5 Beds to Mecca, page 1
part #4 of Lady From L.U.S.T. Series
The Lady from L.U.S.T.
Book #4
Eve Drum is given the toughest, dirtiest assignment of her career—to stop a new holy war in the Middle East. And, as usual, Operative Double Oh Sex takes it lying down.
5 BEDS
to
MECCA
by Gardner Francis Fox
written as Rod Gray
Originally printed in 1968
digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel 2018
for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC
Illustration by Kurt Brugel
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels. We are proud to present - - -
Table of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Chapter ONE
There was a gun pressed into my bare belly.
I was standing stark naked in the bridal suite of the Hotel Mamounia in Marrakesh, Morocco. My little pink toes were curling into the blue wall-to-wall carpeting, scratching with delight. Holding the gun was David Anderjanian, a big blonde Viking of a man with a magnificent tan over every inch of his equally unclad body. David is my case officer for the organization known as L.U.S.T., the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists.
Me, I’m Eve Drum, the lady from L.U.S.T.
Double Oh Sex, in other words.
"No fair, David,” I was giggling. "You have two guns.”
I was staring below the Smith and Wesson 150 he was jabbing into my navel, to where his number two gun was aiming at me. David is a very well-armed man.
"You have a couple of cannons yourself," he quipped, eyeballing my female-female breasts, all 38 inches D cup of them, where they stood at attention, brown nipples saluting. They were rock-hard as they aimed themselves at his broad chest.
"Let's shoot each other,” I suggested.
“Later, you beautiful bed-mate," he laughed. "Right now, we have business to attend to. I've got to coach you on foreign protocol and how they do things in this corner of the world."
I sighed. I can never get anywhere with David when there is business to discuss. “All right. To business. Talk.”
He kept staring at my nipples and licking his lips. I had an idea the business end of the discussion wouldn't take very long. David had a low boiling point, like me. The bed was waiting, clean and neat. The coverlets hadn't even been turned down yet. We had just checked into the Mamounia having stepped off a Royal Air Maroc flight from Casablanca. We had come straight from the airport. It was now two o'clock in the afternoon and we had a rendezvous date with British Intelligence at eight tonight.
"We're going to meet Major Alexander Hartley in a little cabaret near the Bab Debbagh. Don't ask me why, but he's going to make himself or his agent known by sticking a gun in your pretty white belly. I imagine it's some sort of protective pattern he's worked out."
"Is it pretty, David?” I asked, peering down at myself.
"No tangents, Eve. This is serious."
I snapped to attention, but I noticed he was still eyeing my female-female mounds in hypnotized fascination. I gave a little shimmy. My breasts swung lazily back and forth. David looked cross-eyed.
"British Intelligence is hot on the trail of something big in the Arab countries. So big it scares London and Washington and Moscow to hell and gone. That's why we had to make such a hurried trip from Washington, pet. There's no time to waste."
“I'll say,” I yelped, glancing down at the number two gun that was trained on me. “Time's awasting, honey—so hurry up the lecture."
"M.I. 5 wants to sell you to the Arabs as a white slave."
"What?"
"Oh, you’ll enjoy yourself," he muttered morosely. "It'll just be a succession of slave sales and sex shows and assorted couplings for which you're so famous."
“David, you say the sweetest things."
He jabbed my belly with the real gun. I doubled over and let my nipples brush the golden hairs on his chest. David began to quiver. David is a love, he responds so nicely to the slightest hint. I dropped my hand and grappled with him for his gun, I caught hold of it and squeezed. David gasped.
“Put away the revolver, dear," I whispered, kissing his throat.
"I haven't finished briefing you,” he protested.
"So you and the British are selling me into slavery. Okay, already. So now I know. What else do you have to say, darling?"
I snuggled closer. My nipples slid around in his chest-hairs. David dropped the Smith and Wesson 150, but even as my belly slapped against his, I felt his other gun ramming into my thigh. I moaned a little. I would capture his number two gun with my thighs. I opened them, I closed them. I had his second gun all to myself.
"Mmmmm?” I mmmmed. "What else, dear David?”
“You’re hell on bare feet, sweetie," he panted.
"Actually, I'm Helen Bedd,” I giggled.
As for the business end of our little briefing—there isn't much more to say, I suppose. The Major will want to tell you something."
“Let his tongue do the talking, dear heart. Your tongue can do such nice other things."
His hands spread on my bare back, ran down to cup my soft buttocks. He likes a girlish behind, does David. As a matter of strict fact, I can't think of a part of the female anatomy he doesn't like. I guess a psychologist would call him a fetishist for the female whole, no pun intended. Now his hands were sliding up my sides to my shaven armpits.
His hands surged into my armpits, lifting me.
My breasts came level with his mouth. His tongue flecked out at my standing nipples, caressing them lazily. I felt the reaction down in my toes, that began to wriggle. His lips opened to engulf a tip, then slid over onto the other.
"David? David, dear,” I murmured, shivering. David—dear said nothing, even if his lips and tongue were moving at a great rate. My breasts had grown hard as Carrerran marble, blue veins and all. My throat was dry and I guess my eyes were glassy.
“David, honey, we can play later. Right now!"
He lifted me four inches so he could kiss my quivering belly. At the same time he murmured, "If you're going to be a white slave, the first thing you must learn is to be obedient. I'm not just doing this for the fun of it." Oooooh, what a cock-eyed liar!!! "I'm doing it as a sort of—er—training routine. You know,” his tongue was touching my bellybutton now, "getting you ready for those naughty old Arabian sheikhs.”
"I'm kind of like a hidden weapon, you mean.”
“What a hidden weapon," he breathed, nuzzling lower while lifting me higher. His lips touched tufts of blonde hair.
"David!"
“What, my love?"
“Isn't this ti—tiring on your poor arms? Wouldn't you be more com—comfortable on the be—be—bed?"
“You’re my slave, Eve."
"Yes, David,” I murmured meekly.
Then I had my inspiration, I whispered, "Lift me away for a second. I just remembered something I read in an addenda to the great masterwork of the Sheikh Umar ibn Muhammad al—Nefwazi—the Perfumed Garden."
His flushed face looked up at me. "Is it nice?"
"Yes, master. Real nice."
The muscles bulged in his sun-bronzed arms as he held me at arm's length. I lifted one leg and put it over his left shoulder. I slid my left thigh onto his right shoulder and caught the back of his head with my hands. I straightened up, sitting on him.
“You see? Now your arms don't have to strain."
It was difficult for David to say anything. Actually, I didn't expect him to do much talking at this point in my training lesson. I clamped my legs around him, I damn near smothered him. My thighs were tightening and loosening and somebody named Eve was moaning all over the place.
My hips swung gently.
David walked around the room. My head was bent, both to avoid hitting the hotel room ceiling and in response to the lip service he was paying me. I shuddered and shivered.
My eyes were squeezed shut, my mouth was open a little.
Once I opened my eyes as we were moving past a large mirror. I could see that David had exchanged his gun for a much larger size. It looked deadly. The thought came to me that I might not be seeing David Anderjanian again for a long time. Maybe not ever again, if things went wrong behind the burnoose curtain. It made me all weepy and feminine.
“Let me really be your slave, David,” I sobbed.
He could scarcely hear me with the soft inner flesh of my thighs wrapped around his head, but the idea got through.
He walked to the bed, lowered my shoulders to the coverlets. I widened my thighs to free him. David gazed down at the moist vee those thighs formed, his hunger plain to read in his blue eyes.
"You just be your ever-l
He fell on me, full length. I guess his gun was loaded and just had to start shooting. But David was never one for pulling a trigger. He squeezed it, slowly, slowly. And while he was squeezing the trigger so gently, he was lifting me into that Nirvana that the poets talk about, where everything was a unending eternity of erotic delight.
I wrapped myself around him, I played boa constrictor with a holster. I felt him glide back and forth, in and out, in the position which the Hindus named venuvidarita, with my left leg outstretched on the bed, the right raised to his shoulder.
The ancient Indians were very honest about the finer things in life. They made a study of them and left their acquired wisdom to the whole world. In the Kama Sutra, in the Ananga Ranga and other assorted books, the wise men of the East put down the rules and regulations of sexual play between a man and a woman.
I tried as best I could to remember those carnal commands. From the venuvidarita in which the woman lies on her back with thighs widespread, I slipped easily into the vyomapada-uttana-bandha, clasping both my legs under the knees and drawing them back as far as I could, while David, catching on, grabbed my breasts in his big fingers. We played at that for a time, because the pose enables the male member to sink deep within the yoni, and it was absolutely sensational.
We fell over into the karkata-tiryak-bandha, with both of us on our sides, David clasped between my legs. I was never one for these tiryak exercises, the man is always too much of a weight on the leg outstretched beneath him. So I slapped his behind with a palm, indicating I wanted him on his back.
David forgot I was the slave. He rolled over obediently. I went with him, never losing contact. Now David was on his back and I squatted over him. I understand that the man-below-the-woman posture is frowned upon by the Muslims. They regard it in utter dismay, believing that the male who indulges the woman this way is forever cursed. But the Hindus have a more realistic attitude toward this purushayitabandha position.
The woman can control the speed and tempo of the love act, poised upon her lover. Her body, being displayed to his gaze, adds to the pleasure of his senses. He watches her breasts sway and leap, as David was watching mine; his eyes delight themselves with the revolving bowl of her belly as it thrusts outward in a rounded dome or draws itself back to make a hollow below her ribs.
I slowed my movements. I sat quietly atop David while I said, "I may bring a special price in the slave markets, honey. I am what the Arabs call a ‘kabbarah', which means a holder. Observe!”
My vaginae constrictor muscles were the only part of me that moved. I sat motionless otherwise, a faint smile on my lips. David was grunting, catching hold of the coverlets and squeezing them in his fingers as he fought the enjoyment which convulsed his big Viking body.
“Wha—what are you doing to me?” he growled.
"I am the Gopala-girl who milks the cow. Only I'm not using my fingers. Happy, lover?"
David was happy. Ecstatically so. I went on, "They pay big sums of money for a kabbazah. I'll earn somebody an extra free. By the by, who gets the money for my sale?"
"It goes to ch—charity. Eve—cut it out!"
I relaxed and lay forward on him so that my breasts mashed against his chest. I slid my legs over his and hooked my feet around his calves.
"You're going to miss me, David,” I whispered into his ear.
"Don't I ever know it!”
Theoretically, this pose I now held, braced on my elbows on either side of David Anderjanian, is supposed to satisfy the female's motherly instincts, perhaps because the man can suckle her breasts at the same time. I was feeling anything but motherly, however. My hips were rotating in a steady circle. I was getting to the point where I was going to slide over the edge of reality.
"Da—David,” I whimpered, my hips going mad. "Yeah," he shouted, body arching.
I felt his hands on my upper arms, raising me. I was shaking so much I could never have made the move myself. David held me there while all the world blew up around us. I shuddered and screamed, David bellowed like the bull-man he was. It went on and on. . . . . .
We slept for a little while. It had been a long trip from Washington to Casablanca and then on to Marrakesh, and we were both exhausted. British Intelligence could wait. Besides, I was in no hurry to become a haremlik slavegirl.
At quarter to seven, David slapped my behind. “Up, love of my life. Arabia needs you."
"Mmmm," I dissented, pressing my tired flesh deeper into the coverlets. I could have slept forever. But L.U.S.T. needed my services. So I didn't kick or scratch when David grabbed my ankles and yanked me off the bed.
"Serviceable clothes, pet. Something in a light wool," David told me. He was half dressed, I saw, as he walked to his suitcase and fumbled around, lifting out a brown leather Dopp kit.
He brought out a charm bracelet that held half a dozen gold dangles. There was a beer barrel, a thick disc with a bull’s head on it (I was born in May, my symbol is the bull for Taurus), a world globe, and ink-pot and a fat round flask. David tossed it to me. I caught it, leaning across the bed.
"If you pulled all six of those dangles off the chains that hold them," he announced with a grin, “you could blow this hotel and everybody in it sky-high.”
I damn near dropped the trinket.
Then David reached in the Dopp kit again and produced a ring. It was a heavyset thing, a massive initial ring, with the letter E carved in its top.
David put his fingers to the sides of the signet. "Press these—hard—and you can fire tiny darts. Each dart has a fast-acting poison smeared on it. There are six darts. Don't waste 'em."
I caught the ring very gently, slipped it on my finger. "That all, boss?”
"Now get dressed," he chuckled. "Isn't that armament enough?"
It would have to do. So I chose a pair of black bikini pants, wriggled my loins into them, and slithered into a brassiere cut low enough so that most of my girl-girl treasures could be seen nestling comfortably in the black lace D cups. I pattered on bare feet across the room, bent to lift my Cantrece stockings and then sat on the vanity bench to slide my legs into them.
In about ten minutes, I looked like an American tourist lady, complete with shoulder bag and camera. The big ring on my finger and the charm bracelet were a necessary part of the American woman traveler, in the eyes of the world at large.
"Do we eat diffa in the hotel? Or in the Medina?” David asked, slipping a tie tac into his Thai silk Tucker.
“My, my—we’ve been studying the travel booklets, haven't we? Well, so have I, master. I know chopped grasshoppers happens to be an especial delicacy in the Medina so we'll eat our diffa right here in the hotel. It'll probably be my last good meal for a long time to come."
The Medina, in case you haven't been to Marrakesh lately, is the native quarter, Morocco's answer to the more famous Casbah in Algiers. It is crowded with blue-robed Berbers down from the Atlas Mountains to the south, Shleuhs bestriding donkeys and fondling the long-shafted knives at their belts, merchants in their souks, snake charmers and belly dancers. I would see the Medina later, where Major Hartley of British Intelligence was to meet us.
I was going to eat my last (maybe) meal at a table with china and glassware and a silver service handy to my fingers. Besides, I was hungry. Chopped grasshoppers just wouldn't fill the Drum stomach.
The Mamounia Hotel is the playground of the jet set in the winter months. It was the hangout of Sir Winston Churchill when that gentleman genius was vacationing. It is a most modern establishment, complete with swimming pool, and is considered the most famous hotel in all Morocco.
Its dining room is a marvel of carven white walls and slender pillars that blend with the boles of the black cypress trees visible through the glass doors at its far end. A maitre de seats you, then hovers over you as you make your selection of exotic foods like couscous or bastila, signals the wine steward with a snap of aristocratic fingers, and the waiters with an impatient gesture.
David decided, after a martini, that he was in the mood for lamb shush-kebab, while I settled for endives stuffed with beef and egg plant. We ordered a famous rosé wine, Gris de Boulaouane. We feasted on flaming crepes suzettes as a dessert.
