Now Nisah was also aroused. Her mouth was at my ears, at the pulse at the base of my neck, at the nipples of my chest where it paused to tongue-flick and provide an exquisite sensation. Her hand dropped between my legs, caressing the inner surface of my thighs. She leaned over me and across and gently bit my hips, my buttocks. Her tongue flicked at my manhood and I thrust upward uncontrollably.
But that wasn’t what she had in mind. Her own hips undulating in slow, eager circles all the time, she opened the little vial and began anointing the aroused warrior of my sexuality with the red powder. The powder burned slightly and I throbbed in response. And I swelled, swelled to proportions I couldn’t remember ever having attained before.
“I think we are ready now,” Nisah said, her eyes very bright, her hips twitching more spasmodically now.
She knelt on the bed, shooting me a coy look over her shoulder. “The flower of the backyard but awaits your pleasure to be plucked,” she murmured.
I looked at her quivering derriére. It seemed so small, so delicate: a perfect globe halved by the thinnest of lines, the center marked by a dot that seemed much too small for what she was suggesting. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” I told Nisah.
“Do not be afraid. Appearances are deceiving. The tiniest bud may unfold to reveal a flower of adequate size. But open a door the merest slit and once unlocked it will easily open all the way. Come, my valiant warrior, mount your steed.”
I mounted. Nisah was right. It was a tight squeeze, but the sheath proved ample to enclose the sword to the hilt. Once it had, I stabbed again and again. It drove Nisah into a frenzy. Her foam-rubber buttocks bounced back against my thighs harder and harder, more and more insistently. This friction, plus the red powder she’d applied, seemed to turn the sword into red-hot steel. I drove it home again and again. Nisah shuddered violently. Then spasm after spasm shook her body until finally she threw herself back against me as if she wanted to engulf sword, sac, everything. I lunged upward to meet her and stars exploded before my eyes as my passion was released in one mighty surge that seemed as if it would never end.
But it did. We collapsed side by side on the bed. We were both spent. Nisah’s “woman trouble” hadn’t stopped her from accompanying me to the fullest on our joyous journey. We fell asleep in each others arms. I woke to find Nisah staring at me. She’d been patiently waiting. “Again?” she asked.
“Again!” I agreed gladly.
A while later the man-brute was again lodged securely in that snug little cave. It was just poised to unleash the molten fire of its rapturous fury when there came a sudden knock at the door. It was followed by a voice calling the name of Nisah Leyah.
“Yes?” She managed to control herself enough to answer. “What is it?” She squirmed against me, her flesh pinching me in a tight grip, determined not to let go.
“Ah’m lookin’ foah Mr. Steve Victor.” The voice had a strong Alabama accent. “He in theah?”
“Tell him I’m not here,” I whispered to Nisah.
“Ah heard that, Mr. Victor. Sorry to do this, but you all are wanted at the embassy pronto.”
“Tell them you couldn’t find me,” I shouted.
“Ah can’t do that. Ah’d like to ’blige you, but Ah got mah orders. They say you don’t wanna come, I bring you.”
“Don’t try it!” I told him grimly.
“Ah have to. You better come, Mr. Victor. Ah’m a pretty big fellah.”
“How big?”
“Six-four, 250 pounds, an’ nary a ounce of fat on me.”
That gave me pause all right.
“Yankee, go home!” Nisah shouted angrily.
“Now, ma’am, don’t you be calling me dirty names. You a-comin’, Mr. Victor; or do I have to come in an’ drag you out?”
“I’m coming,” I sighed, pulling loose from Nisah.
“You mean you’re going,” she corrected me.
“Yeah. I’ll be back as soon as I can, honey. Then we’ll finish what we started.”
“I’ll be waiting, Steve.”
I hope she didn’t wait. Because, you see, I never did get back there. An hour later I was on the specially chartered jet bound for Miami, suffering from sukiyaki heartburn and scratching uncontrollably at the area Nisah had peppered.
During that hour, I was closeted in a very special and very private room in the American embassy with my old-time acquaintance, Mr. Charles Putnam. Notice I didn’t say “friend.” That’s because it’s impossible to conceive of Putnam’s being anybody’s friend. He’s a machine performing the delicate operation of coordinating American diplomacy and espionage. Yes, a machine which as far as either our State Department or the CIA are concerned doesn’t even exist. A machine named Putnam—and, as he’d told me in the past, that wasn’t even his real name.
It was a damn ugly machine at that. Putnam looked like an embalmer who enjoys his work. His face was all scar-tissue, like a busted-up ex-pug. His eyes were steel nails driven into the irises. As usual, he was dressed in a diplomatic cutaway which looked as out of place on his bullish body as a tutu on a Notre Dame linebacker. As usual, his manner was cold, precise, formal.
“Good of you to come, Mr. Victor.” He crunched a few of my knuckles in the block of ice which was his hand and dropped my hand quickly. He wiped his hand on his handkerchief as if he’d inadvertently grabbed hold of a dead fish.
Nisah. I hadn’t taken time to wash. I decided the hell with him. “I didn’t seem to have any choice,” I answered him.
“Sorry about that. But speed is of the essence. We once again require your services.” That precise Harvard diction dribbling out of his mouth was like pearls dribbling out of a particularly clammy oyster shell.
“Why me? I’m not one of your spies, remember? I only helped you out because I was a patriotic jerk the last time. But I don’t remember enlisting for the duration of the cold war.”
“Yes. You were most helpful. Most helpful. Very laudable of you.”
“Most helpful.” I mimicked him. “Only as I recall, the object was for me to stop the Chinese from getting the bomb and they got it anyway.”
“Yes. But your operation was successful.”
“The operation was a success, but the patient died. Great.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Victor. And let us not waste any more time reviewing past cases. That’s all blood under the bridge, if you’ll allow me my little quip.”
“It’s out of character, but I’ll allow it.”
“Quite. Now, Mr. Victor-—” Whatever Putnam had been going to say was cut off by a brick crashing through the window. Without losing an iota of his poise, he bowed his head so that it whizzed over his balding pate. I moved more jerkily, and it just missed my shoulder.
“The natives are getting restless tonight,” I remarked.
“It’s getting worse lately,” he admitted. “Twenty thousand yesterday and I don’t know how many tonight.”
“It looked like at least that many as I drove up,” I told him. “Vietnam seems to have them pretty upset.”
“I know. We put all new windows in the embassy today. Tomorrow we’ll probably have to do it all over again. And it’s all so senseless.”
“The war in Vietnam?” I purposely misunderstood him.
“No. These riot-protests. The war in Vietnam is --” He paused. “Necessary.” He’d carefully picked his word.
“Why is it necessary?” I wasn’t just bugging him; I was interested. Like most Americans, I hadn’t been able to make heads or tails out of the Vietnam situation.