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Chapter One 

I was about to meet my husband. 

Since I had never laid eyes on him, nor on anything else for that matter, I was understandably curious about what he would look like. Me, I'm a natural blond with a bod that makes men drool over me from time to time. I just hoped that I was being assigned a husband on this case who would light my sexual fires. 

So here I was in my Jezebel push-up bra that brought my breasts upward and outward even more than they pushed normally, together with a garter belt of mixed red satin and black lace, with dependent garters. The motel room mirror told me that I could qualify for a men's magazine centerfold with something to spare. I would make Colonel Anthony Heston a mod wife. I was sure of it. And he needed a mod wife for his assignment. 

We were going to a wife-swapping party. 

My name is Eve Drum. I am an agent for the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists, more commonly known as L.U.S.T., and my duties carry me into the far corners of the world, as well as into the sex-hungriest spots on Earth. Like now, I was going out to be swapped for another wife and I hadn't had my own husband. Things like this are always happening to me. 

I sat on the edge of the bed and started rolling up a pair of sheer black Cantrece nylons. I fitted toes and foot into one, drew the thin stuff up over my shapely calves and thighs. I yanked and tugged a little, fastened a garter clip to the vamp, then another. I preened a little, extending my leg and turning it, studying its contours. I reached for the other stocking. 

And the doorbell rang. 

One stocking off, one on, I ran for the motel room door. After all, the visitor was my husband. He could see his wife this way. I leaned my kissable lips close to the door and asked sweetly, "Yes? Who is it?" 

"Colonel Anthony Heston, ma'am.” 

I undid the lock, opened the door while backing up. I stared at a tall young man in Marine dress blues, his golden poll decorated by a military crew cut. His shoulders were almost a yard wide, his middle was lean, and he looked absolutely eatable. His face was craggy handsome, with high cheekbones and blue, blue eyes, and his mouth was wide and nicely curved. 

He grinned at me, showing fine teeth. 

"Well, come on in," I invited. I giggled, "After all, we are married.” 

"Yes, ma'am.” 

He was very polite. He was also calm and a mite too rigid, to my way of thinking. I wanted to reach down in side him where he kept his heart and stir up his emotions. So as he started forward, I came out from behind the door to close it. 

Those blue eyes got very big. They went up and down my bod. They took in my bare leg and my stockinged leg, the elegant garter belt and what lay below the garter belt, where my golden puff was fluffed out. He swallowed. 

I held out my hand. "What do I call you? Tony?" 

He nodded, forgetting the ma'am bit. His eyes went to my size 38s, all pink and trembling flesh nestling in the sheer cups of the Jezebel bra. He could see my brown nipples standing up there. I could see 'em myself. 

His arms still hung by his side, so I reached for a hand and shook it. My hair was done up in that modish Hot Waves cut, little spirals hanging about my face in golden ringlets and made me look like the girl next door. Only trouble was, the rest of me didn't look like any girl next door to my husband, the Colonel. 

He grinned shyly. "You're gorgeous," he breathed. 

Well, now. Tony might be a success as a husband, after all. He was losing some of his stick-like rigidity. I felt his compliment called for a little flash treatment, so I flung my arms about him impulsively and opened my lips to his kiss. We clung for a few seconds, his hands moving up and down my bare back. 

I broke free, said, "Come on, you can help me dress. And while you're doing that, you can clue me in on the details.” 

I caught his hand, drew him to the bed. I sat down, reached for the other stocking. His eyes watched as I rolled it up and inserted my foot. His eyes were very big for me, as was something else I could make out in his dress trousers. 

Maybe it was naughty of me to tease him this way, but they call me Double Oh Sex at L.U.S.T. headquarters, and I must say, with reason. I like, love, adore sex and all that has to do with it. So as my upper thighs parted more than somewhat as I rolled up the Cantrece, his stare went in between them and he flushed and gulped, but he loved it. 

“So talk, Tony." 

"Huh? About what?" It took real willpower to bring those eyes up to my face. I rewarded him with a smile. 

"About the case we're working on."

“The case? Oh! Oh, the case." 

"My case officer David Anderjanian tells me you're a pretty brainy boy. That's why they sent you here to Fort Flintlock in the first place. Something to do with Minutemen missiles." I reminded him. 

He nodded, looking down into the Jezebel bra. I went on gently, "It might help if you sat down in that chair and turned it toward the wall. You could concentrate better on what you have to tell me." 

His blue eyes pleaded, but he got to his feet. "I suppose you're right. But I've never met anybody quite like you, Eve. You are Eve Drum, aren't you? I mean, I'm in the right room?" 

"You are, darling. And I'm your wife, Mrs. Heston for the night." 

"You'll be the best wife there, and I'm under orders to swap you for some of the others." Almost bitterly he growled, "I'm a hell of a husband." 

I had to like this young officer. I mean, any girl would, the nice things he was saying and all. So I said, "All right, all right. You don't have to turn your face to the wall. Not if you can concentrate on what you have to tell me. I'm not just posing as your wife, you know. I'm an agent for the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists. I can think, too. I've been on more than one assignment." 

"I know. My C.O. told me all about you." 

I cocked my head at him, but he meant it as a compliment. I stood up and reached for the skin-skin sweater by Sonia Rykiel I was planning to wear above my midi-length skirt. I pulled the sweater over my head, stood there studying my reflection in the mirror. Below the sweater hem, all I had on was the garter belt and stockings. I looked funky, if I do say so myself. 

No wonder my husband was tongue-tied. "Talk, Tony,” I urged. 

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Well, we know the Russians and the Red Chinese have a plan going to make us fire two nuclear missiles, one at Russia, one at Red China." 

“Whatever for?”

"It's to be an excuse for both of them to attack us."

"Oh, come off it. I don't believe it." 

"Fact. There's a couple of warring factions among the bigwigs in Moscow who want all-out war with us. They're being fought by the conservatives who think all us Earth people can live in peace with one another. 

"The Red Chinese? You know what they're like, absolutely mad. They have no love for Russia, but they're going to use Russia —or so our information has it—to destroy the United States. The Russians will do most of the fighting against us, then the Chinese will lob a couple of nuclear missiles across the Pacific at our coastline and furnish a few army divisions to side the Russians. But they're going to hold back, to wait until our country is on its knees and Russia along with it, before they change sides and attack Russia." 

It was a Machiavellian scheme and one worthy of the Oriental mind. Use Russia to haul the chestnuts out of the fire, then turn on her. Russia would be weakened by her war with Uncle Sam, no match for the armed hordes Peking would push into Siberia and across that vast country to the Urals. Instead of getting back just those sections of Kazakhstan and Ussuri which they claim belong to them and not to Russia—since Russia took these territories away from China in previous wars—the Chinese intended to take all of Siberia. 

I stared at him, mouth open. “What can we do here to stop anything like that? We're somewhere in the middle of Montana, and we're going to attend a wife-swapping party. This does have some bearing on the case, doesn't it?" 

He flushed faintly. “Of course. Otherwise we wouldn't be here. You see, both Russia and Red China must learn how to set off those nuclear intercontinental missiles, to aim them at their countries—making sure that the bombs land in desolate places—before they can put their scheme into operation." 

"And they'll learn how at a party? 

“No, no. But there is going to be a spy at that party, the wife of one of the men who is an engineer at the Air Force base which controls the Minutemen missiles." 

I frowned thoughtfully. "There is maybe more than one engineer with a wife who will also be there?" 

"Four engineers, four wives. We want to find out which one. We suspect that this spy wife will travel to Europe in the near future with the information Russia and Red China need." 

"Once they get that information, they'll be able to in filtrate the security controls of the Strategic Missile Squadron and fire off those missiles.” 

He beamed at me as though I'd hit the jackpot. I remembered that false alarm emanating from the Cheyenne Mountain NORAD alert system in Colorado some time back, which said our country was under nuclear attack and that we were in a state of emergency. Fortunately, the authenticator had gone impish, and there was no harm done. But it had opened the eyes to frightening possibilities. 

Russian spies had been able to infiltrate into high places. She might well be able to get one or two into the Minuteman Command post that controls the firing of these intercontinental missiles. A clever man might be able to arrange electronic signals in such a way that two of the Minutemen would leap off their pads, one to zoom westward toward Red China and the other to hurtle eastward toward Russia. It could be done; it was not so far-fetched as one might think. 

I walked across the room, picked up the midi-skirt I was going to wear with the skin-skin sweater. Tony got a sad look as I stepped into it, pulling it up about my middle, and worked on the belt buckle. The skirt was a Ginini midi, and while I normally favor a mini over a midi or a maxi, I figured that with my new status as recent wife, I ought to tone down the body tune-in. 

"Cheer up, honey," I said to Tony's face. "You see these buttons up and down the side? I'll leave most of them undone, if you like." 

I struck a pose so he could see an eyeball-popping exposure of my stockinged leg and the bare thigh-meat above the vamp. He brightened visibly. "Are you a leg man, dear?” I asked. 

"I'm an everything man," he laughed. 

"Are you now? And what do you think of the effect?” 

I turned slowly, arms up to point my breasts, belly in, giving him the full treatment. He nodded, but his eyes lingered on my mammaries. He seemed regretfully thoughtful. 

"You don't like them?” I guessed. “They're too bound up. No bounce." 

"And you like bounce? So we'll do something about that. Here, catch hold of my sweater and lift it." 

He stepped right up to his little task and raised the skin-skin thing. I saw his eyes drop to my hands that went to my left breast and eased it gently out of the Jezebel cup. My lolo stood up proudly, nipple at attention. I did the same thing to my right breast, folding the cups under them. This really pushed them up and outward. 

"You can lower the sweater, Tony," I suggested. 

He bent his head worshipfully, his mouth opened to draw in first one nipple and then the other. His tongue tip flicked them gently. I felt hump hunger pains start in my pelvis. 

"Easy, boy," I whispered. “Let's not start a fire we don't have time to put out." 

"Why do you have to be so gorgeous?” he moaned. Sweet of him. "You'd rather have a dog?" 

"It isn't the sort of party where I can make love to my own wife. I'd be a freak. And I want to make love to you, very much." 

"Cheer up, Tony. Maybe you'll get to take me home." 

He sighed and covered the goonas goodies. Glancing downward I saw that my erectile nipples made big bumps in the skin-skin sweater. His eyes were glazed, but he nodded his approval. When I started walking across the room, I knew why. My breasts bounced and bobbled at a great rate, and the scratchy stuff of the sweater exacerbated the tender nipple skin so they stood up even more. 

I snatched up a fringed shoulder bag, fitted my feet into a pair of Rogers' Bravos, and took my husband by the arm. "Off we go, Colonel darling." 

He brought me out to a gray Mustang and ensconced me in a bucket seat. I liked his taste in cars and told him so. He took a moment or two to answer because I'd crossed my legs and the unbuttoned midi-skirt had flapped open to show my gams all the way to my hip. 

"I'm a bachelor, really," he finally managed. "Lots of duty pay for my term in Viet Nam piled up. I like to live well." 

The Mustang purred out onto the highway. I reached into my Coco shoulder bag, brought out a ring box and lifted forth a four carat diamond engagement ring and wedding ring to match. I fitted them over the third finger of my left hand and tossed the empty box back into my bag. I held my hand up so he could admire them. 

"More proof that you live high, hubby. These are the real thing. I insisted on them. My case officer squawked, but when I pointed out that somebody at the party might be able to tell a diamond from an imitation Sorella or a Crown, he saw the light." 

“Great, Eve," he bubbled, but he wasn't looking at the rings. 

We drove along the road for about ten miles, then he swung the Mustang up onto a strip of macadam that led into the deep woods. It was cool in among the trees; the midsummer day seemed to have lost its heat. Shadows were long and looked green under the leafy branches. It was on toward five; cocktails were at four-thirty, but we were fashionably late. 

In this remote Altamont section of the city, homes occupied two and a half acres, each set in a little clearing between the elms and chestnuts, each a jewel of a place, remote and far away from the humdrum world at the base of the mountain. I could catch glimpses of red wood porches, field-stone walls, clapboard shingles and a lot of glass, between the tree-boles 

We would have privacy, that was for sure. This road twisted and wound narrowly upward. Not many travelers would come this way. If anybody was a nature nut and wanted to copulate out on the lawn, nobody would ever notice. I felt relaxed and anticipatory at the same time, as I usually did before a bit of bed-romping. 

Then pink lights beckoned us and the Mustang slid onto a parking level already crowded with Jaguars and Cadillacs and Chryslers. This was the money crowd I was rubbing elbows with, engineers and some of the high brass of the air command. I raised my eyes to the house itself and caught my breath. 

"It's lovely," I gasped, and it was. 

It had been a carriage house; or was modeled after one, more likely. Its roof had a lot of gables jutting out here and there, some of them ornate with gingerbread scroll-work. The big doors of the stable had been cleverly modeled into a glass and redwood doorway with two black carriage lamps fitted with electricity lighting the graveled path leading to the house. A big tree grew out of a circle of bricks forming an air well, blending with the parking lot that was paved with those same red bricks. 

“The guy who owns this place has to be a millionaire, at least," I told Tony, as he opened my door so I could step out. 

"He is. His name is Bradley. Joel Bradley He'll be the one with the handlebar mustache. Just turned forty and still has all his hair. An incredible man. 

"His wife is gorgeous, too. But they're both free-thinkers. They believe that life is all too short to be restricted. They give these bashes every month or maybe oftener. Hell, he can afford it. He's a genius in his field." 

We went up the redwood steps. Glass doors opened via an electric eye beam, and we found ourselves in a lobby dominated by a carved wood screen extending from beamed ceiling to carpeted floor. Muted pink lights gave enough light so that we wouldn't stumble. An archway showed us the living room. 

Talk flowed out of the air as we came through the archway. There must have been twenty people here, men and women of various ages, in varying styles of dress. A big man starting to run to flesh, wearing an Arnel jersey body shirt and Contact slacks, detached himself from two girls whose shoulders he had been surrounding with his arms and hurried toward us. 

"Tony! Good to see you," He shook hands like a friendly bear, then turned his brown eyes on me. "And this is the little woman. Well, well. You sure can pick 'em, Tony. I'd never have believed." 

He made a slight bow, waved a hand. "The wet bar's over there near the hooded fireplace. Go help yourselves. And for Pete's sake, mix. The show is having out of town troubles right about now." 

Tony grabbed my elbow, worked a passage for us between the couples and the little groups. The wet bar was well stocked. There were products of almost any distiller you can name on the glass-lined shelves. I saw a bottle of 100 Pipers and pointed to it. 

"On the rocks, please, dear." 

I turned to look around at the people, sipping the 100 Pipers. They were upper-middle crust, all right, in smartly modish midis and minis and granny dresses, in pantsuits and sheaths. The younger ones wore the minis with granny boots, the older girls the more conventional attire. This seemed like a meeting of P.T.A. ladies, and I blinked when I remembered that this was to be a wife swapping shindig. 

The men were just as glamorous in their way as the women. I saw ruffled shirts, sports jackets and plaid slacks, Edwardian suits and belted suits, with all manner of hairdos. They ranged from middle twenties to middle forties in age. Each man was a success in his own field, or a rising star. 

These were the beautiful people of this corner of Montana, out for fun. It was early of a Saturday evening, the shadows were just lengthening beyond the sliding glass doors that showed the flagstone patio, and the muted laughter and conversation held an electric brilliance, as though everyone knew what was to come and was impatient for the festivities to begin. 

There was a spy among these men and women. 

I had to remind myself of the fact, and to remember I was on a case. Somebody in the group hated Uncle Sam and was out to destroy his country. My eyes slid to an ice-cold blond in a blue sheath, went on to study the face of a woman in her forties, with brown hair and brown eyes and what appeared to be outsize breasts under a pantsuit jacket. 

On first entering a group of party lovers like this, it is hard for me to catch individual impressions. My eye is caught by one face or another, but for the most part, the figures blend into a potpourri of color that I have to work at to separate and catalogue as persons. 

Our host was before us, grinning, holding out little white cards with numbers on them and pins so they could be fastened to suits or dresses. "Pick one, pin it on. We're going to play grab bowls." 

My number was thirty; Tony's was seventeen. "What's grab bowls?" I asked our host. 

"You'll see, honey—and I hope I win you." 

He wandered off with his handful of printed numbers just as a doll in her early thirties bumped into Tony. He caught her, smiled down at her as her bare arms snaked up about his neck. She gave him a drunken smile and rubbed noses with him. 

"Hello, seventeen. I'm four."

"Four's my lucky number," he told her, hugging her. 

Now I didn't blame him for hugging her—she was a real dish in a maxi-length black satin evening gown that was cut away front and back almost to nonexistence. The inner slopes of her breasts shook as she laughed, and I saw Tony run his palm up and down her spine just about to where her behind began. Her hair was black and done in a fall. 

"I'm Paula Loomis," she murmured, moving her middle to his loins. 

Somebody put a hand on my fanny, patting it lightly so the buttock-flesh jiggled. I turned, eyebrows arched. A man in blond mustache and sideburns was beside me, a 38 pinned to the lapel of his belted suit. 

"You're new. I've never seen you before, such being my bad luck.” 

"I hope I won't be a stranger by tomorrow," I smiled, running my red fingernails up and down his throat above his red Eagle shirt. 

The party was getting interesting, I felt. If Tony could carry on with that hussy in the almost topless evening gown, I could play a little on my own. 

"Attention, everybody," called our host. “We are about to play grab bowls. Most of you know the game, but for those who don't, here's Mickey!" 

Mickey was his wife, I gathered, a redheaded honey in see-through lounging pajamas that clung to her as though they were her skin. What you failed to see of her body where the transparent voile was replaced by nylon, you saw because the nylon hugged her like a hungry lover. 

She yelled, "Two bowls, everybody. Number in one, stunts in the other. Come pick your poisons, darlings!" 

Paula was leading Tony bowl-ward by his hand, so my knight in the Pierre Cardin suit caught my elbow and slipped his arm about my middle as he drew me in their wake. 

We picked numbers. Mine was 38, mainly because his number was 38 and I happened to cheat and see it in the bowl. This meant, as I understood it, that we two were going to pair off and do our thing together. 

It wasn't as easy as that. There was this other bowl, see? And we had to dip our fingers inside that. I came up with a length of paper that said: You will make love to your selected number in such a way that nobody will suspect what is taking place. 

I blinked a little and showed it to the blond guy. He grinned and shook his head in perplexity. But I am not named Double Oh Sex for nothing. I felt this was a challenge to my ithyphallic ingenuity, and I meant to do what the paper said or bust. 

A matron in her forties was number uno. She had to do a strip tease, she announced gaily, waving a scrap of paper over her head. I pushed my prize, whose name was Hugh, toward a big easy chair and plopped down on his lap. 

The ice hadn't been broken yet, but it was cracking here and there. I saw a man kissing a woman near the bar, his hands up under her skirt and taking an investigatory feel of her bare thighs above her stockings. There was another couple against the wall, the man leaning into it while his chosen number leaned her soft front against him and lazily writhed. 

My fingers began undoing the buttons of my midi. 

The matron was also undoing garments. She was wearing a lace and velvet dress that zipped in the back. Her arms were bent behind her, running down the zipper. She was smiling, her mascaraed eyes partially closed, while she hummed softly to herself. Then she began striding up and down the big carpet, sliding down the black velvet bodice to reveal smooth, fleshy shoulders bisected by blue brassiere straps, and easing her bare arms out of the sleeves. Under my rump I could feel Hugh growing larger and larger as he watched. 

I felt a slight stab of jealousy. He ought to be paying more attention to me, I thought. But maybe he got his kicks from looking. I wondered about that even while I relaxed against him and made sure all the buttons on my midi-skirt were undone. 

The bodice was up against her breasts as the matron walked around the room. Her back was bare to her middle, where the white lace skirt began, except for the blue bra strap. Then with a wordless cry, she dropped the bodice and threw back her shoulders, offering the sight of her brassiered breasts to the crowd. 

Cheers went up. And no wonder. She must have been size 42. Those were mammaries to end mammaries, I decided, and felt that green monster jealousy stab at me again. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, I turned on Hugh's thighs and straddled his lap. I reached behind me, fumbled about until I discovered his zipper. 

Again she reached behind her. I waited as breathlessly as the rest of them for those big cups to fall. The strap came undone but she caught the ends, opened them slowly. The weight of her breasts pushed the bra cups outward, downward. She did a little shimmy and those pallid bubbies jellied crazily. 

"Come on, Marion—off with it!" a man yelled. 

One hand went to her left shoulder, slid down a thin strap. She stood with her lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes closed, swaying lazily. It came to me that this one was an exhibitionist. She was damn proud of her boobs and enjoyed showing them to her friends. 

Hugh boy was panting. My hand was inside his Cardin fly, fumbling, finding. "Easy," he sobbed. "For God's sake—easy!" 

"She getting to you, honey?" I breathed. “You like to look?” When he was silent, I added, "Don't be ashamed of it. We all have our little hang-ups. I enjoy woman watching, too." 

"You're no lez."

"I could be bisexual, you know." 

I had what I wanted in my hand. It was something sizable, and I was going to have to rise up to fit it in place. But I didn't want him having his jollies all by his lonesome, so I had to quiet him down a mite. I went on rapping. 

"Honest Injun, I am. I take my fun where it's at, and if there aren't any sexy males around, I make do with a sexy female." 

"Jeez! You do?"

"You ever tried it with two women, honey?" 

The matron was sliding the straps downward, taking the cups with them. Her breasts were very white, so the brown nipples stood out with startling clarity. She started to shimmy come more, and those big weights swung back and forth, up and down. 

Every eye was on those knockers. I took advantage by rising upward and sinking down slowly. I heard Hugh breathe, "Oh, God!" and then I was firmly en compassing him. 

We were not the only ones enjoying a knee drill. I could see our hostess with her breasts out of her evening gown for the labial enjoyment of her male companion, while Tony Heston was undressing his partner for the bowl game, a luscious brunette with gorgeous legs. Every once in a while he would stop and run his mouth over her shoulders or up and down a bared thigh. At the moment she was in panties and garter belt, her stockings and brassiere still on. 

The matron with the bare breasts was continuing her strip, pushing down her white lace skirt, showing a blue girdle. She displayed little rolls of flesh at her waist where the girdle squeezed her, but she was far from being fat. As the skirt went down to her ankles, she lifted one slippered foot and then the other to step out of it. 

Hugh boy was groaning behind me, watching over my shoulder. I have extremely well developed constrictor cunnae muscles; I am what the French name a casse-noisette, a woman whose sphincter muscles can milk a fouquex prisonnier when it is inside her as well as any milkmaid. The Arabs call this sort of woman a "nutcracker"—gebbadzeh—and the Hindus name her samdhamsa. 

I sat there motionless, but inside me those muscles were crisping and loosing on what they held, slowly and then swiftly. Nobody suspected us, I am sure. Of course, they could see me sitting astride my partner, but I wasn't bouncing up and down or doing a bump and grind, so I guess they believed me a little shy. Actually, we were the only ones fully dressed. 

The matron was tossing her blue panties to one side. She stood there in girdle and black stockings. She bent, breasts swinging forward, and undid a garter. She slid down the girdle zipper, then eased the blue lastex over her white hips. 

Hugh boy panted, "I cah—can't hold bah—back any mah—more!” 

I tightened up on him. Hard. So hard he yelped a little in pain. That took care of his impending spasm. He sobbed a little, head against the back of the chair. "Teez, you're some girl. I'd never have believed any thing could stop me just then.” 

"We haven't even begun, lover." 

It was then that I heard a voice whisper, "Wo ist das Schlafzimmer?" And that part of me that was spy and secret agent tightened up just as much as I had on Hugh boy. 

Had I found my spy? 

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