Chapter 1
The whole picture was flashing on the ceiling. The action had taken place years ago during the war, but he could see it all on the ceiling just as though it were a movie.
The scene was taking place in gestapo headquarters, or rather gestapo torture chambers.
He had parachuted into occupied France, made contact with the French underground and then with the aide of some very brave Frenchmen, began a successful campaign of sabotage against the Nazis.
One night, when they were about to blow up a ball bearing plant, the Gestapo surprised them. They blew the plant, but all the men were killed except Gateaue and himself.
They were dragged off by the Gestapo and tortured.
The Nazis had been working the mover methodically for a week and neither one of them had betrayed their friends.
Torture was a source of pleasure for the Nazis and they were becoming bored with the two prisoners.
The two men knew that nothing short of a miracle could save their lives. The guards dragged them from their cells to the torture chamber. This was it. This was going to be their last chance to get some information from these prisoners. Whether they talked or not they were going to die. By not informing, they only prolonged the torture.
Gateaue's arms were stretched over his head. Steel bracelets were clamped and locked around his wrists. The chains that were attached to them were pulled up on pulleys so that Gateaue was suspended from the ceiling with his toes just barely touching the floor.
Terry was thrown roughly into a chair and a guard stood behind him.
The door at the left opened and two nude women entered the room with several top ranking Gestapo officers. They were all laughing and joking.
The women saw Gateaue suspended by his wrists from the ceiling.
"That is the first subject," a Gestapo medical officer said. He turned to one of the guards, "Remove his clothes."
The guard approached Gateaue and ripped his clothes off. He hung there stark naked with the bruises from the beatings and the blister from the hot irons reflecting in the light.
Gateaue was a very tall and well built man. He was at least six feet four inches tall with very broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips. His malehood even in a flaccid condition was of a size that brought gasps of admiration even from the Nazi "supermen."
The women stared at it in amazement and spoke of it in awe struck whispers.
Terry remembered that he wondered why the huns had brought the two women into the torture chamber.
From the way the women acted it was obvious that they were on good terms with these barbarians. Maybe they got their kicks from watching men tortured and killed, and since this was to be the finale for Gateaue and himself they were to witness the finale performance.
The two naked women looked at the Gestapo Colonel. He smiled and nodded his head affirmatively. The two women walked over to Gateaue's suspended figure and walked around him slowly. They spoke to one another about his magnificent build and when they were in front of him they spoke glowingly about the size of his masculine appendage.
One of the women, the blonde, reached out and took it in her hand. She lifted it up and let it rest across her palm.
Gateaue watched her dispassionately through pain filled eyes. The poor guy had been tortured so much that he couldn't get it up.
Terry recalled that he was in a pretty weakened condition at that time too.
The vision on the ceiling continued to reflect the imagery of his memory.
The other girl had a step stool brought to her. She placed it in front of Gateaue, leaving enough room for the blonde to continue petting and stroking his male-hood.
She climbed on top of the stool and turned to face Gateaue. Her huge, firm ballon like breasts were even with his face.
She took her hand and cupped her breasts leaning forward slightly so that the stiff nipple brushed against Gateaue's lips.
The Gestapo officers were sitting on chairs watching intently.
"Kiss it, Sherry," the girl on the stool said. "Kiss it. Take my nipple between your lips. The Colonel wants us to get you all worked up. We thought you would be a bore, but when we saw the size of your thing we became very interested. We would like to see how big you will get when you are hot."
Gateaue looked up at the girl who spoke. Then he looked down at the girl who was playing with his flaccid male muscle.
His eyes looked across the room to Terry. The question was in those eyes. The question was why? Why were the Germans doing it this way? What was behind their game?
Terry did not know the answer and even if he did know the Germans would not let him speak.
The blonde stopped playing with him and got down on her knees and placed his malehood in her mouth.
That was it. Gateaue's breath hissed out and his malehood sprang to life.
The Colonel nodded his approval and told the girl to keep it up.
Gateaue was now licking and kissing the breasts of the woman who was standing on the stool. It looked as though she was trying to shove the whole thing in his mouth. But her breast was too big.
Just as Gateaue was too big for the girl on her knees to get into her mouth.
But these girls really enjoyed their work and they were really getting Gateaue all worked up.
The Gestapo Colonel got up from his chair and stripped off his uniform. He stood there naked watching the girl work her mouth on Gateaue's manhood.
Compared to Gateaue the Nazi Colonel looked like a three year old boy.
The Colonel motioned to the medical officer who rose from his chair and accompanied the Colonel as he crossed the room to Gateaue's now twitching and jerking body.
The Colonel told the blonde to get away from Gateaue. She nodded her head negatively and continued working her mouth on Gateau's manhood.
The colonel grabbed her by the hair and yanked. Gateaue's manhood popped out of her mouth as she fell away screaming.
The Colonel took her place on his knees before Gateaue and took his manhood into his mouth.
Gateaue opened his mouth to object but the girl on the stool shoved her breast into his mouth.
Gateaue was just too worked up and he began to jerk his hips back and forth as he began approaching his climax.
The Colonel began to move his head faster moaning in ecstasy as he practiced his perversion on Gateaue's body.
The Colonel raised his hand. The Nazi doctor standing nearby took a small flat box out of his pocket, opened it, and extracted a scalpel.
Terry tensed in his seat, wondering what the fiends were going to do.
Gateaue's hips were jerking faster and faster. The Colonel signalled with his hand. The scalpel flashed in the doctor's hand and Gateaue was emasculated right in the Colonel's mouth.
Gateaue screamed. The doctor grabbed a hot poker from a burning brazier and pressed it into Gateaue's gaping wound, cauterizing it and stopping the flow of blood.
Gateaue, mercifully, passed out. The Colonel lay on the floor with Gateaue's severed malehood in his hand. His climax spurting for all to see.
The girl who had been on the stool had leaped off it and onto the blonde who closed her thighs around the girl's face.
A Nazi officer walked in front of Terry and spoke.
"You have seen what we did to your friend for not giving us the information that we want. You thought we were going to kill you," he continued. "Well, we are not. You have the choice of a merciful death, or going through life in the same condition as your friend over there."
At that moment there was a blinding flash and a loud explosion. Terry didn't remember another thing until he awakened in a hospital in England.
An MI-5 Colonel explained to him that the underground had sabotaged the Gestapo Headquarters and that he was the only survivor of the explosion.
Terry was grateful that Gateaue had been killed. He knew that Gateaue would have committed suicide had he lived.
Now it was years after the war had ended and he had continued on in Allied Intelligence, until they figured his nerves had had too much strain. He didn't think so, but he had made one big goof, and you are not allowed to goof in espionage.
He tried to wipe the memory out of his mind by turning to the girl who was lying beside him. Her name was Rene Moffet, and they lived together.
They had just finished screwing and her passion swollen boobs cradled his head. They were in bed with just a night lamp on, throwing a tunnel of light across the room.
When the knock came it startled them both. It way sharp and the sound broke the stillness.
Terry uncoiled out-of bed like a snake, slowly, powerfully. His body was slim but wiry, his face craggy without being ugly. He put his feet into bedroom slippers, threw on a robe and walked into the other room.
He opened the door an inch.
There was a man in the hall with a massive build and a head of gray. The man was well dressed. "Mr. Scott?"
"Yes."
"A mutual friend sent me," the man said. "Beyton Howard."
Beyton Howard had been Terry's boss when he had been attached to the British Intelligence.
Terry opened the door wider. "Come in."
The massive man walked in and Terry closed and locked the door.
"Are we alone?" the man asked.
"No," Terry said.
"I'd rather...."
"It's all right," Terry said. "You can talk."
The man hesitated. Then, from the other room, Rene Moffet called out: "I'll be dressed in a minute." She soon came out, dressed for the street. "I'll come back in an hour," she said, walking out the door.
"We're alone now," Terry said. "You can search the place if you wish."
"NO need for that," the man said. "I trust you." He sat down in an overstuffed armchair. "My name is Morris Levine. I'm with U. S. Intelligence. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you about myself."
"Sure," Terry said. He sat down, crossed his arms over his chest. "What can I do for you?"
"Did Beyton tell you I'm persona non grata in espionage because of a mistake?"
"Yes. He also told me that you helped him recently on a case."
"I needed the loot."
Levine extracted a cigarette case from inside his jacket, flipped it open, offered it to Terry. He took a cigarette. Levine stuck a cigarette between his lips and closed the case. "I have two thousand dollars for you," he said. "As a retainer. There will be another three thousand when the job is finished."
"Im listening."
Levine snapped a cigarette lighter, extended his arm. "Treasury agent was murdered two weeks ago. It was in the papers."
Terry leaned forward so that the cigarette between his lips reached the flame of the lighter. "I read about it. He was knifed."
Levine lit his own cigarette, put the lighter away. "His name was Overman. Ray Overman. He was after a safe cracker named Hurtze. Joe Hurtze. Hurtze has disappeared. Without a trace."
"And you think I can help you find this Hurtze?"
"Hurtze and a few others," Levine said. "During the last few years many wanted criminals have disappeared from the face of the earth. Take Hurtze for example. He disappeared a year ago. For one solid year there was no word of him. Then, he appears, blows a bank job, disappears again. Where was he for a year? Where was he hiding? And what of the others? Where are they?
"What about your agent, Overman" Terry asked. "He left no message for you before he was knifed? He must have been on to something if he was killed."
"I thought at first that Hurtze had knifed him," Irvine said. "But I came across a name. Ira Simeon. We found a notebook in his room with just that one name-Ira Simeon. That was the only clue Overman left behind. We looked up Ira Simeon. A hood. Very handy with a shiv. And Hurtze, the safe cracker, had never used a knife in his life. Strictly a rod man."
"So you got stuck with Ira Simeon."
"Yes." Levine said. "We looked up Simeon as I've said. He works for a man named Krakalow, who owns the Club Rondo. We didn't pick Simeon up because we didn't want to scare anyone. We couldn't bring him to court just because his name was on a murdered agent's notebook."
"And what do you want me to do?" Terry asked.
"Find Hurtze. Find the others. Find the hideout where they're holed up in.
"Why me?"
"Because there's organization here," Levine said. "Because I can't take a chance on using an agent who might be recognized. You're freelance. You have no connection with any law enforcement agency. Beyton Howard said you'd be the ideal man."
"And I'm more expendable than Treasury or FBI man," Terry said realistically.
"That thought never entered my mind."
"If you say so."
"I must warn you," Levine said. "You'll be on your own. There won't be an agent behind every door, anxious to save you in case you get in a spot."
"Do I have a contact?"
"There's a coffee house in the Village. Gone Garry's. You'll contact Gone when you have something to report. He's a tall, baldheaded man, with a beard. You'll walk in and ask for a ginsberg gimlet. That will identify you. He'll answer that he only has kervac cocktails. Contact will then be made."
"Do you think that an organization is hiding these criminals from the law?"
"That's the impression I have," Levine said. "Simeon and the Club Rondo are the only leads we have. I suggest you pose as an International criminal, hiding from the law. You play it by ear from there."
"Can I have my two thousand dollars?"
"Then you're taking the case?"
"Of course." Terry took the money, folded it, put it in a dresser drawer. He saw Levine to the door, opened it.
"I wish you luck, Mr. Scott," the big gray-haired man said. He went out and Terry shut the door.
Terry Scott went to the telephone and dialed a number. Within a minute he was talking to Beyton Howard.
"Howard here."
"This is Terry Scott."
"Hello, Terry. Did Levine make contact?"
"Yes. That's why I'm calling. Can you describe him?"
"Have to make double sure, is that it?" Howard laughed. He then described Morris Levine.
"That's the man who was here," Terry said. "Thanks for the plug."
"I thought you could use the contract."
"You know the deal?"
"I've a rough idea," Howard said. "Levine can't give me every single detail of a case. That wouldn't be cricket. They have to have their secrets. We have to have ours."
"All right, Howard. Thanks again.
"Righto."
Terry hung up. He made himself a drink and waited for Rene Moffet.
He was working again. There was the promise of action and ... perhaps ... sudden death. He felt good. The front door opened and Rene Moffet came in. She was young and good-looking. And she didn't ask questions. She was an actress and she was in love with Terry Scott.
"I'm working," he said.
"Will you have to leave town?"
"I don't know. I might have to. I don't know yet."
She came and sat beside him. "When do you start?"
Tonight."
She put her arms around his neck. "I want you to screw me." Her eyes were sad.
"Aren't you satisfied? We had just finished when our visitor arrived."
"You're not going to ration that, are you?"
"No," he laughed. He opened her dress and sought her breasts with his hands and mouth.
She stiffened. "Terry," she moaned.
He bared her to the waist, took hold of her nipple with his lips.
Her fingers dug into his back.
He stripped her completely, picked her up, carried her into the bedroom where he gently put her on the bed. Then he took off his robe.
"Terry," she said, reaching for him. "Terry." Her hands were everywhere.
He touched her belly and breasts and kissed her nipples, then worked his way back down her belly and ended up with his face between her thighs.
"Ohhh," she sighed. "That's what I love, Baby. You sure know how to get a girl hot.
Keep it up ... kiss ... kiss ... tongue ... tongue. Now I'm ready for you to jazz me."
He jumped up and flattened himself over the length of her body. She raised her knees on either side of him. Then she reached down and took hold of his manhood and placed it where she wanted it.
He rammed it all the way in and she screamed in ecstasy.
"Go, Terry, Go," she screamed. "Pound me ... pound me!"
He pounded her until they both went over the cliff together.