Chapter 1
Until a moment ago, Jorge Sanchez had been the premier playboy of the western world. Once owner of Brazilian coffee plantations, gold and silver mines, banks and steamship lines, race horses and yachts and accepted in every country in the world as the epitome of the dashing ambassador of Latin America without portfolio, handsome, single and considered the best catch in international society, he was now just another corpse.
His stiffening, naked body lay in the center of his super-king sized, canopied, black ebony and solid gold bed. The heavy silk sheets were soaking wet with his and Greta's gism, mixed together with sweat from both their bodies. The sensuous musky odor of sex was fast dissipating, giving way to the awful smell of death.
Greta had called the captain of the yacht, Carioca and she awaited the captain with perfect composure, knowing that she couldn't possibly be blamed for Jorge's death. Jorge had fucked himself to death and the bed was loaded with evidence. If that was not enough, her pussy contained enough of Jorge's semen to clear her of any charge.
Half Swedish and half English, 22 years old, Greta was the most desirable sex symbol in the world. Six feet tall, sleek, smooth, golden tanned skin covered a body that rivaled the work of ancient Greek sculptors. Her breasts were wide spread and the titties matched each other perfectly, each firm, taut mound rising up and out for five inches.
The beveled, pink-nipple flesh formed a circle the size of a silver dollar and in this enticing field was centered her half inch teats that were only a shade darker. Even when she was quiet these fruit-like globes seemed to be in motion, instantly exciting any male lucky enough to be close to her.
Greta's gorgeous, wide-spaced eyes were as blue and as sparkling as the desert sky at high noon and the radiance from these eyes could blind a man as quick as the noon sun could. Most of the time these eyes were half-hooded with her darkened upper lids. She only lifted the sexy lids on very special occasions and then they were devastatingly powerful.
Her tiny ears and her medium-sized nose were organs of classical formation, the nose straight, but with nostrils that were longish and flexible enough to permit copious breathing under the most strenuous conditions. If one looked close at her nose when she was inwardly excited, one could see the nostrils quiver and that would be her only sign of excitement.
Her mouth contained an extra long and sinuous pink tongue, set inside two jewel-like rows of white-white teeth. Her teeth were tiger strong and had never known a cavity. When they showed, it was like a glimpse of perfectly matched oriental pearls that had somehow been implanted in her mouth.
Greta's lips were shaped as Cupid's bow, full at the center and tapering to the corners, which, like everything about her were wide spread. She could part these creamy red lips ever so wide when necessary and they were always wet and shining, as if to beckon any man to kiss her.
The general contour of her face was oval, but the over-all beauty was so blindingly attractive that one could talk with her for minutes and come away without being able to describe her, other than just to say that she was the most beautiful object on earth.
Greta's hair was naturally Nordic blond and very long. She wore it in a bun when in the wind or when she traveled; otherwise she let it fall around her shoulders and back, where it reached to her waist. Her armpits were clustered with long, heavy, blond strands in the European fashion that believed that hair was sexy wherever it was.
Her belly was flat, her belly button large and pink to match her nipples, it's deep indention resembled a tiny pussy and only a confirmed coward would hesitate to kiss that wee little circle nested just above her blond basket of cunt hair.
The skin that covered her lower belly containing her womb and its powerful, huge vagina was protected with a thick forest of silky, soft, blond, closely-knit strands of long hair. Her pubic triangle began at her belly button and stretched the width of her belly and a good four inches on either side of her cunt before it disappeared between her thighs. This huge growth of pussy hair brought gasps when she wore a bikini.
Greta's arms and legs tapered almost fluidly toward their extremities and her hands and feet bespoke of the character in her that made her extremely sensitive and artistic. Her long strong fingernails were always manicured and coated with the shade of red lacquer that matched her lipstick.
Her almost straight back ended at the tops of her fully-rounded buttocks, buttocks that were creased with a long slit covered with an overabundance of the same seductive blondness she had on her loins. When she walked her ass seemed to revolve in unison, yet at counterpoint, to the motion of her legs, a most distracting sight.
Greta's deep voice was instinctively modulated always and her elocution and pronunciation were unmistakably that of the high born British woman so often imitated but never mastered on the stage. Her words were always direct, clearly understood and at times, sounded like the tinkling of cymbals, they were so pear shaped.
The captain and doctor of the Carioca arrived simultaneously and ran to the ornate bed where their patron and friend lay quite dead. Their astonishment and grief was obvious as they surveyed the body and the mussed bedsheets. Jorge's face was wreathed in a smile of esoteric contentment and happiness. The doctor turned to Greta, whose body was wrapped in a black satin robe.
"Were you with Jorge when he passed on?"
"Jorge was not only with me, he was inside of me."
"Do you mean you were ...?"
"That's exactly what I mean. If you'd like to examine my vagina you may do so. You'll find Jorge's last drop of sperm is still warm."
"That is not necessary, Senorita, I see enough evidence on the bed. He died of a heart attack, without any question," the doctor replied.
"Please, Senorita, will you be kind enough to return to your stateroom. We cannot permit this accident to reach the press," the captain said, in a voice choking with emotion. He had loved Jorge like a brother.
"You gentlemen can rely on me. I shall conceal this unfortunate situation from the world for as long as I shall live," Greta answered.
"Many, many thanks, Seniorita, we are most grateful. Being here in U.S. waters we shall be subject to their regulations and these American officials can be might difficult. The Miami coroner will have to sign the death certificate. Please go now and accept my deepest sympathy," the overwrought captain said in a tearful whisper.
Greta returned to her quarters and sat in deep meditation and contemplation. She had accomplished her third immolation of 1970 and this latest one had been the easiest one. The 'coup de grace' had come suddenly and magnificently. Jorge, for all his reputation, had turned out to be just a cream puff once his penis had entered her vicious vagina.
The English Duke of Churchill and the Rama Khan of Morocco had been sacrificed earlier this year and both of them had taken much more time to do in, she remembered. All three proud males had just one fuck with her, one fatal fuck. She wondered if there was a man alive in the world who could survive her pussy. And if there was such a man, where would she find him?
Greta's personal experience in the western hemisphere was mostly on the South American continent, although she had been to Mexico City and Acapulco, both places located on the barbaric North American continent. Here she was in the bay just a few seconds away from Miami, Florida, U.S.A.
The realization that she would have to disembark in the United States struck like a sledge hammer. The stories she had heard about the uncivilized inhabitants of the U.S.A. did nothing to assuage her feelings just now. Why oh why, couldn't she have taken Jorge in Monaco, or Gibraltar, or in any of the ports of Europe they had stopped at?
In any case, her she was in a strange and foreboding country and without a plane of her own within 4,000 miles. The only solution was to telephone London and have her Lear-Jet pick her up in Miami. She reached for the ship's telephone and got through amazingly fast to her chief pilot in London.
"Charles, you must come at once. I'm stranded in the colonies, a place called, Miami, I think. Yes, I'm still on the Carioca but when you get here come for me immediately, please hurry!" she demanded.
A polite but firm knock echoed in her stateroom and she bade the knocker to come in.
"Miss Linstrom?" from a white starched uniform bristling on a suntanned athletic young man.
"Yes, I am Greta Linstrom," she replied, arising to greet the official looking individual.
"I am Commodore Jordan from the Miami Port Authority and as you are a guest on the Carioca, I must take a statement from you regarding the death of the owner. May I sit down?"
"But of course dear boy, please do and have a drink," Greta implored, in her most accommodating voice.
"Thank you very much. This won't take long but it's routine to enter whatever details are available in our records, the State Department you know."
"Please ask anything of me, you know that we were very good friends."
"Have you any reason to believe Jorge died from anything other than natural causes?"
"Of course not," she lied.
"Did he appear to be 'under the weather' the last time you saw him?"
"Yes, he did appear to be a bit pale and unsettled when I last saw him. In fact I could say he was trembling and exhausted."
"That ties in with the doctor's findings. He died of a heart attack you know. Too bad he didn't call the doctor when he felt so bad."
"Jorge was a very proud man, Commodore. Death was far from his mind I'm positive. He had never been ill since I've known him."
"These heart attacks do come on suddenly some times, but he was a very young man for such a quick exit. The doctor says he died painlessly which is a small blessing."
Greta smiled inwardly as she thought of how happy Jorge had been when he passed out. He had had seven ejaculations and he seemed to enjoy the last one as much or more than the first. He had truthfully died in the fray of sexual combat, just as others had died between her thighs. Even as they talked, Greta was trying to think of who her next conquest might be.
"I'm very glad he died in peace at least. He was such a wonderful person. I don't know where I'll find another one to replace him," Greta added.
"Well, now that you're in our country perhaps you will find a new fiance. There are plenty of good men in America. You'll have to stay here for at least three or four days while our government goes through the red tape required to remove a corpse to another country and during that time, who can tell?"
"Three or four days? You must be joking. My plane is on its way to pick me up tonight. Are you sure I have to remain that long?"
"What's so bad about that, you're in the 'sun and fun' capital of the world here. Surely you can find something to amuse yourself with here."
"But I don't know a soul in America. I've never been here. What on earth will take so long?"
"I'm sorry, but you see the Brazilian ambassador to the United States will have to fly here from Washington to attend to the details of this death and our State Department will have to release the body before anyone that was on the yacht leaves our jurisdiction. Cheer up it can't be all that bad."
"I have no where to stay in Miami and I don't want to remain on the yacht after what's happened.
"Miami Beach has many tine hotels. I'm sure one of them would please you. May I suggest you try the Eden Roc hotel?"
"Dear Commodore, I've never slept in a public house in my life. I shouldn't think of such a drastic thing."
"I see what you mean. Perhaps there is a way out. Do you by chance know Lord and Lady Rice from England? They have a house on an island in Biscayne Bay, actually only a mile from where we are?"
"Do you mean Gogi and Tudi Rice who own the Corsair?"
"They must be the same, as Lord Rice's yacht is called the Corsair."
"Excuse me for a second. If it's them I will be all right. Let me telephone," Greta said as she put in a call for her old friends.
"Gogi, darling, it's me, I'm in a terrible spot, can you put me up for a few days?" A long pause and then a thank you.
"Thank you, Commodore, they're sending a boat for me right away. Now I must get ready to go. Do you need any more information from me?"
"No, Miss Linstrom, not at the moment. If anything comes up we'll reach you at Lord Rice's house. Thank you so much for being cooperative."
The interview finished and her plans set, Greta called her two personal maids and told them of the shift in plans. The maids quickly packed and before long a Chris-Craft speed boat hove alongside the Carioca to pick the three women up and carry them to Bott's Island where Lord and Lady Rice were in temporary winter residence.
"Gogi, darling, it's so gracious of you to put me up. I've had a dreadful experience with poor Jorge. The man just gave way on top of me."
"Tudi does that all the time with me, you have to get used to that, Greta. Why don't you stick with girls, they never pass out?" Gogi answered through their close embrace.
"Gogi, you don't understand. Jorge died on top of me."
"My God, Greta, that's the third one this year to die with you, what the hell do you do to them?"
"You're right, Gogi, I do have a rather fatal effect on certain men, sort of a hobby of mine you know."
"Hobby or not, you should ease up a bit. You'll eliminate all the interesting men before you're through, although I must say it sounds like fun. Come on in the house, I want to hear all about it," Gogi replied.
Lord and Lady Rice owned a huge estate on Nassau in the Bahamas where they wintered, but a late arriving hurricane had driven the sea up and into their house just a fortnight ago and while the house was being put in order they were roughing it in a rented Biscayne Bay mansion. They had plenty of room for Greta and her maids and were more than happy to see their close friend.
Tudi (Lord Rice) was off in Nassau overseeing the house repairs so that Gogi was indeed delighted to see Greta, a girl that was infinitely more than just a close friend. The two had been lovers since their teens and now here they were alone on an island with nothing to do but love. It would be an exciting interlude for both switch hitters.
Now ensconced in the posh master bedroom the girls got down to some serious conversation and to some not so serious 'gin and tonic's'.
"I just can't get over it, Greta. Tell me is it chance that these prized bachelors have died with you?"
"They have died by chance, but not by the chance you're thinking of. The 'chance' that did way with these men was the mix-up in my genes. You remember how I've told you that as a child I was a very slow learner? Well, did you know that many geniuses have had that same history: Hans Christian Anderson, Albert Einstein, Mahatma Ghandi and others have had the same history of childhood backwardness, but when once the genes start to work a miracle takes place?
"You see, when I was about thirteen years old, I was aware of my overabundance of pubic hair and I was also aware of the strength in my vagina. Do you know that I shattered a Coca Cola bottle in my pussy when I was 14? Along with my superior physical development I noticed that I was possessed with a demon. Does all this surprise you, Gogi?"
"Yes and no, I've always thought there was something that set you apart from the rest of us. You seemed to get perfect school grades without ever studying and you always seemed detached from the rest of us. I must say that I felt greatly honored that you accepted me as a friend and as a lover, but this demon angle does throw me. Tell me more about it."
"About two years ago I got fed up with the male race in general and at about the same time I had a dream, a dream where I fucked a man to death. This was a strange dream because I'd never been with a man. Of course I'd masturbated and I've developed my vaginal muscles to a point where I can even bend a steel object inside my pussy. In the dream I had this man inside of me and I simply drained his semen until he died.
"I confessed this sinful dream to our Monsignor and he told me to forget it, but when the Prince of Tasmania deflowered me and died in the act I knew there was something ominous happening within me. I went back to the Monsignor and he again told me to forget about it, but when poor Lord Russix died the same way the Monsignor took me seriously.
"He said I was be-deviled and I must be exorcised. He put me through the exorcism ritual three times and pronounced me pure and I was too, but early this year I began to have the same dream over and over and the only way to get rid of the dream is to commit a regicide."
"Yes, but Greta, these men weren't kings."
"Of course not, but they were all the proudest kind of men, men who thought in their own minds that they were kings. Don't you see the connotation? Each man was wealthy and important and most of them were of royal blood. My little demon keeps telling me that this is my mission on earth. Really I'm doing the human race a favor when I eliminate this type of man, don't you agree?"
"Yes, I agree and you do it so painlessly. In a way I envy you. There's a horrible man I'd like to do in right here. Do you see that island off to the east about a hundred yards? Well, there is an American living there who is driving us mad. He has parties every night. They run all over the island drinking and copulating all night long.
"They play obscene rock and roll music so loudly we can't sleep; their speedboats are forever churning up the water; they bellow songs at the top of their lungs and what's bloody awful they shoot fireworks throughout the night. We've found out his name but that's all. He should be eliminated. Wish you'd do it for us."
"What is his name?"
"Sylvestor Sestor."
"And is that all you know about him?"
"That and the obvious fact that he is an American."
"Let's find out if he's important enough to arouse me, I'll telephone Commodore Jordan whom I met on the Carioca. He seemed very knowledgeable.
"Oh please do call him. Ask him over for a drink. Call right away!"
Greta had little trouble locating Jordan and he instantly accepted an invitation to visit Bott's island that very night. Jordan had visions of being close to the fantastic glamour girl ever since he'd left the Carioca, but her manner had been very cool towards him, he thought.
Commodore Jordan arrived in his own spiffy little sailboat and dressed in a yachtsman garb. When he saw Gogi, (Lady Rice), on the dock with Greta, he did a double take for here were two gorgeous girls, instead of just one. Both girls had donned bikinis and they were the briefest possible bikinis. Gogi wore white, while Greta wore black.
Gogi was shorter than Greta, but she was still a tall girl. She had hair the length of Greta's but her hair was as black as Greta's was blond. The contrast was in coloring most of all because Gogi was almost as strikingly beautiful as Greta. The girls waved him in and he disembarked with high hopes for a pleasant evening.
With the handsome boy between them the girls strolled into the house and plunked him down on a huge down filled sofa, each girl sitting as close to the excited boy as possible without touching him. The proximity of this feminine pulchritude was enough to bring a rise between his legs and when their combined woman smell wafted into his nostrils he was game for anything these sorceresses had in mind.
"Commodore, we have a question for you. We're awfully curious about our neighbor across the way. We know his name but that's all. He seems to be someone important. Do you know who we are talking about?" Gogi asked.
"Sure, you mean old Silly Seftor the Ponyboy mogul. He's had that house for ten years. He gives us plenty of trouble every time he's there but there isn't much we can do about him. He's too highly connected."
"Why do you call him Silly?" Greta asked.
"Well, people who know him always call him Silly and that's a mild expression to describe him. I've known him and about him for years."
"Really!" Gogi pressed, "how does that happen?"
"Before I came down here I was an FBI agent up in Chicago and I was once assigned to investigate old Silly. He's certainly something unique in our country."
"You make him sound so intriguing. Won't you tell us what you know? We're just two dumb little girls from over the water and we're dying to learn some real Americana."
Jordan's mind was far from the Ponyboy operation. He was thinking of how wonderful it would be to climb into bed with one of these sexy chicks, or maybe even both of them. Surely they must have had something in mind when they invited him over. This wasn't his first experience with bored society dames, but most times before they had been dogs who couldn't get a man on their own steam.
After starting n his second drink Jordan figured he might as well get Sestor's biography told and out of the way. These girls were interested in the man for sure and he was glad in a way that he did know something about Silly. He'd tell the tale and then go to work on the girls. He began to talk and was planning to skim over the whole subject as quickly as possible.
"Ponvboy is a magazine, published once a month in Chicago. It has a format of pornography and is a very widely read slick publication and Sestor is the publisher ... supposedly. Besides Ponyboy Magazine there is a chain of private clubs called the Ponyboy Clubs and on top of that there are several resort hotels called Ponyboy Hotels, all of which belong to old Silly, or at least they are supposed to belong to him.
Ponyboy Clubs have what they call Ponies working in them. These are girls who are young, attractive and very available to members for fun and games. The select girls belong to the super club called the Stable. The Stable is where Silly lives and also where the forty or fifty elite Ponies live. All these activities make old Silly appeal' to be one of America's outstanding citizens. Now that's your mysterious neighbor. You should be honored to live so close to such an illustrious man."
"Oh please tell us more," Gogi pleaded as she handed Jordan his third drink, this one stronger than the first two.
"Well he has his own jet plane. He has several fancy chauffer driven cars. His house, called as I said, the Stable, is a mansion of fifty rooms with two swimming pools, a private movie room, bowling alleys and billiard room. And plus all that he is reputedly a multi-millionaire."
Gogi knew instinctively that Jordan was telling only a very small part of what he knew about Sestor, but she could also sense that the boy was suffering between his legs. In fact, there was a sizeable bulge in his crotch. Perhaps if the girls gave him a little sex and some more booze he might loosen up.
She was dead right about Jordan's feelings. The nearness of the two almost naked girls was driving him wild. Gogi turned the hi-fi on and asked Jordan to dance with her.
"Sorry, I don't dance," he replied a bit sheepishly.
"Then you dance with me, Greta. I feel like dancing," Gogi said.
The graceful long legs of Greta unfolded and she took Gogi into her arms to dance. Now the sight of the undulating asses and the four huge titties mashed together in the dance embrace was really heightening the boy's desires. The two girls wiggled and waggled and rubbed pussies all over the room and soon his prick was as hard as a rock and his mind was super charged with a driving lust that he couldn't put away.
The winter sun was fading, but the room was still warm, warm enough so that the girls quickly broke out a sweat, a sweat that glistened and gleaned over their sleek sheening skins. The sweat gave off a lot more of the sexy woman musk and as Jordan's nostrils dilated he was indeed sorry he hadn't learned to dance.