“Then allow me.” I’d made love to Dawn, but I’d never had a really good look at her magnificent figure in the nude. Now I pulled off her halter and gave her the bosom award over the other girls.
Rosita playfully tugged off Dawn’s shorts and then the two of them began trying to pull off my pants. I put up a mock battle, sure that I would lose, and I did. When I was as naked as they, Selma broke away from Brigid for a look at me.
“Mmm,” she commented, “a real man. It’s been so long that I forgot what one looks like.”
The look in her eyes aroused me even more. I took a long swig of vodka and reached for her. She came quite willingly and landed in my lap with perfect accuracy. Facing me, she locked her legs around my hips and began bouncing eagerly.
“Selma!” Standing over us with her hands on her hips, Brigid was so angry that she seemed unaware that the top of her pajamas was wide open. Her small breasts stood straight out. The nipples were long and sharp and bright red. They quivered—whether with indignation or arousal, I couldn’t say.
“Don’t get your Irish up,” Selma told her. “I won’t neglect you.” She pulled Brigid around beside her and pulled down her pajama pants. I just had time to appreciate that Brigid was a natural redhead before Selma buried her mouth against the Irish girl’s flesh.
Not to be left out, Dawn and Rosita crowded in on either side of us. I reached a hand out and Dawn pulled it against her. She began squirming madly. I raised my head and fastened my mouth over one of Rosita’s breasts. I saw one of Brigid’s hands slide surreptitiously up the Cuban girl’s thighs until it located it’s mark.
Brigid and Selma cried out at almost the same moment. Dawn pushed Selma off my lap and replaced her. Rosita was on her knees in front of Brigid now. And Selma was behind her, burrowing.
We lost all track of time. We altered our positions I don’t know how many times. We guzzled champagne and vodka, vodka and champagne. We figured out one sexual innovation after another. Afternoon passed into night and night into day and still we kept at it with no thought of rest. When we grew weary, we just drank some more and went back to the fun and games. Never have I so truly felt myself to be what I am—the man from O.R.G.Y.
“What’s that?” Rosita raised her head from my lap and listened.
“What’s what?” Brigid stopped the rhythmic motion of her hand against Dawn’s womanhood and also listened.
“They’re trying to signal us,” I managed to tell them through a drunken haze, ejecting a mouthful of Sehna’s bosom in order to get the words out.
Rosita listened some more. “They’re getting ready to detonate,” she told us finally. “Pedro says we should get some kind of cover to protect us from the flying rubble and stay under it until after the explosion.”
“Damn!” I grumbled. “Just when the party was getting good.”
We stood one of the wine bins up and angled it against one of the solid concrete walls. Then the five of us each took a bottle and huddled together underneath it. Rosita sent the message that we were ready and the word came back that it would take a few minutes to get the fuses set.
We made the most of those few minutes. We drank the champagne and vodka like it was water. Then we picked up where we’d left off to pass the time.
Somehow, I ended up on the bottom. One of my hands was busy with Dawn’s lovely breasts. The other hand was providing a fulcrum for Selma’s squirming enjoyment. My mouth was nibbling at Rosita’s plump derriére. And Brigid straddled me, shouting Irish blasphemies and moving her slender body as if it was filled with jet-propelled banshees. What they were all doing to each other, I couldn’t say. Despite all my other activities, Brigid’s wild movements were getting to me. I thrust upward with all my might in a final surge of ecstasy. She bore down. And at exactly that moment the dynamite went off and everything—and everybody — else exploded all at once.
I opened my eyes and pried myself out from under all the female flesh. I found myself looking at the sky through a hole in the debris above us. Then the sky was blotted out by Pedro’s face.
“We’ll have your out of there in a few minutes, Mr. Victor,” he called.
I took a swig of champagne and patted a stray fanny. “No hurry,” I sang back.
“It won’t be long.” He’d misunderstood me.
“Don’t hurry.” I squeezed a breast and reached for the vodka. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
But it was no use. The sons of bitches rescued me!
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW IT was business as usual. My four femmes fatales had taken their orders in crackling Spanish from their leader, Senor Bregaria, and departed to perform their assigned tasks. They were soldiers again, and as I watched them go I heaved a small sigh that it was so. Such a waste of pulchritude! Dawn, Rosita, Selma and Brigid—with such an array of valiant glamour against him, Castro can never prevail!
I too listened to Senor Bregaria. His information was sparse, but nonetheless pertinent. An English girl matching the description of Victoria Winters was being held prisoner in the basement of the Havana Libre Hotel. The very fact that she was being held in this particular place marked her as someone of special interest to the Castro-ites. Only prisoners of particular importance, usually those of some special political significance, were held there. The hotel was where Castro had his headquarters in Havana. The occasional person imprisoned in its basement was more likely to be subjected to a long, drawn-out process of torture to obtain information than to be summarily executed. Such might be the case with Vickie.
I guessed that they were trying to find out anything she might know about the mysterious German scientist. Were the Cuban Reds holding this shadowy figure?
There was a foreigner in one of the rooms at the hotel, a room not far from Castro’s quarters. Was this the man Vickie had been seeking? And if it was, then was he a prisoner, or a willing guest? Bregaria couldn’t answer that question. My own guess was that the Cubans were holding him for the Chinese, but perhaps unwillingly. For diplomatic reasons, they probably had to treat him with kid gloves. The Chinese doubtless knew they had him, and so it was like an extremely delicate game of chess. The Cubans were trying to find out just who and what it was they did have before surrendering it to the Chinese. But they couldn’t afford to do this openly, so they were stalling while they interrogated Victoria Winters for information. That’s the way I saw it, and as things turned out I projected the situation fairly accurately.
The first problem was how to go about rescuing Vickie. Senor Bregaria had already started the wheels rolling on a bold scheme aimed at accomplishing this. Pedro, myself and Minetti would be smuggled into Havana by different routes. We were to meet at a specific waterfront bar, the Casa de la Felicidad. Here we would work out the details of the rescue ourselves in accordance with a loose plan.
This plan was threefold. Pedro, a native of Havana originally, would be able to move about the city much more freely than either Minetti or myself. Also, he had the necessary contacts in the anti-Castro underground. One of these contacts worked in the Havana Libre Hotel as a waiter. It was he who had supplied the information we now had. It would be he who would tell Pedro where the weak points in the security of the hotel lay. Based on that, we would figure out a way of rescuing Vickie.
It was my job to arrange the details of our flight from Cuba after she had been rescued. Pedro would put me in touch with a CIA agent, and I would work this out with him. But before finalizing this aspect, it would be necessary to consult with Vickie about the importance of the foreigner at the Havana Libre.
The escape itself-was to be the concern of Minetti. He was eminently qualified for the job. Not only was he a high Mafia mucky-muck with connections in the Havana underworld, but he was also a demolition expert with actual experience where jailbreaks were concerned. He had thrice broken out of three different prisons in the States. Finally the authorities had decided it was simpler to deport him than to jail him, and he had wangled entry to Batista’s Cuba. Here he had rated high in the gambling setup run by the Mafia.