A LOT OF THINGS (AND PEOPLE) WERE BUGGING THE MAN FROM O.R.G.Y.
Steve Victor should have bugged out of the caper at the start, when a sunkissed beauty insisted on seducing him in a palm tree. He surely should have cut the tape that hound him to the case when a gorgeous guide led him to the utter depths of depravity in Paris. Certainly he would have liked to erase all record of what happened between him and a blond bombshell with a friendly dog in the Alps. But by the time he fully realized the danger that threatened him, Steve Victor had plunged in too far to withdraw. . .
BEAUTY AND THE BUG
TED MARK
1975
Orthography corrections by 11-0-11
Annotations by 11-0-11
2018
Chapter One
Deposed President of the United States Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson1 was the furthest thing from my mind that sun-balmy day on Paradise Island in the Bahamas. Bikinis took precedence over Chief Executives, ex and otherwise. My eyes were filling my thoughts with one bikini in particular, one that was stuffed to overflowing with a Latin redhead.
She was flopping around on a surfboard in the Caribbean surf. It was obvious that the redhead had neither the expertise nor the desire to ride the surf correctly. She was hitting it energetically, but without much style.
That was okay. She had enough natural class to make up for it. Plus the fact that every time her body slapped down, the overstuffed bikini lost a point or two in the battle for concealment.
Panties riding down here . . . bra-top sliding over there . . . bottoms jerking away from plump posterior . . . top-cup expelling a breast like an overripe papaya tipped with one flawless jungle-berry . . . cloth triangle falling away from bright red pubic curls. . . . The bikini had a large job to handle! And the way she was bouncing around, it just couldn’t cover everything. So I stared. . . .
Given the circumstances, all those who still think my mind should have been on former Prez Nick Dickson might as well stop reading right now. This is the wrong book for you. Try Little Women.
As for me, back to the redhead! . . .
She was on the tall side—about five-eight—but all the accessories fit her limousine body like they’d been designed by Cadillac. The headlights would have been oversized on a smaller model, but they were just right for her -- set high, fastened firmly in place, styled to round out the sleek silhouette. The tail assembly, or rear end, moved so smoothly that it looked as if it could purr—built-in shocks guaranteeing a smooth ride over the roughest terrain, a well-rounded trunk designed to follow the curves at any speed, tight spring action making sure that the tail section would always ride high. Graceful as tail fins, her legs were sturdy without being stocky, tapering to slenderness without being skinny, muscular without being masculine. Add plushly upholstered hips, a slimline waist, and under the triangle of bikini the hillock of a Mound of Venus as haughty as a Rolls Boyce radiator cap. Every other model on the beach looked like a dune buggy by comparison.
Yep, she looked expensive. She’d take premium fuel—vintage champagne, no doubt -- and she wouldn’t be cheap to run. No doubt about it, she was the kind of high-powered creampuff to give a man his own personal energy crisis!
Did that thought—energy crisis2 —remind me of former President Dickson? It did not! My mind stayed firmly on the bikinied senorita.
If I said that while her body was sensational, it was really her face that attracted me most, there are those who would call me a liar. They’d be right. I’d be lying. With a torso like hers, the visage had to be noticed second. Still, it was a better than okay countenance. Like the rest of her, it featured a golden-tan complexion. High cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a strong bone structure attested to a Spanish or Indian heritage—or, more likely, a combination of both. The eyes were cobalt colored -- dark blue-gray-black -- in stark contrast to her long red hair. The hair itself also contrasted sharply with her olive skin. (A light complexion is the usual complement to red hair.) The redness of the tresses was so deep as to be almost maroon, and was flecked with yellow-gold.
Her nose was full without being large, Incan or Castilian, arrogant, with nostrils that flared when she was angry-or aroused. There was a cruel down-line to her mouth, softened by full lips and a dimple on one cheek, rendered intriguing by small, sharp, very white teeth. Her jaw was strong, but rounded to softness. And she carried her head on a neck so long and graceful that, despite its lack of milky Patrician coloring, it could only be described as aristocratic.
Still, taken as a whole, there was a nice, earthy peasant quality about her voluptuous body that more than offset any hint of the coolness of aristocracy. Musk! Even from a distance, I’d have bet her perfume would be heavy with it. Musk! The aroma of lovemaking
Contemplating such an aroma, give me one good reason why I should have turned my thoughts to Tricky Nicky3 as our beloved former Chief Executive was sometimes called.
Business?
No, I was attending strictly to business with my appraisal of the surf-splashing siren in (well, at least half in) the bikini. That was my business. Women. Men. Sex. And all the ramifications arising from their interactions.
I should have mentioned it before. I'm Steve Victor, the Man from O.R.G.Y. The acronym stands for the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth.
No apologies! Between the Puritans and the perplexed, somebody has to provide some common-sense advice to young people in the area of sex. Basically I’m a researcher, but the books—like this one—that grow out of my research do provide information for youth. Not much morality perhaps, but truth. Which, I tell myself, is a start.
However, it’s the research—the sex surveys I conduct under the auspices of the various foundations which pay extremely well for them—that is my primary activity. O.R.G.Y., you see, is strictly a one-man operation. And the man is me, Steve Victor.
I wasn’t working on a sex survey at the moment. The truth is I wasn’t working on much of anything, and hadn’t been for some time. You might say I was on a vacation—an enforced vacation.
So my phantasizing of the surfer was a sort of busman’s holiday. If you were in my business, you’d take busmen’s holidays too. Particularly if the bus was a Cadillac like this redhead!
I’d just gotten out of a foreign model -- “just” being about a week before. Her name was Leila. Made in Arabia-originally—and in many another corner of the world since. A pint-sized nymphet with a giant-size appetite for sensuality, Leila had gone from harem to Women’s Lib via a villa on Paradise Island provided by an ever-grateful sheikh4 .
But Leila’s story is no part of this narrative—except as it explains my situation. On the beach -- that was my situation in three concise words. Liberated Leila had used me as a sex object (fair enough, considering my history) and then discarded me like an empty corn husk. (Well, I wasn’t quite empty; not quite.) She had simply packed her bags, closed up the villa, and left Paradise, leaving me temporarily homeless and penniless (the Paradise Island Casino had swallowed up my green stuff like a rabbit in a cabbage patch) -- on the beach!