Books Zako (1 Viewer)

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
Someone mentioned forgotten old Bondiana send ups like "The Man from Sadisto" on a different board, and I had to go digging around, because it seemed to have quite a few evil babes / zako:







Desdamona_001.jpg


Everything I've managed to find:
MondoSadisto.zip
FYSO 1-40.zip
FYSO 41-81.zip

Sadly, the old torrents I managed to dig up cut off halfway through with an "error: access denied" message. If anyone happens to have some old scans (or copies that they can scan), I'd appreciate that.

Come to think of it, any old sexpionage series like the above or Brandy French would be welcome.

(I also posted the best parts of The Destroyer - Dr. Quake on my board. The book has a pair of busty murderous nympho twins as the main villains, but they don't exactly qualify as zako)
 

Weoooo

Master of this Domain
Joined
Dec 3, 2010
I was gonna charge into this thread and be like "I think some D&D books have drows in 'em" but I don't think there's anything like these passages in there, these are pretty much erotic fiction on this theme.
 

wj1905

Master of this Domain
Joined
May 26, 2015
Never heard of that series. You write they have 140 books? Yowza!!! That's a lot...
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
MEGA
Three Sadisto books:
Gamefinger
The Desdemona Affair
Sin Funnel

Full, with no text missing as far as I can tell. Gamefinger is extremely fetish relevant, TDA has a few neat bits, Sin Funnel (past the intro) is a "comical" book about how much our agent fails to liquidate his bountiful quarry (though it works for those who want their EB's triumphant).
 

JoanCujoh

Master of this Domain
Joined
Dec 9, 2015
MEGA
Three Sadisto books:
Gamefinger
The Desdemona Affair
Sin Funnel

Full, with no text missing as far as I can tell. Gamefinger is extremely fetish relevant, TDA has a few neat bits, Sin Funnel (past the intro) is a "comical" book about how much our agent fails to liquidate his bountiful quarry (though it works for those who want their EB's triumphant).
What kind of story is this? M vs F or against many opponent?
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
"The Shame Market":

Little of interest happened to me during the three days and nights I spent in Washington — unless you count Celia of the CIA, the girl I shall always think of as the Spy Who Loved Me . . . Our brief encounter began late in the afternoon of my second day in the nation’s capital. Tired from having made a round of visits to various embassies to get my passport stamped and entry permits granted, I keyed open the door to my luxurious hotel suite (I was on an expense account, don’t forget) and found myself staring at — the shapeliest female rear I’d ever seen.

Shapely or not, the View was conspicuous because its owner was bending over, the better to rifle my suitcase which was lying open on the bed. And since I don’t go for that kind of thing, my gun was out of my shoulder holster even before I’d kicked the door shut behind me. The girl straightened, whirled around. “Oh!” she gasped. I said nothing. I just gaped. And in all truth, I had reason to gape. Because the busty young burglar I’d surprised was neither dressed nor undressed, but incredibly and exotically in between. She was wearing black silk stockings, long black silk gloves that came to her elbows, and a tiny black mask. The rest of her was naked. She looked like a fugitive from a dirty movie — a grade A type movie. She was also, I noted, a brunette.

“Don’t shoot!” she begged, raising her long arms above her head. The gesture made her king-size chest bobble entrancingly while her new posture made her look even more exotic. To me, at least. Somehow, the long, black silk stockings and the long, black silk gloves made the rest of her look more than nude, if you know what I mean. “Don’t shoot! ” she repeated. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I give up!” “Fair you may be,” I snarled, “but square you don’t look. Okay, sister — off with the mask. Let’s have a good look at you.” She removed her mask, hastily stuck her hands in the air again. Her face was lovely but unfamiliar. I backed around until I was able to lower myself into an arm chair and, using one hand — the other still held the gun pointed at her cute little navel — lit a cigarette. “Okay, baby, start talking,” I snarled. “And make it good. Don’t try and tell me you weren’t rifling my suitcase. What are you, a lady cat burglar?” She nodded. “That’s right That’s exactly Right. That’s just what I am — a she-cat burglar. I won’t try and fool you. I call see you aren’t the kind of man I could fool. I — I just hope you’ll show me more mercy than I probably would have known you had circumstances been reversed. Pretty please have mercy on me — this is the first time I’ve been caught!”

And so saying she dropped to her knees in front of me though still prudently keeping her hands in the air. I stared at her. Was she crazy? What kind of an act was she trying to pull? Obviously there was more to this chick than met the eyes. No - plenty of her met my eyes right then. “Explain,” I suggested, “your rather suggestive costume. Black stockings. Black gloves. Nothing else. How so? And why so?” “Why,” she said, “I wear gloves so I won’t leave fingerprints.” “Shrewd,” I conceded, “very shrewd. But why do you go around burgling in the nude?” “Why,” she said, “that’s all part of my clever plan — for escaping detection in case I’m detected. Found, I mean in someone else’s room, that is.” “Amplify that,” I snapped. “Yes, yes, gladly,” she gasped. And did so. Her tale, though wild, made a certain amount of sense. “I’m a full-time professional hotel thief,” she explained. “And my M. O. is as follows. First I pick a hotel. Then I strike up a friendship with one of the assistant managers and, as soon as practicable, seduce him. My object in doing this, of course, is to steal his passkey, which I proceed to have duplicated by a crooked locksmith I know. With the passkey in my possess I am then in a position to loot every room and suite in the hotel. Which I proceed to do. Like I was doing when you caught me.” “So all right, already,” I concluded. “But why do you have to take off all your clothes — save for gloves and stockings — in order to loot and pillage hotel rooms?”
“But that’s the cleverest part of the whole scheme,” she said. “I don’t walk through the corridors dressed like this, of course. I wear that coat.” She nodded to one side. For the first time I noticed that a coat, a black wind breaker, was folded over the back of a straight chair. “With that coat on,” she continued, “nobody suspects I’m naked underneath. I attract no attention at all. Once inside the hotel room I intend to burgle, however, I quickly shed my coat. In case I’m surprised. You can see why, I’m sure.” I thought about this. “No,” I said, “I can’t.” “But it’s so obvious,” she protested. “Naturally I don’t plan on being surprised in somebody’s hotel room — but very early in my criminal career I realized that, sooner or later, the law of averages being what it is, I was bound to be caught red—handed. At least, be caught in the wrong room at the wrong time. And that’s where my costume — or lack of same — comes in so handy.
“Like, suppose Joe Beaks opens his hotel room door and finds me, a strange woman, in his room. Right away he assumes — correctly — Pin a thief. He yells for the police. And I go to jail. At least, that’s what would happen if Joe Doaks found me fully dressed. But if he opens his door and finds me nude in all important particulars he is momentarily dazed. And while he’s still befuddled, I go into my act. I smile at him, a sultry, lost-drenched, suggestive smile. Then I saunter seductively, towards him, flaunting my feminine charms. ‘What kept you baby?’ I croon. ‘The bell captain told me you wanted a naked girl in the worst way and right away — but I’ve been waitin’ for you all of five minutes.’ Then I wrap my arms around him, nuzzle his cheek with my cheek, embrace him a little and whisper, ‘You want to pay me the fifty bucks now, sport, or after you’ve had your fun?” She smiled. “Isn’t that a fine scheme for diverting suspicion?”
I nodded. “I get it,” I said. “Joe Doakes assumes you’re a call girl working for the hotel who happened to get in the wrong room.” “Exactly. The scheme — I’ve been surprised five times — has always worked to perfection. And all because most people think according to patterns — a clothed stranger in a hotel room means a thief; a nude girl in a hotel room means bed. The chumps never stop to think that a nude girl might also be a thief. Compartmentalized thinking, the psychology professors call it.” “And how,” I inquired, “do you explain today’s fiasco?” She sighed. “Carelessness. Sheer carelessness. I wasn’t listening hard enough. Always before I’ve heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock — and have had time to drape myself seductively on the bed.” She sighed even more heavily. “For some reason I didn’t hear you in time — and you caught me in a compromising position. Bending over your open suitcase.” Another sigh. “I guess I’m completely at your mercy. Uh, what are you going to do to me?”

I smiled. A savage, sadistic smile. “Kill you,” I said. “I hate hotel thieves.” And aiming for a spot just below the navel, I pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER NINE Thanks for the efficient if illegal silencer fitted to the muzzle of my automatic, the shot made no more noise than a paper bag being popped — and not nearly as much noise as my target made as she slumped to the floor, her hands clutched to her wound. “How — low could you,” she gasped.
The phrase stirred a faint memory. Hadn’t some girl once asked a similar question of Mike Hammer? Yes. What had his reply been? Ah, yes. “It was easy,” I gritted. “Also amusing,” I added, sneering at the twisting girl at my feet. “I’m dying,” she moaned, “dying in horrible agony. Please — please finish me off. No. Never mind. I’ll finish myself off. ” And she began to twist and distort her mouth rather as if she were chewing gum and sucking a sore tooth at the same time.
“Uh, huh,” I said, grabbing her jaw bone and forcing her mouth open, “I suspect as much.” I reached into her mouth. “Ah hah! Got it!” I waved it in front of her while she gnashed her teeth in frustration. ‘It’ was a tiny glass phial, no bigger than a match heady to which was attached a tiny wire loop. “Cyanide capsule eh?” I mused. “Looks like standard CIA issue. Do you have to wear it at all times hooked to a rear tooth?” “In conformance with standard CIA procedure,” I she gasped, “I will neither confirm nor deny your surmise. Finish me off please. I’m dying — dying in agony.” “Nonsense,” I said. “That was a blank I fired at you. I always keep a blank in the chamber of my automatic. Both for safety reasons and because it’s proved Useful in the past The rest of the shells are lethal of course.” She sat up slowly, still clutching her stomach. “But — but I felt the bullet hit me. Tear at my Vitals.” I yawned. “Blank cartridges are loaded with wadded paper instead of bullets,” I told her. “Didn’t they teach you that in spy school?"

...

“Hah,” said Celia. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the inspiring story of Amanda.” “Another chick from the Bible?” Celia wiped the trace of a tear from her eye. “Certainly not. She was a graduate of the same S and S course I took — class of ’61, Amanda volunteered to deliver the kiss of death to an enemy agent who had to be destroyed. This agent call him Boris — used to spend his leisure hours lolling on the beach of a certain European Country — call it Bulgaria.” I nodded, trying to recall whether Bulgaria had a seafront or whether it was landlocked. “One sunny morning, Amanda, wearing a form-fitting bikini, sauntered along the beach toward Boris. Amanda, the dear, brave departed soul, was a bleached blonde and Boris, I should mention, was partial to bleached blondes. He saw her coming some distance away — and his interest perked up instantly. “Naturally,” Celia continued, “his cruel, careful eyes scanned her body — looking for concealed weapons. None were visible. Boris licked his evil lips. Here was a ripe, luscious—bodied young bleached blonde — defenseless. On his beach. He sneered and sauntered towards her.”
“Wasn’t he afraid of being slaughtered by a sneak Judo punch?” I inquired. Amanda shook her head. “Boris was an expert in such things — a Black Belt Judo man. He feared no man — or girl — in close combat. And since Amanda obviously carried no weapon, he had no fear of her.” “The more fool he, eh?” I said, anticipating the plot development of her tale. “Exactly. Boris stopped in front of Amanda. She stopped. He smiled. She smiled. He reached for her — she submitted to being gathered into his arms. His brutal lips pressed tight to hers — her lovely lips responded to his. And at that crucial moment . . .” “Yes, yes?” I prompted. “She chomped down on the king—size cyanide capsule she had in her mouth and sort of exhaled into his open mouth. Death, for both of them, occurred within seconds.”
“How brave — yet ghastly,” I said. “And if Amanda and this character Boris were alone cm this Bulgarian beach — how the hell do you know just what happened?” “Simple,” snapped Celia. “Unbeknownst to Boris, a U- 2 aeroplane was hovering tens of thousands of feet above — photographing the entire gripping if tragic drama. I myself have seen, on the screen, greatly enlarged — Amanda delivering the first authenticated kiss of death in history.” Silence. Then I said, “That story, if true, certainly proves that Amanda Was a plucky if suicidal girl. Uh, do you mean to imply that the CIA has a, Well, squadron of kamikaze girls — willing to kill themselves in the national interest?” “I can neither confirm nor deny the inference you take from my presumed implication,” snapped Celia.
I pondered this. Was she nuts — or simply feeding me shaggy spy stories? Or both? “Well,” I said slowly, “that story — if true — certainly shows that what was her name? Amanda? — certainly, uh, gave more than her life for her country. Greater love for country has no girl than she who will lay down her life after having been — well, you know what I mean. But surely Amanda was a brave, self-destructive exception?” “Not,” snapped Celia, “at all. We girls of the S and S division of the double K department will stop at nothing to achieve our patriotic if suicidal objectives.” She wiped at another tear, “As Makira demonstrated.” “Makira?” I asked warily. “Yes. Makira, as you may have surmised from her name, was of Oriental extraction. But a Yankee patriot through and through. Her desperate mission one for which she volunteered was that of, uh, neutralizing a certain Indo—Chinese general.” “By ‘neutralizing,’ I said. “I presume you mean what Stalin’s boys used to mean by ‘liquidation?’ ” Celia, after averring she could neither confirm nor deny my assumption, went on with her story.
The Indo- Chinese general scheduled to be neutralized, one Bittertee Yen, was (or had been) very cagy about letting any-body, even voluptuous and passionate girls, get close to him. “Makira, brave girl,” Celia continued, “had herself delivered to the general’s secret headquarters. The general’s staff assumed she was but another slave girl destined to amuse the general for a few hours or days. Nevertheless they took all prescribed precautions. They searched her for concealed weapons, then stripped her and searched her again. They even searched her mouth to make sure she wasn’t car1ying any poison capsules there.” “Did they look —” “Of course,” Celia interrupted. “And they found nothing.” I scratched my head. This was a real puzzler. How had Makira smuggled in a lethal weapon? Maybe she hadn’t “Did this Makira succeed in knocking off this Indo- Chinese general?” I asked.
“Oh yes. And, if you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll tell you how. Before having herself delivered to the general — wrapped in an Oriental carpet — Makira didn’t eat for three days. This shrank her stomach. Then, just before V hour, she wolfed down nearly four pounds of granulated CDX-4o.” "VVhat?" "CDX-4o — the plastic explosive that’s all the rage in Europe now. You can pound it, chew it, light it — do anything to it and it won’t explode. Unless you detonate it. Well, she swallowed all this CDX-4o. Nearly four pounds. Enough to blow up a medium tank. And then she swallowed a tiny inertia fuse.” "Inertia fuse?” "Yes. You know — a tiny gadget that explodes only if you shake it violently a pre—determined munber of times. m this instance, twenty times.” "I’m beginning,” I said, "to get the picture. But It isn’t a picture I like.” "But it’s inspiring —— in a grisly way,” Celia insisted. “Can’t you just see it? The sneering evil general has Makira brought to his quarters, naked and defenseless. He drools and licks his lips. Then he flings her down on the cushioned bed flings himself at her — and proceeds to make lewd and lascivious love to her. He’s confident she’s completely in his power — that he’s perfectly safe from any kind of attack. Little does he suspect that, under her breath, Makira is humming ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’ and etc.” "How,” I asked, "do you know that was what she was humming?” "I don’t know exactly,” Celia admitted. "But she was undoubtedly humming something like that. Meanwhile the lust crazed general is bouncing. Makira is bouncing. The bed springs are bouncing. And — most important of all — the tiny inertial fuse is bouncing. One—two-three-four-five, ten-eleven-twelve thirteen times, and then eighteen, nineteen and TWENTY times! And then — blam!” I swallowed hard. “Blam?” “Blam. Almost four pounds of CDX-4o — that’s the equivalent of fifteen pounds of TNT — let’s go all at once. And that’s how Genera! Yen was neutralized.” “If your tale is true,” I said, “he really went out with a bang,.”
Actually I put little stock in her story. It was possible — and strange things had happened in the cloak and dagger game — but I just didn’t find her stories probable. Nevertheless I stopped idly patting her middle. “It’s all right, ” Celia assured me. “I don’t have anything of a lethal nature. I mean, I’m not about to blow up or anything.” “That’s good,” I said. “However, your grisly tales have cooled my earlier ardor — as you call plainly see. You might as well put on your coat and go. I’m just not feeling romantic any more. And I doubt if anybody or anything could turn me on right now.” Celia eyed me enigmatically. “I regard that,” she murmured, “as a personal challenge.” And she proceeded to swarm all over me.

Next, the villainess is introduced, having kidnapped he hero:

Totally, splendidly, carelessly naked. She was sitting in a matching armchair directly in front of me, a cryptic smile on her face, her long, lovely legs crossed, one hand holding a cigarette, the other hand holding a black fan with which she was languidly fanning her flesh. And what luscious flesh she had to fail . . . Her flesh, every rounded inch of it, was the color of — how to describe it? — the color of beige silk stockings midway between the color of dark coffee and light coffee as served by an average drug store. A creamy brownish golden beige. Delectable. And not only was her flesh a provocative color, its texture was first rate, too: smooth as oiled ivory; so smooth and taut it gleamed and glistened in the light.
And not only was her flesh both pleasing in color and exciting in texture, but it, was molded into some damn nice shapes. Like the great, high, up-pointing hemispherical cones of her breasts . . . the slender curved column of her waist . . . the dual delight of her long, full, gleaming legs . . . She showed her flawless white teeth in a half smile and I raised my eyes to her face. An interesting face. Save for an undefinable suggestion of evil, a beautiful if unusual face. A patrician, almost Roman nose; full, soft red lips; huge enigmatic brown eyes; a high intelligent forehead — and all these features were framed by lustrous black shoulder—length hair as smooth as flowing India ink. “Thank you,” she purred in a lazy, husky, and slightly accented voice. “Thank me for what?” I said, scratching my aching head. That got me a throaty chuckle. “For the look of lust on your face while your eyes — how do you say? drank in my body. I am used to slavish admiration from men, of course — but it never fails to pleasure me.” “WVno,” I said, continuing to scratch my aching head, “are you?” “My name is Dolores Conchita Loreta Maria Slarvinska Luzon Esmerelda de Lesseps Johnson Eva von Erlich Mindinao,” she purred in her extraordinary husky Voice. “But to my friends and foes I am usually known simply as — Dolo Mindinao.”

She explains her evil human trafficking and zombifying-scheme, bangs the hero, explains it some more, bangs him some more, offers a demonstration, and...

“Yess,” said Dr. Yess. “And you can actually remember the number for each told every girl — or is it stamped or tattooed on the girl’s flesh so there’s no chance of forgetting?” “Yess and yess,” hissed Dr. Yess. “Yess I can remember the number of each girl — and yess, for simplicity’s sake, the number is sstamped on each girlss right breasst.” “That’s — I mean that’s all I Wanted to know,” I snarled, and leaped for my gun, palmed it, whirled to confront Dr. Yess and Dolo.
“P—p-put that down!” begged Dr. Yess. “H—h-have mercy!” pleaded Dolo. “You brutal swine,” I sneered, raising my gun and aiming it directly at Dr. Yess. “You’re brave enough operating on naked helpless girls — but you freak out pretty fast When the shoe’s on the other loot.” “Mercy, mercy?” he screamed. “Bah,” I sneered. “Take that!” Phhtt! Went the silenced gun. Dr. Yess doubled over, clutching that part of his anatomy I’d just ruined by a well placed bullet. His hideous screams of agony were music to my ears. I let him roll around in agony for a while — maybe thirty seconds — then I finished him with a bullet through his evil skull.
“You next,” I said, swinging my gun to bear on Dolo. “No!” she yelped. “Don’t shoot me — please don’t shoot me! I — I’ll make you a partner. A silent partner. You call make big money in your spare time — you canhaVe all the zombie-like slaves you Want — only please, please don’t shoot me Where you shot Dr. Yess!”
“Sorry,” I sneered, “I have my heart set oil shooting you in just that section of your anatomy.” Phhtt! went my silenced gun. “Yiiii! screamed Dolo, rolling around on the floor clutching that section of her anatomy I’d just smashed with a well aimed dum—dum bullet. Seeing as how she was a girl, I finished her off with a head shot after only twenty- five seconds of unspeakable agony.
 
Last edited:

dinomoneyman

Master of this Domain
Joined
Aug 23, 2014
"The Shame Market":

Little of interest happened to me during the three days and nights I spent in Washington — unless you count Celia of the CIA, the girl I shall always think of as the Spy Who Loved Me . . . Our brief encounter began late in the afternoon of my second day in the nation’s capital. Tired from having made a round of visits to various embassies to get my passport stamped and entry permits granted, I keyed open the door to my luxurious hotel suite (I was on an expense account, don’t forget) and found myself staring at — the shapeliest female rear I’d ever seen.

Shapely or not, the View was conspicuous because its owner was bending over, the better to rifle my suitcase which was lying open on the bed. And since I don’t go for that kind of thing, my gun was out of my shoulder holster even before I’d kicked the door shut behind me. The girl straightened, whirled around. “Oh!” she gasped. I said nothing. I just gaped. And in all truth, I had reason to gape. Because the busty young burglar I’d surprised was neither dressed nor undressed, but incredibly and exotically in between. She was wearing black silk stockings, long black silk gloves that came to her elbows, and a tiny black mask. The rest of her was naked. She looked like a fugitive from a dirty movie — a grade A type movie. She was also, I noted, a brunette.

“Don’t shoot!” she begged, raising her long arms above her head. The gesture made her king-size chest bobble entrancingly while her new posture made her look even more exotic. To me, at least. Somehow, the long, black silk stockings and the long, black silk gloves made the rest of her look more than nude, if you know what I mean. “Don’t shoot! ” she repeated. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I give up!” “Fair you may be,” I snarled, “but square you don’t look. Okay, sister — off with the mask. Let’s have a good look at you.” She removed her mask, hastily stuck her hands in the air again. Her face was lovely but unfamiliar. I backed around until I was able to lower myself into an arm chair and, using one hand — the other still held the gun pointed at her cute little navel — lit a cigarette. “Okay, baby, start talking,” I snarled. “And make it good. Don’t try and tell me you weren’t rifling my suitcase. What are you, a lady cat burglar?” She nodded. “That’s right That’s exactly Right. That’s just what I am — a she-cat burglar. I won’t try and fool you. I call see you aren’t the kind of man I could fool. I — I just hope you’ll show me more mercy than I probably would have known you had circumstances been reversed. Pretty please have mercy on me — this is the first time I’ve been caught!”

And so saying she dropped to her knees in front of me though still prudently keeping her hands in the air. I stared at her. Was she crazy? What kind of an act was she trying to pull? Obviously there was more to this chick than met the eyes. No - plenty of her met my eyes right then. “Explain,” I suggested, “your rather suggestive costume. Black stockings. Black gloves. Nothing else. How so? And why so?” “Why,” she said, “I wear gloves so I won’t leave fingerprints.” “Shrewd,” I conceded, “very shrewd. But why do you go around burgling in the nude?” “Why,” she said, “that’s all part of my clever plan — for escaping detection in case I’m detected. Found, I mean in someone else’s room, that is.” “Amplify that,” I snapped. “Yes, yes, gladly,” she gasped. And did so. Her tale, though wild, made a certain amount of sense. “I’m a full-time professional hotel thief,” she explained. “And my M. O. is as follows. First I pick a hotel. Then I strike up a friendship with one of the assistant managers and, as soon as practicable, seduce him. My object in doing this, of course, is to steal his passkey, which I proceed to have duplicated by a crooked locksmith I know. With the passkey in my possess I am then in a position to loot every room and suite in the hotel. Which I proceed to do. Like I was doing when you caught me.” “So all right, already,” I concluded. “But why do you have to take off all your clothes — save for gloves and stockings — in order to loot and pillage hotel rooms?”
“But that’s the cleverest part of the whole scheme,” she said. “I don’t walk through the corridors dressed like this, of course. I wear that coat.” She nodded to one side. For the first time I noticed that a coat, a black wind breaker, was folded over the back of a straight chair. “With that coat on,” she continued, “nobody suspects I’m naked underneath. I attract no attention at all. Once inside the hotel room I intend to burgle, however, I quickly shed my coat. In case I’m surprised. You can see why, I’m sure.” I thought about this. “No,” I said, “I can’t.” “But it’s so obvious,” she protested. “Naturally I don’t plan on being surprised in somebody’s hotel room — but very early in my criminal career I realized that, sooner or later, the law of averages being what it is, I was bound to be caught red—handed. At least, be caught in the wrong room at the wrong time. And that’s where my costume — or lack of same — comes in so handy.
“Like, suppose Joe Beaks opens his hotel room door and finds me, a strange woman, in his room. Right away he assumes — correctly — Pin a thief. He yells for the police. And I go to jail. At least, that’s what would happen if Joe Doaks found me fully dressed. But if he opens his door and finds me nude in all important particulars he is momentarily dazed. And while he’s still befuddled, I go into my act. I smile at him, a sultry, lost-drenched, suggestive smile. Then I saunter seductively, towards him, flaunting my feminine charms. ‘What kept you baby?’ I croon. ‘The bell captain told me you wanted a naked girl in the worst way and right away — but I’ve been waitin’ for you all of five minutes.’ Then I wrap my arms around him, nuzzle his cheek with my cheek, embrace him a little and whisper, ‘You want to pay me the fifty bucks now, sport, or after you’ve had your fun?” She smiled. “Isn’t that a fine scheme for diverting suspicion?”
I nodded. “I get it,” I said. “Joe Doakes assumes you’re a call girl working for the hotel who happened to get in the wrong room.” “Exactly. The scheme — I’ve been surprised five times — has always worked to perfection. And all because most people think according to patterns — a clothed stranger in a hotel room means a thief; a nude girl in a hotel room means bed. The chumps never stop to think that a nude girl might also be a thief. Compartmentalized thinking, the psychology professors call it.” “And how,” I inquired, “do you explain today’s fiasco?” She sighed. “Carelessness. Sheer carelessness. I wasn’t listening hard enough. Always before I’ve heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock — and have had time to drape myself seductively on the bed.” She sighed even more heavily. “For some reason I didn’t hear you in time — and you caught me in a compromising position. Bending over your open suitcase.” Another sigh. “I guess I’m completely at your mercy. Uh, what are you going to do to me?”

I smiled. A savage, sadistic smile. “Kill you,” I said. “I hate hotel thieves.” And aiming for a spot just below the navel, I pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER NINE Thanks for the efficient if illegal silencer fitted to the muzzle of my automatic, the shot made no more noise than a paper bag being popped — and not nearly as much noise as my target made as she slumped to the floor, her hands clutched to her wound. “How — low could you,” she gasped.
The phrase stirred a faint memory. Hadn’t some girl once asked a similar question of Mike Hammer? Yes. What had his reply been? Ah, yes. “It was easy,” I gritted. “Also amusing,” I added, sneering at the twisting girl at my feet. “I’m dying,” she moaned, “dying in horrible agony. Please — please finish me off. No. Never mind. I’ll finish myself off. ” And she began to twist and distort her mouth rather as if she were chewing gum and sucking a sore tooth at the same time.
“Uh, huh,” I said, grabbing her jaw bone and forcing her mouth open, “I suspect as much.” I reached into her mouth. “Ah hah! Got it!” I waved it in front of her while she gnashed her teeth in frustration. ‘It’ was a tiny glass phial, no bigger than a match heady to which was attached a tiny wire loop. “Cyanide capsule eh?” I mused. “Looks like standard CIA issue. Do you have to wear it at all times hooked to a rear tooth?” “In conformance with standard CIA procedure,” I she gasped, “I will neither confirm nor deny your surmise. Finish me off please. I’m dying — dying in agony.” “Nonsense,” I said. “That was a blank I fired at you. I always keep a blank in the chamber of my automatic. Both for safety reasons and because it’s proved Useful in the past The rest of the shells are lethal of course.” She sat up slowly, still clutching her stomach. “But — but I felt the bullet hit me. Tear at my Vitals.” I yawned. “Blank cartridges are loaded with wadded paper instead of bullets,” I told her. “Didn’t they teach you that in spy school?"

...

“Hah,” said Celia. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the inspiring story of Amanda.” “Another chick from the Bible?” Celia wiped the trace of a tear from her eye. “Certainly not. She was a graduate of the same S and S course I took — class of ’61, Amanda volunteered to deliver the kiss of death to an enemy agent who had to be destroyed. This agent call him Boris — used to spend his leisure hours lolling on the beach of a certain European Country — call it Bulgaria.” I nodded, trying to recall whether Bulgaria had a seafront or whether it was landlocked. “One sunny morning, Amanda, wearing a form-fitting bikini, sauntered along the beach toward Boris. Amanda, the dear, brave departed soul, was a bleached blonde and Boris, I should mention, was partial to bleached blondes. He saw her coming some distance away — and his interest perked up instantly. “Naturally,” Celia continued, “his cruel, careful eyes scanned her body — looking for concealed weapons. None were visible. Boris licked his evil lips. Here was a ripe, luscious—bodied young bleached blonde — defenseless. On his beach. He sneered and sauntered towards her.”
“Wasn’t he afraid of being slaughtered by a sneak Judo punch?” I inquired. Amanda shook her head. “Boris was an expert in such things — a Black Belt Judo man. He feared no man — or girl — in close combat. And since Amanda obviously carried no weapon, he had no fear of her.” “The more fool he, eh?” I said, anticipating the plot development of her tale. “Exactly. Boris stopped in front of Amanda. She stopped. He smiled. She smiled. He reached for her — she submitted to being gathered into his arms. His brutal lips pressed tight to hers — her lovely lips responded to his. And at that crucial moment . . .” “Yes, yes?” I prompted. “She chomped down on the king—size cyanide capsule she had in her mouth and sort of exhaled into his open mouth. Death, for both of them, occurred within seconds.”
“How brave — yet ghastly,” I said. “And if Amanda and this character Boris were alone cm this Bulgarian beach — how the hell do you know just what happened?” “Simple,” snapped Celia. “Unbeknownst to Boris, a U- 2 aeroplane was hovering tens of thousands of feet above — photographing the entire gripping if tragic drama. I myself have seen, on the screen, greatly enlarged — Amanda delivering the first authenticated kiss of death in history.” Silence. Then I said, “That story, if true, certainly proves that Amanda Was a plucky if suicidal girl. Uh, do you mean to imply that the CIA has a, Well, squadron of kamikaze girls — willing to kill themselves in the national interest?” “I can neither confirm nor deny the inference you take from my presumed implication,” snapped Celia.
I pondered this. Was she nuts — or simply feeding me shaggy spy stories? Or both? “Well,” I said slowly, “that story — if true — certainly shows that what was her name? Amanda? — certainly, uh, gave more than her life for her country. Greater love for country has no girl than she who will lay down her life after having been — well, you know what I mean. But surely Amanda was a brave, self-destructive exception?” “Not,” snapped Celia, “at all. We girls of the S and S division of the double K department will stop at nothing to achieve our patriotic if suicidal objectives.” She wiped at another tear, “As Makira demonstrated.” “Makira?” I asked warily. “Yes. Makira, as you may have surmised from her name, was of Oriental extraction. But a Yankee patriot through and through. Her desperate mission one for which she volunteered was that of, uh, neutralizing a certain Indo—Chinese general.” “By ‘neutralizing,’ I said. “I presume you mean what Stalin’s boys used to mean by ‘liquidation?’ ” Celia, after averring she could neither confirm nor deny my assumption, went on with her story.
The Indo- Chinese general scheduled to be neutralized, one Bittertee Yen, was (or had been) very cagy about letting any-body, even voluptuous and passionate girls, get close to him. “Makira, brave girl,” Celia continued, “had herself delivered to the general’s secret headquarters. The general’s staff assumed she was but another slave girl destined to amuse the general for a few hours or days. Nevertheless they took all prescribed precautions. They searched her for concealed weapons, then stripped her and searched her again. They even searched her mouth to make sure she wasn’t car1ying any poison capsules there.” “Did they look —” “Of course,” Celia interrupted. “And they found nothing.” I scratched my head. This was a real puzzler. How had Makira smuggled in a lethal weapon? Maybe she hadn’t “Did this Makira succeed in knocking off this Indo- Chinese general?” I asked.
“Oh yes. And, if you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll tell you how. Before having herself delivered to the general — wrapped in an Oriental carpet — Makira didn’t eat for three days. This shrank her stomach. Then, just before V hour, she wolfed down nearly four pounds of granulated CDX-4o.” "VVhat?" "CDX-4o — the plastic explosive that’s all the rage in Europe now. You can pound it, chew it, light it — do anything to it and it won’t explode. Unless you detonate it. Well, she swallowed all this CDX-4o. Nearly four pounds. Enough to blow up a medium tank. And then she swallowed a tiny inertia fuse.” "Inertia fuse?” "Yes. You know — a tiny gadget that explodes only if you shake it violently a pre—determined munber of times. m this instance, twenty times.” "I’m beginning,” I said, "to get the picture. But It isn’t a picture I like.” "But it’s inspiring —— in a grisly way,” Celia insisted. “Can’t you just see it? The sneering evil general has Makira brought to his quarters, naked and defenseless. He drools and licks his lips. Then he flings her down on the cushioned bed flings himself at her — and proceeds to make lewd and lascivious love to her. He’s confident she’s completely in his power — that he’s perfectly safe from any kind of attack. Little does he suspect that, under her breath, Makira is humming ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’ and etc.” "How,” I asked, "do you know that was what she was humming?” "I don’t know exactly,” Celia admitted. "But she was undoubtedly humming something like that. Meanwhile the lust crazed general is bouncing. Makira is bouncing. The bed springs are bouncing. And — most important of all — the tiny inertial fuse is bouncing. One—two-three-four-five, ten-eleven-twelve thirteen times, and then eighteen, nineteen and TWENTY times! And then — blam!” I swallowed hard. “Blam?” “Blam. Almost four pounds of CDX-4o — that’s the equivalent of fifteen pounds of TNT — let’s go all at once. And that’s how Genera! Yen was neutralized.” “If your tale is true,” I said, “he really went out with a bang,.”
Actually I put little stock in her story. It was possible — and strange things had happened in the cloak and dagger game — but I just didn’t find her stories probable. Nevertheless I stopped idly patting her middle. “It’s all right, ” Celia assured me. “I don’t have anything of a lethal nature. I mean, I’m not about to blow up or anything.” “That’s good,” I said. “However, your grisly tales have cooled my earlier ardor — as you call plainly see. You might as well put on your coat and go. I’m just not feeling romantic any more. And I doubt if anybody or anything could turn me on right now.” Celia eyed me enigmatically. “I regard that,” she murmured, “as a personal challenge.” And she proceeded to swarm all over me.

Next, the villainess is introduced, having kidnapped he hero:

Totally, splendidly, carelessly naked. She was sitting in a matching armchair directly in front of me, a cryptic smile on her face, her long, lovely legs crossed, one hand holding a cigarette, the other hand holding a black fan with which she was languidly fanning her flesh. And what luscious flesh she had to fail . . . Her flesh, every rounded inch of it, was the color of — how to describe it? — the color of beige silk stockings midway between the color of dark coffee and light coffee as served by an average drug store. A creamy brownish golden beige. Delectable. And not only was her flesh a provocative color, its texture was first rate, too: smooth as oiled ivory; so smooth and taut it gleamed and glistened in the light.
And not only was her flesh both pleasing in color and exciting in texture, but it, was molded into some damn nice shapes. Like the great, high, up-pointing hemispherical cones of her breasts . . . the slender curved column of her waist . . . the dual delight of her long, full, gleaming legs . . . She showed her flawless white teeth in a half smile and I raised my eyes to her face. An interesting face. Save for an undefinable suggestion of evil, a beautiful if unusual face. A patrician, almost Roman nose; full, soft red lips; huge enigmatic brown eyes; a high intelligent forehead — and all these features were framed by lustrous black shoulder—length hair as smooth as flowing India ink. “Thank you,” she purred in a lazy, husky, and slightly accented voice. “Thank me for what?” I said, scratching my aching head. That got me a throaty chuckle. “For the look of lust on your face while your eyes — how do you say? drank in my body. I am used to slavish admiration from men, of course — but it never fails to pleasure me.” “WVno,” I said, continuing to scratch my aching head, “are you?” “My name is Dolores Conchita Loreta Maria Slarvinska Luzon Esmerelda de Lesseps Johnson Eva von Erlich Mindinao,” she purred in her extraordinary husky Voice. “But to my friends and foes I am usually known simply as — Dolo Mindinao.”

She explains her evil human trafficking and zombifying-scheme, bangs the hero, explains it some more, bangs him some more, offers a demonstration, and...

“Yess,” said Dr. Yess. “And you can actually remember the number for each told every girl — or is it stamped or tattooed on the girl’s flesh so there’s no chance of forgetting?” “Yess and yess,” hissed Dr. Yess. “Yess I can remember the number of each girl — and yess, for simplicity’s sake, the number is sstamped on each girlss right breasst.” “That’s — I mean that’s all I Wanted to know,” I snarled, and leaped for my gun, palmed it, whirled to confront Dr. Yess and Dolo.
“P—p-put that down!” begged Dr. Yess. “H—h-have mercy!” pleaded Dolo. “You brutal swine,” I sneered, raising my gun and aiming it directly at Dr. Yess. “You’re brave enough operating on naked helpless girls — but you freak out pretty fast When the shoe’s on the other loot.” “Mercy, mercy?” he screamed. “Bah,” I sneered. “Take that!” Phhtt! Went the silenced gun. Dr. Yess doubled over, clutching that part of his anatomy I’d just ruined by a well placed bullet. His hideous screams of agony were music to my ears. I let him roll around in agony for a while — maybe thirty seconds — then I finished him with a bullet through his evil skull.
“You next,” I said, swinging my gun to bear on Dolo. “No!” she yelped. “Don’t shoot me — please don’t shoot me! I — I’ll make you a partner. A silent partner. You call make big money in your spare time — you canhaVe all the zombie-like slaves you Want — only please, please don’t shoot me Where you shot Dr. Yess!”
“Sorry,” I sneered, “I have my heart set oil shooting you in just that section of your anatomy.” Phhtt! went my silenced gun. “Yiiii! screamed Dolo, rolling around on the floor clutching that section of her anatomy I’d just smashed with a well aimed dum—dum bullet. Seeing as how she was a girl, I finished her off with a head shot after only twenty- five seconds of unspeakable agony.
This is really interesting. Like the scenario with the hotel thief a lot, with her very interesting strategy.
 
Last edited:

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
Jailbait Wanton:

""There had been an unsuccessful revolution in the Central American Republic of San Clemente —
perchance you recall the event?"

I didn't, but I nodded my head anyway.

"Then you remember that the insurgents fled to the jungle to continue the fight. The government declared them to be terrorists and ordered every citizen to shoot them on sight.

Naturally this made them fair game for my clients. So I flew at once to San Clemente to case the situation. With a couple of trusted,
unscrupulous guides I pushed my way into the thick jungle for three days. I had rotten luck.

No game showed. Not even so much as a lizard or a ground squirrel, let alone a plump renegade. I was in a furious temper. The jungle was supposedly alive with terrorists, yet not one could I scare up. And if I, an expert hunter, couldn't pot one how could I expect my city bred clients to do better?

"Then all at once I picked up a trail. I followed the trail silently for a mile until I came to a jungle pool and there, splashing naked in the water, were two plum teenage girl terrorists."

"If they didn't have any clothes on," I said, "how did you know they were terrorists?"

"Their green and white uniforms were lying by the pool, along with their rifles. But to continue, overjoyed at my good fortune I drew a careful bead on the nearest terrorist, a chubby but shapely renegade of about
sixteen. My finger tightened happily on the trigger — I was about to rid the world of some human vermin, and incidentally get in some sport. After my long, fruitless hunt you can imagine how joyful I felt."

"Yeah," I said. "I can imagine all right." I took another big swallow of beer.

"Then just as I was about to drop her cleanly with a heart shot — I became conscious of what the two of them were babbling about in the atrocious Spanish spoken in San Clemente. They were talking about the coup they had just heard about over their portable radio — the renegades had taken over the government.
You can imagine my feelings."

"Well, no," I said. "What were your feelings?"

The Count frowned. "It should be obvious. Up until that moment they had been terrorists that a civilized government had decreed should be shot on sight. Ergo, killing them was not murder but a public service —
as well as sport, that is. Now their leader was the government — which meant they were no longer human vermin by the strict code of ethics I had always followed. Instead they were honorable citizens. And my strict
moral code forbade me to shoot honorable citizens no matter how tempting a target they presented. I had to abandon either the hunt or my code of ethics.

He sighed, one of his dry, aristocratic sighs. "Alas, the temptation was too great. I fired twice and down they flopped, each neatly drilled through the heart.

I took an even longer pull at my beer. Could he possible be telling the truth? Was he really a monster as well as a loony?

"When I fired, when I saw them drop cleanly, I felt the old familiar elation sweep through me — the elation all hunters feel when a long stalk ends in a perfect kill."

He was a monster all right.

"But then the elation faded from me, and on the long trek back to the coast I began to be tormented by doubts. Then a funny thing happened."

I wondered what in hell he would consider funny.

"You may wonder what it was I found funny," the Count continued, like he'd read my mind. "It was the news that the government had not fallen to the revolutionaries. The false news that it had had simply been broadcast as a ruse to lure the terrorists out of the jungle. Hence the two girls had been fair game — no pun intended — when I'd shot them. Naturally I felt very much better."

"Naturally," I said.

"But then, when I had returned to the States, my self-doubts returned. I hadn't known they were legitimate targets when I'd shot them down. I'd shot them for the sheer thrill of seeing them crumple before my gun.

Hence while I really hadn't broken my strict code of moral ethics, I'd thought at the time I had done so.

Where did this leave me, ethically speaking?"Jailbait Wanton:

""There had been an unsuccessful revolution in the Central American Republic of San Clemente —
perchance you recall the event?"

I didn't, but I nodded my head anyway.

"Then you remember that the insurgents fled to the jungle to continue the fight. The government declared them to be terrorists and ordered every citizen to shoot them on sight.

Naturally this made them fair game for my clients. So I flew at once to San Clemente to case the situation. With a couple of trusted,
unscrupulous guides I pushed my way into the thick jungle for three days. I had rotten luck.

No game showed. Not even so much as a lizard or a ground squirrel, let alone a plump renegade. I was in a furious temper. The jungle was supposedly alive with terrorists, yet not one could I scare up. And if I, an expert hunter, couldn't pot one how could I expect my city bred clients to do better?

"Then all at once I picked up a trail. I followed the trail silently for a mile until I came to a jungle pool and there, splashing naked in the water, were two plum teenage girl terrorists."

"If they didn't have any clothes on," I said, "how did you know they were terrorists?"

"Their green and white uniforms were lying by the pool, along with their rifles. But to continue, overjoyed at my good fortune I drew a careful bead on the nearest terrorist, a chubby but shapely renegade of about
sixteen. My finger tightened happily on the trigger — I was about to rid the world of some human vermin, and incidentally get in some sport. After my long, fruitless hunt you can imagine how joyful I felt."

"Yeah," I said. "I can imagine all right." I took another big swallow of beer.

"Then just as I was about to drop her cleanly with a heart shot — I became conscious of what the two of them were babbling about in the atrocious Spanish spoken in San Clemente. They were talking about the coup they had just heard about over their portable radio — the renegades had taken over the government.
You can imagine my feelings."

"Well, no," I said. "What were your feelings?"

The Count frowned. "It should be obvious. Up until that moment they had been terrorists that a civilized government had decreed should be shot on sight. Ergo, killing them was not murder but a public service —
as well as sport, that is. Now their leader was the government — which meant they were no longer human vermin by the strict code of ethics I had always followed. Instead they were honorable citizens. And my strict
moral code forbade me to shoot honorable citizens no matter how tempting a target they presented. I had to abandon either the hunt or my code of ethics.

He sighed, one of his dry, aristocratic sighs. "Alas, the temptation was too great. I fired twice and down they flopped, each neatly drilled through the heart.

I took an even longer pull at my beer. Could he possible be telling the truth? Was he really a monster as well as a loony?

"When I fired, when I saw them drop cleanly, I felt the old familiar elation sweep through me — the elation all hunters feel when a long stalk ends in a perfect kill."

He was a monster all right.

"But then the elation faded from me, and on the long trek back to the coast I began to be tormented by doubts. Then a funny thing happened."

I wondered what in hell he would consider funny.

"You may wonder what it was I found funny," the Count continued, like he'd read my mind. "It was the news that the government had not fallen to the revolutionaries. The false news that it had had simply been broadcast as a ruse to lure the terrorists out of the jungle. Hence the two girls had been fair game — no pun intended — when I'd shot them. Naturally I felt very much better."

"Naturally," I said.

"But then, when I had returned to the States, my self-doubts returned. I hadn't known they were legitimate targets when I'd shot them down. I'd shot them for the sheer thrill of seeing them crumple before my gun.

Hence while I really hadn't broken my strict code of moral ethics, I'd thought at the time I had done so.

Where did this leave me, ethically speaking?"
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
"Sin Sessions (written as John Dexter)

A door at the opposite end of the room opened. I stared.

She had to stoop to come through the doorway. She must have been damn near seven feet tall.

But she was perfectly proportioned. She had the hair and the face and the body of a Greek goddess.

She was nude. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders. Her king-size breasts were firm and upthrust with nipples like rosebuds. Her belly was lean and muscular. Her legs were long and tapering. She glided across the floor with the feline grace of a jungle cat.

She headed toward Jackie. Tony walked over to her.

"Do you like her, Diana?" Tony asked, jabbing a thumb toward Jackie.

Diana's blonde head bobbed as she sized Jackie up.

"Than take her," Tony ordered.

She padded over to Jackie, towering head and shoulders above her. She grabbed the hair on the top of Jackie's head and yanked her head back. She stared down into Jackie's eyes. Her left hand grabbed the front of Jackie's collar and yanked. Her dress, already split in back, slid down over her torso.

Her hand slashed again. Jackie's left arm was free. The fabric was torn from her right arm.
Diana's fingers hooked over the front of Jackie's bra.

"Take it off or I'll take it off for you," she said in a low sultry voice.

Jackie stared up at her. That's when she made a near-fatal mistake.

The edge of Jackie's hand slammed down on Diana's wrist and Diana's hand fell away from the bra. Jackie turned and tried to run.

Diana's hand slashed out, like the paw of a cat that was toying with a mouse. Her long slim fingers hooked over the elastic of the bra across her back. She yanked.

Jackie was jerked backward off her feet. She lunged. The elastic snapped.

Diana grabbed Jackie by the hair. She whirled Jackie around. Diana's hand was still snarled in Jackie's curls. Her other hand jerked the bra away. And Diana stood there, looking down at Jackie's breasts. Lust began to build up in her eyes.

Diana's big hand slapped Jackie across the face. It made a return trip. It slapped back and forth like a paintbrush.

"You gonna behave yourself?" Diana asked Jackie, holding her hand poised in midair.

Jackie glared up at her. She raised her foot and stomped. It came down on Diana's instep.
Diana howled. She grabbed up her injured foot and danced around on one leg. That's when Jackie made a break for it.

But Jackie didn't get far. The two goons were right after her.

Jackie quickly kicked off her shoes. She took off like a turpentined cat. All the doors were closed. So there was nowhere to go. But she was on her way.

Hurrahs and cheers burst from the brass at the far end of the gym. They were having a ball.

The door at that end, near where the brass sat, suddenly opened. I could momentarily see the ugly face of a goon. Then a little Filipino in a red monkey suit trotted in, lugging a big tray. He served drinks to all the brass.

I looked back at Jackie, She was still on the run. The goons were having no luck catching her.

Diana flagged them down. She took out after Jackie. Jackie was tall and as lean as a greyhound. And she could run like one. But she was no match for Diana, It was like a wolfhound chasing a rabbit.

Diana's hand reached out. Her long fingers clamped on the back of Jackie's neck. She leaned backward and set her feet.

Again she whirled Jackie around. Once more her hand gave Jackie's face the paintbrush treatment. And Jackie's head now lolled around. She was half-out.

Diana grabbed Jackie up as if she were a rag doll. She tossed her up over her shoulder. She turned and marched to the center of the gym.

The two goons, still puffing and panting, lugged a mat to the middle of the floor and dropped it. They headed for the sidelines.

Diana took Jackie to the mat. She dumped her as if she were a sack of grain. And Jackie lay sprawled, with her eyes closed, gasping for breath and too weak to move..

Diana's' hands grabbed at Jackie's dress at the hips. They yanked downward. And Jackie was shucked out of her clothes.

Diana got down on her knees and held her arms at the ready, Tony walked over and looked down at Jackie.

"Okay, it's up to you. If you want to live, that is."

Jackie struggled up on one elbow, staring up at him. The fight had gone out of her.

"Know anything about wrestling?" Tony asked
Jackie.

Jackie sat up, still gasping for breath. She swiveled and got on her knees. She glared at Diana. Then she spat in her face.

That tied it. Diana lunged for her, and got her in a bear hug. Over they went, with Jackie on her back and her legs bent back under her.

Jackie flopped around. She got her legs free. She got both hands in Diana's hair and yanked.

Diana reared up off Jackie. Jackie's hand zoomed upward, and the heel of her hand caught Diana on the button.

Diana's hand snapped back and she was stunned. Jackie did a fast roll and got out from under her.

Diana was fast on the recovery. She reached out with both hands, her fingers clawing. Jackie whirled around and kicked her in the face.

Diana let out a roar and lunged to her feet. She was no longer a lithe and graceful jungle cat. She was a maddened beast that wanted revenge.

Jackie danced away from her. But she didn't get off the mat. If Diana moved in too close, Jackie's hand flicked out and clawed Diana's face.

Jackie continued dancing around the mat, circling Diana, tense and looking for an opening. Then she would rush in and leap back before Diana could lay a hand on her.
Diana had the longest reach. But Jackie was faster. I wondered how it was going to wind up.

Diana suddenly leaped straight up in the air. She yanked her knees up. Her feet shot straight out. They kicked Jackie full in the face, knocking her down.

Diana writhed onto Jackie, and got an arm lock on her. She rolled Jackie over on her back, with Jackie's arm twisted up behind her, and with Diana's hand grabbing Jackie's and yanking.

Jackie screamed and her face was twisted with pain. Diana swiveled around so she was facing Jackie's feet.

Diana's left leg went up and over. She straddled Jackie. Her butt hovered above Jackie's face. Then it slowly
lowered, Jackie's free hand clawed Diana's thigh. Diana yanked on the twisted arm. Jackie screamed again.

Diana sat on Jackie's face, her head bowed, looking down at Jackie.

"Love it, you bitch, love it," Diana snarled.
There was applause and cheers. The brass were now standing up, egging Diana on.

Once more Jackie's free hand clawed. Diana bounced her butt up and down on Jackie's face and yanked at Jackie's twisted arm.

Jackie was finally forced to submit. And Diana crouched there, with ecstasy flooding her face.

Diana's head went back, and she closed her eyes. Passion was twisting and contorting her features. She began to moan and to rock up and down. Her body stiffened. She let out a scream. She fell forward and
rolled to one side.

Jackie bounced to her feet. Diana was on her back. Jackie jumped into the air and landed on Diana's belly. She stomped.

Diana screamed and grabbed Jackie's legs. Jackie tried to kick free. But it was no use. She crashed onto the mat.

Diana was all over her, clawing and beating on her.

Tony stuck two fingers in his mouth and blasted.

"This has to be an even match," he said. "That won't go."

Tony hauled Diana off Jackie. He helped Jackie up. And they stood there glaring at each other, with their arms hanging limply down.

Tony signaled. The two goons came running out with spears.

"You'll have just as much chance as Diana with these," Tony told Jackie.

The two hoods handed the spears to the women and grabbed at the mat and ran.

Jackie turned and lunged toward Tony. She would have rammed the spear clean through him if Tony hadn't belly flopped.

There were laughs and applause from the gallery. Jackie charged again. But Diana's spear was zeroing in.

Jackie had to fall over backward. She landed on her back. And Diana's spear jammed down.
Jackie did a fast roll and lurched to her feet. She did a fast dance to her left and Diana whistled past her, spear poised.

They squared off again, each in a half-crouch, faces hot and grim, and their bodies tense.

Diana lunged once more. Jackie whirled away and her spear came up. She damn near knocked the spear out of Diana's hand. Diana was off balance.

Jackie's spear dived in, and Diana did not jerk back quick enough. The spear head sliced Diana's left breast.

Diana screamed and back pedaled. Murder was now in her face.

It was like David and Goliath. Jackie was the fastest of the two. Diana would lunge. Jackie would skip away, taunting her.

"Come on, King Kong," Jackie would yell.
Diana would plunge for Jackie. But Jackie was long gone.

Then I saw Jackie's strategy. Diana was losing blood. Her belly was crimson. She would soon be out on her feet.

But Jackie was tiring, too. She began getting tangle foot. On the next lunge, Jackie's feet weren't fast enough. Diana's spear nicked Jackie's neck. Blood spouted.
Jackie threw caution to the winds. She feinted with her spear, jabbing here and there. She was faster than Diana.

Jackie saw an opening. She went under Diana's stabbing spear. Diana was off balance. Jackie was in a crouch. Her thighs uncoiled. Jackie shot upward with her spear straight out.
Jackie couldn't stop her lunge. The spear rammed clear through Diana.

Jackie jumped back and ran, tossing away her spear.

The gallery was on its feet again, applauding and cheering. And Diana stood there, like a wounded bull.

Her knees buckled. She gave a gurgle. Her eyes went shut. And she toppled forward and onto her side.

I was sick. Jackie had her back plastered against a distant wall, panting for breath. Tony went over to her. He patted her on her back. She was a hero.

It had been a human bullfight. And the mobsters had enjoyed it."
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
"Torture Club" starts out with a lot of rough sex, but goes right into some murderous gladiatrix action towards the end.

"Jane sat down beside me, and the audience began to talk and whisper excitedly.

"Can I stay?" I asked. "Even though I haven't paid two hundred dollars?"

"Why not?" said Jane, laughing in a real brittle fashion. "If you dig horror, that is. For myself, I find these films despicable and depraved."

"Why do you stay, then?" I whispered.

"Because I'm hooked on horror," she sighed.

"Worse luck. See that little man at the
projector-the one who looks like a weasel? Well, he works for the syndicate that distributes these horror films. That can he's carrying has a kind of bomb in it. If he scents trouble, he pulles a string-and foofl-the films burn to a crisp inside the can. It's printed on old-fashioned, highly inflammable celluloid. And while the film's running, he keeps a cigarette lighter in his hand. If the cops should break in-flam!-the whole film would burn up fast."

"Golly," I said. "That film must be hot."
And then the film started. And it was hot. Also horrible.

There was no real action. I mean, the camera hardly moved for the whole movie. But in
another sense, there was too much action! It opened with a young and voluptuous-looking
Chinese girl walking into a bare room. She walked toward the camera, bowed, and then
began to take off her dress, then her panties and bra.

"Probably filmed in Macao," Jane whispered. "You can buy a young, voluptuous Chinese
refugee girl outright for a thousand dollars there, I understand. No questions asked--as
long as you sink her remains deep in the bay."

"Golly," I said.
Meanwhile, on the screen, the young but very voluptuous Chinese girl had taken off all her
clothes and was turning slowly in front of the camera, showing off her figure and smiling.

"Poor doll," murmured Jane. "She doesn't suspect what she's in for, obviously. Probably thinks she's just making a sexy movie."

"Isn't she?" I asked. But Jane didn't answer. On the screen the voluptuous young Chinese
girl continued to preen herself in front of the camera, in glowing color. She stroked her full thighs, her ripe breasts, her wide hips, her not-quite-flat belly, and smiled provocatively.

Then a door opened behind her and four burly Chinese men entered. Each was naked
except for a black belt around his waist and a wide black mask over his face. The girl
heard them, turned, squealed in horror-the movie had sound, too-and backed away.
Not fast enough. They grabbed her, laughing nastily, and threw her to the floor, where
they tied her wrists and ankles. Then they hoisted her up and tied her, stretched and
writhing, between two hooks set in the wall.
The girl was obviously trying to scream, but a gag in her mouth prevented her from doing anything but moan through her nose. When they had her tied tight, horizontally at camera height, like a pig on a roasting spit, the four burly Chinese bowed to the camera and left.

Two shapely Chinese girls stalked into camera range next. Each was really built, and each
was also wearing a black belt and a black mask. Also black high-heeled boots. They too
bowed toward the camera, then toward each other, and then toward the helpless naked
girl.

Jane put a hand on my knee. "Don't get too upset, she murmured. "Remember, that girl is
long dead now-you're only watching film."

And so I was. But what film! The girls with masks finished bowing and smiling at the
camera, and then each picked up what looked like a meat skewer. I looked again. They
were meat skewers! All of a sudden I felt sick. I suppose I should have looked away, but she was dead. I wouldn't help her by looking away. And I might miss something educational.

The masked girls sauntered with swaying hips over to their helpless victim, brandished
their meat skewers ... And then thrust them into their voluptuous victim's naked flesh.

One skewer got thrust into the victim's buttock, the other into her left breast.
The naked girl twisted-as much as she could in agony, and the girls with masks thrust two
more skewers into her flesh. Then she writhed even more, and made horrible agonized
sounds through her nose.

"You must remember," Jane hissed into my ear, "that human life is cheap in the Orient. A
film like this-at a minimum of five thousand dollars a showing-will bring in hundreds of
thousands of dollars. Whereas Chinese refugee girls bring only a thousand, and then only
for the most voluptuous specimens."

"You mean," I gasped, as the writhing victim on the screen got two more meat skewers
thrust through her breasts, "that this film is benefiting the Chinese Communist
Government?"

"Good gracious no!" said Jane. "This is strictly a capitalist enterprise. The Communists are very square about torture for the fun of it. None of the money from this film will ever reach left-wing circles."

"Thank goodness," I gasped. Though at the same time I began to wonder if free enterprise might not be stretched too far, the need for the curbing of the population boom in Asia notwithstanding.

Meanwhile, on the screen, the camera had begun to trundle slowly in for a close-up of the voluptuous chick's face. It was contorted in agony, naturally. And while the camera
focused on it, it kept contorting more and more-obviously, more skewers were being stuck
in.

Then the camera moved, wobbling a bit, until it was focused on the girl's breasts. Four or
five skewers were already thrust right through them. While the camera held the close-up, half-a-dozen more were pushed slowly into them. The Chinese girl's breasts, huge on the screen-and pretty big anyway-jerked and shook as the metal skewers sank into them.

Then the camera moved, jerkily, down her body, and gracefully thrust more meat skewers
into the victim's plump belly, her shapely buttocks, her ripe thighs.

Then the camera pulled unsteadily back, until the girl's entire body was visible again, in full color on the wide screen. She looked like a giant pin-cushion.

Then another Chinese girl-a real young one, also wearing a black mask-pushed an iron
brazier into camera view. Thrust into the glowing coals were a couple dozen more
skewers-all white-hot. The new girl bowed and backed off-camera, while the two torturers,
slipped on gloves-asbestos, no doubt-and then each reached for a white-hot skewer.

The helpless and horizontal victim writhed in horrified anticipation, her eyes wide with
terror. And rightly so. Because a moment later the white-hot skewers were thrust slowly and sadistically into her breasts, right through the fully erect nipples. It was awful, believe me! It was all I could do not to shut my eyes as the white-hot daggers of metal hissed and steamer! as they sank into her breasts.

After that, more and more white-hot skewers got stuck into her breasts, and thighs, and
buttocks, and belly. Each hissing as it sank.
Finally the film neared its end. One of the masked girls took a long, white-hot knife from the coals. While I watched, horrified but fascinated, she held the blade over where the naked chick would have been wearing a G-string if she'd been wearing one-and then slid it deep into her belly.

The audience gasped. The knife hissed. The gagged victim screamed through her nose,
and the knife was thrust through her belly to the breastbone.

And still she writhed, not yet dead. The second torturer now appeared holding a white-hot rapier, and slowly sank it through the victim's left breast, all the way, until suddenly the tortured girl jerked and twisted and then went limp, as the hot blade slid through her ribs into her heart.

The masked Chinese girls grinned and bowed toward the camera, and the film ended.

Meanwhile, another film had started. This one was made in Mexico, I surmised. It took
place in a deserted bull ring. Only instead of a bull, a voluptuous naked Mexican girl with wide hips and incredibly full breasts ran into the ring. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was gagged and blindfolded, so she didn't run too fast.

Once in the ring, she was surrounded by half a dozen handsome young men wearing
bullfighter costumes and black masks. Instead of a sword, each was holding a short black
whip.

"Ah," sighed Jane. "The romance of old Spain! Men pitting their skill against a dumb beast
destined to die for men's pleasure."
"But," I whispered back, "that isn't a bull. It's a naked girl. And she doesn't look as if she wanted to die."

"Neither does a bull," snapped Jane. "What's the difference? Both are helpless animals,
aren't they?"

"No," I said. "A bull can fight back. And maybe even kill a matador."

"The bull-or the cow, in this case-is going to die anyhow," said Jane. "Why are you so
blood thirsty as to want the matador to take a mortal risk too?"
"You're right," I said. "I was being bloodthirsty. But isn't it different-killing a dumb beast from killing a naked girl?"

"If she wasn't dumb," chuckled Jane, "do you think she'd have gotten herself into such a
fix in the first place? Rest assured that that chick is some nameless prostitute who
volunteered to perform for big money. She was just too dumb to realize how she'd have to
perform."

I nodded. Jane was no doubt right.
On the screen in full color, the big-breasted, wide-hipped naked girl had stumbled forward a few steps. Music blared.

"Ah, the pageantry, the romance of Death in the Afternoon!" murmured Jane. "What is the
death of one bull compared to the delight of thousands-or the death of one cow compared
to the sensual entertainment of others, more sophisticated thousands?"
I was about to say that even dumb human beings were more important than animals, but I didn't. Maybe Jane was right and I was wrong. But I didn't think so, privately.

Meanwhile, English subtitles had flashed on the screen. The brave cow, the subtitles said, prepares to meet her fate-at a fete. She has been told that if she drops to the ground within ten minutes, she will be dispatched with a sword. Hence the determination with which she keeps her feet will determine her courage as-a brave cow!

A flourish of trumpets sounded, and then one of the matadors drew back his whip and
flicked the tip toward the naked, blindfolded, gagged and hand-tied girl.
The tip of the whip struck her belly, and bright red blood showed in a welt below her navel.

The audience around me cheered. The girl on the screen doubled half over, only to
straighten up again fast as a whip cracked against her rump, sending blood and a small
chunk of flesh flying.

The girl began to run slowly across the ring, while whip after whip licked out and drew
blood and sometimes bits of flesh from her naked body. Blindfolded as she was, she didn't realize she was ringed by six matadors, so each time she was struck by a whip she turned away-only to be sadistically flicked by a whip from another direction.

"What science, what art!" gasped Jane. "Note with what consummate skill the matadors
strike at her buttocks, her belly, the tips of her breasts."

"You're right," I said, trying to forget the ghastliness of what I was watching and
concentrate on its skill and artistry. "Those matadors sure know how to handle a whip with
artistry and skill."

Which they did. Around and around in frenzied circles the naked girl ran, and the six
matadors around her flicked their whips with deadly accuracy. Inside of five minutes she
was flayed horribly-but artistically.
And still she ran, and kept her feet.
Five minutes later-ten minutes after the sport had begun-she was staggering and swaying in an effort to stay on her feet. At the bottom of the screen, the minutes she'd endured were flashed on one by one. As minute eleven was flashed on, I turned to Jane and
whispered, "I thought they told her that she'd be dispatched with a sword if she couldn't keep on her feet for ten minutes?"

"Right," chuckled Jan. "But what they obviously didn't tell her was that she'd be finished off no matter how long she stayed on her feet. Be reasonable, Sharon. Could they let her go at all-with safety?"

"I guess not," I said, after thinking about it. "But it still seems kind of mean, leading her on like that."

"Nonsense," said Jane. "It merely gives her a chance to prove her courage as a brave
cow-to show how long she can keep her feet in the face of horrible torment. Ah, the
romance of old Spain and Spanish blood-sports!"

Well, maybe she had a point. Or maybe not. At any rate, the voluptuous Mexican girl
managed to stay on her feet for another five minutes-sixteen minutes in all. Then she
sagged at the knees, tried to rise, and fell on her back.

The matadors raised their hands in triumph, then clustered in a circle and began to flip
coins. The winner emerged from the huddle smiling under his mask and brandishing a
pointed stick-a banderilla, I guess they call it.

He stalked over to the fallen girl, brandished his stick proudly, then plunged it into the helpless girl's belly. She writhed more wildly.

Another matador handed him a second pointed stick and, after a flourish of trumpets and
a bow toward the camera, he buried that in the girl's right breast. She writhed some more, naturally.

Finally the matador accepted a third pointed stick-this one all bedecked with ribbons-and
after various artistic flourishes, rammed it through her left breast into her heart. That
stopped her flopping around-permanently.

All six matadors turned and faced the camera, bowed, and, with an artistic blare of
trumpets, the movie ended.
The people around me cheered enthusiastically.

...

"I happen to be a vegetarian. When I die, thousands of animals will owe their long lives to me. Surely, in exchange, I can ask the deaths of a few dozen teen-age boys and girls. I just get my kicks in a different way."

"But that's different!" I protested. "And besides, if you watch two or three teen-age girls get put to death every week, that adds up to thousands of girls in a lifetime."

"True," said Jane. "II I were watching the movies all alone. But the movies I watch are
watched by thousands of equally modern-minded people. So, spread among the total audience, my share of the guilt is very small. If ten thousand people watch-and drool overa
movie depicting one teen-age girl being executed in a slow and amusing fashion, then
my guilt is for only one-ten-thousandth of a human life. Right? If I watched ten thousand
movies of a like nature, I would be guilty of taking only one human life, correct?"

...

One, I realized, was Jane. The other was the ferret-like man who'd delivered the horror
movies.

I heard Jane say, "But it isn't right, I tell you! She doesn't deserve such a fate!"
The ferret-faced man chuckled. "Don't be a sentimentalist. So my employers wreck her.
So what? There are plenty more like her, right?"

And I heard Jane say, "True, but I've grown quite fond of her. She's almost like a-a person to me. I'd hate to think of her being ripped apart."

I smiled. Jane had mentioned that she and her husband owned a sloop. Obviously she
was about to sell it to a wrecking yard, and felt bad about it. I felt warm toward her all of a sudden. Anybody who feels strongly about a boat can't be all bad, or so I'd been taught in Denaquid, Maine.

I heard Jane say, "Well, if you insist. But I won't take less than two thousand."

"Fifteen hundred is the most I can offer," I heard the ferret-faced man reply.
They settled on seventeen hundred.

About then the guy I was with got his kicks-I was too bushed to be really in the game-and
he rolled away and crawled off in search of a drink. A moment after I heard Jane call,

"Sharon? Where are you, Sharon, child?"
"Here," I said, waving an arm-which held a beer can.

Jane and the little man walked over and stared down at me. "A bit drunk, eh?" said Jane, sadly.

"Not at all," I said drunkenly. "Too bad about your sloop, Jane. But don't get sentimental. If you can sell her for a good price, sell her. Who cares what becomes of her? Get the cash,
is my motto."

In the moonlight I could see Jane and her friend exchange glances.

"You heard me ... talking prices?" she said.

"Right," I said. "Going to sell your boat, eh? Well sell her, Jane; get some dough. What do you care what happens to her? Let them smash her to pieces. So what? Most likely she'd sink anyhow, if she's rotten-and you wouldn't get a penny, unless you had her insured."

"How true," murmured Jane. "Only we weren't discussing our boat but a-a person."

Well! I may not be incredibly clever, but even half drunk I can catch the drift of a
conversation. If Jane hadn't been talking about selling a boat, then she was fixing to sell me!

I wriggled, in a frantic attempt to turn over and make tracks, but before I could even get off my back, the ferret-faced guy-whose cruel eyes I could see gleaming in the moonlight thrust out a foot and stomped on my belly.

I said oof; and writhed a bit in agony while he stomped on me a few more times, which left
me in kind of a daze.

"Don't kill her!" said Jane.

"I won't," laughed the ferret-faced man. "I just quieted her down a bit. Convinced now?
She advised you to sell. Like she said, what should you care? Seventeen hundred?"

"Done," said Jane. And the next thing I knew, the guy stooped low over me, inventoried
me quickly with his eyes, and then, with a sadistic smile, clipped me under the chin. And I blacked out.

...

I heard a noise and twisted my head around. A girl was stalking toward me. And what a
strange girl! She was mostly nude, except for shiny black leather boots that came halfway
up her calves, a wide, shiny black leather belt, black leather gloves and a black leather choker around her neck.

Her hair was long and blonde, and she wore it in a pony-tail tied with shiny black ribbons.
When she saw me looking at her she smiled-a twisted sort of smile-and reached behind
her back. She must have had a sheath strapped to the belt, because when her hand
reappeared it was holding a black-handled knife. The blade was long, and looked razorsharp.

Gulp, I thought.
But it was all right. All she did was cut the ropes that were holding my ankles and wrists.
""Better get the circulation flowing again," she told me while she cut the ropes binding the other girls, all of whom were still unconscious. "No sense in getting gangrene."

"Who-who are you?" I said while I rubbed my hands, which were just about numb. "Where
am I?"

She sighed, slid her black-handled knife back into the sheath behind her back, slung one
naked hip onto a big table nearby, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke at me thoughtfully.

"Always the same questions," she said. " 'Who are you-where am I?' Just once I'd like
some chick to come to and say 'What did you think of Fellini's last film?' or 'You think
ontogeny really recapitulates phylogeny?' But no. It's always 'Who are you-where am I?'
But then, life is just a succession of predictable events, isn't it?"

"I haven't found it so," I said, rubbing my ankles and feet. "And if you told people who you were and where they were right off, they wouldn't have to ask."

"Very true," she said, puffing more smoke at me. "Me, they call me Leopard Shark-but
that's kind of a stage name, of course. As to where we are, why, way out West, that's
where. Wyoming, perhaps, or Utah or Nevada. Some place like that."
She wriggled her neck, then unfastened her black leather choker collar and laid it aside.

"Damn thing bugs me," she said. "Where were we? Oh, yes. It's nice country outside-this
is a ranch, in case you haven't guessed. But dry. Awful dry. Used to be good cattle country way back, but then they brought in sheep, and the sheep stripped the ground cover and the land never came back. That's why they were able to buy a huge ranch like this so cheap."

"They," I said, "must be the people you work for, huh? The people that had me and these
other girls brought here, right?" Leopard Shark nodded, lit another cigarette.

...

Whoosh - I was off the floor and leaping toward the beer bottle. Leopard Shark whirled, slid off the table while reaching for her knife-too late. I broke the bottle right over her blonde head. What a satisfaction!

But right then I heard something that made my blood run cold: her amused laugh. And at
the same instant I felt something that made my blood positively congeal: the point of her
razor-sharp knife prodding me low in the belly.

There we stood, me holding the neck of the broken beer bottle, she standing sideways so
I couldn't knee her, and smiling at me while she pressed the knife against my belly.

"Relax," she said. "Move a few feet away."
I did as she suggested. "Forgive my little pranks," she said, sheathing the knife again.
"Things get so dull around here at night. The ranch gets poor TV reception, and all you
can get on radio is rock and roll, which I detest."

I gaped at her. Why wasn't she dead-or unconscious, anyway?
"That bottle," she said with a laugh, "was made of hard sugar. It's the kind they use for movie fight scenes. I thought you showed spunk, and I was curious to see how you'd
make your play. You did well. Very fast."
"Thank you," I said, sitting down on the table a few feet from her. "That was the straight dope about this ranch being owned by a bunch of rich sex maniacs?"

"Yes," she said, "although maniac is perhaps too strong a word. Lots of people have sadomasochistic tendencies. Only the fabulously rich, however, can afford to indulge them.

Not, of course, that any real harm will come to you-or these other pigs," she gestured to
the nine other girls, who were still unconscious.

"I don't believe you," I said. "I've seen movies of what horrible sadists do to helpless girls. I think you and the maniacs you work for are going to kill us all. Horribly."

Leopard Shark sighed, lit two cigarettes and passed me one. I thought about grabbing her
wrist and all, but I didn't. Most likely she knew judo and karate and so forth. And she had that knife.

...

Leopard Shark was standing in front of us naked, chained girls, smiling. "Now that you're all awake," she said cheerfully, "I can commence my briefing. For the benefit of those girls who are coming to for the first time since their, heh, heh, acquisition, I will introduce myself. I'm known as Leopard Shark. This young lady...." she gestured toward a voluptuous Oriental girl who was also naked except for black leather boots, belt, gloves and choker "is known as the Dragon Maiden."
The Dragon Maiden gave us a cruel smile and bowed.

"And this girl," Leopard Shark continued, "is known as the Latin Lash."
A tall, wide-hipped, full-breasted girl with long black hair and olive skin-and almost no
clothes bowed toward us.
"Not to mince words," Leopard Shark went on, "you girls are destined to provide a day and
night of sport for some of the wealthiest, most socially prominent sado-masochists-in the nation."
A chorus of whispers broke out.
Leopard Shark chuckled. "Those of you who just attempted to scream, and failed,
shouldn't know that you have all been expertly injected in the neck with a local anesthetic.

Your vocal cords will not function for twenty-four hours. Hence you can gasp, whisper and wheeze, but not scream. Some sado-masochistic sex cults like to hear their victims scream. Not this club. Screaming distracts them."
I tried real hard to scream. No use. I just made a gasping sound.

"Quite frankly," said Leopard Shark, "nine of you are as good as dead. But one of you will
live-and be given ten thousand dollars. So chins up, girls. Fight on for dear life itself, plus ten grand."

...

Then a gong sounded and, after consulting a penciled program, Leopard Shark, assisted
by the Dragon Maiden, unchained girl 01 and led her toward a metal door. Naturally, the
girl kicked and struggled, but she didn't kick and struggle much, on account of both
Leopard Shark and the Dragon Maiden were carrying short, sharp cattle prods-souped-up
cattle prods, judging by the violent way their first victim reacted each time they prodded her.

They shoved her through the metal door, slammed it. Then Leopard Shark and the
Dragon Maiden sauntered back toward the rest of us.

"Victim 01," the blonde said with a laugh, "is now enclosed in a metal cubicle the size of a phone booth. When the gong strikes again, she will be propelled violently into the arena, and the fun will begin."
She pressed a button, and instantly a huge, full-color TV screen came to life before us. It showed a dim-lit, horseshoe-shaped arena, with about thirty people lounging and laughing in cushioned seats.
I stared at them with interest. Having read lots of lurid popular fiction, I knew-or thought I knew what to expect: a lot of jaded-looking old women in black evening gowns and masks.

But no. The audience consisted of men and women in their twenties and thirties, wearing
casual clothes and no masks. They looked like a bunch of jet setters on a holiday, which
in a sense I guess they were.

The fact that they didn't have on masks confirmed my suspicions. Let one of us go? Not likely. Not since we could identify them. No, we were all doomed.
Me included, unless I thought of something clever and escaped.

Meanwhile a gong sounded, and into the arena victim 01-a busty young blonde-was
violently propelled. She scrambled to her feet, looked around wildly. A moment later a
bright spotlight was flashed into her eyes, obviously blinding her.
"Victim 01," said a voice over. a loudspeaker, "your first task is simple. Merely remain on your feet for two minutes. If you fall before then, you will be dispatched with a sword."

I and the eight naked girls on either side of me watched open-mouthed. Victim 01, blinking
her eyes, began to walk in a circle. Whenever she walked away from the circle, however,
the girl known as the Latin Lash stepped smiling in front of her and prodded her with a supercharged cattle prod. Which made Victim 01 jump back, squealing soundlessly.

Meanwhile, the audience, laughing and smiling, were fingering what looked like air pistols.

"The weapons the club members are caressing," Leopard Shark cheerfully informed us,
"fire quarter-inch hard rubber balls. The muzzle velocity has been carefully calculated so that the balls will almost, but not quite, puncture the flesh of the victim."
And while we watched, horrified another gong sounded, and the members of the wealthy
sado-masochistic club began firing at Victim 01's naked body.
It was awful, if sort of interesting. The rubber balls smacked into her naked flesh from all directions, and each time one struck, you could see the bare flesh of her breasts or buttocks or belly or thighs bounce from the blow. Tiny spots of pink began to appear all over Victim O1's flesh, and she started to dance and hop around as if poisoned mosquitoes were biting her.

The busty blonde victim danced and jumped wildly, clutching now her breasts, now her
buttocks, now her belly. And each time she clutched one part of her, another part began to jump and quiver as the merciless rubber balls whacked into her flesh.

It must have been awful for her-but truth to tell, it was kind of interesting to watch.
Amusing, too, in a bestial sort of way.
Then another gong sounded, the one-minute gong, Leopard Shark told us, and after a ten second rest the 'sport' began again. Only this time the sadistic, laughing members of the audience were firing more slowly, and each time they fired, the big-breasted teenage girl leaped even more.

The muzzle velocity of the guns has been increased," Leopard Shark girl told us casually.
"Now the balls are striking her with just enough impact to break the flesh. And each tiny rubber ball has been, soaked in a mild acid. Hence the victim's amusing reaction to each shot."

She was sure reacting, I thought, watching her jump and dance on the giant full-color TV
screen. And now, each time a rubber ball whacked into her flesh, a bright red spot was
left. The victim wasn't even trying to run now, she was too busy clutching each new impact spot. Only she couldn't cover more than a tiny fraction of her body, and every time she clutched her breasts protectively, the fast-moving rubber balls whacked into her
unprotected buttocks and belly. And when she clutched her belly and buttocks, her
breasts began to dance, as more rubber balls smacked into them at high speed.

She stayed on her feet almost fifty seconds, judging by the big clock next to the TV
screen. Then she sagged to her knees, shuddered, and clopped down on her back.
Instantly the Latin Lash was standing over her, a thin, lethal-looking rapier in her hand.

"You have five seconds to rise," boomed a voice over a loudspeaker, "or get speared.
One, two, three...." The blonde continued to writhe around on her back. At the count of
five, the Latin Lash-clad in her black leather boots, belt, gloves, choker, and a shiny black mask-raised her rapier and then thrust it deep into the blonde's plump belly.

The blonde thrashed about more frantically, and then still more, as the rapier stabbed
deep into her right breast. But a moment later the rapier sank deep into her left breast, over her heart, and she shuddered, and went limp.

A cheer went up from the socially prominent audience. Then the Dragon Maiden stalked
into the arena, leading a harnessed mule. The mule's harness was attached to the dead
blonde's ankles and the corpse was dragged feet first out of the arena.

"One down," chortled Leopard Shark. Nine-that is, eight-to go."
And a moment later she and Dragon Maiden dragged another chained, naked teen-age
girl toward the arena. This one was Victim 07. And a few minutes later, via the closed circuit, giant-screen television, we witnessed her fate.

And a really horrible fate it was, too. She was put into a long, plate glass-enclosed box, with a treadmill under her feet. At the front end of the box, which was about ten feet long, was a wall studded with needle-like spikes. At the back end was a row of metal bars, which began to glow red, then white-hot.

The voluptuous victim, feeling the red-hot bars searing her naked rear, naturally ran
toward the front of the box. And then the treadmill began to move, pulling her back toward the heated bars.

She began to run, faster and faster as the treadmill speeded up. And then-wham!-some
sadist in the audience stopped the treadmill, and, unable to stop herself in time, the girl
ran smack into the needle-studded wall.
She reeled back, began running again as the treadmill started once more. Running faster
and faster to keep pace with the treadmill. And once again the treadmill stopped abruptly, and she ran into the needle-studded wall in front.

That poor, stupid girl, I thought. Doesn't she realize she doesn't stand a chance-that those sadists are just getting their kicks watching her run for her life?

But then I thought, if I were to be in her position, I'd run too. I certainly wouldn't stand still and let my backside get broiled by a bunch of white-hot iron bars. I'd run like crazy. And if there was a needle-studded wall ten feet in front of me, I'd take my chances on being able to stop in time if and when the treadmill stopped.

Which was what the voluptuous victim did. Only they had her running so fast she usually
couldn't stop in time, and slammed into the board full of needles to the tune of jeers and cheers from the sadists watching.

On and on the poor girl ran, racing to stay in front of the glowing metal bars which
threatened to roast her from the rear. And the treadmill kept going faster and faster, until
she was dashing along like a fifty-yard sprinter, her breasts bouncing as she ran.
And then, wham! The treadmill would be stopped abruptly, and she'd slam into the needle studded boards.

It was horrible, though instructive. I mean I'd never realized that a plump teen-age girl
could run so fast or so long! She kept running long after I'd have sworn she'd collapse. I guess the certain prospect of having her rear fried kept her going. But she sure ran a long time. She didn't stick out her arms to keep herself from hitting the needle-studded board, on account of her arms were still chained behind her back. All she could do was run, alternately getting her rear seared by white-hot bars and her breasts and belly punctured by the forest of needles in the front wall.

On she ran, and on and on. Pretty soon she was so exhausted she got glassy-eyed-and
the sadist manipulating the treadmill began to vary the speed. One moment the thing was
going fast, and her rear was near the searing bars, and the next moment it was slowing
down and she had to slow herself quickly to avoid getting punctured again.

She didn't, I decided, have a chance. And I was right. Because five minutes later, with an ominous click, three foot-long metal daggers clicked out of the needleinfested boards in front of her. One dagger was aimed at her lower belly, the other two at the nipples of her bobbing breasts.

She saw the swords, all right. But she didn't stop running, because the bars behind her
were still glowing white-hot. On she ran, sweat pouring down her shapely body, while the treadmill alternately slowed and speeded up, forcing her to instantly quicken and slow her pace.

By this time, I must confess, I'd lost interest in the mental and physical torment she must be feeling, and was more interested in seeing how long she'd last. It wasn't long.
The treadmill kept speeding up abruptly, bringing her rear into searing proximity with the white-hot bars, then slowing quickly, which caused her to shoot forward almost up to the menacing steel spears which reached for her naked belly and breasts. It was just a matter of time.

A long, gradual speed-up came, and she began to run more and more frantically. Then the
treadmill stopped abruptly. Unable to stop her frantic forward dash, the victim slammed at full speed into the foot-long daggers. Thump! One moment she was still alive and running, the next she was flattened against the boards, daggers protruding through her lower back and at both her shoulder blades.

The screen went blank, but via the still-functioning sound system, we heard delighted
laughs and applause from the depraved audience.

"Next," said Leopard Shark, stifling a yawn. And another naked teen-age girl-Victim OS
this time was dragged off, screaming silently, to be slaughtered in the arena.
On the TV screen we watched her go. Rather quickly, too. She was shut into a steelbarred
cage with a starved black panther. The panther knew what he wanted-ripe, raw
meat-and the girl who was tossed into his cage was plenty, ripe. She fought him off for a short while with her feet and fists, but before long he was eating hearty. Not that I blamed him, if he was that hungry. Still, I couldn't help wishing he'd taken the trouble to kill her before he began munching on her. But I guess it's unfair to expect dumb animals to show such sensitivity.

The next thing I knew, I was being dragged toward the arena. Along with another girl. I
fought and struggled a bit, but not too much, on account of the Dragon Maiden and the
Latin Lash were leading me, and both of them were carrying supercharged cattle prods.
Which they jabbed into me a couple of times, just to cool me off.

In which they succeeded, on account of those cattle prods hurt plenty, believe me!
And almost before I could whisper help more than three times, I was shut inside a metal
box just big enough to stand in. In the door leading to the arena was a tiny porthole at
breast level, and I naturally bent over to peer out. Instantly the door whipped open, and some kind of mechanical boot hit me in the rear, sending me flying into the arena.

How mortifying! It was bad enough to die horribly for the amusement of a bunch of
sophisticated, socially prominent, ultra-rich sex nuts. But to be booted in the rear just
before my possible last performance was too much!

I picked myself up from the sawdust floor of the arena and glared around. A few yards
away was the other girl-Victim 04-a chubby brunette. She was also scrambling to her feet.
I blinked into the bright lights, trying to glare at the audience. No use. The lights were so bright I couldn't see their faces. But I could hear their amused, sophisticated chuckles. The monsters!

All at once the she-sadist called the Latin Lash appeared in front of me. "You girls," she said with a cynical sneer, "have two minutes in which to kill one another. If you don't want to fight-and kill-then don't. We have a red-hot barbecue pit waiting for you."
And with that she tossed a long, wicked-looking knife in front of me. Meanwhile, I noted out of the comer of my eye, the Dragon Maiden tossed a similar knife in front of the
chubby brunette.

Each of us dived for her knife. Then, alone in the arena, we began to circle each other at a discreet distance.
"Don't," said a voice over a loudspeaker, "feel obliged to hurry. But if this contest isn't over inside two minutes, both of you will roast over the barbecue pit. If it is, the winner may be spared."

Well! I continued to circle the chubby brunette, knife in hand.
"Hi," I whispered to her. "My name is Sharon Chablis. I'm from Maine."
"Rhonda Tompkins," she whispered back. "San Francisco. How did you get into this awful
situation?"
"Through a sex club." I whispered back, still circling her with my knife raised. "And you?"
"I accepted the invitation of a strange man to have a drink in a bar. The next thing I knew, I was here."

Tough, I thought, for you. Aloud I said, "Let's not really fight. Let's just pretend to fight."

"Right," said Rhonda. The lying witch, I could tell she wasn't to be trusted. She was scared of being roasted alive-as was I-and she was more than willing to kill me to keep alive, for a while.
Well, two could play that game. I circled her, smiling. "Don't worry," I whispered.
"We're about to be rescued. An FBI man is on our trail-and there he is!" I gasped as loud as I could, looking over her shoulder.
"Think I'd fall for a trick like that?" she hissed-and lashed out at me with her knife.

Almost got me, too, I was so sure she'd look over her shoulder so I could cut her up when
she was off guard. As it was, I jumped back just in time, brought up my own long knife.
Sparks flashed, and we fell back, continued circling.

The rotten witch! All of a sudden I hated her. True, I'd just met her. True, I had nothing against her-except the fact that if I didn't kill her she'd kill me, or we'd both die. But that was enough. Whether or not the sophisticated audience got their kicks, the fact was I had to cut her down, or we'd both die over hot coals. So naturally I hated her. It was like war, I mean.

Meanwhile, the audience was jeering and clapping and urging us on. Urging us to cut
each other up. The monsters!

I circled closer to the chubby brunette, smiled at her affectionately, and then kicked
sawdust in her face. She reeled back, pawing at her eyes, and I lashed out with my knife.
Hot dog! My knife had slashed right across both her over-extended breasts, slicing them
neatly. She screamed, dropped her knife and clutched her butchered bosom. I jumped in
close, thrust my knife low into her belly and ripped upward.

It worked just great. I mean, I'd read lots of lurid books about people ripping each other up with knives, but I'd always assumed it was hard work. It wasn't. The knife slid right up her middle like I was cutting a bowl of vanilla pudding.

A moment later she was on her knees, gasping and trying to hold her ripped belly
together. I stepped in fast again, thrust my knife all the way into her left breast. It slid in real easy until I hit her ribs, then it stopped. I remembered just in time that you're suppose to hold the knife sideways so it will go between your victim's ribs.

So I pulled the knife out, turned it, and thrust it into her breast again. This time it went all the way, and her eyes rolled wildly and she jerked a couple of times, and then flopped on her back.

Well! Notwithstanding the awful circumstances I was in, I naturally felt a bit proud. I mean, I'd killed my first opponent right off, real fast. And thereby stayed alive. The audience was cheering, too. And despite the hatred I felt for them, I couldn't help turning and bowing.

Then I was being hustled out of the arena by Leopard Shark, who kept jabbing me in the
rear with her cattle prod, and the next thing I knew I was back in the barn again.

"Not bad," sneered Leopard Shark. "But, heh, heh, the worst is yet to come."
And so it was.

The next item on the agenda was a fist fight between 02 and 08, which the remaining four
of us witnessed, shuddering, on the giant TV screen. The girls who fought were both kind
of plump. In fact both-even though they were teen-agers-had big bellies, from over-eating,
no doubt, and extra-large breasts.

Notwithstanding, they began to slug each other like crazy. Naturally, since they'd been warned that the loser would be roasted over red-hot
coals.
Poor girls! Most likely, under other circumstances, they'd have become good friends.
Exchanged records and fan pictures and small talk and so forth. But as it was, they tried to beat each other to death. And just about succeeded. You wouldn't believe the horrible
damage one girl's fists can do to the body of another ripe-breasted, plump bellied teenage
chick--and vice versa.

Finally Victim 02 dropped to the ground, gasping. And 08 started jumping up and down on her stomach until she was dragged away.
I was sure she'd killed her. But she hadn't.

As we found out when they started roasting 02
over hot coals. Poor girl! It took her ages to die. Mainly because Leopard Shark kept
injecting her with stimulants to keep her alive and conscious.

After that, things got real hideous. The audience kept shouting for blood. And blood was what they got.

Two ripe young blondes, 09 and 10, who'd been whispering together real friendly-like in
the barn, got tossed into the arena with a pair of whips. And once they'd been informed
that the loser would be sprayed with acid, they began lashing at each other with real
malice. Short, vicious licks that didn't so much bruise as cut right into the flesh.
Inside of two minutes both girls looked like raw hamburger. And a half minute later the
loser-Victim 10-was so badly chopped up she hardly writhed at all when the acid was
sprayed on her.

And then-then came the outdoor sport. On account of dawn had come.
Some sport! Victim 06-a real shapely brunette-got dragged out, her wrists tied in front of her, her feet free to run. She was tied to a frisky stallion, and the stallion was made to run around a big circular track. The naked, hysterical girl ran behind him for four laps. Then she tripped, and got dragged around on her breasts and belly. She lasted four laps, over sharp gravel, before she stopped squirming. By that time she wasn't shapely any more.


And then the fisticuffs champ, 08 was dragged out again and told to make the stallion
happy. Which she did, to avoid the penalty, which was too horrible to even mention.
Unfortunately for her, she made the stallion so happy he kicked her in the belly-which
finished her soon enough.

And after that-I escaped.
It wasn't easy. I'd just been unchained, and the blonde Leopard Shark was smiling and
telling me that my next assignment was to outrun an airplane.

I knew what kind of airplane she had in mind. Victim 09, the whip-fight survivor, with her
hands tied behind her back, had tried to outrun an airplane. Know what kind? Right! The creeps who belonged to the club had a bunch of little radio-controlled models. With little gasoline engines. And sticking out of the propeller shaft of each was a foot-long meat skewer.

The girl had run frantically into an open field, while two radio-controlled model planes buzzed her. Plans with wicked, long meat skewers sticking out in front of them.
The planes, guided by laughing club members, had made pass after pass at her, and
she'd dodged them all. For a while. Then one of the models zoomed down toward her and
she dodged"-and the other one, coming from the other side, plunged right into her belly,
foot-long meat skewer, razor-tipped propeller and all.

Naturally, she flopped to the ground, writhing. Whereupon the other plane was zoomed right into her left breast-and she stopped kicking.
W
ell! None of that stuff for me! I waited, pretending to shiver, until Leopard Shark had
unfastened my chains-and then I knead her good, right between her legs. She yelped in
agony, and before she could straighten up, I grabbed the knife out of her sheath and used
it. Right up her front, from the torrid zone to the rib cage I used it. And my what an awful sound she made as she felt her intestines spill out onto the ground-where I stomped on them.

After that I ran-and ran! At first I thought of running toward some of the private planes
parked nearby, but then I realized I didn't know how to run a plane. So I ran toward the
ranch house.

There should, I thought to myself, be some kind of weapon there. So I kept running, while people shouted and screamed, and a couple of guns cracked, and a few arrows whizzed by me, and a model plane buried its meat skewer in the ground a few feet away.

But a moment later I was inside the ranch house, with the angry club members only a few
yards behind. I slid through the open door, slammed and bolted it, looked around, found
what looked like a submachine gun on a whole rack of guns. I grabbed it, pointed it, and
started pushing and pulling all the knobs it had on it.

After thirty seconds of pushing and pulling I hit the right knob, and the gun went bang.
Then the door burst open. As the enraged and no longer sophisticated club members
dashed in, I pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

My but the result was heart-warming! Bullets sprayed all over them, and they started
flopping around in death agonies right off. I emptied the whole gun at them, and when the
gun stopped, I grabbed another gun, pushed the same knob, and emptied that gun at
them.

The thing jumped lot, but I knew what to expect by then, so I was able to aim it instead of just spraying with it. And I sure finished them off!
J
ust to be sure, I took a third submachine gun from the rack and sprayed the bodies with
bullets. There was one more submachine gun left and, just for safety's sake, I took it off the rack and walked outside with it.

Outside, everybody looked dead. Including the four remaining, naked girl captives. I'd shot
them down too. Well, tough break for them. They should have ducked.

Really annoyed now, I stalked to the barn where I'd been held captive, looking for
somebody more to shoot. I found the Latin Lash and the Dragon Maiden.

"Mercy!" they cried, cringing in a comer. "We were just trying to earn a few dollars!"
I sneered-and shot them to pieces.
I prowled some more, and found a terrified young man with buck teeth and no chin. He
was hiding behind some packing crates. I'd seen him before-on the TV screen. He'd been
one of the monsters guiding the model planes with the daggers.

I snickered at him while he groveled on the ground sobbing for mercy, and then I pulled
the trigger. Nothing. The gun was empty.

"Mercy!" he sobbed. "Don't kill me! I only joined this club because my friends belonged.
Even though I come from a good family and have had money all my life, I've always felt
out of things. I was-well, touched and flattered when they asked me to join. Don't kill me, please?"

While he was sobbing all this I was looking around for some kind of weapon. But then I
stopped. Because I'd just had an idea. Would it be that this, at last, was my Big Break?

"What's your name?" I snarled, waving the gun-which he obviously thought was still
loaded.
"Al-Algernon Percy Montmorency Carstairs Denton, the Fifth."
Hmmm, I thought. Aloud I said: "Can you fly a plane? Are you married? How much money
do you have?"

"Yes. No. About twenty million, I guess."
"Good," I said, and then I started telling him just what he should do, while he nodded his head frantically.

You can guess what I had him do, I'm sure. First I had him drag all the bodies inside the ranch house, and then, after I'd found some slacks and a blouse and shoes that fit me, I made him set fire to the house and barn both.

No sense in leaving fingerprints-his or mine.
Then I had him start the engine of one of the private planes-not his-taxi the plane toward
the ranch house. He jumped out just in time, and the plane plowed right into the burning
house, where it too started to burn.

I figured that when the cops finally came to investigate, they'd figure one of the planes had crashed into the building, accidentally burning up everybody inside. And that's exactly the story that came out in the papers later. Whether the cops suspected there was more to it than that, I'll never know. Most likely they did, but didn't want to blacken the good name of the state-and antagonize a lot of wealthy families.

Then, after Algernon had stopped shaking so much, I had him fly both of us to Reno,
Nevada. I'd gotten rid of the submachine gun, and was just holding a little pistol inside my stolen handbag by this time. But I didn't really need it. Algernon was too scared to put up a fight.

In Reno we were married by a chubby, red-faced justice of the peace, in a little white
cottage surrounded by rose bushes. It was real romantic, except for Algernon shaking so
much.

Then we hired an air-taxi-Algernon wasn't up to doing any more flying himself-and flew to
his huge estate in California, where I cooked him a wedding breakfast. Or at least, had
some of the fifty servants cook one.

After he'd eaten, and drunk half a bottle of imported brandy, I said: "Friend husband, I told you a teeny-weeny fib yesterday. You married me because I said a wife couldn't testify against her husband. But that isn't what the law says. I know, on account of I've read lots of popular fiction in paperback form."

"What-what is the law?" he gasped, gulping more brandy.

"The law is," I said, smiling, "that a wife can't be forced to testify against her husband. Any time the whim strikes me, though, I can voluntarily testify against you-and send you to the gas chamber. More brandy, Algy?"

Poor Algy! Who'd have thought those few words would send him all the way around the
bend?

I had him placed in one of the best private asylums in California, where I understand he
babbled a lot. But who pays any attention to the babbling of a madman? Poor Algy. I was
almost sorry when they telephoned to say he'd wriggled out of his strait jacket and
swallowed three bottles of rat poison.

And that's how I became one of the richest sixteen-year-old widows in California. Even
though he was a weakling and a murderer and a sado-masochistic pervert, poor Algy
really was Mr. Right-for me.
I guess there's a moral to my story, and I guess the moral is that even though things are bad all over, this is still the Land of Opportunity for a girl who knows what she wants.
The End"
 

Zack Ohmsford

Potential Patron
Joined
Jun 15, 2020
These are nowhere near as fun as the longer ones posted, but here are a couple I've come across.

The first is from the Forgotten Realms book Azure Bonds. A poor mage gets killed unceremoniously. As a kid, it was rare to see female enemies in these sorts of books, so her death always stuck with me. Besides that, it's a good book if you dig fantasy!

Screenshot (225).png


The second I almost hesitate to post. It's from Sean Penn's terrible, terrible "Bob Honey Who Just Do Stuff". It's nonsensical, the writing is painful, and... ugh. The narrator is unreliable to the point where EVERYONE, save his love interest, is hideous looking, and Penn's description is basically word vomit that gives no indication of a character's actual appearance. I have no clue what this woman is actually supposed to look like, but it's likely she looks fairly decent all things considered, being a second-rate TV star and on a boat with a bunch of beautiful women.

Maybe it's just the 162 pages I had to spend with the vile, disgusting Bob Honey and Penn's awful writing, but instead of her death being funny, I just found it sad. But here it is anyway, since book zako are fairly rare, it seems!

Screenshot (220).png
 

wj1905

Master of this Domain
Joined
May 26, 2015
So that's how Dragonbait got his name. Yeah he and Alias are pretty famous D&D characters, even if they have not been around much of late.
I can recommend Pathfinder novels too. In many of them, female enemies get unceremoniously dispatched, too.
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
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!"
 

dinomoneyman

Master of this Domain
Joined
Aug 23, 2014
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!"
Me at first: "Oh wow this book really has some fetishy death scenes."
Me still scrolling: "Wait is this book ALL fetishy death scenes this is a lot. :0 "

not complaining though lol
 

Drizzt78

Club Regular
Joined
Mar 13, 2011
Any wonder why I'm somewhat obsessed with the Sadisto books (and why it's so hard to get your hands on the whole series)?
 

Users who are viewing this thread

Top


Are you 18 or older?

This website requires you to be 18 years of age or older. Please verify your age to view the content, or click Exit to leave.