SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

I felt something pulling at the bottom half of my string bikini which I had purchased in a smart shop in the Via Sistena in Rome. I sat up and found myself staring through my over-sized Yves St. Laurent sunglasses at a perky sea gull who continued tugging with vigor.

“Hey, bird! That three by three piece of material cost me thirty thousand lire. Buzz off!”

He—I presume it was a he—looked at me despondently for a moment and then turned and trudged down the beach. Just before he flew away, he winked at me.

I knew it was a male.

I dug the tube of Bain de Soleil out of my Gucci shoulder bag and undid the bra of my string bikini. My 38’s jumped free, eager to bask in the sun like the rest of my body. I looked around. The beach was still completely deserted. I was lucky to have discovered this marvelous cove the previous day. I wanted the seclusion.

“Okay, girls,” I said, rubbing the amber gel over my magnificent mammaries. I don’t mean to brag but I’ve been told I’ve got the best set since Erector.

I was on vacation and I wanted a complete rest. So Cannes and Capri were out. They’re a bit out anyway. I decided to come to the Isle of Ischia located in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the western coast of Italy. It was a good choice and I was enjoying doing nothing but lying on my beach mat drinking in the hot sun. I turned and noticed that the seagull had loosened the bottom half of my bikini. Why not go all the way? I would love to get a tan all over my girl-girl bod for my boss and sometime lover . . . David Anderjanian. Besides if my ash blond tresses were going to get sun-streaked, why not get a perfect match? I undid the tie and pulled the bikini off, stretched out and dug my heels into the warm white sand. I must have dozed off for when I opened my eyes I was no longer alone.

Standing over me was a handsome hunk of Italian manhood. Tall—tan—and totally nude. Except for the tiny orange cache-sex which was bulging like an overripe pumpkin. Now this little girl has been to more balls than Cinderella but even I was impressed.

He smiled and said, “Permesso Signorina. Perhaps you would like to join me for a bite of lunch?”

I sat up, well aware that he was drinking in the voluptuous curves of my bod. To my right, an orange and white striped tent had been set up and lunch was being prepared by an elderly male servant.

“Thank you,” I said. “But, I’m not dressed.”

“Do not disturb yourself,” he replied removing his cache-sex. I was glad I was wearing my sunglasses or my eyes would have surely popped out on the beach. Thank you fairy-Godmother, wherever you are!

As he helped me to my feet, his salami brushed against my thigh. I felt the delight of sweet anticipation run through my flesh. He took me by the hand and led me to the tent which was open on the side facing the sea. The floor was covered with several Oriental carpets and there were large throw pillows to sit on.

“What a lovely set up.” I was impressed by his panache not to mention his unmentionables.

“Thank you,” he replied, still eyeing my 38’s. His tongue flicked along his lower lip and when he smiled at me again, his dazzling teeth lit up the entire tent. “Would you like some wine?”

I nodded my head. He motioned to his servant who filled two exquisite wine glasses.

My host handed one to me and said, “Cin, Cin!”

I sipped it. “Ah, Falerno! Absolutely delicious.”

Falerno was the most famous wine of Roman antiquity, often mentioned by Horace, Ovid, Virgil and Pliny. It was a proud and fiery red wine which acquired even more vigor with age—and this was very old stuff. His manservant set up a small table and we squatted on the pillows in a Yogi position and began to eat.

We started with an antipasto served on a plate of crushed ice followed by cold stuffed artichoke. For the main course, we had cold chicken in gelatin. I was stuffed but I couldn’t resist dessert which was fragoline—little wild strawberries from the Alban Hills near Rome. Accompanying dessert we had a chilled bottle of Soave. When we finished, I lay back on the pillows full and content. The servant cleared away the dishes and disappeared. My host stared at me with blazing eyes and the more he stared, the larger his interest became. Suddenly, he took me in his arms and kissed me. I needed no encouragement. I mean, if I was going to have to pay for lunch . . . what better way?

But first let me explain who I am. My name is Eve Drum—nicknamed Oh Oh Sex for obvious reasons. I work with an underground agency known as L.U.S.T., the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists. L.U.S.T. is the natural child of the State Department by way of the C.I.A. Our job in L.U.S.T. is do those things which must be done to preserve peace throughout the world.

My host’s lips were pressed against my throat. His large hand covered my necessary areas and I could feel the extent of his desire against my thigh. I pulled him toward me. My host busied himself between my creamy white thighs seeking the key to my sensuality. I ran my bright red Elizabeth Arden fingernails through his curly black hair urging him on. My Latin lover needed no urging. He was very adept at finding the innermost secrets of my sex. Suddenly, I thought—what if he is a H.A.T.E. agent who’s been sent out here to forage me out?

H.A.T.E. is L.U.S.T.’s natural enemy. It stands for the Humanitarian Alliance of Total Espionage. H.A.T.E. is my personal boogie man and I maintain a constant vendetta against them. We were natural enemies. When we met in the field or in the bed, it was always a battle to the death.

Hush Eve, I told myself. You’re being too suspicious.

I decided to show off a bit with my new friend and give it all I’ve got—which is plenty.

I flashed my baby blues and asked, “Are you acquainted with the Four Seasons of Lovemaking?”

He looked up from his vantage point between my thighs. “I’ve heard of them, of course, but I have never experienced them.”

“Then you’re in for a treat,” I replied modestly.

The lost manual of erotic practices called the Four Seasons of Love had been brought back from the Orient by Marco Polo. No slouch himself when it came to the practical study of the erotic arts, Polo on his deathbed passed the manual on to his confessor, a sturdy monk named Father Ignatius. The handsome monk was so intrigued by the illustrated book that he tried it out on a nearby nun, whose calling had been premature. Eventually they were found out by their superiors . . . coupled together in a position that was not at all pious. The lovers were thrown out of the church. They went happily, eager to spread the joys of the Four Seasons throughout Italy.

I arranged the pillows on the floor to accommodate the first season—Spring. The season of awakening. We sat down on the pillows with our legs spread apart in a “Vee”. I presented my twin titillators and he clasped them in both hands. Then, I moved forward and wrapped my legs around his hips.

“This is Spring,” I said quietly as I guided his plow into the soft earth of my body.

New born stalks shot out of the ground and tender buds burst forth with beginning life as the vital sap pulsed through our bodies. My Italian was groaning with ecstasy as I shifted my body and announced, “Summer!”

The time of growing and ripening. The swollen fruits hung heavy with juice waiting to be plucked. My partner was out of his head with passion. His dark eyes were closed and I could swear I saw tears running down his handsome cheeks.

“Autumn!” I cried.

“Have pity!” cried he.

I turned my 110 pound bod so that the harvest could come home to mama. His autumn leaves fell and I pressed them into my garden of memories. Not content, I pressed my lips against his ear and whispered, “Winter.”

Winter, the time to bank the inner fires and feast upon the efforts of the past twelve months and to savor the knowledge we had gained from them. I had one final trick which I generally added and which was not in the Four Seasons. After the fires had all died down and all the Christmas presents were opened, I began anew, working us both into a joyous holiday spirit.

“Happy New Year!” I screamed.

“Buon Anno Nuovo,” he replied weakly.

As any young healthy girl, sexual experience stimulated my senses—made me feel marvelously alive right down to the tips of my toes. Not so with my Italian lover. He fell back on the pillows with a mighty groan and for a moment I thought he had fainted. I scooted over to him and gazed down at his handsome face.

He opened his eyes, sighed and said, “They don’t call you Oh Oh Sex for nothing.”

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