Turned On To L.U.S.T., page 1
part #17 of Lady From L.U.S.T. Series
Lady from L.U.S.T.
Eve Drum, world's sexiest spy, flies to Bahia to needle the biggies in a drug-pushing ring.
TURN
on the
LUST
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Rod Gray
Originally printed in 1972
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel
2021 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2021
Copyright © 2021 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
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 vintage sleaze.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels back into print.
7.5x7.5 softcover paperback book with 165 black & white pages.
This is the book that collects Kurt Brugel's first half of the scratchboard book cover illustrations he created for the new editions of Mr. Fox's stories.
I chose scratchboard as my medium for its graphic punch. The book cover is responsible for giving the reader an initial lead-in for what the story is about. Having all of the book covers based on the same motif will also unify the library as a whole. There is enough of a challenge with doing 156 of anything in art, but to have to illustrate the contents of the book using a “pretty face”, well then we have something special in-store. Purchase from- - -
www.gardnerfrancisfoxlibrary.com/art
Table of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter One
The boy was kneeling, running his palms up and down the back of my legs while other people watched. He was about seventeen, a kid with hang ups, and one member of the therapy group clustered in a crude circle in the big room. His fingers were feathery—they sent tiny chills running up and down my backbone—and he was sobbing softly, almost to himself.
I had been a little surprised to see him mixed in with the others, who were all in their forties or over, and I looked sharp when I first met him to see if I could make out the heavy sweating and resultant body odor and the smallness of the pupils that are part and parcel of the drug addict.
It was part of my job. My name is Eve Drum. I am a member of the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists—L.U.S.T. for short—that has been operating in conjunction with the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Administration for the greater protection of the country. Recently, its scope has been broadened. Now it moves hand in glove with the F.B.I. and the Treasury Department, which handles narcotics.
There had been a rash of drug-addiction cases in this little suburban town of Woodlands Corners. The high school kids were the worst offenders, but there had been an outbreak of heroin addiction discovered in nearby Hartsdale College, too. Parents were in a frenzy, and the small police force was worried.
Somebody knew the General, who bosses L.U.S.T.
The General knew me.
So here I was, with the kid running his fingertips around my soft behind, and I frankly admit—giving me a mild case of the hots. My hips shook slightly, and I wanted to trap those questing hands between my thighs and hold them there. I tried to be nonchalant, but the therapist who sat in on our sessions was a pretty wise cookie.
"It's for his own good, Miss Drum," he said softly.
Well, yeah. I'd boned up on group therapy before David Anderjanian, who is my case officer, gave me my final instructions. I know all about it and its theories. The main idea is that you more or less let yourself go, especially in the 'touch' crowd. If you've had an inclination to toy with a nice pair of female breasts and there's a woman patient in the group, you get to give her knockers a nice little feel. If she has no freak-outs about that, of course.
Maybe somebody pinched her nipples once and gave her an inhibition about such things. In that case, this touching bit might do her good, too. Show her a man doesn't always get rough when he gets to sample a set of mammaries, and she might get to enjoy it.
The fingertips were coming down my buttocks and toward the center of my sex life. Just a little more and the boy would be giving me a finger job. My eyes pleaded with the doctor, a short, stockily built man with a goatee and a bald head. His name was Jonathan Painter.
He smiled and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Not that I minded what the kid was doing. If we'd been alone I would have enjoyed it no end. My nick name in L.U.S.T. is Double Oh Sex, and I do live up to it. But I'm no show-off, and I don't like to perform in public, even if I have done so a number of times.
A woman gave a soft cry.
"Yes, Mrs. Honnechik?" snapped the doctor.
"Please! I—"
"You object to what you are seeing?”
"Oh, no. No!"
"You want to join in?"
She got to her feet. She was in her early forties, damned attractive in the gray shirt-dress of silk pongee with pleated front and low belt. The soft stuff clung to her ripe body, revealing somewhat heavy breasts and wide hips. She was breathing rather fast, and those breasts were shaking slightly even though they were held in by a strong brassiere.
Her tongue kept moistening her lips and she was looking right at my own size 38s that protruded proudly, somewhat harder than they had been, what with the boy fooling around under my miniskirt. I guess the woman knew what was happening to me; she'd got the hots just from watching.
"Do you mind, Miss Drum?" asked Dr. Painter. "Be my guest, Mrs. Honnechik," I murmured dryly. "Eleanor," she whispered, moving behind me.
Her hands came up to my breasts, her fingertips gently toying. She found my enlarged nipples through the bra and dress and rubbed them back and forth. At the same time, the boy slipped his hands between my thighs and was feeling up my privacy. My hips jerked uncontrollably.
Let me explain about group therapy. It concerns itself, first of all, with the interrelations
of human beings, Basically, it helps those who are shy or over-aggressive or narcissistic, rebellious or non cooperative, by teaching them the needs and wants of other individuals. It teaches tolerance of others, tones down the fighting instinct, makes the timid ones more comfortable with their fellow men or women.
Touching has become an integral part of group psychotherapy. By touching one another, you are showing affection. Everybody wants to be loved and needed
For instance, even while the boy was fingering my con and Eleanor Honnechik was playing with my breasts, there was a voice inside me telling me that this was a show of my own affection for my fellow man; I was letting them do this to me to teach them
that I liked them. I understood that Eddie Taney wasn't the sexually useless—because—ignorant boy who was having trouble with his studies because he was so obsessed with sex, but that he was one of the human family and entitled to know what girls were like. As far as Eleanor Honnechik went—well, if she wanted to feel a pair of tits, why, mine were hers, girl. Go ahead.
It was a warm, friendly glow I felt. Aside from the bits of the sex throbs, I mean.
The three men and the other woman in the group were leaning forward, watching. I guess they knew how I felt, and they were respecting me for it, be cause they realized I was lending my body to Eddie and Ellie so they could benefit from something that didn't do me a damn bit of harm.
Doctor Painter was nodding at me, smiling. "Excel lent, Miss Drum. You're very cooperative. I'm proud of you."
I said, "This is doing me good, too, you know. I've always been sort of standoffish, afraid to let anybody touch my body."
Oooooh, what a lie! But honestly, I had to have some reason for joining the group, didn't I?
Eddie was rubbing his cheeks against my panty hosed left thigh. In a moment, he would be kissing. I let my hand fall to his dark hair and ruffled it. I felt like some kind of sex goddess.
Painter nodded. "I know, I know. This is why I chose you when Eddie explained that seeing girls walking around in very short skirts always made him want to put his hands under those miniskirts to find out what it was they hid."
"Now he knows," I giggled.
The doctor frowned. "No levity, please." So I went back to having my breasts handled gently and lovingly while my nipples ached with want and my Hanes hosiery got rather damp between my thighs. It was all for a good cause, but I was by no means unaffected by all this tender loving care. I thought about David Anderjanian and promised my self that after this session, I would ring him up to come out and spend the night with me. I needed more than feeling up right about now.
Painter rapped with his pencil on a chair arm. "Let's resume our discussion, if you please. Take your seats."
I sat down beside Eleanor Honnechik. Her face was flushed, her eyes very shiny. The skirt of her pongee shirt-dress was up to the
"Eddie, I want you to level with us," said the doctor. "It wasn't just the idea of putting your hand under a girl's miniskirt, was it? It was more than that."
Eddie hung his head. He was a shy boy. I felt sorry for his. Two red spots blazed on his suntanned cheeks, and his hands were shaking.
"Maybe not."
"Ah, very good. Please, go on."
"My mother's dead. I ain't got no sisters."
"And?"
"My father beats me."
"Why does he beat you, Eddie?”
"Awww, you know. I buy picture books with the girls in them all naked." His head lifted and he glared around the circle. His friends would have been snickering at this, but all he saw now were sympathetic faces, friendly and attentive. He swallowed hard, muttering, "I go nuts, sometimes, thinkin' about girls.
"So I buy those books. And my Dad found them. He took a razor strop to me. I didn't mind the beating, honest. It was just that he made fun of me. Told me to go out and get a floozie. And I can't
Tears came into eyes and he hung his head.
Doctor Painter said, "Eddie, what marks do you get in school?
"Good ones! Straight A's in every course I take. I'm going to get a science scholarship and go to Purdue to study engineering. I want to be an electrical engineer."
"Eddie has a keen mind," nodded Painter. "He loves to study, to learn. He is far more familiar with books than he is with other people. But he's here to learn that too much study makes for a dull boy. I want him to overcome his inhibitions, I want him to be able to go out of here—eventually, not today—and strike up a conversation with a pretty girl at a party. Even, in time, to go to bed with her.
"No need to blush, Eddie. This is a natural thing."
One of the men said. "The doctor's right, Eddie. I wish I'd had his help when I was your age. If I had, I wouldn't be here now."
Doctor Painter looked at Eleanor Honnechik, "And you, Eleanor? Would you like to tell us anything
I heard her draw a deep breath. Then she murmured, "Not—yet. I'm not—sure just why I did—what I did."
"It was an unconscious reaching back for your mother. Is she dead?”
The woman gasped in surprise, nodded. "Why, yes.”
She died three years ago. But how did you know that?
"It was just a guess based on a theory. You were in the habit of going to your mother with your problems, right?
"She was a very sensible woman. When she died, I felt I'd lost a part of me."
"And you have a problem now" went on the doctor.
Eleanor Honnechik did not speak, she just stared at her red-nailed fingers that twisted, and twined together.
"You must talk and act out your problems here. Otherwise, this group therapy won't do you any good. You know that, don't you?”
Doctor Painter was very gentle. He never raised his voice, always spoke in a monotone as if to imply that he was not here, that it was only a machine listening to their problems. In a way, I suppose it helped them over the bumps. You can tell a machine things you'd never admit to another human being, because you know the machine won't make you the subject of ridicule.
"Yes, I know that," the woman murmured. "But like Eddie, I'm just not ready to tell everything about my self."
Painter considered her, his head tilted to one side. "I might, the way Bindrim did in California, ask you to take off your clothes and enter a warm pool. Now, now—I'm not going to do it. I just want you all to think about it.
"Bindrim found that people sometimes wear clothes as a defense gimmick to hold off other people. They are a shield behind which people sometimes hide. When his group removed their clothes, they admitted they felt less inhibited, less ashamed of their bodies. This in turn made them less embarrassed about sharing their innermost secrets."
"Misery loves company," I said softly.
Doctor Painter looked thoughtful. "That may play a part in it, yes. If everyone removes his or her clothes, it is a common sharing, makes them all partners. By stripping away their clothes-shields, they are lowering their guard and will talk more freely about their own particular hang-ups.
"Would you, Miss Drum, mind taking off your clothes—if everybody else did it? Perhaps then Mrs. Honnechik wouldn't mind telling us her problems."
Eleanor was flushing, head lifted. "Oh, I couldn't possibly,"
I reached over, patted her hand. "Why fight it, honey? You're here to get help, like the rest of us. Wouldn't it be worth stripping down to get some peace of mind?”
Her gray eyes stared into mine. I smiled, and her rather large mouth quivered in reply. "We'll I never thought I'd be even thinking about doing what you say when I left the house this morning. But—but maybe it might be a good idea."
Those eyes touched my breasts, then drifted away.
Doctor Painter looked around our small group. "Would anyone else object to our psychological nudism?"
One of the men cleared his throat, growled, "Hell! I'm not in shape for that sort of thing."
"You won't feel inferior once you're naked," Painter murmured. "That's been the experience of other nude groups."
The men glanced around the circle. "I'll do it if everybody else does," he nodded weakly.
Eddie sprang to his feet. "I couldn't” he yelped, red as a beet.
"Because you have an erection?" the doctor asked gently.
Eddie hung his head. Everybody could see his young manhood was in a state of want; it was nothing to be ashamed of, it just meant he was a healthy young male.
I said, "Eddie, be proud of your body. I'm sure these men all wish they had your youth, your eagerness."
One by one the men nodded.
Eddie pleaded with me with his eyes. I went on smiling and nodding at him. Finally he said, "Okay, okay. I guess I was in a flap for no reason at all. Sure, I'll go skinny dipping."
The building we were in was a suburban medical center. It was shared by half a dozen doctors and two psychiatrists. The warm pool in the basement could be a whirlpool bath or utilized for a nude group such as we were planning to be. Obediently, at Painter's gesture, we rose from our seats and went down in the elevator to the basement level.
The women were to undress together, the men on the other side of a solid wall that formed a communal undressing room. It was easy for me to strip; all I was wearing were my Hanes pantyhose, an Olga brassiere in matching black and the Cobbs Corner gray twill. Up came the mini-skirted dress, to be placed on a hanger. My hands reached around behind me to unsnap the Olga bra. It fell away and my pale mammary mounds plopped out into the warm air.
Eleanor Honnechik paused with her dress up around her middle, staring at my bare breasts and licking her lips. She was lost in some childhood fantasy, I believe. I felt a little sorry for her. She had for gotten to undo her zipper tab, so I took a couple of steps forward in my Hanes sheer-wear and platform soled Capezios.
"Let me help you," I smiled.
I ran the zipper tab downward. Her flush covered her neck and ran down across her smooth, creamy shoulders. She was in a bit of a flap, remembering the way she'd played with my breasts. Now my breasts were naked for her to see and she loved the sight of them.
I put hands to her dress, helped her off with it. The other woman had turned, was staring at us. I smiled at her, said, "We really ought to help one another. Eleanor is nervous."
The woman smiled, nodding. Her name was Flora Hadley. She was very self-sufficient, and she could do for herself, her dark eyes told me an instant before she turned away.
Eleanor whispered, "Thank you." She draped the pongee silk over a chair back, which left her in a blue brassiere and blue slip.
With much wriggling of the hips, she got the slip off. Under it, she had on a black lace and latex girdle. Her pallid thighs were shapely but plump, pressed outward by the tightness of the girdle and her stocking-tops. A big-cupped Warner bra tried to hold in her breasts.
She was nervous. There were perspiration beads on her forehead, and her hands were quivering as she put them behind her to her brassiere snaps. I caught her hands, pushed them out of the way. One by one, I undid those snaps, then let my hands slide forward to free the bra from her soft flesh.
