Code Name: Gypsy Virgin

Code Name: Gypsy Virgin




Gypsy? Yes, by inclination.

Erica was not only the most beautiful spy the government had ever used--she was also the sexiest. She was the first to admit that her body was her most potent weapon, and she always kept it cocked for action.

Erica's new assignment was a corker. Her job was to track down a deadly lesbian enemy agent, gain her confidence, and bring her in. For this, Erica went into special training.

Virgin? No, by proclamation.



Publié par
Date de parution 10 janvier 2014
Nombre de lectures 6
EAN13 9781626577459
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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Code Name: Gypsy Virgin

Max Nortic

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.


On the tenth of each month she received a check in the mail for $2500, tax-free, drawn on a post-office box in Baltimore, Maryland.

When her doorbell rang on this particular morning at nine o'clock, she thought the check might have come early. But that, she knew as she stirred out of a deep sleep, was impossible. She got out of bed and padded to the closet and got a robe. She always slept naked, and in the privacy of her lavish apartment she often ate, read, and watched television naked. She moved briskly to the door, tossing back her long dark hair, her legs sleek and tanned, her high, luscious breasts and full hips filling out the robe. She gave the strong impression of being a rich man's mistress.

She opened the door. The mailman tried not to gape at her ripe cleavage.

“Miss Wilson? Miss Erica Wilson?”


“Registered letter.”

She signed the receipt and took the letter. A faint excitement stirred in her blood, jarring her awake.

“Thank you.”

She shut the door in his hungry face. She moved across the huge living room into the kitchen, deliberately strangling her curiosity for the moment. She made a fresh pot of coffee and lit a cigarette. The letter lay unopened as she sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to perk. Her face was calm and serene.

At the age of twenty-four, Erica Wilson had remarkable control over her emotions, and her destiny. She had $85,000 in cash saved, in three safety deposit boxes. She had a wardrobe that did rare justice to her beautiful body, but was selected with such taste and care she could pack it all into two trunks. She paid three hundred dollars a month for her apartment, in Chicago's Marina City, yet she spent less than six months a year in it. She ignored her neighbors, who were certain she was an expensive call girl. She had killed three men with calm detachment, but didn't own a gun and had never fired one except in target practice. Two of the men were ex-lovers, but she felt no emotion afterward.

Her poise deserted her only once each week, when she picked up a stranger, always on a Friday night and usually in a bar, and brought him back to her apartment. She gave in to her pent-up urgency with frantic animal bites and rapidly swinging hips, always dazzling her partner with her remarkable skill and vaginal control. She never slept with the same pickup twice. She never kissed a man on the lips, but her passion for oral love was insatiable. She could arouse a man so expertly he could perform five and six times in a few hours, and afterward she was always cold and abrupt, ordering him out of her apartment.

She had a passion for phallic symbols, which showed in the strange paintings and sculptures and books she'd collected. She also had numerous books on philosophy, pharmacology, psychiatry, and a rare collection of illustrated erotica which consumed her Friday afternoons.

She was, in her own words, obsessed with immense pricks.

She knew her apartment was bugged electronically, and had long ago found the tiny transmitters, yet ignored them. She had no friends, no steady lovers, no pets, and no family. She was a bastard, the daughter of a Polish janitor and a Swedish maid, and the thought amused her.

When the $85,000 she'd saved mushroomed into $200,000, she intended to buy a small villa on the coast of Portugal, and retire from the hazards of her profession. She anticipated a life of quiet luxury and a steady stream of lovers. She had no desire for marriage, and being aware she was a latent nymphomaniac, wanted the time and freedom to pursue that as a career.

The coffee perked and Erica poured a cup. When she'd sipped half of it, she opened the letter.

There was a reserved ticket on a jet flight to Baltimore, and a business card. The card read:

John Butterfield

Confederate Historical Society

67 Waverly Place

Baltimore, Maryland

There was a tiny Confederate flag printed on the bottom of the card. She smiled dryly, and stopped smiling when she checked the ticket and discovered her flight left O'Hare Airport in less than two hours.

Ten minutes later she was in the shower, lathering soap on her full breasts. She shivered as her nipple grew taut under her own fingers, as a faint ache began throbbing in her loins.

Only then did she realize that the day was Friday.

She was moving with the line that was entering the ramp to board her flight when it happened. Her attention was on the two men standing next to the ticket agent, their faces casual but their eyes alert. Federal marshals, she knew, watching for a variety of symptoms that could betray a hijacker.

Someone touched her arm and she spun around.

He had grey hair and a nondescript face.

“You dropped this, miss.”

Her lips began to form the word no, but her eyes dropped to the Manila envelope. On its corner was a small red asterisk. She took it, smiling.

“Thank you.”

He moved away, grey coat and hair lost in the stream of people. The envelope was very light in her hands. She knew they couldn't trust it to the mails, and that was why it was delivered personally and at the very last minute. The lightness meant they'd used onionskin paper, ideal for quick destruction.

The stewardess guided her to the last row of seats on the jet, on the right side. She took the seat next to the window. No one would sit in the two adjoining seats, she knew—they were reserved so she could read in privacy. Nor could anyone look over her shoulder.

She fastened her safety belt. The jet taxied to the edge of the runway, and with a tremendous roar began its takeoff, a gigantic metal bird soaring away from the sprawling dirt and glitter of Chicago. When the jet leveled off in the bright sunshine, Erica slit the flap of the envelope open with her fingernail. She took out four typed onionskin pages. The top sheet was marked:






FAMILIARIZATION BRIEF G-712 Authority: I.S.C. 12/12/70 Dissemination:


Erica leaned her head back against the seat. Familiarization meant she had to memorize every detail. Her code name, in print, always brought a smile to her lips. The smile faded as she began the exercise. She focused her eyes on a metal rivet on the back of the seat before her, concentrating on its shiny center, aware that the edge of the rivet was fading, that nothing existed but the shiny core.

After a minute she bit her lip with frustration, and began again. It was Friday, dammit, and her body was so accustomed to its ritual of excitement on Friday, its preparation for a night of deliciously exhausting sex, she couldn't concentrate. Usually at this time, she would be neatly stacking her collection of erotica— books and illustrations—on the living room table of her apartment for an afternoon of pleasant reading.

She focused again on the shiny core of the rivet, piercing its steel heart with her mind, obliterating everything else from her consciousness. After a minute, she began to read the onionskin pages:


Vivian Marchand; aliases on appended page.


January 22,1943


Shanghai, China


American, French, Chinese, depending on circumstance. American and French identities unknown.


Five feet seven, one hundred twenty-two pounds, green eyes, hair color frequently altered.


None available


Nitro Five



Erica looked up, her concentration shaken. Volatile! The rating was that of an executioner, given only to those foreign agents who had killed as a primary mission. She herself had never killed as a primary mission, only out of necessity and to protect her identity.

She suddenly knew why there were no pictures of Vivian Marchand.

Erica lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before she resumed:


Chinese (Cantonese and Mandarin), French, German, Italian, Spanish and English. No detectable accents.


University of Peking, Sorbonne, Chinese Special Corps.

Again Erica paused. The Chinese Special Corps, as it was politely called, was fashioned after the Russian KGB, but was far more effective and ruthless. It was only the elite who were recruited into the CSC, and they were recruited from everywhere—including the United States. There were rumors of a defection from her own unit, Intelligence Service Central, which in turn was the elite of the Central Intelligence Agency.

She read on:


Vivian Marchand was born of a French father and German mother. The father was a mercenary agent, acting variously for the KGB (prior to World War II) the SS (during World War II) and the CSC, after Mao Tse Tung's rise to power. He was a commando instructor for the CSC for approximately seven years, after which he was liquidated on suspicion of being a double agent for the KGB. Vivian Marchand's mother was not, according to our current knowledge, an official agent but pursued a liberal sex policy with numerous party officials in Mao's regime, with the consent of her husband. The possibility exists she culled information from these officials which she turned over to her husband, who in turn passed it on to the KGB. She disappeared shortly after her husband's execution—no definite knowledge of her death exists. No other relatives, besides the daughter, are known to exist. CODE NAME NITRO FIVE was recruited into the CSC at the age of ten, after which she attended Perking University and the Sorbonne. She is thoroughly trained in electronics, psychology, languages, execution, and espionage organization. She is a highly skilled seducer of both men and women. On March 12th, 1970, CODE NAME SALAMANDER informed the director he had made contact with a woman believed to be Vivian Marchand in San Francisco. The following day, an hour before his scheduled rendezvous with another agent, he leaped or fell to his death from his tenth-story hotel room. He was totally naked at the time. The possibility of execution by NITRO FIVE seems negated, since SALAMANDER was definitely alone at the time of his death. However, information has come into the Office of the Director which suggests a new method of assassination has been developed by the CSC; this method has a purported psychological basis of a radical nature unknown to us. The possibility that NITRO FIVE is an expert in this method, and SALAMANDER'S death was due to this is conceivable. Since he was alone at the time of his fall, the nature and execution of this method is urgently required. OF SPECIAL IMPORTANCE: Although no known photographs of NITRO FIVE exist, foreign agency reports confirm she is extremely attractive physically and has a singular vulnerability—although bisexual in practice, she is basically a lesbian and has a strong psychological addiction to the act of cunnilingus. “Aliases appended.




Erica memorized the aliases and returned the pages to the envelope. She got up and went into the ladies' room directly behind her. After locking the door she laboriously tore the onionskin into tiny shreds and flushed them down the toilet. She did the same with the manila envelope.

Then she returned to her seat and ordered a vodka martini from the stewardess. The details of the sketchy brief were etched into her mind permanently now. She did not believe the information was for her eyes only. Other agents would have read it, and there would probably be a weeding-out process in Baltimore.

Erica wondered about Vivian Marchand's strange addiction. She herself had attended a school in West Virginia three years before, in a quaint white house. The school had touched on lesbianism, but only briefly. The main course had been seduction, and it was pleasantly thorough, with assignments and grades.

She sipped her martini and wondered if they were going to send her back to school. She didn't speculate on what the assignment might be, or even whether she'd be chosen. They could put her back on the jet for Chicago tomorrow morning. She also had the option of refusing any assignment.

Erica Wilson, alias Ellen Janowski, born of a Polish janitor and a Swedish maid in Chicago's slums, never accepted an assignment out of patriotism. Like Nitro Five's careless father—and most of her fellow agents— she was a mercenary. She was paid $36,000 a year, assignment. The more danger involved, the greater the bonus.

It was a well-known fact in her profession that patriots were bad risks, and the more fanatical the patriot, the worse the risk. They had an amazing way of shifting ideologies under stress, and were far too emotional.

The best agents, like herself, were cool, nonpolitical and hungry for money.

An amused smile flitted across Erica's lips as she closed her eyes to nap.

Hunger for money wasn't the only thing that seemed to motivate Nitro Five. Maybe, she thought, the Chinese paid her off in girls.


The taxi driver didn't leave after Erica had paid him, and she knew he was studying her lush buttocks and legs as she stood on the sidewalk. She moved up the walk to the large red brick building that housed The Confederate Historical Society. Located in a fashionable suburb of Baltimore, it had white columns and two shining artillery cannons on the front lawn, survivors of the Civil War. Side by side with the American flag flying over the building was a Confederate flag.

A corny cover, Erica thought, but effective.

She went inside, and the taxi finally sped off. The reception room was adorned with portraits of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and other lost heroes. A prune-faced woman with sharp eyes sat behind a desk.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. Butterfield, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“My name is Erica Wilson. He's expecting me.”

The thin lips tightened with skepticism, and Erica realized the cover was perfect. The woman pointed her pencil to a door marked Private.

“Mr. Butterfield is out for lunch. You can wait in his office. No smoking, be quiet, and don't wander.”

Erica's heels echoed on the tile floor as she entered the office. Another receptionist sat behind a mahogany desk. She was close to forty, but striking: Erica had an impression of power as the woman's cool, lustrous grey eyes swept over her ripe-breasted body in a glance.

“I'm waiting for Mr. Butterfield,” Erica said.

The woman nodded. “I see. You're....” She glanced down at index cards spread out on her desk. “Erica?” The voice was husky and full of authority.

“That's right.”

“Sit down, Erica. Luggage?”

“At the airport. I didn't bring much. I wasn't told how long I'd be staying, or where.”

The woman's eyes lingered on Erica's breasts.

“You'll be staying here. Your stay will range from one day to a week. You'll be taking an advanced indoctrination course. Give me your baggage ticket and I'll have it picked up for you. You cannot, of course, leave the premises during your stay, but you'll be provided with every comfort.”

“Every comfort?” Erica murmured, remembering it was Friday.

The sensual mouth curved in a thin smile.

“Security is such that you may have to make a sacrifice or two. I'm sure you won't mind. I'll have to ask you a few questions before we get you settled, Erica.”

She picked up a dossier from a stack and thumbed through it, her face thoughtful. Erica knew better than to ask the woman's name, or what kind of indoctrination course she would be taking. The woman would be a victim of security herself, and probably didn't even know the existence of Nitro Five, which was why Erica was given the information enroute.

The woman put down the dossier and looked brisk, but her eyes were the slightest bit hungry.

“Have you ever had a lesbian experience, Erica?”

The word psychiatrist flashed on Erica's mind. Of course. The questions would be fast and vicious now this; was the initial weeding-out process.


“Have you ever had the desire to?”


“Ever have a simple crush on another girl?”


“Are you curious about lesbian sex?”

“... a little.”

“Are you aware of the fact that you're a potential nymphomaniac?”

Erica smiled. She was trying to rattle her, of course.


“Did you know your mother was once a prostitute?”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Smoke if you like, Erica.”

When she put a cigarette between her lips, the woman leaned across her desk with a lighter. Her shining eyes caressed Erica's throat. She snapped the lighter shut.

“Would you perform a lesbian act if you were ordered to by your superiors?”

Erica exhaled smoke through her nostrils.


“Including cunnilingus?”


“Right here and now?”


The woman didn't change expression.

“What would you do if the Chinese Special Corps offered you $20,000 to defect?”

Erica hesitated.

“I don't know. I'd be tempted, but I don't trust them.”

The woman nodded. She picked up the dossier and leafed through it, selecting a page.

“On May 14th of this year, a Friday, you picked up a man in a bar on Merritt Boulevard in Chicago, and took him home with you. The man's name was Hawkins. You indulged in a masochistic act with this man. In a whisper too low to be picked up by electronic transmitter, you asked him to penetrate you anally. Why?”

For the first time, Erica's composure was shaken. Her face reddened. Dammit, she thought irritably, didn't she have any privacy?

“I don't know. I suppose... I wanted to be hurt, in the heat of passion. That's all.”

“Did it hurt?”

“You know it did,” she flared. “He had a ten-inch penis. You've got the tapes.”

Easy, she cautioned herself, easy. This is the weeding-out process.

The woman nodded crisply.

“His phallus is ten and three quarters inches, erect. Phenomenal. Which of these four pictures excites you the least?”

From the corner of her desk, she took four eight-by-ten glossy photos and handed them to Erica. The first showed a naked man and woman, both beautiful, the man on top of her, half penetrating her with his thick erection, the woman with her legs resting over his shoulders. The second showed the same man and woman locked in mutual oral love. Erica's pulse quickened. The third showed two lushly curved girls in the same oral position, their faces buried in each other's thighs. The fourth was simply a picture of a naked girl, perhaps fifteen. Her face was lovely and her delicate breasts were silky smooth, with large pink aureoles. Between her plump, tender thighs was a fringe of curly golden hairs.

Erica bit her lip, thinking fast. It was a trap, of course, a psychiatric game. She suddenly knew what the indoctrination course was for: not just perversion, or lessons in lesbianism. It was deeper and far more cunning than that. She decided to play along with the game, temporarily. She glanced at the four pictures again. Not the two girls making love; that was the obvious choice.

The correct one was easy, actually: Which one would an aroused man choose?

“This one,” Erica said. She handed the woman the picture of the adolescent girl. “It doesn't do a thing for me.

Their eyes met, and they both suddenly laughed at the same time.

“Very good,” the woman said. “You're doing beautifully. I think you'll be an exceptional student. Let's get you settled now, shall we?”

The woman stood up, revealing a small waist and voluptuous hips. Erica followed her to another door.

“By the way,” Erica said, “when do I get to meet Mr. Butterfield?”

The woman opened the door, and smiled gently, the tip of her tongue dabbed at the corner of a full lip.

“You already have,” she said. “I'm Mr. Butterfield.”

School had begun.


The room had pale green walls, a thick carpet and a view—through a barred window—of a spacious lawn enclosed by a high brick wall. Erica learned that most of the red brick building, except for its historical cover, was actually a well-equipped training center with its own kitchen, library and gym.

“You must not wander out of your room at any time, unless accompanied by your guide,” Mr. Butterfield said. “You'll meet her shortly. You must never enter a door painted black. You must not talk to anyone you meet in the hallways. This room will be your home, and your private classroom. This,” she said, tapping a portable television set, “will be your teacher. Channel ten is a closed circuit. You will be expected to take notes and you'll have written examinations. Your meals will be served here, and if you should want anything in the meantime—a sandwich, or a drink, or cigarettes—just push this button on the bedside table. Room service,” she added pleasantly. “I told you your stay would be comfortable.”

Everything but the one thing I need, Erica thought.

“I could use a drink,” she said. “Vodka martini.”

Mr. Butterfield pushed the button, her hungry eyes never leaving Erica as the dark-haired girl kicked off her shoes and stretched her silken legs out before her on the bed. She deliberately wriggled around as if to settle herself, so that her skirt rode up to reveal the golden flesh of her thighs. Her composure was perfect as she lit a cigarette, knowing Mr. Butterfield would just love to bury her avid mouth to her hot, fragrant thighs but didn't dare. Not in this line of business.

A blond girl in a crisp white uniform came into the room. The recruit was twenty or so, with wide blue eyes and a soft mouth.

“This is Shirley,” Mr. Butterfield said. “She will be your guide during your stay. She'll serve your meals, and generally cater to your needs. You mustn't leave this room without her. You'll find her indispensable.

The girl smiled and left, her plump breasts and curved buttocks straining at the snug uniform.

Erica's eyes quickly found the small telephone connection against the wall. The building phone had been removed, of course, so that orders for room service had to be personal. As subtle as a sledge hammer, Erica realized. But, then, it was meant to be.

“Shirley is trained in Swedish massage,” Mr. Butterfield said. “She has a marvelous touch. She's also a karate expert, should you become curious about doors painted black. Your classes won't start until tomorrow morning, so you can spend the rest of the day relaxing.” She gestured to a stack of books on the dresser. “Those are required reading. You'll find a menu and wine list there also. Our cook is a graduate of the Cordon Bleu.”

At the door, Mr. Butterfield paused, her glittering eyes making a final, devouring sweep over Erica's smooth thighs.

“I think you'll have a memorable stay,” she said, and disappeared.

Erica stared at the ceiling, thinking. It was becoming painfully clear.

The blond girl returned with her drink and placed it on the bedside table.

“Anything else?” Her voice was soft and sweet.

Erica's face became grim and her voice was husky and full of authority:

“Have you ever had a lesbian experience? Have you ever had the desire? Why not?”

The girl laughed. “You're being taped, you know.”

“I know.” Erica searched the shining blue eyes, and detected something. “There are no men on the premises, are there, Shirley?”

“No. Just women.”

“Of course,” Erica said softly. “Just beautiful women. That's all for now, Shirley. Thanks.”

The girl flashed her a warm smile and closed the door behind her. There was the gentle click of the lock. Erica sipped her drink, amused. In a few days, Shirley would begin to look infinitely sensual and lovable as Erica's normal desire began its frustration-suppression process, as the need for body contact and release in the form of an orgasm began to build up...


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