Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (12 page)

The Proposal:

Did I really have a choice? The cock-sucking
fantasy just didn't seem to be a real possibility. These weren't
silly, sex-crazed men. They had important work to do, and I sensed
they couldn't be bought off.

"How dangerous would it be?" I asked.

"I won't lie to you," said the major. "There
are less risky occupations. But we'll do everything in our power to
protect your safety. While you're working for us, you're only
valuable to us if you're alive and well."

I contemplated that for a few moments. "What
would I have to do?"

The two officers relaxed a little. Their
expressions conveyed that they knew they had prevailed.

"As Major Harbaugh said," began Lieutenant
Ricci, "you can't help but notice the Germans have made a major
push into French territory. In fact, from a purely military
standpoint, you've got to hand it to them. They've been very
efficient. Too damned efficient for their own good, actually. Their
supply lines can't keep up with their front lines."

"And that's a situation we'd like to
maintain," chimed in the major.

"Exactly," concurred the lieutenant. "If
those front line Germans get food, ammunition, medical
supplies—it'll make it that much tougher on America's doughboys
when they're deployed soon. Anything we can do to disrupt those
supply lines works to our advantage."

"It could save thousands of American lives,"
said the major.

"Sure, I get it," I said. "But how does that
involve me?"

"German supply trains for the Western Front
are being scheduled and routed from a headquarters in the city of
Strassburg." The lieutenant moved his chair a little closer to
mine. "They've got their top supply officer in charge…General
Wolfgang Vogler. Nothing goes in or out of the Front without that
man's knowledge. And it's his job to kick as many backsides as he
needs to in order to get the troops supplied. The fate of Germany's
war plan depends on it."

"You're not telling me you want me to kill
him?" I asked incredulously.

"No, of course not," said the major. "If it
were a simple matter of eliminating one man by getting someone
close enough with a gun, you would not be our choice."

"So?" I still didn't understand.

"Sssssoooo…," sputtered the major, "we want
you to get close to him in another way."

"What way?"

"A close way."

"How close?"

"In bed." This revelation came
unhesitatingly from the lieutenant.

I was stunned. I don't know how many seconds
of silence passed before I eventually said, "Excuse me?"

The lieutenant huffed. "I think the
implication is pretty obvious. This General Vogler has—shall we
say—a partiality for ladies of a darker hue. That's why we selected
you for this assignment. We feel you could—"

"Wait a minute!" I was
incensed. "Exactly
what
do you think I am?"

The officers leaned back, looked at each
other, and made little sucking sounds with their lips. Obviously,
they believed they had a common knowledge that trumped any
protestation I might make to the contrary. That infuriated me.

"You've got some nerve!" I jumped to my
feet. "How dare you! What gives you the right? I've never in
my—!"

"Please! Please, Miss Foxxe!" The major was
trying to calm me. "We didn't mean to upset you. If I didn't
mention it, you'll be paid very well for your work."

"I'm not a whore!"
I stamped my foot as an audible exclamation
point.

"No," said the lieutenant with relaxed
sarcasm. "You're just a girl who poses for naked, pornographic
pictures. How did we ever get the two confused?"

The bluntness of the statement—not to
mention the truths within it—shocked me into silence. I was cowed.
I was humiliated. I was queasy.

"Please sit down," said the major. "We're
sorry if we jumped to conclusions."

I refused to sit. Even standing, I was on
pins and needles. As uneasy as I was before, now my discomfort had
acquired an even more ominous undertone.

"What makes you think…?" I found myself
unable to finish the sentence.

"Again, I'm sorry if we made incorrect
assumptions," apologized the major. "It's just…considering what you
do…"

"What I
do?"

"Well," stated the lieutenant, "if you don't
do that to supplement your income when you're not posing for naked
pictures, you're the only such model I'm aware of who doesn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," he said. "We all know where these
photographers get their models. And it's not the ladies' auxiliary
at the Masonic Lodge. For God's sake! Who else could you get to
pose like that?"

"You can understand our presumption," added
the major.

"And when we saw you walking into that
studio with your little friend there…" the lieutenant
continued.

"You mean Nanette St. Claire?" I asked.

"Is that the name she's using these days?"
The lieutenant smirked in the direction of the other man. "Well,
let's just say that lady's not exactly unknown to soldiers with a
pass and some newly issued pay."

Why that revelation surprised me, I don't
know. The fact is, I hardly knew Nanette. What's more, her behavior
that afternoon was anything but ladylike. Picturing her in an even
more sinister setting just wasn't that outlandish. Still, the
thought of it—the thought that I had willingly accompanied her—the
thought that I had willingly let her put her hands on my nude
body—and that I had put my hands on hers! Oh, my god!

"I think I'd like that glass of water now."
I sank meekly into the chair.

Lieutenant Ricci went outside the room and,
about fifteen seconds later, brought me a glass of water. I drank
it down in only a few gulps. The lieutenant took the empty glass
from me and placed it on the desk. Then he resumed his seat. The
two men sat quietly for a few moments, eyeing me with concerned
expressions.

I suppose I must have gone pale—which, for a
person of my skin tone, isn't easy to do. To some degree, I was
traumatized. I'm not sure I could have walked steadily, even if I
tried. My head was swimming with disturbing thoughts.

That girl! That Nanette St. Claire! Why
didn't I see it? Why didn't I realize? Why wasn't it obvious when I
saw her that very first time?—sitting on the floor, legs splayed.
Not a shred of modesty. It was as though she were running an
advertisement. Pussy for sale! And now, there were pictures of me
with her. Pictures of us both naked and provocatively displaying
our womanhood. Pictures of us being playful with one another. Not
merely "playful," but playful with each other's bodies. Touching
each other in intimate ways that have only one meaning to anyone
who sees them. I rubbed my tits against hers. I stroked her ass
while she stroked mine. We ground our hairy bushes together. There
was even a time when I was reasonably certain I felt the moistness
of her cunt lips sliding across my upper thigh. I did nothing to
stop it. I barely even tried. That woman could talk me into
anything. What's more, there's even pictures of us fondling a naked
man. A picture of me holding that man's prick. And she took that
hard cock into her mouth—so easily, so confidently, so expertly.
She smiled while she sucked it. Lord almighty, what kind of fucking
idiot am I?

"All right?" asked the major. "I'm sorry for
any misunderstandings, but you do understand our position…and why
we selected you?"

"Why were you watching me?"

"We weren't," answered the major. "We were
watching Tristan Zenglitz. Or, at least, his building. We saw you
for the first time when you showed up there with your friend last
week."

"She's not my friend," I blurted as quickly
as I could. "I had only just met her that day."

"How well do you know Zenglitz?" The
lieutenant squinted at me as he asked.

"Not at all. And I won't be going back. I
promise you that."

"Wise decision," said the lieutenant.

"He's a bad man, isn't he?" My suspicions
about that dirty little photographer didn't need further
encouragement, but the fact that the U.S. Army was watching him
piqued my curiosity.

"We can't prove anything," answered the
major. "But he could be a front for some enemy intelligence
operations."

"How do you know?"

"That's neither here nor
there," interjected the major. "And it's not important at this
moment. You don't need to concern yourself about that. What is your
concern—or
should be
—is the fate of the world. We need someone…someone who can
get close to the man who has all the information we
need…information about supply trains…and their routes. If we have
that information, we can disrupt those trains and bring the German
offensive to a stop. We need someone willing to help us do that…in
the most effective way we know how…to make a kind of sacrifice, if
you will. A very, very important sacrifice."

"Probably the most important thing you'll
ever do," said the lieutenant.

"We wouldn't have even asked you if, um…"
the major trailed off. He looked sheepishly toward the
lieutenant.

"What I believe the major's trying to say,"
offered the lieutenant, "is we wouldn't have asked a virgin.
Forgive my speaking plainly, but we know from the court records
back in America that virginity isn't at issue here."

How humiliating. To be sitting in a room
with two men who viewed me that way. To them, I was nothing more
than a woman of loose morals. A trollop. A slut. More definitively,
I was, in their eyes, just a pussy—a pussy they wished to use as
their tool. Like a hammer or a wrench. Perhaps, more appropriately,
like a pair of pliers. Their plan was to clamp my cunt on some
German general's cock and extract what they desired.

"So you were relying on my promiscuity?" I
blushed.

"We were, um…" the major
coughed, "relying on your
patriotism."

"We want your help, Miss Foxx," the
lieutenant said. "If you help us, we can help you. A girl alone in
Paris…without family…without proper documentation… can probably use
all the help she can get."

"Distasteful though it might be," the major
added with a grave undertone, "thousands of lives could depend on
this. Depend on you."

I thought about it. I didn't want to, but I
thought about it. I felt I had to.

"So this general's got an eye for girls like
me," I mused. "So what? Why does it have to be me? I'm sure I'm not
the only girl this color in Europe."

"No," said the lieutenant. "But, while our
general likes his girls with a little more pigmentation, he also
seems to especially prefer the ones whose facial features are a bit
more, well, Caucasian looking, shall we say. At least, that's what
we've been able to discern from our information about his past
dalliances. Your mixed heritage has provided you with that look.
That's what drew us to you. We feel we have the best chance of
getting to Vogler if we appeal to his…specialized tastes."

"How would I even get to this general? How
would I contact you if I learned anything? I don't speak a word of
German."

"Leave that to us," said the major.
"Lieutenant Ricci's in charge of this operation. He'll give you
everything you need. Just follow his directions to the letter.
That's the best advice I can give."

The lieutenant had a look of confidence
about him. I supposed he was probably an excellent officer. He
seemed capable enough. He was even good looking, in a
rough-and-ready sort of way. I could envision him going into
battle, climbing out of the trenches, leading men on a bold charge.
He was the sort of man you'd expect to find on the military
recruitment posters—the image of American masculinity. Yet, as I
sat there looking at him, I wished I didn't have to have anything
more to do with him. He knew too much about me. He suspected too
many other things—not all of which were true. And, worst of all,
based on his knowledge and suspicions, I supposed he had a very low
opinion of me.

"You know what they call men who put women
in other men's beds?" I posed to him.

"In this case," he responded, looking every
bit like a man who knew he'd won, "soldier."

"And what do they call the women?" I
sighed.

"Heroes…if they're successful," he answered
without batting an eye. "Don't over-think it, Miss Foxx. Pillow
talk's always been a weapon of war. Welcome to the fight,
doughboy."

Continued in

Part Two

The Mission

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