Mark, Ted - Man From O.R.G.Y. 04 - Dr. Nyet

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DR. NYET

Ted Mark

Published by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

New York, New York 10017

First Dell printing - October 1973

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.

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摘要：

DR.NYETTedMarkPublishedbyDellPublishingCo.,Inc.1DagHammarskjoldPlazaNewYork,NewYork10017Copyright©1966byTedMarkFirstDellprinting-October1973CHAPTERONEItstartedinLondon.Itstartedindarkness.Itstartedinbed.ItstartedinGladys-almost.Butnotquite.Gladys?Shewasapre-PygmalionElizaDoolittlewithmorefrontagetha...

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Mark, Ted - Man From O.R.G.Y. 04 - Dr. Nyet

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