me. Sand, or no sand!"
