THE MAN FROM O.R.G.Y. IS BACK
… AND HOW THEY ALL LOVE IT!
Lascivious Leila, the Woman‘s Libber who made men her sexual slaves . . .
The Sensuous Sister, whose ideas of love were simply heavenly . . .
Busty Binny, the Las Vegas showgirl whose slot machine always hit the jackpot
Quivering Queen Nimm-Fetah, who took very good care of her pets, human and otherwise . . .
Steve Victor, the Man from O.R.G.Y. launches into his wildest adventure yet, aboard a luxury liner packed with lustful lovelies on a perilous pleasure cruise across an ocean of ribald action and non-stop kicks.
AROUND THE WORLD IS NOT A TRIP
TED MARK
1973
CHAPTER ONE
Amidships, on B Deck, there was an open porthole from which protruded a living, well-developed, bare female Breast. . .
It was one of the things I noticed about the S.S. Lascivia, flagship of the Monaco Line, when I first saw her from the dock at New York that wintry midnight. Breast aside, the luxury liner was an imposing sight lying at anchor. A full city block long she was, and perhaps four stories high, three stacks and six masts phallically probing the star-glutted sky, deck lights ablaze to show off her lavish facade. A sleek lady, plump in the right places, but built for speed as well as comfort. Yar is the word, to be salty about it1 .
The Breast was still framed there in the porthole as I started up the gangplank. It rose and fell rhythmically. I wondered if it was a left breast, or a right breast.
It’s not easy to tell in the case of a detached mammary. Not that it was actually detached. Presumably, it was still connected to a body. It hadn’t come unhinged; it wasn’t a free-floating booby, nor a zip-out item hung out to dry all by itself. However, unable to see the body to which it belonged, I couldn’t determine if the view was left-breasted, or right-breasted.
No matter. The Breast could hold its own—which is just what it was doing—against all competition, port-holed or not. It was a boob to remember!
“If you’ve seen two, you’ve seen them all!” So say the cynical. But they’re wrong. I know. I speak as an expert. Bosoms are my business—well, a large part of it anyway.
You see, I’m Steve Victor, the Man from O.R.G.Y.— otherwise known as the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. It’s sort of a misnomer, because what I actually do is run various sorts of sex surveys, mostly for foundations who pay me to compile data which, hopefully, will make the world a better place erotically for one and all. My services, incidentally, are highly personalized. Which means my sexual investigations are strictly a one-man operation. Naturally, that brings me in contact with a lot of breasts, usually in pairs. But if you can judge two, you can judge one.
That's what I was up to as I started down B Deck. I was appraising the melon in the porthole. Closer proximity was revising my estimate upwards. It was definitely a Breastie Supreme!
Such was my judgment as I drew abreast of the Breast. Remember, I had years of tit-tabling experience to back it up. The Breast and I met as equals!
It was a large, bubble-type, fully rounded and peaked at the tip. The flesh was smooth and pink. Its firmness was manifest; a well-hung demi-bosom, self- supporting.
I stooped for a closer look at the nipple-aureole area. The aureole was blood-red and wide. The nipple, perhaps due to the cold, was distended, long and rigid. It was a deep purple color and tapered neatly to almost a pinpoint. The icy wind blew down my neck as I bent over.
The resiliency had to be tested. I couldn’t resist it. I poked gently with my middle finger.
“Oo-ooh!” A soft female voice from the darkness behind the breast-filled porthole. It was an appealing sound. I wondered what she looked like.
The flesh was soft and springy. The audible gasp of surprise had been made on the inhale, and the delectable orb swelled impressively. A second jab deflated it only slightly.
Tap for tit! I flicked the nipple. Inflation followed automatically. This time the Breast came close to filling the small porthole.
I stepped back to study the effect on the Breast. I was distracted by the effect on myself. But this was an interior knowledge; the overcoat I was wearing preventing the bulge from openly betraying itself.
The effect on the Breast was more overtly revealed. The pink aureole widened noticeably and the nipple increased its imposing size and swelled. I noticed a few droplets of water clinging to the aureole. Evidently the owner of the Breast had washed it shortly before hanging it out the porthole. Hygiene counts. She’d made a clean Breast of it.
Now it wriggled even further out the aperture. It was as if the Breast had independently decided that the touch had been pleasant and was asking that it be repeated. With something less than cool, professional detachment, I obliged. I stroked the round mound, traced the aureole, caressed the tip of the nipple, letting my fingers linger there. Someone might come along, but I didn’t care.
Poor thing! It really had no business being out all by itself like that in the chill night air. Initially, it was cold to the touch. But it warmed with surprising swiftness when I removed my glove and cupped it in the palm of my hand.
It snuggled there like a grateful puppy. When I squeezed it gently, it responded by nuzzling its way even deeper into my grasp. From behind the porthole there came an anonymous moan of appreciation.
Encouraged, I stooped over once again and brushed my cheek back and forth over its velvety surface. The moan deepened to a steady purr. The Breast moved in small circles, tracing a complicated route from my jaw to my forehead, and finally coming to rest with the soft aureole embedded in the shell of my ear. The nipple, long, hard and bold, probed the cavity of the ear itself, a maddening tickle sending a series of erotic flashes to my brain, which in turn relayed them straight down to my groin.
I stood it as long as I could, and then I moved my head and captured the Breast in my wide-open mouth. It was a sudden move, greedy, and it broke the rhythm of the pulsating nipple. But my lips and tongue quickly set up a new rhythm. The Breast picked it up, and when I loosened my oral grip slightly, it started moving in and out of mouth like a piston. The new tempo also evoked the first intelligible words from the darkness behind the porthole.
“That’s what you get for being fresh.” A giggle. “A bust in the mouth!”
“It’s cold out here,” I told the Breast. “Why don’t I come inside?”
‘Tm sorry, but that’s impossible!” The Breast reestablished its beachhead on the shores of my craw, shutting off further argument.
My tongue resumed the skirmish with the Breast’-s spearhead. The nipple charged, retreated, circled and jumped as if it was on a ball-bearing hinge. Finally I captured it with my teeth, and my tongue took its revenge.
The roseate was perfumed, and it stung my tongue-tip just enough to be titillating. My lips, summoning up vacuum cleaner suction, encompassed more than half of the mammary mound. Squeals came from behind the porthole.
Suddenly the Breast pulled away. The move took me by surprise. By the time I got my head up, the porthole was filled to overflowing with a new sight—- or, rather, offering, as it turned out. The Breast had been replaced by a Derriere!
This bare Derriere had an air all its own; it was trumps among rumps, tops in bottoms, an ass with class, the kind of sculpted behind you’d expect to find in a museum, not hanging out of a porthole. I lingered over it with my eyes for a long moment.