by Maya Anders
She turned the knob to a higher setting, then slipped the head of the vibrator into Kimmy’s juicily lubricated vagina. Kimmy thrust her hips up in response, moving them in a churning motion as Tiffany pushed the vibrator further inside her.
“That’s it—fuck me hard!” Kimmy urged.
Tiffany twisted the vibrator knob to maximum, then continued thrusting with an ever-increasing rhythm. By now she was plunging the phallus in really deep, all the way to Kimmy’s cervix. The latter responded with grunts of pure pleasure, as her hips bucked and squirmed with wild abandon. Finally she erupted in a noisy, seismically powerful orgasm.
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an important newsflash.” They both looked up, realizing the music from the radio had been replaced by the serious voice of an announcer. “It concerns the well-known British film actress Emma Storm. We understand that she is now in federal custody at an unknown location in New York City, having been caught red-handed in possession of top-secret military plans. Our sources tell us that Ms. Storm has long been suspected of being a secret agent working for the British government.”
Chapter 3: The Stolen Plans
Emma Storm was seething. How stupid could the American authorities be? She was on the same side as them, working against a common enemy, yet they’d locked her up in this cell in the New York headquarters of the FBI. Her clothes and personal possessions were on a side table, where a female agent had put them after strip-searching her. The woman had handcuffed Emma’s hands behind her back, then forced her to sit stark naked on a bare wooden chair.
Then the woman had left, presumably to tell her superiors that the prisoner was ready for interrogation. That gave Emma all the time she needed to wriggle out of the cuffs—a simple matter, given her MI6 training. It was a good thing the cuffs were behind her back, since anyone entering the room would have no idea she was as free to move as they were.
Less than a minute passed before her next visitor arrived—a short, stocky man with a pencil-thin mustache. He took off his fedora—revealing slicked-back dark hair—and tossed it nonchalantly onto the side table.
“Special Agent Klein,” he introduced himself gruffly. “And I got no time for British spies. Even good looking ones.” He ogled her curvaceous body—the slightly-overlarge thighs and definitely-overlarge bosom that had made her one of the silver screen’s most desirable assets. Her present state of nakedness revealed features even her most ardent fans had never seen—the huge, four-inch diameter areolas that adorned the soft, pale skin of her breasts, and the triangle of wispy blonde hair at her crotch.
“Good looking, I’ll accept.” Emma gave the man what she hoped was a winning smile. “But a spy? What on earth makes you say that?”
“Cut the crap, lady.” Klein pushed a piece of paper toward her. “This was found in your New York hotel room this morning, after someone was good enough to phone in an anonymous tip-off. It’s a hand-written copy of a document from the War Office in Washington, D.C. That’s the same Washington, D.C. where you were doing a publicity tour yesterday.”
Emma glanced at the document. “I’ve never set eyes on it before,” she said truthfully. “It’s not even my handwriting.”
“Handwriting can be altered,” Klein said. “We know all your movements. You took the train from D.C. to New York yesterday evening, then checked into the Regal Hotel. That’s the place our agents raided this morning, after the tip-off. They found this in your baggage. You might as well confess—you were caught red-handed.”
“I must have been framed.” It was the only explanation she could think of. “But even then, I can’t see how it was done. My hotel room door wasn’t just locked, I’d barricaded it shut with a chair, because there’s always the possibility of—” She almost said “German spies,” then caught herself. “…Always the possibility of sex perverts, you know. And the room was on the sixth floor, with no balcony. No one could have gotten in.”
“No one did get in, you stupid bitch.” Klein produced a thick folder, bulging with papers. “See what I’ve got here? It’s the official FBI file on Emma Storm. We know everything about you. You’re an agent of MI6—the British Secret Service. You always have been—this movie actress thing is just a cover that allows you to travel more or less wherever you want to, under the guise of publicity.”
Emma shrugged. “Okay, I admit it. I work for MI6. That’s why I was in Washington and it’s why I came to New York. But I’m not spying on the United States—I’m hunting down German spies. Why can’t you Americans realize the Nazis are our common enemy? You and I are on same side.”
“You und I ist not on der same side!” Klein exploded. Suddenly he was speaking with a strong German accent. “I haff had enough of playing around. You ist British agent, I am German agent. Is simple as that. Und now—vell, I try to interrogate the suspect, but she pulls a fast one. She takes ziss cyanide pill before I haff a chance to get anysink out of her.”
He leaned forward, holding a small dark-colored capsule toward her mouth.
“It’s no use, Klein—I’ll scream. I’m famous for my screams. You may have seen me in Night of the Vampire last year.”
“Scream all you like,” Klein said with malicious pleasure. “Ziss room ist perfectly soundproof. Und as you see, it has no windows. No one will hear you.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say, loser.” Emma suddenly brought her two free hands into view, swung the heavy handcuffs at the German’s face, and knocked him to the ground.
She carefully picked up the cyanide capsule from where it had fallen, then turned back to Klein. “Fortunately I’m licensed to kill, so I can do this without compunction.” She forced his jaws open and pushed the pill into his mouth. Seconds later he was dead.
“I sometimes think cyanide is just too efficient,” Emma mused to herself. “It takes away the excitement of battle. Then again, there’s always the excitement of getting out of here undetected. That’s my next task.”
She bent down and swiftly removed Klein’s clothing. To her amusement, the German spy had a rampant hard-on. “Well, will you look at that,” she murmured. “He didn’t have a gun in his pocket after all. He was just pleased to see me.”
She took what she needed of Klein’s garments and put them on herself. She was something of an expert in disguise, and fortunately his proportions weren’t too different from hers—after she’d flattened her huge frontal assets with a tightly fastened undershirt.
Then she went to the side table and looked in her purse. They’d removed the derringer pistol, the stiletto blade, the hand grenade, and the knockout gas…but fortunately the purse retained its most important contents: her make-up kit.
Glancing occasionally at the dead Klein, she carefully copied his thin black mustache onto her own face. Then she put on his fedora, double-checked the ID card in her jacket pocket, and walked out into the corridor as if she owned the place.
Chapter 4: Lady Blade
Just after sunset, two men in fashionable suits emerged from a small upmarket art gallery near Washington Square. The older one, in his fifties, paused a moment to lock the door behind him. The illumination of the street lights through the glass of the door showed the gallery’s contents to consist entirely of naturalistic paintings of nude young females.
“Come on, Dad,” the younger one urged. He was in his early twenties and the family resemblance was unmistakable. “Looking at naked chicks all day has made me horny. I need some action.”
“I’m sure we can arrange that,” his father replied. “Plenty of unaccompanied women around this time of the evening, on their way home from work.”
As they walked along the street they cast furtive glances around them, their eyes lingering on any female between the ages of twenty and twenty-five.
“Ah, that should be perfect.” The older man indicated two slim, neatly dressed women walking hand-in-hand. “Lesbians are the easiest—especially at gunpoint.” He sniggered lasciviously as he took a snub-nosed automatic from hi
s pocket.
Several paces ahead of them, the girls turned into a dark side alley.
“Okay, here we go. Got everything ready, son?”
“Sure I do, Pop.” The younger man grinned. In his hand he held, not a gun, but his stiffly erect penis. They rounded the corner into the alley.
The two women were descending the steps of an areaway further along the alley. Before the men could take another step in their direction, a small, stealthy figure dropped straight down into their path from a fire escape. A second later, a slamming door signaled that the women were safely inside their basement dwelling.
The men from the art gallery hardly noticed. They were too busy gaping at the newcomer. It was a petite young woman, virtually naked except for leather straps around her wrists, thighs, and waist. She had Asian-looking features, with black hair tied in a tight bun on the top of head. Apart from that, her firm-toned body was completely hairless—and glistening with sweat. Her small dark nipples jutted stiffly out.
The older man uttered an oath and raised his gun. “I’m gonna blast the…” He didn’t get any further. The near-naked girl whipped a long, samurai-style sword from her belt and swung it round in a single graceful movement, decapitating him.
The man’s son stared in horror. “You crazy bitch—you killed him!”
“Oops, so I did.” She shrugged, a mock-sheepish expression on her face. She was still brandishing her sword, which now dripped with blood.
The young man’s penis, still out of his pants, had begun to droop. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but…”
“My apologies,” she said. “I neglected to introduce myself. You can call me Lady Blade.”
“Lady Blade—say, I think I heard that name on the radio.” His eyes lit up slightly. “You’re one of those lesbian crime fighters, aren’t you? You never harm criminals, you just rehabilitate them.”
Lady Blade gave a quick snort of disgust. “That’s the Bronze Goddess you’re thinking of. The woman’s a well-meaning idiot. She believes criminals ought to be handed into the care of the taxpayer-funded judicial system. Personally, I think that’s a shameful waste of time and money.” She gestured with the blood-stained sword. “So I just kill people—it’s a lot more efficient.”
The would-be rapist looked just about ready to faint with fear. His erection had disappeared completely now, his shriveled little penis dangling limply. Then a metaphorical light bulb suddenly flashed on over his head. “Say, I just thought of something. When my father passed away just now, I inherited the art gallery. You know what that means? It means I’m a rich person now. So all you have to do is name your price. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
She gave him a blank look. “I’m not interested in money. I just want to rid this city of criminal scum like you.”
“But I’m unarmed.” He held out his hands so she could see they were empty. “Okay, you killed my Dad, but he had a gun—I don’t. If you kill me, it would be cold-blooded murder. So just put that thing away.” He indicated her sword.
“I guess you’re right.” She slipped the sword back into its scabbard.
An evil glint came into his eyes. “Stupid bitch—now I’m really gonna have some fun.” He lunged at her, his penis fully erect again.
Stepping deftly to one side, she put out a foot to trip him up as he flew toward her. He fell flat on his face on the grimy pavement. She bent down and grabbed his head with both hands. “You know, you’re really starting to bore me.” She gave a sharp wrench and his neck snapped.
The girl who called herself Lady Blade stood up and dusted herself down. “That took a lot longer than usual. I must be getting soft.”
She leapt back up onto the fire escape and quickly made her way to rooftop level. Then she scanned the neighborhood for any further signs of trouble.
To her surprise, she saw a light in one of the upper story windows of the Institute of Oriental Philosophy. The window in question just happened to be right next to her own office—the office, that is, where she worked in her daytime job as mild-mannered research assistant Suki Suzuki. The illuminated office belonged to her boss—the director of the Institute, Professor Kurt Seligman. That was odd, because there shouldn’t be anyone there at this time of night.
Suki made her way swiftly and silently across the intervening rooftops, then entered the Institute building through her own window.
She could hear a voice coming from the adjacent office. It was Seligman himself, apparently talking to someone over the telephone.
She crept out of her office into the corridor outside, then slid stealthily along to the neighboring door. It was slightly ajar, and she inched as close to it as she could in order to eavesdrop on the one-sided conversation.
“I kept my side of the deal,” she heard Seligman say in his precise German accent. “Everything went according to plan. I focused my mind on the document locked inside the safe, just like you told me to. I made a good copy of it, then sneaked the copy into the British actress’s room. The FBI, Amerikaner fools that they are, fell for it hook, line, and sinker…”
Suki had heard enough. She pushed the door open and stood facing the plump, bespectacled man behind the desk.
“You! What are you doing here?” Seligman gaped at her. She was still full-frontal naked—and now smeared with dirt and grime from her recent tussle with the pair of would-be rapists.
“I work here, remember?” Suki smiled innocently. “You’re not the only one who’s working late tonight.”
Seligman scowled, then spoke into the phone. “Something’s come up. I’ll get back to you later.” He slammed the receiver down and opened the desk drawer.
“I don’t know what your game is,” Suki said. “But I don’t think I’m going to like it when I find out.”
“You won’t live long enough to find out, you interfering lesbian bitch!” Seligman pulled out a large-caliber revolver and pointed it at her.
Suddenly the gun flew from his pudgy hand, knocked away by Suki’s lightning fast kick. A second kick caught Seligman in the groin, causing him to double up in pain.
Without giving him time to recover, Suki grabbed the fat man by his collar and hauled him over to the side of the office, where there was a large ornamental fish tank. She plunged his head into the water and held it there until the bubbles stopped. To be on the safe side, she held him down another couple of minutes, then released her grip. Seligman stayed where he was, his head immersed in the fish tank. The fish continued to swim around as if this sort of thing happened every day.
“What a tragic accident!” Suki observed. “Just as I was about to ask him for a raise, too.”
She went over to the desk of the man who, prior to his sudden demise, had been her boss. From what she’d overheard of his phone conversation, he’d been moonlighting on something that involved working against the FBI. She had no idea what that was, but she meant to find out.
Lying next to the telephone was a small business card. It said Temple of Purity, together with some additional information in smaller print. Looking closer, she saw that it included a telephone number. Presumably it was the one that Seligman had been calling.
Suki returned thoughtfully to her own office. It looked like she had some digging to do.
Chapter 5: The Locked Room
Emma Storm had been a guest at the Regal Hotel on 47th Street the previous night. Now she was back, but no one who had seen her on the previous occasion would recognize her. She’d noticed the way the desk staff always seemed to be looking the other way when a prostitute followed a male guest up to his room, and she was using that fact to her advantage now.
With the help of a long dark wig, plenty of make-up and a slutty black dress that showed off her ample cleavage, she looked every inch the New York whore. She’d even polished up her Brooklyn accent in case she needed it. As it was, however, the hotel staff studiously ignored her as she crossed the lobby and entered the elevator with a presumed client. The man even gave her a hop
eful look, but as soon as the doors closed she pressed the button for a different floor. It was, of course, the floor she’d stayed on the previous night.
As she’d expected, her room had been sealed off with police tape. She slit it unobtrusively, then swiftly unlocked the door with the small kit of tools she’d brought along.
Once inside, she crossed over to the window and opened it. She stuck her head out just long enough to convince herself that her memory had been correct. It was impossible for anyone to have entered the room by that route while she slept. Not only was there no balcony, there wasn’t even a ledge or any other convenient projection on the outside wall.
Emma closed the window and turned her attention to the room itself. Her eyes scanned around it carefully. It was relatively long and narrow. The window was in one of the two shorter walls, while the door leading out into the corridor—which, as she’d told the phony FBI agent, she’d barricaded closed—was in the opposite one. The bed lay against one of the two longer walls. At its foot was a coffee table and easy chair, with the en-suite shower room beyond that.
Along the opposite wall was a closet, with a metal luggage rack next to it. That was where she’d put her bags the previous night—and presumably where the document had been planted. She scratched her head in puzzlement. She still couldn’t visualize how an intruder could have managed it.
With no real hope of success, Emma searched in the back of the closet for a possible hidden panel. Just as she’d anticipated, there was nothing there. Then she made a careful inspection of the shower room. There was nothing suspicious in there, either.
As with most hotel rooms, there was a floor plan on the back of the door indicating the route to be taken in the event of a fire. Emma went over and examined it. Of the room’s two longer walls, it appeared that the one by the bed was adjacent to the emergency stairwell. The other one—the one behind the closet and the desk—was shared with another room.
