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Chapter One

We lay on our sides facing each other, the silken sheets of my king-sized bed caressing our bodies as we caressed each other. I watched drowsily as Mark’s thumb and forefinger brought my nipple in and out of the cushy recesses of my rather full breast.

"You’re going to have to get out of this outfit and into a bikini pretty soon," he kidded me, running his hands now up and down my totally nude body. "Montego Bay awaits your pleasure."

I sighed, It was another port–of–call in my never-ending go-go life as chief operative of N.Y.M.P.H.O., the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization. Yet although I’ve been to so many hot spots all over the world, this particular assignment intrigued me.

Jamaica was famed for being the tropical paradise par excellence, lush yet cooly sophisticated with its endless string of posh resorts. British colonial rule had left its mark not only on the great houses of former plantations but on smart clubs, restaurants and shops as well. The island was noted for the number of celebrities who had built luxurious hideaways along some of the most gorgeous beaches on earth. Still, with it all, the stories that were filtering back to us at N.Y.M.P.H.O. headquarters were spooky. Along with our usual reports of mob muscle-flexing its strength with the new independent government, there had been a string of weird executions that didn’t sound like Mafia at all. Severed heads on stakes left to rot in the boiling sun wasn’t the usual style of the mohaired mobsters who had invented the original cement suit, river dumpings and stuffed car trunks. The disengaged heads seemed to be saying something else and my main man Mark Condon had just decided it was about time for Cherry Delight–that’s me–to go and find out what was really happening.

Being N.Y.M.P.H.O.’s numero uno has its advantages, though. I needed a little vacation after my last caper, and what better chance for it than Montego Bay? It would take me a few days to reconnoiter the landscape and I would use them to full advantage.

"Do they have any beaches for nude sunbathing down there?" I asked Mark casually.

Mark Condon is my main man in more ways than one. He’s also my boss. Which works out pretty good. My best weapon is my body and since Mark is the one who sets up my assignments, he knows that I’m going to use it artfully–and how. A man who wasn’t in our line of work might not be all that understanding. Oh, Mark might show a little twinge of jealousy every now and then but he knows what I’m up against. Our job is to wipe out the Mafia–by any means necessary. And Mark understands better than anyone else I know the value of boob baiting and pussy power.

"Do they have any nude sunbathing in Jamaica?" I persisted. He seemed too preoccupied with my right titty to answer.

I poked him in the back, playfully.

When he responded, it was slowly and quietly. It wasn’t my breast that he had in mind after all.

"There’s something about this business that disturbs me, Cherry," he said in that sweet, concerned way he has.

I started to give him a joking response, but I stopped myself. When Mark has that troubled look, it’s best to let him speak his mind seriously.

"This may be the most dangerous assignment I’ve ever sent you on," he said, picking at a thread on my blue Porthault sheet.

I slapped his hand playfully before he made a run in the expensive linen.

"You’re always sending me on dangerous assignments," I reminded him, pouting. "Why should this one be any different?" I pulled my body closer to him, touching at all points, fitting my curves to his lean brawn.

"Because there’s an element here that doesn’t register," he replied, barely responding to my now measured and rhythmic cadences of body music.

I wanted him to take me, and quickly; there were only a few hours left before my Air Jamaica flight from John F. Kennedy Airport. My new Madler luggage stood smartly in the mirrored foyer of my penthouse apartment, all packed and ready to go. The only unfinished business I could think of was this final fling with Mark.

Other people kissed goodbye; we screwed each other farewell. It was an old custom of ours, always at my place or his, never the usual airport embrace of plain people. It had started because it wasn’t good business for us to be seen together.

You never know when I might be tailed. Mark was the Mr. Inside of the N.Y.M.P.H.O. operation, staying strictly anonymous and unknown.

Since I had made so many Mafia hits already and my looks are a little flamboyant, to say the least, I—could be spotted anytime and that was risk enough but one I had to take. What we could try to avoid was Mark’s ever being seen with me. That’s why all our time together was spent in one of our sumptuous pads. Instead of going out to posh places to eat, I would have Twenty–One or the Colony send around a delightful dinner for two for us. My Magnavox audio components had been set up to cover an entire wall in my apartment, with speakers and controls in every room, to provide our background entertainment. Our foreground entertainment we provided ourselves! It was a cozy arrangement and one I really enjoyed.

I HARDLY EVER WENT INTO THE OFFICE, N.Y.M.P.H.O. headquarters being one of those super-secret locations. Mark would give me all my briefings right here in my bed.

That’s why I couldn’t understand his present concern. I thought he had already filled me in on all the Jamaica background I would need.

"What is it, baby?" I asked quietly, gently sliding my hand out from where it had been between his thighs.

"Something doesn’t add up, Cherry," he replied, "doesn’t angle out, doesn’t compute, just doesn’t fit in with anything we can analyze scientifically."

It was hard for me to imagine anything that N.Y.M.P.H.O. advanced technology couldn’t handle. I shivered in spite of the warmth of the bed.

"It sounds–otherworldly," I observed lamely,—not knowing what else to think.

Mark’s lips were set in a hard line now, and he nodded in agreement.

"Voodoo?" I breathed. I couldn’t believe that Mark Condon, super-agent, super-sophisticated guy of the world was seriously thinking about such abject nonsense as witchcraft.

I glanced at a little Piaget traveling clock that lay on my night-table. I only had about another three hours before takeoff. "Forget about that stuff now, Mark," I mumbled. "Do do that voodoo that you do to me," I quoted, and I slipped my hand back to its former resting place. I gently kneaded the taut flesh of his inner thighs letting him know that I was very ready for our familiar but always fantastic farewell scene.

Mark remained in a fully reclining position, gently drawing me atop him. Flexing his knees to make room for me, cupping my backside in his big strong hands and rocking me gently back and forth, my long flying red hair and heaving breasts swaying above, not quite touching his now eager face. He kept me like this for a few moments, just tantalizingly long enough for us both to get into the rhythm of his gently rocking pattern. His hands-on me, aroused every feeling of warmth, of love, of desire, that I thought a woman could ever feel for a man and when he moved his hands up and down my body touching first this place, then that, then another, the feelings traveled hotly through my blood as if his hands were magnets, pulling my every emotion to any spot that he chose to linger on my body.

I urged my breasts toward his mouth and he lifted his head slightly from the pillow in order to take the nipples between his lips, then I felt his hands sliding down towards my hips once more, one, back where it had been, the other finding its way across my belly and down between my thighs.

As he kept rocking me on my knees he worked both hands front and back until he had worked me into a frenzied wetness that I can barely describe.

His own wet lips were still playing with my breasts and I crouched over him grasping and holding him on the arm, on the shoulder, by the neck—wherever I could grab hold and support myself.

"Oh," I moaned. "Now, Mark, now, take me, quickly, I can’t stand anymore." I was tossing now, my body no longer able to control itself, my hips jerking and moving in the uncontrolled spasms that always signaled desire in a woman. I was moving too wildly for him to even keep my breasts in his mouth. His hands still manipulated me; only his strong control kept me from flying off the bed completely.

"Stop, stop," I pleaded. "I’m so wet, you got me so wet, I’ll never be able to keep you inside."

At this he opened one eye; that was enough of a threat to have stopped him from what he was doing and I believe that was the only one that would have worked! He braced me across my naked back with both hands now and thrust his hard erectile member straight up me. That incredible manhood of his needed no help from me or from him, to find the place that is so loved and that loves him so in "return. For an eternity of moments I hung suspended, still partially arched above him, otherwise joined to him inseparably, clinging, thrusting, groaning, plunging, wetting, and slashing wildly in his own responding wetness. Our bodies were soon slicked with sweat and I felt I could scarcely breathe when he finally called a halt.

Our wringing bodies left a large single dark wet stain on my heavenly blue sheets but what did I care. N.Y.M.P.H.O. paid all the laundry bills as well as everything else about my pad. Aside from Mark Condon, that was the greatest fringe benefit of being an agent. We N.Y.M.P.H.O. gals were very well provided for and never wanted for the best of everything, be it clothes, apartments, accommodations, or any of the other luxuries that make life so worthwhile.

They had to pay us well in order to get the caliber of woman that they needed to perform their sometimes incredible tasks–one of which was staring me in the face right now, or was about to. I pulled myself out of Mark’s wet embrace and went in to treat myself to a quick shower. Stepping "behind my Jakson see-through vinyl shower curtain with its interlocking symbols of the male and female sexes I quickly lathered myself all over with a generous bar of 4711 transparent soap. The clean sweet scent of the soap suited my mood of the moment perfectly and after I briskly toweled dry I threw only a splash of Crepe de Chine cologne over my body.

Draping the oversize towel over me in a sudden attack of modesty I tiptoed back into the bedroom where Mark still lay in my bed staring at the ceiling and smoking one of his occasional cigarettes. I went to the closet and took out the outfit that I had previously selected for traveling in.

It was a silky soft Missoni knit imported from Italy. The soft fabric of the pants and matching shirt clung to me in all the right rounded places and the brilliant pattern seemed to echo here and there the burnished red gold of my hair. I brushed it out very casually as I stood in front of my dressing table mirror being more than pleased at what I saw reflected from there back out to me.

I put a pair of pure white ivory bracelets that I had picked up in Hong Kong around my wrists and screwed a pair of matching ivory earrings into my lobes. The stark whiteness of the jewelry made for a contrast to the brilliance of my outfit. Then I turned back to the bed to reassure Mark that everything would be well. I knelt down at his side and we spoke in hushed whisper tones as if we were afraid of being overheard. I especially wanted to reassure him that no one was about to bamboozle me away from him, not any way, shape, manner or form. I guess I really loved the guy although I never said it quite out loud either to him or to myself.

He raised himself up on one elbow and grasped me, by both of my shoulders. "Cherry, baby, please be careful," he said very quietly and matter-of-factly.

But it was precisely that tone that made me start to shake in my Battini boots. Mark had never given me this kind of warning before. Every time I was about to scamper off on another assignment what I would usually get from him was a big wet kiss, a playful slap on the ass and a "Go to it, baby!" and that was that. He had never seemed so concerned before and his very quietness seemed to produce the very opposite effect on my now jangling nerves. I could almost sense the sound of the jungle drum beats pounding through my pulses.

I kissed him once again and was about to tell him how I really felt when the jarring bell of the intercom struck its unwelcome note. That meant that the N.Y.M.P.H.O. limo was outside and waiting to whisk me away. There was no more time so I put my fingertips to his lips and told him to sleep it off at my place and that I would be in touch as soon as it was possible.

I got a boarding pass for my first class seat and made myself comfortable. I would have a couple of hours to leaf through the additional material that Mark had prepared for me and I was anxious to get into it. I sat down, shifted my rear till I felt comfortable and fastened my seat belt. I started to take out the dossier that Mark had made for me but hesitated when I realized that the seat next to mine was about to be occupied. A dark lanky man in a beige silk suit was handing a small piece of luggage to the smiling stewardess to stow away for him. I let my hand linger as if I was just resting it on my bag not wanting to take out the super-secret contents until I knew who my plane mate was going to be. The rhythmic cadence of his speech as he chatted easily with the girl was an unmistakable indication that he was Jamaican. When he slid gracefully into the seat next to mine, I found myself eyeballing one of the handsomest sets of features I had ever come across in the human male.

Perfect white teeth flashed in a smile across his coffee-with-cream colored face. It looked as if this flight was going to be a lot of fun, after all.

"Would you like to take advantage of the ladies room, Miss Delight?" he asked suddenly and casually.

I nearly jumped out of my seat, safety belt notwithstanding.

"You’re not going to have the opportunity to leave your seat-once the flight has started," he went on smoothly. "You’re quite in my hands now, my dear Miss Delight."

I stared at him dumbly, my usually busy mouth hanging slack open; I was even more astounded when I saw his bony surgeon’s hands unfastening my seat belt buckle.

"I'm afraid that I must insist you go to the ladies’ room this moment, Miss Delight." he said.

"There is somebody in there who will be glad to help you, and then you must return immediately to your seat. As you can see I am most anxious to begin what I am sure will be our most delightful acquaintanceship." He gave me a little pat on the rump and drew my arm out to help me pass him so that I could go to the john. I was almost too dumbfounded to resist. I wasn’t about to make a scene on the plane but I could just about imagine what was waiting for me in the ladies’ room. My seatmate’s handsome features were recomposed now into a mask of cold and definite command. There was a glimpse in his deep brown eyes that told me I had better do what he had ordered. I shrugged my shoulders, slipped my arm out of his grasp and went forward to the ladies’ room of the private compartment.

As soon as I slipped the latch on the door I found that it was already occupied. But the girl with the shining ebony-black face who stood there squeezed closer to the far wall in order to let me in.

"So nice to see you, Miss Cherry Delight," she said in that same lilting Jamaican accent. "This isn’t going to take more than but a moment of your time."

She pulled up the sleeve of my Missoni just a few inches above the wrist and deftly inserted a small hypodermic needle.

"There," she said calmly. "That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Now go back to your seat like a nice little girl and enjoy the rest of the flight. I am sure you are going to," she smiled again and reached across me to open up the door of the tiny cramped compartment.

I wafted rather than walked back to my seat.

The man, who was waiting for me, got up with a gesture of utmost courtesy and ushered me back into my window side place. "Good, very good," he said, rubbing his hands together, and smiling. "And now we can get to know each other just as I’ve been hoping we would. May I call you Cherry?" and he smiled with a wicked charm that under any other circumstances would have melted me right down to the marrow.

But what was melting me now was something else, I was sure—the effects of whatever had been in that hypodermic. I felt drowsy and curiously at peace with the world. Curious, considering the circumstances under which the drug, whatever it was, had been administered. And now I was a prisoner of this charming unknown, at least for the two and one-half hours of the flight. Knowing what I did about the nature of drugs like this, I could practically guarantee that I would be close to zonked by the time we landed in Montego Bay.

And that I would then be utterly and completely in his power. It was not a prospect that I particularly relished, yet my mind was growing so happily foggy that I really couldn’t even think about my situation with distaste. Everything seemed calm and sweet. In fact I didn’t even feel the plane lift off the ground or hear the noise that accompanies the retracting of the wheels when the plane is aloft. It was more as if I was in a cloud of my own within the plane itself. Flying within flying. In a semi-circular merry-go-round dreamlike feeling that all but made my five good senses ineffectual.

I smiled up at my companion. I felt myself wishing that the two of us would be alone in the first-class compartment. Part of me wanted to look around and see if we would have the kind of privacy that would ensure a giggly good flight for me. But the major part of me was just too lethargically lazy to even try to raise my head above the level of my tall companion’s eyes.

Whatever was happening to me, there would be plenty of time to think about it later.

He caught my gaze and looked down at me. The cold hostility of his commanding look was replaced now by an easy sensuality, that I found totally irresistible. I moved my head just a little to bring my lips in line with his. I still felt powerless to move much but if only he shifted his head a little it would be possible.

I felt his lips first brush, then press firmly against mine as if the thought of seeking out my mouth had come to him at the same time as it had to me. If I hadn’t been half racing already, this initial contact would have been enough to set me off. As the drug worked its warm way through my blood, I could feel the rush ascending through my entire body. Especially where his hands now leaned against my belly, once again unbuckling the seat belt.

Just then the smiling stewardess came by to take our order.

"Oh no," I said, and I knew that in my stupor I vas slurring the words, "I never drink, I don’t want anything, thank you."

"I do think you’re going to get thirsty after while, Cherry," my companion told me. "I think some cool fruit punch would be in order." He turned to the stewardess and told her, "Bring me some dark rum on the rocks and a fruit cooler for Miss Delight."

The girl hurried away.

When she came back he asked, "At what time will you be serving dinner?"

"In about an hour and a half, sir," she replied cheerfully.

He consulted the wafer-thin gold watch on his wrist. "That will be fine," he replied, "Will you please see to it that we are not disturbed until then. Thank you very much." The girl smiled discreetly and went away leaving our drinks on a little table.

"Now we will have the time to get acquainted properly, lovely one." he purred in my ear.

He placed his hand below my waist, stroking the soft fabric and the incline of my thigh at the same time. "But why do you women insist on wearing pants?" he mock-wailed. "No pretty legs to look at, and so, so hard to get into!"

He edged his long fingers into my long shirt and I could feel him inching along the elastic waistband of the pants. The material as I said was soft and giving and it wasn’t long before he had drawn them down below my complacent hips.

"Aha, that’s what I like to see!" he exclaimed.

"Underwear is such an unnecessary item, especially in the kind of climate that we are going to, I love to see a lady that does not burden herself with that kind of excess baggage." And his grin was as wide as a mile.

All I could do was grin back at him wildly; the drug had already made me totally silly and the only coherent thought I could compose in my mind was gratitude for my unknown admirer who was getting me out of my expensive pants before they got all wet. Even in my stupor I realized that that wasn’t going to belong. The impression that those lips had made on me was undeniable, and as his hands had groped with my pants I knew that I would be ready the minute he touched me anymore, Maybe I was going to make the softest explosion in the history of sex, but it was going to be an explosion nonetheless.

The feeling of being totally naked at thirty thousand feet would be enough to give any sensualist a great feeling of euphoria, I am sure. In my present soporific state it was positively heaven.

I was almost ready to go dancing up and down the aisles but I realized that I would never have the muscle power to make it; besides it was much too marvelous just to sit where I was, being fingered and made wildly ecstatic by this man who was still a stranger to me although I was becoming more and more familiar to him. And to his groping fingers!

"I don’t even know your name!" I heard myself exclaiming, in a voice that sounded to me as though it were coming from somebody else entirely.

"Just call me Tony," he grinned and he pressed the red mounds of my flesh a little tighter. "Just say 'Ah, Tony,’ or 'Oh, Tony’ or 'That’s just how I love it, Tony,’ tell me when it feels that way to you." he said encouragingly.

"It does feel good," I admitted softly.

"It does feel good, Tony," he instructed me.

I guess he was turned on by the excitement of a woman’s voice especially when it was directed to him. Of course I wasn’t thinking of this while it was happening. It didn’t register on my brain until much later, when I was coldly coherent. The moment that it was happening I was anything but.

"Do you want it now, darling?" he asked purringly, his fingers still working at me, in the same rhythmic pattern.

"Yes! Yes!" I barely breathed.

"No, no," he admonished me, smilingly. "You must say "Yes, I want it now, Tony," he reminded me.

"I want it now, Tony," I repeated parrot-like, breathing out the syllables just as he had instructed me to. The words may have been his but the emotion and feeling were all mine, there was no mistaking that. I wanted it as much as I ever had and considering the source—me—that’s quite a lot of wanting.

He stood up and undid the zipper of his beige silk pants. He stepped quickly out of them and drew me down till I was reclining across both of our seats. I stared at what was now kneeling before me and in spite of my semi-consciousness I had to admit that his erectile member was positively the longest I had ever seen, in a very full life of looking. Even in my drowsiness I couldn’t mistake that!

How would I take it all in? I wondered, but once he drew it close to me there was no problem. My waiting body opened itself as if by magic and made accommodation for everything that he had to offer me. I took it willingly, eagerly, unquestioningly, delirious to see how much of me it could fill up.

He placed his hands on both my breasts as if to secure me to the seat and himself to me. And as the plane made its seemingly motionless way southward, he made his own very obvious motions northward in me, filling, pushing, throbbing, pulsing, touching every fiber of my being until the ultimate splashdown of what had been a mounting rocketing passionate display.

I have no idea of what he did next. I know what I did. I fell fast asleep. The drug had done its work and so had Tony, if, indeed, that was his name.

I was roused by the sound of the stewardess bringing our food and Tony gently shaking my shoulder. As I half drew my eyes open the aroma of the steaming tray was enough to make me fully awake, but in the same state of euphoria that the drug had originally induced. It had not worn off. I touched my hip to see if I was fully dressed again. I was.

"Eat something now," Tony commanded, gently. "It will be good for you."

"Who are you?" I asked. I was trying to shake myself awake but it seemed almost like a hopeless cause.

"I’m Tony," he grinned. "Don’t you remember that?"

"Yes," I persisted, "but Tony who? Who are you, and how do you know me? And what are you doing to me?"

"You don’t have to sing before your supper, little bird," he laughed. "Eat something first and we’ll have plenty of time to talk." He put his own fork to his food and I nimbly followed his example. For airline cooking, it wasn’t at all bad, I have to admit.

"Are you having a good time?" he asked me suddenly, talking to me as if I were a nine-year-old girl, or something.

"Oh, I’m having a wonderful time," I assured him, as if he were a grade school teacher I was responding to. "But I’m sure that this is only the beginning, and I’m going to have lots more fun once I get to Jamaica."

His expression lost some of its gaiety then, and numb as I was, I still caught it. Who the devil was he, I wondered, and what was he going to be doing to me?

As delicious as this first encounter had been, that’s how dangerous I was anticipating the further developments to be; after all, when a man wants to make out with a girl he meets on a plane trip he doesn’t usually send her to meet an accomplice in the ladies’ room to get a hypodermic before he moves in, and besides I was no stranger he was making out with. He knew my name, which means that he must have known everything else about me as well. I had blown my cover before the plane had ever left the ground. He was obviously out to stop me from making any headway on the island whatsoever,

And whether he was acting on his own or under somebody else’s orders, didn’t really matter. I was pretty sure it was going to be the latter though; the only one who would have any reason to keep me from carrying out my instructions in Jamaica would be the Mafia or somebody working for them.

But at the present moment I was finding it difficult even to lift my fork from my plate to my mouth, let alone forming and finishing any coherent thoughts about my condition and what was likely to happen to me next. My jump-off for Jamaica had started off with a jam-up.