South of the Bordello, page 1
part #8 of Lady From L.U.S.T. Series
Lady from L.U.S.T.
The Lady From L.U.S.T. is the country's bestselling sexy-spy series. And this one is the best of the lot.
SOUTH of the BORDELLO
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Rod Gray
Originally printed in 1968
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.
ISBN#
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 NINE
CHAPTER ONE
I had never bought a woman before.
I was going to buy one now, here in Tijuana in a back street bistro, where anything went. All around me there were men drooling at their jaws and maybe elsewhere, for all I knew, at sight of the black velvet stage drop and the faint blue light that spotlighted it, with a girl standing there stark naked, waiting to be bought by some niggle nut staring at her.
Beside me in the darkened room, I heard David Anderjanian sigh. He is my case officer for L.U.S.T.—the League of Undercover Spies and Terrorists in whose service I draw a damn good salary. He was posing as my husband here in Mexico, and since we were both working on this assignment together, he was in on the girl slave action.
My name is Eve Drum. The boys at L.U.S.T. head quarters call me Double Oh Sex, maybe with some justification. I am considered an expert on the subject, as well as being a damn good secret service operative.
We were in Mexico to smash a ring of terrorists.
Yeah, just the two of us.
Right now David was interested in smashing something more than a terrorist crowd. His eyes were bulging along with his manhood as he feasted them on the naked female framed in the blue spot. She was pretty, with a fleshy body, and she was giggling nervously as the auctioneer posed her for the enjoyment of the crowd of onlookers. Her pubic patch was a blob of darkness between her meaty thighs; she made no move to cover it, nor the heavy young breasts that wobbled lazily to her every motion.
"Too bad, David," I breathed.
"Huh? What?”
"That she isn't the one we're here to buy."
"Yeah. Sure."
The girl we had been sent to purchase was a woman agent for the Mexican police. She was supposed to know about the terrorists, enough to clue us in on their location and mode of operation. The terrorists had their own spies around and about as well, because the girl was too frightened to meet us normally; we had to do it this way to protect her.
"Do a little dance," the auctioneer coaxed.
The girl giggled more shrilly, held her arms out from her sides, and did a shimmy that sent her breasts bouncing to the cardinal points of the compass. Those swinging love jugs drove David forward to the edge of his chair. They even sent a scopolagniacal stab of excitement throughout my own libido.
I put my hand on the hard thigh beside my soft one. David rested his hand on my garter-clasp and began checking the area around it with his fingertips. I could see a number of other American tourists—real married folks or only make-believe, like us, I never did find out-feeling the goodies and wondering what it would be like to buy themselves a girl to fool around with in their hotel room.
This sort of thing goes on south of the border, but in a very hush-hush way, so nobody should get scandalized and complain too much and too loudly to the authorities. It is a great source of income to the poor Mexican peasants and Indians who bring their prettiest daughters to the vice vultures who run the slave market. I have been told the parents get about two-thirds the purchase price, the rest goes to the auctioneer. You can guess what the girl gets.
This slave sell-quarters is located some distance off Revolution Avenue in Tijuana. It is known to the initiates: to the rich young bachelors of wealthy Mexican families, to the agents for bordellos from here to there, to American touristas, and to the young men in shirtsleeves and tight chinos who have saved up such monies as they can lay their hands on, to indulge themselves in a dreams-come true situation with a woman they can do damn well what they want.
"Very occasionally there is a bout of spirited bidding between a well-heeled bachelor and a pair of rich American tourists for the ownerships of a particularly pretty puta. The young man becomes angry, he shouts and swears in Spanish at the man and wife who yell back at him in Americanese. It is great entertainment.
The auctioneer is no fool. He often offers the girl to some teenage toreador who cannot afford a girl any other way, so that the boy and the girl will put on a show for the onlookers. Naturally, the auctioneer is no altruist, he knows the value of a sexhibition at a time like this; it makes the bachelor and the wealthy American touristas bid away over their heads to come at such a bit of belly plaster, themselves.
My female intuition was telling me we were going to get such a show, right now. The auctioneer was grinning, looking around at the intent faces on which were mirrored all the fleshly lusts mankind has ever known. To my left,
an older man and a woman I am sure was his wife, were whispering excitedly to one another, they were getting ready to bid the sky for the naked girl. In front of me, a well-dressed young Mexican was stirring restlessly. Mutual opponents for the upcoming sexual sweepstakes, I felt positive.
"Como? Eh? How about it, folks?” the auctioneer was saying.
"Si! Si! Yes! Yes!" the initiates howled back.
The man on the stage made a pretense of staring at a number of young men standing against the wall. Actually, I am certain he had his boy all picked out, long before hand. He would take no chances on servicing his girl slave with a diseased male. His business would blow up under him, if that happened—fun and games is something a government official may wink an eye at—a case of clap is something else again.
In one sense, at least, these girls were clean. "Tu me vas, Manuel! You'll do."
His pointing finger stabbed through the blue light at a somewhat older youth, who may have been in his early twenties. He wore black sideburns with his curly black head of hair, he affected black chinos with golden slashings down the seams and a light blue sports shirt
The youth straightened with a little smile, he dropped his cigarette and ground out the butt on the hard dirt floor. His fingers began unfastening his shirt buttons as he sauntered forward toward the stage.
Bare to his middle, revealing a muscular chest, he was pushing his pants down and off his hips as he came into the blue spotlight. Since his fingers had hold of his boxer shorts as well, he came into view full-armed, like Priapus in a garden, as the blue spotlight enfolded his nakedness.
"Ooooh," breathed the woman to my left.
There was no attempt at anything but instant sex. The young man put up his hands and caught the breasts hanging there before him. He shook them a little and used them to draw the girl toward him for a kiss. His hands left her white melons, slid down her bare, curving sides to the quivering buttocks. His fingers sank deep.
The girl moaned, shivering. When the male drew back, revealing how aroused he had become, there was a gasp from the older woman beside me.
"How much for him?" she cried.
The youth turned his handsome face toward the audience that sat in near darkness, smiling, showing even white teeth. "Mas tarde, querida—after I finish with this one."
There was laughter around the little hall in which the woman herself joined. It was breathless laughter as if the audience had no time for mirth; each man and woman was too engrossed with the way in which the young man was lifting the naked girl and settling her down upon his member, her heavy thighs rippling loosely until she closed them around his hips.
She began to bounce up and down. The young man walked her a few feet to a bare wooden table and let her buttocks sink down u
The girl slave wailed, clutching the young man with arms and thighs as she shuddered out her bliss. She clung like a leech, kissing his broad hairy chest while he stood patiently and let her orgasmic trembling die down. He was experienced, that one.
The woman to my left shouted, "A thousand pesos for the boy."
Eight pesos are roughly equivalent to a United States dollar. The old girl was offering about hundred and twenty bucks for the youth. I saw the boy look at the auctioneer, who nodded heavily and moved forward, his moon-face wrapped in a big smile.
"Senor Manuel is not for sale, madam but in the interests of good neighbor policy he is willing to sell himself to you for a day and a night at the thousand pesos you have so kindly offered."
The woman gave a whoop. Onstage, the young man was disengaging himself from the attentions of the naked girl, who obviously wanted more of what he had to give. He pushed her away kindly, as some of the onlookers chuckled. Then he reached for his clothes while the auctioneer went on with his spiel
"This young woman—you have seen for yourselves how she loves tumbling—is for sale. He is a perita en dulce, she will turn your bed into a jungle hothouse. Ay di mi! Study her! She is wriggling like a worm on a hook, demanding satisfaction. Who will give it to her? And for how much?”
The bachelor shouted, "A thousand pesos!" The man and wife called, "Two thousand!”
The bidding went on. When the price got to be ten thousand pesos, the young bachelor scowled at the Americanos and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. There would be more women put up for sale, and no woman was worth that much money, in his eyes.
The woman on the stage got back into her thin dress and came down the aisle while the husband was counting out the ten thousand pesos. Then the man and woman took her between them and walked out of the building.
David sighed. “I wonder how much we're going to be nicked?”
"It's L.U.S.T. money, David,” I consoled him. We had to wait while the auctioneer sold a pretty Indian girl, a somewhat plainer peasant woman, and a peppery girl with mixed antecedents, before we saw our female secret agent. She was young, very pretty, with long black hair falling down her smooth bare shoulders. She wore a tattered dress so sun-faded it was next to colorless. Some body had ripped it so it hung on the very rims of her upper arms.
Her black eyes defied the world as the auctioneer gestured at her. She was proud of her slimly curved body, of the firm hips pressing their rondures into the worn cloth that hid her nakedness, of the full breasts stabbing stiff nipples into the bodice.
The rich bachelor in front of me breathed, “Ahhh!" David sat up straighter. Bachelor boy yelled, "Five thousand pesos!"
We were going to have trouble with this one. He was an beaver eager for a bit of blanket ruffling. He flashed a grin around the room after his three-word speech–I guess he imagined the rest of us would faint—and nodded his head as if satisfied with his particular slice of the world.
I just had to deflate him. I yelled, "Ten thousand!" Hell! It was L.U.S.T. money. In other words, it comes from the American taxpayer, and it was being used to keep America safe, so I had no qualms about using all I needed.
The bachelor turned his head and gave me a malignant stare. Oddly enough, I felt a kind of shock run down my spine and into my toes. This was not the irritated glance of a rival for an auction item. It was malevolent, filled with hate. It was the kind of look Ho Chi Minh might give to Lyndon Johnson.
Maybe it was my female intuition kicking up her heels. I filed that look away as Communist, not so pure and not so simple. I told my memory cells to put that brown face and side-burned curly brown hair away in my subconscious. His lips were over full, but they could tighten to thin lines when he was angry, like now, and across his thick bull neck-visible above the sports shirt he was wearing was a hairline scar, slowly turning a raging red.
He turned away and shouted, "Twenty thousand!”
Now David looked at him. Twenty thousand pesos twenty-five hundred American dollars!—was altogether too damn much to pay for any woman, here in Tijuana. It told David and me that we were suspect in some quarters of not really being a tourist husband and wife. Possibly the terrorist gang we'd been sent south of the border to contact and destroy was on to us. I glanced at David, he nodded at me.
The pretty girl onstage was looking worried. The plan was for us to buy her, not for somebody else to horn in. I knew how she must be feeling; I have been sold as a slave myself, on one of my adventures. It is no fun, wondering if things are going bay-wire and you'll wind up with the wrong master.
I yelled, "Fifty thousand!”
The girl in the tattered dress almost smiled as the worry emptied itself from her brilliant black eyes. She glanced at the bachelor who was cursing softly under his breath. Five thousand U.S.A. dollars is a fortune, three miles south of San Diego, Even for a rich Mexican bachelor.
"A hundred thousand pesos," he screamed.
This was my cue. "Mister auctioneer," I called. “I believe only cash is acceptable to you. I have here," and I rummaged in my handbag, "fifty thousand pesos, in good, spendable cash. I ask to see the hundred thousand pesos our rival is supposed to be able to produce!"
I damn well doubted that he had that kind of moola on his person. I was right. His neck got red under its brown skin and he quivered as if I'd insulted him. Suddenly he whirled and reached for me with his hands.
David was a little faster. His huge fingers caught the bachelor and whirled him sideways away from me. David Anderjanian is six feet four inches tall, he weighs in the vicinity of two hundred and thirty pounds. He has played professional football, and he was a heavyweight boxing champion during his college days. There is no fat on him, just bone and muscle.
His fist is like a rock, doubled up. It was doubled up as he hit the Mexican alongside his face. The bachelor went backward, arms flailing in the air in a kind of reflex, be cause he was out on his feet. He landed five feet away, sprawled across a bench, and just lay there.
"My bid still goes," I called. "Fifty thousand pesos for the girl.”
The auctioneer was standing there with his mouth wide open, looking down at the unconscious man. When I repeated my bid, he lifted his eyes to stare blankly at me.
Then he recovered his mental balance.
"Si, senora! Fifty thousand pesos.” He looked around the room that was so ominously quiet. “I have a bid of fifty thousand pesos. Do I hear anyone say any more? Then for fifty thousand pesos—going, going, gone."
The girl on the stage was all smiles. She hopped down off the little dais and advanced toward me as David moved forward to pay the auctioneer with the money I pushed into his hand. I turned when the girl came up to me, caught her elbow and guided her along beside me. Here and there, from the dark faces of the Mexican youths lining the wall, we caught sullen glances.
In a moment we were out in the hot Mex sunshine, on the little street off Revolution Avenue. The street was almost empty at this siesta hour, only a peddler with his wares in baskets slung all over his body could be seen at the far end of the road. I took the girl by the hand and led her toward the parked Mustang in which David and I had driven into Tijuana.
“Don't say a word," I cautioned in a low voice.
She nodded, her ripe red mouth a little open as she breathed in the sultry air. As well as I, she knew there was something wrong about the situation. She did not know how the terroristas had stumbled onto our little plan, but she was happy that things were working out so perfectly.
Or were they?
As we turned into the parking lot, we saw half a dozen young men in loose, open shirts and tight chinos, glance at us. They had been slouching lazily near our fire-engine red Mustang. As if our appearance were the signal they were expecting, they straightened up and snapped to attention.
