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  Dr. Nyet

  ( The Man from O.R.G.Y. - 4 )

  Ted Mark

  About The Series: Steve Victor is a man who studies sex. He studies it from all angles as well as upside-down and right-side-up. He not only studies it, he loves it and that makes his research even more fun. He is also the one-man organization known as O.R.G.Y. O.R.G.Y. stands for, according to Victor, the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. He named it that because having a name that correctly indicated the true purpose of studying sex would likely get too many doors shut in his face and to Victor, the open doors meant more chances for money and the real meaning of Obtaining Research Grants for Yours truly. While Victor freely admits that he is working hard for grant money to continue his amazing life style, grants are not his only source of income for as he travels about the world, he also does odd jobs here and there for a 'most secret of American spy organizations'. This unnamed agency, which is definitely not the CIA, might send him to various action spots in the world but it is his lust that makes the spots get active.

  Ted Mark

  DR. NYET

  CHAPTER ONE

  It started in London. It started in darkness. It started in bed.

  It started in Gladys – almost.

  But not quite.

  Gladys?

  She was a pre-Pygmalion Eliza Doolittle with more frontage than the fair ladies of stage, screen, and video combined. She was a 'eavenly 'arlot with 'ot 'ips and 'eathenish 'aunches. And 'igh 'opes of cadging a sheaf of shillings from the American tourist she'd picked up at a bar in Piccadilly.

  The American tourist was me. Steve Victor. The man from O.R.G.Y.

  O.R.G.Y.? The official name is "Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth." Actually, it's strictly a one-man organization dedicated to providing food, shelter, clothing, and a few life-spicing luxuries for me. But don't get the wrong idea. O.R.G.Y. is on the up-and-up. Spurred on by assignments backed up by grants from various interested foundations, I conduct Kinsey-type sex surveys all over the world. And I do my job honestly and enthusiastically.

  But I wasn't working the night I met Gladys. I was just out on the town for my own pleasure, barhopping the part of town known for London britches falling down. Sort of a bust-man's holiday, you might say.

  So this bust marked Gladys cruised along right on schedule and made what I took to be its nightly stop at this Piccadilly pub. The doors swung open with a crooked blonde smile, and I boarded with the offer of a drink. Half an hour later we were jogging into her home depot, a three-room flat – not lavish, not cheap – in Soho.

  The fair lady never mentioned the fare. She might drop her aitches and her panties, but not her pride. Gladys was only a sort of a semi-'ore, consorting only with those she judged toffs and relying on their generosity, rather than on the tawdriness of a pre-set price.

  "'Ow habout a drink?" she asked when we were alone in her apartment.

  "Hi'll 'ave an 'arf-an'-'arf," I replied.

  "Hit's not very nice to make fun of the hway ha person talks," she pouted. "Hi can't 'elp hit, you know."

  I restrained my Rex Harrison-ish impulses and shelved the Professor Higgins role. "I'm sorry," I apologized. "I really think the way you speak is charming, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Let's kiss and make up."

  "Righto, Yank." She came into my arms easily and fastened her lips over mine.

  (Note: The osculatory technique of English girls varies slightly from that of their American sisters. The temperature of the lips upon first buss is generally higher – an overcompensation, doubtless, for the chill fog of the London climate. The lips themselves seem softer, more pliable – probably because the juices have not been dried up by overcosmeticizing, as is so frequently the case on the lipstickier side of the Atlantic. The teeth and tongues of British girls move more freely and both take and provide more joy during osculatory activity – this, indubitably, the result of the simpler English diet which has not jaded the taste buds to oral sensations as the more spicily varied American foods have. Finally, the English girls are less peevish about having their hair mussed during a kiss, not being easily disturbed about having their over-teased tresses or permanent waves rumpled the way U.S. girls so frequently are.)

  It was a helluva passionate kiss. I slid out of it and right into her brassiere – with my hand, that is. It was more than a handful, but I palmed as much as I could.

  "Oh, you Yanks are so heager," Gladys complained. "That's the third bra-strap's been broken this week."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't talk with your mouth full, love."

  I came up for air and took a good look at the bosom I'd bared. It was magnificent. I've seen a lot of mammaries in my business, but very few that could measure up to Gladys's. They were impressively large, perfectly round, and as firm as warmed- over basketballs. They were cloud-white with wide pink roseates so delicately defined as to be almost invisible. From their centres, blood-red nipples stood out like rocket-shaped maraschino cherries.

  "Wow! I'll bet you have to go to a tent-maker for your bras," I observed, my awe negating my usual savoir-faire.

  "Thank you." She giggled at the compliment. "But I really honly tike a size forty- two, C-cup."

  "Only!" I dived back in with the exclamation point. I burrowed my face into the deep cleavage and warm, panting breast-flesh enveloped my cheeks. Her hands clasped over the back of my neck, urging my tongue deeper into the cleft. My own hands were on her hips now, and they ripped rhythmically under my touch.

  I think it was just after that that Gladys slid her hand under the waistband of my pants and down my bare belly. Not too far down, the way things were positioned. "Coo!" she exclaimed. "Yankee Doodle's come to London, an' fair impatient 'e his, too!"

  Not to be outdone, I trailed my fingers up her burning thighs. "Thumbs up for Britain!" I quipped.

  "Well, we don't need all these clothes naow, do we?" She stood up and quickly undressed.

  One look at her in the nude and I undressed even more quickly. Then I pulled her into the darkened bedroom, down on the bed beside me, and kissed her again. It was a busy kiss. She had both fists around me like a sports car enthusiast going gaga over a new stick-shift. And I was strumming her little passion switch like a banjo player mad with palsy.

  "Are you ready, Yank?" she panted. "Do 'urry!" Her thighs clenched and unclenched demandingly. "Hi want hit naow!"

  "The Yanks are coming," I assured her. I scrambled over her, and she jackknifed to meet me, wrapping her legs around my neck and raising her lower body off the mattress so that all her weight was on her shoulders and mine. "The Yanks are coming," I repeated, poised to fill the twitching cup of her femininity.

  But the Yanks didn't come. Not that night, anyway. Just as I uttered the words, there came an aggressive knocking at the door and Gladys reacted with panic that she turned a somersault right out of bed. "'Oo-'Oo his hit?" she called in a trembly voice from the floor.

  "Scotland Yard!" The voice was even more nastily aggressive than the knocking. "Open up!"

  "What d'you want?"

  "You'll find out soon enough! Now, are you going to open, or do we break the door down?"

  "Just ha minute, I 'ave no clothes hon."

  "That figures. Hurry up."

  "Hi ham 'urrying." Gladys scrambled to the closet, threw on a robe, and hastened to open the door.

  Two walrus types in plain clothes, both beefy, both red-faced, and both sporting identically ale-stained moustaches, muscled into the room. "Scotland Yard." They repeated it in unison like a pair of well-trained Anglicized parrots.

  "Hwat does Scotland Yard want with me?" Gladys asked in a quavery voice.

  "You've got a man in here!" one of the detectives rumbled.


  "Me? Why, Hi never -" Gladys's voice rose and strained for high C. "Perish forbid!" she added, outraged.

  "Oh? Then what do you call that?" The detective pointed through the half- opened door to the bedroom. Either by accident or design, his outstretched finger leveled directly at my exposed groin.

  "That's me brother," Gladys said primly.

  "Incest!" the detective crowed.

  "Yes, Hi do hinsist," Gladys replied. "It's me brother."

  "Me eye!" the detective growled. "Come out here, you!" he added, calling to me.

  "I like it better where I am," I answered, modestly tugging at the blankets to cover myself.

  "Move it, Yank!" the John Bull snarled.

  "I don't want to," I told him. "It's nice and cozy here," I added, snuggling under the blankets. "And it looks like a cold world out there – not to mention hostile."

  "Are you getting out of that bed voluntarily? Or are we going to go in and pluck you out?" He made an obscene gesture to demonstrate just how I might be "plucked."

  "Since you put it so graphically," I sighed, "I'm coming out." I wrapped a sheet around me toga-style and went out to confront Scotland Yard. "You'll have to pardon me," I greeted them haughtily, "but I didn't have time to put on my laurel wreath."

  "Are you Steve Victor?" one of them demanded.

  "In the flesh," I answered accurately.

  "Put on your clothes and come with us."

  "Why should I? I haven't done anything."

  "Oh? Then I suppose you have a wedding license to prove that you and this lady are married," he observed sarcastically.

  "Damn!" I snapped my fingers. "I knew there was something that must have slipped my mind. Gladys -" I turned to her – "why didn't you remind me? We forgot to get married."

  "That's one 'ell of ha proposal," she said wistfully, "but Hi haccept."

  "It's too late for that now." Scotland Yard crooned a duet. "Get dressed, Mr. Victor," one of them added.

  I got dressed.

  "Now come along with us." They fell in on either side of me, each grabbing an arm.

  "You can't be serious," I protested. "Since when does Scotland Yard bother with this sort of thing?"

  "We have many varied duties when it comes to keeping the peace."

  "Just as I thought," I wisecracked. "You want Gladys for yourself."

  "Come along now."

  "Wait a minute." I pulled loose and pointed. "What about her? Since when do you arrest the customer and let the hustler go?"

  "Coo!" Gladys said bitterly. "Hand Hi thought you was ha blinkin' gentleman."

  "We know where to find her when we want her," one of them said.

  "Chicago was never like this," I told them. But I went along peacefully. I figured that whatever I'd done couldn't be too serious and I'd manage to talk myself out of trouble sooner or later. Still, I was curious about just exactly what it was they were arresting me for. When I was in the back of their car and it began moving through the Soho streets, I raised the question. "Just what is the charge against me?" I asked.

  "Well, it could be carnal knowledge out of wedlock," one of them told me.

  "Are you kidding? You'd have to arrest half of London. Besides, there was no actual carnal knowledge. Just a little mutual carnal investigation. Your arrival forestalled any real in-depth carnal knowledge."

  "My apologies for the pre-coitus interruptus" one of them Latined at me, chortling.

  "This is ridiculous!" I was silent after that, brooding. And feeling guilty, too. Hell, I hadn't even kissed Gladys goodbye. If I'd behaved like such a boor, it was no wonder the American image abroad was so tarnished. Still, with this kind of European hospitality, who could blame an American for turning ugly?

  The car pulled up at a gate. The driver presented some identification, and it was opened. We drove up a long driveway to the side of an imposing-looking mansion. "Where are you taking me?" I asked as the car pulled to a halt. "This isn't Scotland Yard."

  "You'll see in a moment, Mr. Victor."

  I was prodded out of the car. Just as I was being hustled into the building, I glanced up and saw an American flag flying from a pole on top of it. What the hell?

  I was ushered into a nice-sized room. Mahogany paneling, quiet, expensive drapes, a couple of leather armchairs and a leather sofa, a desk out of Thackeray which glistened with prestige, a Sixteenth Century bas relief on the wall, a shield and pike that looked Crusades-y, a hand-loomed Persian carpet – it all added up to quiet elegance and tacit tradition. The bulls left me alone in the room. I waited a moment, then eased the door open. The figure in front of it swiveled around like a robot and barred my way with a rifle. It was eight-foot-ten – give or take a few inches – of U.S. Marine. "Semper Fidelis." I smiled weakly into his stony face and shut the door.

  A few minutes later it opened again. The man who entered was dressed impeccably, ultra-conservatively. The only thing that was out of style was the face sticking out over his diplomat-blue suit. It was the face of a third-rate wrestler. The ears looked like they'd been run through a meat grinder manufactured by the Marquis de Sade. The nose was a purple lump left over from some ancient volcanic eruption. The eyes were shrewd and blue, but buried in scar tissue. The hair was gray, but bristly like steel wool dipped in a sugar bowl. And the body under the Bond Street suit was a muscle-bulging bulldozer primed for action.

  I took a long look at this incongruity and cursed under my breath. "I might have known," I added aloud.

  "It is pleasant to see you again, Mr. Victor," he said, the icicles dripping off his tongue detracting from the sincerity of the words.

  "I'm sorry I can't say the same." I glowered at him familiarly. I knew him all right. It was Charles Putnam.

  That wasn't his real name. I don't think he has a real name. Just a number, like some government issue weapon. Maybe not even that, since no government department was about to officially acknowledge his existence.

  Charles Putnam was the invisible man, the man who never was, the lost statistic on the government payroll – if he was on the payroll at all. I reminded myself that I'd have to ask him about that some time. It would probably annoy him, which was reason enough to raise the question.

  Anyway, this hulky human cipher held one of those indefinable positions in the nether world which lies between espionage and diplomacy. He had something to do with the State Department – something they'd never admit. And he had something to do with the CIA – something they buried quickly before the smell was detected. He'd played footsie with the Russians and held hands with the Chinese, but his loyalty to the U.S. was unquestionable. So too was his function and authority.

  Because of my connection with O.R.G.Y., Putnam had found my services useful in the past. Now I was remembering the last time he'd called on those services. It had been in Tokyo and, like tonight, he'd had me hauled away from a warm bed and a willing woman so that I might be brought to him. That was only one of the reasons I didn't like him, but I brought it up now anyway.

  "Mr. Putnam," I asked him, "how do you always manage to time these summonses for such maximum frustration?"

  "My apologies, Mr. Victor. But this can't wait. The young lady, I am sure, can."

  "But will she?"

  "Surely you underrate yourself, Mr. Victor."

  "Perhaps. But now I'll never know. Will I?"

  "Ships that pass in the night." He shrugged.

  "You certainly can turn a phrase, Mr. Putnam," I told him sarcastically.

  He shrugged that off, too. "This is important, mr. Victor. Important to your country and mine."

  "Doesn't your arm get tired waving that flag all the time?" Before he could answer, I raised another question. "Just what is this place, anyway?" I asked him. "It's not the American embassy. I've seen that. But there's an American flag on it. What is it?"

  "You're mistaken. It is the American embassy." He allowed himself a rare smile, just the faintest trace of a crack in the iceberg. "That is, it will appear as the
American embassy to millions of people all over the world."

  "Come again? You lost me going around that last innuendo."

  "You don't mean innuendo; you mean hint. But let me explain. This house has been decorated as a facsimile of the American embassy for use in a film. All sorts of odd people come in and out without attracting any notice."

  "You mean like Scotland Yard men and such?"

  "Exactly. Anybody seeing them would simply think they were extras and that their official car was a prop. So you can see why this meeting place is ideal for purposes of secrecy. Where everything and everybody is out of the ordinary, nothing attracts attention."

  "So it's a movie set." I shook my head in admiration. "You don't miss a trick, do you?"

  "Not if I can help it, Mr. Victor. But let's get down to cases. Your country needs your help again. Your patriotism is as staunch as ever, I trust?"

  "You keep interfering with my sex life and it won't be," I told him. "But yeah. I'm still a patsy when it comes to Uncle Sammy. What's up?"

  "Have you ever heard of smut?"

  "Which kind? The kind you step in, or the kind you read?"

  "Neither. I'm referring to the organization. S.M.U.T. The Society for Moral Uplift Today. Have you heard of them?"

  "Oh, yeah. Vaguely. That bunch of bluenoses back in the States who want to cover Bardot's dimples. I'm afraid I don't know much about them."

  "Then let me fill you in, Mr. Victor. They are interested in much more than covering Miss Bardot's dimples, or other portions of the female anatomy. They started in the New York City area as an organization dedicated to stamping out what they considered to be pornographic literature and photographs and movies. However, today their activities encompass much more than that. Today it is their announced intention to stamp out all so-called illicit sexuality. And their concept of what is illicit includes everything from bra ads to ballet costumes. They have struck out against such things as men wearing Bermuda shorts, urinals which are not fenced off from one another, comedians who tell slightly off-color jokes, the display of Botticelli nudes in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Washington Monument which they claim is phallic, sightseeing expeditions to the Grand Canyon because they think it's blatantly ovarian, automotive designs which include headlights which they consider mammarian, and many other things. They have conducted a campaign to edit all the world's great books so that words with double meanings might be censored out."