SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

I was betting my life when I made the date.

Literally, I was daring Ronnie Morley to kill me, which he would have done without any compunction—sometimes I think these dedicated young people of the lunatic left really are crazy!—if he learned who I really was. At the moment, I was as hep to hippie-dom as the brashest Weatherman in my Spanish calico bell-bottoms and the transparent shirt which I wore without a bra so my breasts would jiggle and shake under it. The shirt-tails fluttered outside my pants as I walked along Broome Street.

“I dig the idea, Ronnie, I really do,” I beamed.

“You understand there may be trouble. The fuzz just don’t like to see us having a good time.”

“Sure, Ronnie, sure.”

He was a bearded youth with long brown hair below his shoulders. He was intense; his deep brown eyes could be soft as wet mush or hard as chrome steel. He was a study in character, was this Ronnie Morley in his fringed buckskin jacket and tight bell-bottoms that showed off the bulge.

His hand was under my shirt, sliding up and down my bare back. I admit, it sent delicious thrills all through my girl-girl bod. There was something electric about Ronnie Morley; he tempted me. I might even have made the date if I hadn’t been ordered to do it by my case officer in the League of Undercover Spies and Terrorists.

My name is Eve Drum. I work for L.U.S.T. at a damn good salary. Right now, L.U.S.T. was interested in a group of young hippies who called themselves the New Worlders. Neither L.U.S.T. nor I knew much about this organization except that it was one in spirit, if not in format, with the Weathermen, the Black Panthers and other radical, militant groups.

Sure, sure. Protest is a good thing, it makes people take second looks and ask questions. But there is a way to protest, and a way not to protest, and the authorities at L.U.S.T. were learning in dribs and drabs that the New Worlders liked only that form of protest which is always paired with violence and bombings and savage killings.

So I was out to learn what I could, mingling with Ronnie Morley and his friends down in the East Village where the New Worlders were making secret plans. I was here to discover those plans and prevent their fulfillment.

Ronnie was big, a little over six feet tall, and had rather wide shoulders on his hundred and eighty pound frame. He smelled good: he didn’t stink the way many of the hippies do. In a way, I liked him because he meant what he said about a lot of things.

And so when he asked me if I wanted to go to a libido labyrinth with him, I told him I dug the idea. We moved along Broome to Broadway, crossed over to walk north toward Houston. The libido labyrinth was set up in an old, abandoned building not far from the Electric Circus.

The libido love-in was just the opening move in my campaign. If I pleased Ronnie, there would be more invitations, maybe even one to join the select inner-core group of the New Worlders. That was my ultimate goal.

His palm rested lightly on my moving buttocks as I walked.

“You got a nice ass, doll,” he crooned.

I dimpled a smile. “You got a groovy touch, Ronnie.”

The fingers pressed deeply between my cleft, not quite a goosing, just a tender way of saying that I was Acapulco Gold done up in human skin. I enjoyed the feel. After all, they call me Double Oh Sex in L.U.S.T. headquarters and maybe I deserve the nickname. Anything and everything to do with sex is my thing. It’s the way I am.

I crowded in closer to him when we came to the corner. There were other hippies here in their Aztec paisley headbands, tight chinos, the inevitable love-beads. They pushed us together so that my left hand hung right in front of his crotch.

Casually I moved my hand until it rested lightly against the bulge in his pants. I wriggled my fingers gently and listened to him gasp. I thought, Honey, I can give you aces and spades when it comes to things like this. Wait until I get you inside that labyrinth!

“Hey, babe,” he moaned, hips stabbing.

“You’re a big one, Ronnie,” I breathed.

He was, too. My tightening fingers measured him, found him in the horse category, what the Brahmins might call ashwa. And he was itchy; his flesh quivered to my grasp and grew fat.

I let him go when the light changed and we had to cross the street. He took his hand away from my backside. Truce, Bruce. We hip-swung our way past a delicatessen, a laundromat, a grocery store, a stationery store. A doorway painted with flowers and squiggly little lines leaped into sight.

“Right on, woman. In there.”

Other hippies were turning in, too. Here a couple, there a single, but all of them looking for where the action was. Ronnie fumbled in his pocket, brought out a ten dollar bill. He saw my curious glance and smiled wryly.

“The decorators need bread to keep going,” he explained almost shamefacedly. “They come up with some groovy ideas.”

“Like the labyrinth.”

“Yeah. Never been in it, but I hear it’s a stone groove, a place where you can really turn on. Mad, man.”

“You’re waking butterflies in my pussy.”

He chuckled thickly. “I keep doing that, I’ll make you family.”

I pressed against him, squeezing his apparatus gently. He gave a little jerk and shudder. I used my eyes while we were walking up the stairs. I was following a girl in a micro-skirt without anything on under it. She had good legs, pale but sweetly curved, and bare buttocks. Her skin was very smooth. Beyond her was a big man. He looked in his thirties, but it was hard to tell with his bushy beard and the thick sideburns. He wore clothes with dirt and grease stains spattered across them.

We all came together on a small landing where a man sat behind a wooden table taking five dollars from each visitor. He put the bills in a green metal box. A rather huge youth—he must have weighed two-twenty and with muscles to match—stood behind him to make sure nobody got flip with the bread.

“It all goes to the cause,” Ronnie whispered.

“I’m glad,” I breathed back.

His brown eyes laughed at me. “Don’t you care what cause?” he wanted to know, pushing my buttocks toward a heavy black curtain that hung in the middle of a black beaver-board wall.

“Whatever cause you’re for, I’m for, Ronnie.”

His fingers squeezed my right buttock gently. His left arm swept aside the black curtain and we stepped into utter darkness. After a second our eyes got more or less accustomed to it, and we could see a green light off to one side.

We moved around the corner and came to a stop.

A naked young man sprawled before a naked girl who was kneeling and giving the young man some rather intimate lip service. His loins were bobbing, jerking. I wondered at his incredible stamina as I watched with huge eyes.

Ronnie chuckled. “Kinda lifelike, hey?”

Then it dawned. These were rubber images that moved to the inner machinery in each one, like Segal plaster figures come to life. They were cleverly done; they’d fooled me. I told myself Ronnie Morley could not have been so positive they were fakes—not as fast, at least—unless he was in the know.

This meant that whoever ran the libido labyrinth was a buddy-boy of his, a fellow New Worlder perhaps. Maybe the bread collected here went to further the aims of those militant radicals. I was starting to learn, I told myself.

My left hand squeezed him where he made a lump. He sucked in his breath. I whispered, “They really do get down inside you, don’t they?”

“Not as much as you do, babe.”

I let go of him, walked ahead along a narrow corridor. There were other sight-seers coming through the curtain. We didn’t want to hold them up.

This entire warehouse floor was given over to the libido labyrinth. It was brother to the First International Exhibit of Erotic Art that had been held in Lund, Sweden, first cousin to the Living Theater and the Sex Fairs that have sprung up here and there around the globe, twin brother to the Pleasure Pit launched by the First International Tactile Sculpture Symposium in California, and a distant relative of the Kontakthof of the Sexwelle in West Germany.

Very clever dioramas had been set into the black walls. Here a girl posted on the erect phallus of a reclining young man riding rantipole, as the saying is. There were rubberoid dolls moved by tiny motors and springs and little levers, but it was like peeping into a bedroom through a window at real people.

My con began to itch in a familiar manner.

A life-size statue of a naked girl tied to a cross so she could not move more than her fingers was right around the bend. I stared at her for a moment, studying the big, firm breasts with their erected nipples, the belly that moved in and out, the slightly spread legs. There was a sign over the cross: TEASE ME, I LOVE IT!

“Go ahead,” breathed Ronnie.

My hands went to her breasts. I touched those firm weights, slid gently over them. They were warm, almost hot.

“She’s alive,” I yelped.

Ronnie Morley chuckled. The girl opened her long-lashed eyes, stared at me. “Please,” she whimpered. “Please tease. Please!”

There was a feather on a shelf. I caught it up, drew it over her heavy breasts. Those mammary glands seemed to swell right before our eyes and the nipples got even longer. The feather fronds trailed down her belly, paused at her navel, slid downward to tangle in her Venus bush. I slid it forward between her thighs, teased her pussy-flesh with it. The girl slammed her head back against the post of the cross and her red lips opened so she could let out a wail.

I wondered how many passersby had tortured her this way. If I’d been alone, I might not have done what I was doing, but I was out to score points with Ronnie Morley and I wriggled that feather in and out of her crotch while her hips slammed back and forth.

She was a masochist, a volunteer for this living playlet. She wanted to be sexually molested, teased unmercifully. I leaned forward, took the big nipple of her left breast between my lips. I suckled. She wailed louder over my head.

My companion could not contain himself. After all, I was bent forward, my behind was jutting out toward him invitingly. He caught my hips in his hands and rammed his bulge against me. He kept it there while I went on tormenting the girl with the feather and my knowing lips.

Ronnie was having a dry run, apparently. He gasped and choked and gurgled, his hips beating savagely back and forth. It was fun, in a way, but I knew better ways of grooving.

So I broke away from him and the girl, writhing dexterously from between them so that our sexual sandwich lost its meat. For a moment, Ronnie went on flailing the air while the girl started to sob as she whispered to me.

“More, please. Please—some more! Oh, God, you know how to get a girl hot. Please . . .”

I patted her heaving belly. “Sorry, doll. Another time. Gotta go see more of this warm-up wonderland.”

Jeez, muttered Ronnie, coming back from wherever he’d been, reaching out a hand to me. “Come on, baby—let’s groove.”

“Later, pater,” I smiled.

I caught his hand, drew him away from the nude girl writhing on her carnal cross. I was afraid he’d whip out his amoral adornment and fasten himself to her needing nookie. And I didn’t want to lose Ronnie Morley to some hot hippie who got her kicks by tuning in on some masochistic merintholagnia, which means simply that she got her jollies by being tied up for folks to tease and torment.

We moved on and found more dioramas along a walk. Here, a woman lay naked on her back with her legs spread and a young girl crouched between them, offering her the kiss of Bilitis. These were toys, rubberoid, with levers and springs inside them. But something new had been added, a sound track.

“Yes, oh God, please do that, darling. Oh, I just can’t stand that tricky little tongue of yours working all around in me . . .”

“I will, sweets, I will. Forever and ever.”

Stuff like that. It got to me, because I enjoy bedding down with a female almost as much as I dig it with a male. Double Oh Sex, that’s my other name. Any way anytime. Or almost.

Ronnie wouldn’t let me go. He held my middle with a strong arm and kept me jammed into his hip where he would massage himself as he looked and listened. I warned him that he was going to drop out of the rut race but he only shook his head between grunts. I began to feel sorry for him.

The next diorama showed two boys performing a sixty-niner. It was very realistically done, but it didn’t turn me on. Nor Ronnie. He hurried me past that one and to the next, where a boy sat on a straight-backed chair while a girl crouched over him, her spread legs lifting and falling as she rode him.

“You dig that, babe?” Ronnie panted.

“I dig anything,” I whispered back.

We came to paintings of an especially erotic nature, involving groups of two girls and one boy, three girls, two boys and one girl. They were balling away on canvas in all sorts of interesting ways. Ronnie moved his hands from my hips to my breasts.

His palms slide up the under-slopes and came to the hard nipples. I shook when he fastened fingers on those aching breast tips and tugged on them. His breath was a hot fire close to my right ear as he rested his chin on my shoulder.

“You groove groups?”

“Man, like I told you, I groove it all.”

“How about grass?”

“You got a joint? I could use it.”

My hips had been working on his bulge with my soft behind, very gently, very slowly while he played with my breasts through the shirt. We were working ourselves up, just as all the other couples in here were doing. I saw a pair of them, a tall boy and a tall girl, come into this section of the labyrinth, clinging and shaking together. His hand was under her skirt, her hand was out of sight in his opened fly.

Casual, man. Like there was nothing but the senses to be indulged. It was a way of life, I knew. I’d played hippie girl before. We may be dead early in the coming morning. Forget money, it’s no use to me, all I want is to know myself, my senses, all of them.

With drugs or sex, what’s the difference? You do your thing, I’ll do mine. Like now I’m floating on a male finger, the girl seemed to be saying with her contorted face. See how my hips pick up the beat of his pulsating digit. And guess what I have warm and hard and long in my own hot little fingers? She sighed and shook. The tall boy gave a sudden yell and his pelvis pounded her hand.

“I got a joint,” Ronnie said, fumbling. “Two of them.”

A joint of grass is a marijuana cigarette. I’ve smoked them before. They make me a little high, like a couple of strong martinis. I fail to see any reason why they should not be legal. My case officer David Anderjanian and I have heated discussions about such things as pot and acid.

A match flared. I put the stick between my lips, puffed deeply. The tall boy and the girl with him came closer to sniff at the blue cloud I exhaled. His smile was sweet, friendly, the girl was still a bit glassy-eyed from the savagery of her orgasmal spasm.

“You have any more?” the boy asked.

Ronnie shook his head. “Down a little further in the lab you can buy some if you have the bread.”

“He has the bread,” the girl smiled dreamily.

My eyes blinked. Bread at the door, bread for drugs inside, at another table. Was this how the New Worlders maintained themselves? But this must be only a dribble to what they’d need for a protest march, with thousands of carefree boys and girls to be fed and given something to drink, as we’d heard they planned.

The Pot was getting to me. Not that I needed a boot in the bandicooting behind. I am ever ready for a ficken frolic. Nobody knows for sure how marijuana affects all people. Me it makes thirsty, but it does that to most folks who smoke. I get the urge to drink grape juice, but that’s pretty popular too, with the other heads.

Maybe, if anything, grass makes me sexier. I get a warm glow down in my pelvic region and an itch that just has to be scratched with the eleventh finger. I paste a lazy smile on my face and belly up to a nearby male, and work the loins up and down and around.

Like now, with Ronnie.

“You turn me on,” I murmured, hitting him with my hips. “Isn’t there any place we can go? I got the hots. The pot hots.” I started to giggle.

“Yeah, baby. Yeah. Just around a few bends, a kind of community room, you know? Mattresses on the floor like at a group grope.”

It made me woolier, knowing that. My job was to cement Ronnie Morley to me, to make my con his can’t-do-without thing. He had to tell me what the New Worlders planned and to ask me in on it. This was the bad news.

The good news was that I was getting boxed, going high. My secret flesh was telling me I was damn lucky to have my job and to get assignments such as this one, where everybody wanted to make love, not war.

I began unbuttoning my see-through shirt. My nipples were hard brown buttons on my breasts. Ronnie could see them pretty good even with the shirt on, considering the fact that my sheer East Indian cotton shirt was completely transparent, but I wanted him to see them in the flesh. The buttons came out of their loops. I caught the flaps and pulled them wide.

My bare breasts thrust out enticingly.

I looked down at them, so did Ronnie. He made noises, just looking. I began making noises myself when he put his hands on them and ran his palms and fingers over my big mounds almost reverently. He bent his head. His big lips opened.

He engulfed one of my tetons, as the French name them, and began to munch. He made wet noises as he did, but he sent thrills down my spine all the way to my rump. A girl with long yellow hair and a fishnet skirt under which was bare skin, accompanied by a tall boy with long brown hair, moved into view. They smiled at us and the girl nodded happily.

“Make love,” she breathed.

Ronnie was doing his best, his mouth was like a wet suction cup and his tongue wriggled and writhed around my standing nipple with amorous affection. I put my hand down to his trouser bulge and stroked him with trembling fingers.

He shifted to my other nipple, like a starving infant. His smooth palms were sliding up and down my back, trying to burrow under my belt and get at my pantied behind. He was moaning and jerking his hips, trying to force more and more of his manhood into my finger-grip.

Another couple walked past.

“Honey,” I said softly, tickling the back of his neck with my long fingernails, “hadn’t we better go find one of those mattresses? You really know how to zonk a girl out of her skull.”

He came up for air, a glassy look in his big brown eyes. “Yeah, hey. Maybe we better.”

He looked around him helplessly. I was delighted to see that I had this effect on him. I crossed my fingers mentally, hoping it would continue. There’s no weapon like sex to get a man under your thumb.

We clung together along the corridor, moving in a crabwise manner. Ronnie kept rubbing his face against my breasts which pleased me, but made for difficult going because he couldn’t see where he was walking, and I didn’t know the way.

We came to the lower half of a girl jutting out of a corridor wall. From the navel up, she was poking through a hole in the wall, so that only her legs and behind showed on this side of the beaver-board And she was naked. Or maybe it was only a dummy. I put out a hand to make sure. It was real skin, warm and smooth. The girl whimpered and spread her legs a little more.

An erotic excitement blossomed inside me. I had been aroused before, what with Ronnie nursing on my breasts, but this unknown female offering her femaleness to any casual passerby for kisses and caresses or whatnot, was something else again. Ronnie took his face away to see what I was doing.

“Jeez,” he breathed. “Is she for real?”

I caught his hand, put it on the naked thigh nearest him. I drew his hand up that soft thigh and around over the quivering buttocks, down between them. The girl jumped a foot and gave out a yelp of delight.

I pretended to be jealous and pulled his hand away. “You can do that to me, Ronnie. Come on, where are those mattresses?”

He had a wild look in his eyes. This mod generation of mine is the most uninhibited one of all time. If I hadn’t been with him, I’m sure Ronnie Morley would have whipped out his dard and thrust it deep into what that unknown female was offering so openly. As it was, he kept looking back at her as I urged him along the corridor.

So I took steps to make sure he would pay more attention to me. I ran down his zipper tab and pushed my hand in his fly opening. I grabbed a handful of solid male flesh. Ronnie stiffened all over and wrapped his arms about me. This time he aimed his lips at my mouth.

My open mouth accepted his kiss, his tongue. We stood there for a few seconds, shaking crazily, the two of us. I was damn determined I was going to be one girl he wasn’t going to forget too soon.

I whispered, “You’re a real big boy, Ronnie. I love big boys. You know what I like to do with big ones like that?” I whispered into his ear, drawing on my knowledge of the writings of Aloysia Siegea, of Elephantis, of Astynassa who is said to have first written about the love postures. These are three masters of erotic realism, renowned over the centuries for their knowledge of the love arts. I even threw in a little of the advice Ovid gives to lovers in his Ars Amandi.

Ronnie had his fingers sunk an inch deep in the soft flesh of my behind. He was panting and sobbing, going ape with the need for utter fulfillment. I felt a little sorry for him. Hell, I even felt sorry for myself. If we didn’t find that mattress soon, Ronnie was going to have a premature happening.

I had to fight to get out of his clutches.

“No more, not until we can ball it together,” I warned him. “It isn’t fair to me, Ronnie. You’ve got me up the wall without a ladder. Now have a heart.”

He nodded, sucking air into his heaving lungs. He looked around us, fighting the grip of the love gods until his brain cooled enough to let him take notice of signposts like the diorama with the five automated dolls in it—one was a man, the others were girls—and the statue farther down of a naked male flaunting his phallatic proportions. Two girls were standing in front of this, licking their lips and staring.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I got my bearings.”

He caught my hand, started to run with me alongside him. We went past some other dioramas and live or dummy display models, but neither of us had the time to inspect them. This labyrinth we were in was kind of a take-off on the Pleasure Pit displayed by the First International Tactile Sculpture Symposium, which had done its thing at California State College. In that experiment, which was to determine the effects of touch on emotion and art, rubberoid and plastic sculptures and darkness had played on the emotions of the visitors. It was pretty groovy, from all the reports I’d had. Well, this was even groovier, this place I was in right now.

Ronnie swept aside a vinyl-cut curtain. I made out with the aid of a blue light here and there, a number of naked male and female bodies, gently moving, writhing and twisting together.

“Our own pleasure pit,” Ronnie panted.

He grabbed my breasts in his hands and backed up, leading me by his twin grips. I didn’t mind it in the least, he was shooting carnal chills into me, and I was fumbling with my wide leather belt by Saint Laurent at every step I took. When he came to a halt and sank down into a yogi posture on an unemployed mattress, I had my bell-bottoms down around my knees. All I was wearing was a cache-sexe of sheer black nylon and a spaghetti strap or two to hold it in place.

Ronnie stared at my pubic hair with wide eyes, where it shone like burnished gold under the black nylon. My pale hips, my tanned thighs and legs as I lifted them one by one out of the bell-bottoms, also came in for their share of eyeballing.

“Baby, you zap me,” he babbled and grabbed.

His hands caught me behind the knees, inched my feet forward until I was straddled over his face. His hands pushed aside the crotch strap of the cache-sexe. Then he was sinking fingers in my buttock-flesh and dragging me down.

I gave a soft groan. I couldn’t help it, not with his mouth where it was, performing la branlade like an accomplished gynecomanial gourmet. My hips began to jerk in the sweet spasms, I could feel my buttock-meat shaking wildly and my legs got rubbery.

All around us there were other guys and dolls giving themselves over to the desires that ran like molten silver in their flesh. My eyes made out a girl bent slavishly before a youth jammed against her rump, her head hanging low as she shook from moment to moment while the boy had his head thrown backward, mouth open as he gulped at air. Beyond them a boy and a girl performed in the more usual ‘grocer’ position, with the girl below and the man above. To one side of me—

My eyes closed convulsively, blotting out everything.

Ronnie was going ape under me, his arms were like pythons about my hips, he was dragging me down toward his groin while at the same time he was trying to worm out of his trousers. He was kissing my belly as I fell over him and slobbering like a demented schoolboy.

This was a bad scene. It was not the way I wanted Ronnie Morley, half crazy and not quite knowing what was going on. It was time I took over. I’d let him have the play so far, but our little snib session was going to end far too fast, judging by the jerking movements of his hips.

“Sssssh,” I breathed, “ssssh, Ronnie.”

I pushed him down on the mattress. It cradled him, it held him while I put my fingers to his belt and bell-bottoms and pushed them down his legs. The mattress was filled with warm water, I found, and gave a curious sense of aliveness to the whole proceeding.

“We aren’t going to rush this, are we?” I crooned down into his face as I threw a leg over his upstanding attraction.

He shook his head back and forth. I went on talking, to let him lose that sharp edge of sexuality which would have resulted in a spending of his strength. “It’s better to take it easy, honey, it lasts longer that way. Hmmmmm? Don’t you think so?”

“Wha—whatever you s-say, Eve.”

I reached down, caught him gently. “You know what they used to call this way of doing it about a hundred years ago? Saint George. That’s right, with the girl on top and the boy below. See how easily it fits? No, no don’t you move, you just lie there, honey.”

My will was stronger than his; he was like a child, letting himself be led this way. I wondered if I could so control him later on, when I got him to take me into the inner core of the New Worlders. Maybe, just maybe. It was a good sign, this easy, early dominance.

I sank down on him. He started to shake all over. I tightened my constrictor muscles—hard. He let out a yelp of pain and his eyes opened wide to stare up at my face that peered down at him.

“Easy, Ronnie. Easy. We can have more fun longer, if you’ll only take it easy. Leave everything to mamma.”

I waited, gripping him. I loosed my clasp, rode up and down. He threw back his head and shuddered. I tightened my constrictor grip. Waited again. He got a measure of control back. This went on and on, until he got his second sexual wind, so to speak. He was a bar of iron, a lot of the sensitivity had gone out of his male flesh.

My hips went up and down. I posted slowly, increasing my speed from time to time. To my mind, sex is one of the greatest forces in nature, and no man and no woman is without it, to a certain degree. Some people sublimate their sexual needs, others—like the mods around us—took it out in pleasure pit phallation, the way Ronnie and I were doing.

He lasted a long time under my expert tutelage.

A real long time.

We did Saint George for a while, then I swung over onto my side in the classic karkata-tiryak-bandha posture of the Hindu erotologists. In this way, the woman holds the man almost at right angles to her body, so that her right thigh is over his middle, where he is joined with her. There is a freedom of movement both for the woman and the man in this manner, as I proceeded first to inform Ronnie and then to show him.

He performed like a hot-pants Hercules.

We varied our diddling diet by my getting on all fours while Ronnie crouched over me in the ‘greyhound’ manner. This is also known as the dhenuka-vyanta-bandha of those Brahma boys I mentioned earlier, who’ve really made a study of this sort of thing, bless their lustful little hearts.

Ronnie loved this position because he could hold my breasts in his palms while he sawed away. He had a thing for mammaries, I was, discovering, and filed the information away for possible future reference.

To keep him from getting too excited, I began walking about on my hands and knees like an infant, at the same time tightening my constrictor cunnae muscles. Ronnie had to come along with me on his knees. He had to let go of my knockers, too, because he would have been off balance. Instead, he fastened his fingers in my hips.

When I thought he might be tired of this, I sank down and slid away from him, leaving him on his knees, staring at me in horror. “We aren’t done yet, are we? Look, baby—I’m still. . .”

“I see, I see,” I told him.

I hooked his hips with a bare arm, drew him onto the water-filled mattress. We were going to finish off in a way that should make him my devoted slave for a long time to come. I rubbed my body against his, touching his manhood with my thigh every so often to make sure he was still ready, willing and able for more of the same.

“I don’t want to lose you, Ronnie,” I babbled into his mouth, letting my breasts slide around on his chest.

“You’re not gonna—lose me, baby. Hell,—I”

“You’ll go away, back to college or whatever it is you do your thing and you’ll forget all about me.”

“No, I won’t, I swear to Christ!”

I raised myself until my heavy breasts dangled right above his eyes. “Promise me,” I wheedled, moving my shoulders so that my ivory globes swung back and forth just above his eyes. “Say you’ll take me with you wherever you are.”

“Sure, hon, sure. You can join the New Worlders, can’t you?”

“I will if you belong, Ronnie darling. What are they?”

“A protest group. You know.”

I think my swaying nipples were hypnotizing him. They moved like brown pendulums back and forth, back and forth, and his eyes went left and right, left and right, following them.

“Oooooh, yes! I love protest groups,” I answered.

“We want to make ‘a new world out of the New World’, that’s our motto. No more wars, no more racism, no more Establishment.”

“Yeah, man. I dig!”

“I’m one of the leaders.”

“Ronnie, you’re so masterful.”

“We’re going to march on Washington first thing tomorrow morning. We’re getting those Women’s Liberation Fronts to join us, and some of the Black Panthers and the Weathermen and the Students for a Democratic Society. We—”

I let a stiff nipple dip toward his lips. I didn’t want him to think about what he was telling me, not yet; I wanted him to concentrate on the pleasure he was getting with my lolo in his mouth. He munched and chewed, eyes closed and a beatific expression on his face.

I backed down on him, hitting the target dead center. I slid around him and he jerked and jerked, caught in the sheath of my femininity. Ronnie Morley was in a nookie Nirvana, he was breastfeeding and bandicooting at the same time. He was being pleasured at both ends, so to speak. It was enough to make him mine, I figured, until it came time to snap the trap on him.

We went on like this for some minutes.

Then Ronnie wailed and his hips lifted into the air, taking me with them, so that he touched the mattress only with the back of his head and the soles of his feet. He quivered steadily, pouring out what the French are pleased to name his jus de couillon. . .

He sank back onto the mattress slowly.

“I never knew it could be like that,” he said slowly, keeping me pressed to him. “You’re some kind of groovy chick, Eve.”

“For you I am,” I told him sweetly.

I let my head sink down on his shoulder. We rested for a little while, then I said, “I hope you meant what you said, before.”

Half asleep, he muttered, “What was that?”

“About letting me join the New Worlders.”

I held my breath. Maybe he didn’t remember even saying those words, but I had to take the chance. If I was going to do my job for L.U.S.T., I had to con Ronnie Morley into letting me in on the New Worlders’ secret councils. Only with somebody on the inside of their planning council would we be able to forestall any of the more desperate attempts they would be making as protest gestures.

Like killings, like bombings.

For the New Worlders were out to protest with a vengeance. We knew enough about their setup to understand that two of their leaders—Ronnie for one, and a college drop-out named Hank Doolin—were former S.D.S. members. Morley and Doolin wanted to bomb the U.S. Supreme Court, it was rumored. They also wanted to assassinate a man close to the President himself.

It was my job to stop them.

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