A Good Peace Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 1969 by Coronet Communication, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Popular Library

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: May 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54141-1

  Contents

  ROD DAMON IS UP AGAINST THE CUTEST ENEMY AGENTS IN THE WORLD!

  OTHER PAPERBACK LIBRARY BOOKS BY TROY CONWAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ROD DAMON IS UP AGAINST THE CUTEST ENEMY AGENTS IN THE WORLD!

  The Coxeman comes to Paris to search the pleasure houses of that most pleasurable of all cities for some dangerous-but-beautiful lady-spies who have been playing havoc with the delegates to the Paris peace talks.

  Rod’s attack must be strong enough to overcome the spies’ depraved techniques or the high-level talks will peter out, and the biggest sex-scandal the Free World has ever known will come to a head.

  Can Rod stay abreast of all the intrigue?

  Other Paperback Library Books By Troy Conway

  THE BERLIN WALL AFFAIR

  THE BIG FREAK-OUT

  THE BILLION DOLLAR SNATCH

  THE WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU, MA’AM AFFAIR

  IT’S GETTING HARDER ALL THE TIME

  COME ONE, COME ALL

  LAST LICKS

  KEEP IT UP, ROD

  THE MAN-EATER

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  IT’S WHAT’S UP FRONT THAT COUNTS

  HAD ANY LATELY?

  WHATEVER GOES UP

  CHAPTER ONE

  It all started with a thesis, a white feather and a French lesson. Not exactly in equal parts but relatively interesting and exciting. That’s the way it usually is with theses, white feathers and French lessons.

  The thesis (to take them in order) was a neatly typewritten school paper submitted to me by one Danielle Lebeau of Paris, dealing with those aspects of academic knowledge which had fascinated me longer than any other aspect of my life. To wit: sexology. Or rather the psychology of sexology. Of which, I, Rod Damon, head of the League for Sexual Dynamics, now am considered the foremost mind (and body) in the field.

  The white feather had come off a duck’s South end and became a titillating weapon between the beautifully lush red lips of a Polynesian exchange student named Minda Loa. But more of that anon.

  The French lesson was the piece de résistance at the very end of a long hot summer evening. But that too comes later. By the time I had mastered my French, not even De Gaulle could have stopped me. This French had a Polynesian translation.

  But first things first. Miss Danielle Lebeau’s intriguing thesis: Sex and Concentration.

  There I was, wearing nothing but my skin, ensconced in my professorial quarters at the university, poring over students’ papers. In my celebrated role as Master and Scientist, it was my sworn duty and pleasure to assist young minds the world over in their search for knowledge and truth about sex and mores and morals. Miss Lebeau’s paper became such fascinating reading that I curled up in the altogether behind my desk, warmed only by a briar pipe and my natively torrid nature. I am never really ever very cold. I’m young, handsome and well-hung. Somewhere amidst the union of these fine three endowments lies complete warmth of physical body.

  Miss Lebeau’s thesis, some forty-five pages of closely bunched type and text, bore a Paris address. That too intrigued me at first. French ladies are extremely curious about their sexual instincts, as any reader of Francoise Sagan surely knows. But not even little sad Francoise ever had any notions like Miss Danielle Lebeau.

  I became immediately rapt on page one of the thesis and read on, puffing furiously at the briar pipe. The lady, whoever she was, didn’t have a drop of tristesse in her make-up.

  “. . . . no matter how the male of the species is occupying himself (bowling, working at the mill, starving to death or even dying!) he is always capable of being aroused sexually. His primary drive and/or need to propogate himself seems to take precedence over every other human function. When his sexual arousal is in progress, it supercedes any other need. Indeed, he will pay no attention to a burning building or the screams of a fellow human in distress. In effect, the male animal must be sated before he does anything else. . . .”

  That gave me pause. The French mademoiselle, whoever she was, was very close to the carnal truth. Fifty million Frenchman could not be wrong but despite her brilliance, her eternal verities, her daring thinking, she had erred. Probably the girl was very young. What other explanation could there be for the simple fact that she didn’t know that while sexual arousal may very well be the drive of drives, and the one that consumes all concentration and effort until fulfillment, conversely, any form of fear or shock could wipe out the feeling in a flash. A woman wouldn’t succumb that way because of her lack of phallus but after all, men were the subject of Miss Lebeau’s thesis and she ought to realize that the biggest erections in the world had vanished in a twinkling because the husband came home when he was least expected; or the hungry male, bent on penetration, suddenly hears the door to the bedroom being broken down by a battery of private detectives; and the like. No, Miss Lebeau could not know. Therefore she was young. Her thesis was brilliant and generally correct but she had not allowed for the facts of life.

  There were many other estimable facets to her thesis and when I had done, I reached for a ball point pen to register some marginal comments on her paper.

  It was while I was pondering how best to reject Miss Lebeau’s paper without nipping a budding sexologist’s enthusiasm altogether, that the feather intruded on my consciousness.

  That feather.

  The apartment was air-conditioned, the carpet pile very pleasurable on my bare feet and the room temperature superb. I always lived first class at the university since my remarkable career had put the place on the map, swelling the rolls with eager young coeds anxious and willing to learn the ancient sexual customs and mores I had presented to the world on a plate way back at the beginning. But not even a comfortable den-office could account for the simple fact that the hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly rising. Unfurling, as it were. I froze in my chair, a swivel-seated leather masterpiece of comfortable design.

  An insanely tickling sensation was traveling up the naked flesh of my body, beginning at the toes of my feet. A light, almost spidery touch was wafting gently over my skin. Then my nostrils, my ears, even my soft palate began to itch uncontrollably. For a long, delicious moment, every atom of my body was alerted. Ready for the boudoir, as it were. Every inch of me was throbbing with new-found desire.

  I am not allergic to anything; neither am I an idiot.

  I reached down into the recess of the area between the sides of my desk. My fingertips brushed against something soft, textured like velvet and indubitably female. With a happy sigh, I pushed the swivel chair back and looked under the desk.<
br />
  It was then that I saw the great white feather.

  I am not a movie star nor the richest man in the world, financially that is, but I am no stranger to the pursuit of lovely women the world over, eager to learn what makes Rod Damon tick.

  It was Minda Loa.

  She was an olive-skinned, straight-haired and incredibly endowed exchange student. She was crouched on her shapely dark knees, her curvaceous face tilted up to me. Between her white teeth, a duck’s white feather stuck out like an arrow. It was this weapon of pleasure with which she had ‘feathered’ my prop, as it were. Using it to brush upwards from my toes until its light maddening touch had converted my testes into a Dante’s Inferno of excitement. Never mind the Chinese. The Pacific ain’t so bad either when it comes to instruments of desire.

  When she saw me she frowned, but her teeth never let go of the feather. And her red lips drew back in a worried grimace.

  “Oh, Master, may I please?”

  “As you were,” I growled.

  I am ever ready for new explorations, new wonders to recount to my fellow man. It is my sworn duty to the science of research and sexology. A white duck feather was a famous first for me, as innocuous as that may seem.

  “If only I may please you . . .”

  “Please me.”

  “It is seldom that Minda Loa has had a chance to be alone with you. The classroom is so crowded . . .”

  “Mmmmm,” I said.

  “And I have so much to share with you. And tell you. And ask you.”

  “Your lips are moving but I can’t hear a word you’re saying.” I closed my eyes and sat back in the chair. “Teach me.”

  She stopped talking. I heard a light little giggle, a compound of happiness and eagerness, and she was off to the races.

  She knew what to do with the feather, all right. My Polynesian research notes and statistics tell me that the feather touch custom is as popular as pineapples in the South Seas. Once a formal rite among the priests and priestesses of the ancient civilization, it is now something even the natives can get restless about. And they do. Small wonder. As a sensory, excitatory thrill, it can drive you up the wall. I felt like the Five Little Peppers. I grew and grew and grew. Each tiny, separate hair of my body was being kissed.

  Minda Loa knew her stuff. She was the dark and roving kind.

  The Polynesians never used the tongue, only the feather, but earlier in the week during some private instruction I had showed her just what she and the crowd back home were missing. Still, she wanted to make a point, I guess. The feather had a lot going for it. It was just like the daring minx to sneak into my study to get some of her own back. Yet, for all of that, she was a Damon devotee, an acolyte, a camp follower. The feather suddenly fluttered against my knee on its was down to the floor. And then her red lips closed over me and I closed my eyes even tighter. The body’s most versatile sexual stimuli, manipulated by Minda Loa, is not a weapon to sneeze at. And I don’t mean the feather.

  Her hot, liquid-like tongue laved me. And laved and laved and laved. I was at full mast now, thanks to her divine feather, and as her lips bit home, she placed her hands against the seat of the swivel chair and moved it back another foot so she’d have more room to breathe. Then slowly, with infinite care and patience, and all the skill there is, her tongue darted and licked. Licked and flicked all over me, burning and soothing at one and the same time. Fire and ice. What a combination. In ten minutes flat, I could have easily been accused of having grown a third leg.

  I opened my eyes once to study her, to savor the splendor of her passion. As the girls go, she was a volcano.

  In the Trader Vic league, she would have to rate a prize pineapple. But they never found specimens like her on Easter Island. She was the Polynesian bunny of your fondest fantasies.

  Picture a little more than ninety pounds of proportionate female, maybe no more than four feet ten inches in height, but curvy and sensuous down to her naked instep. She had firmly round hips, flowering out to a small waist. Her bosom, albeit small by the standards of Italian films, were as matchingly symmetrical and globular as prime Florida oranges. Her Venus mound was a streamlined mat of silken dark hair and even as she pumped and gyrated below me on her knees, it was enticing to behold and wonder about. A superb resting place for the joy toy of the world. I began to get restless. She sensed that and redoubled her suckling. Every movement, clockwise, counterclockwise, was stirring me to heights that it seemed even I had never before attained.

  “Ah, Master . . .”

  “Mmmmm?”

  “You are the tallest man in the world . . . my God.”

  “If you say so.”

  I was feeling too good to argue. Her fiery mouth had scorched me. I was on fire, burning from toe to crown. Did you ever have the feeling that you were never going to go down?

  I couldn’t get too comfortable in the swivel chair. It was like a bower of flowers, all swimming in velvet and satin and silk. I was floating, buoyed by the devilish red mouth with the fierce pink tongue which had drawn forth every atom of my being. I kept my eyes closed. It felt twice as good. Feathers are fine for ducks and all sorts of winged life, but give me the gift of tongues any time, chums.

  “Minda . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re biting me now . . .”

  “Oh . . . forgive me . . . it is just that the sweetness of thy flesh carried me away. . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All is forgiven.”

  And that alone makes Walrus-moustache, my friend and employer from the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation, which underwrites all my research projects while also using me as a Master Spy of sorts, positively livid with envy.

  “Aloha,” I said feebly, trying to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders and hoisting her onto my manhood. Rushing spoils things. You must never rush. Didn’t that old eighth century Arab swinger, Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti, always claim: Do not make haste in the establishment of conjugal action? The old tent sexologist had been a better man than I was, Gunga Din. My first God in my studies; he never failed. At the least, his maxims and rules never did.

  Minda Loa misunderstood me. Her mouth left the family jewels, and traveled easily down toward my knees. I laughed and this time I did reach down and pull her up to me. Her dark eyes glowed with happiness at my touch. She shuddered ecstatically and her oranges fell off the shelf. I caught them before they could get away completely.

  “What do you want of me, Master?”

  “Guess.”

  “This?” She straddled my thighs, flinging one superb leg across me.

  “Could be.”

  “And this?” The other leg scissored out so that she was posed just behind the towering flag of the compound. I hesitated only one second longer, drinking in the lovely architecture of her body, sitting me as if she was about to ride a horse.

  “You’re getting warmer,” I said.

  She laughed in a low monotone and eased herself gently atop me.

  The Venus mound rested easily for another second, barely touching the tip of me, and then her eyeballs disappeared and her slender exquisitely rounded little body settled down for a long stay. Contact was explosive, sudden and a pinwheeling madness of movement and color, all accompanied by low-voiced moans and whimpers of ungovernable desire and satisfaction.

  She became a yo-yo, a moving vessel of erotica. I let her have full rein for only minutes and then I took over. She was greasing the pole, swallowing it up in that dark interior that makes every woman the same and yet every woman different. But I have my own ego and it demands giving every woman that joins me the thrill of a lifetime. That’s not such a bad raison d’etre for a man’s existence, is there?

  Minda Loa didn’t think so.

  She shot out one long, loud moan as the shaft struck the richest oil deposit in the human book. Even working from beneath her, I had her hoisted to the very ceiling of the study, spearing her with all the tact, delicacy an
d deliberation at my command. Endless seconds raced by, counter-pointed by her gyrating flesh, my thrusting pokes toward Mecca and with it all, Minda Loa, forgetting all about feathers and tongues and Polynesia, let me know in very explicit bedroom language just how much she was enjoying getting her ashes hauled.

  I seldom talk during coitus but the women always do. Possibly the by-products of the Victorian age we still live in, for all of the so-called freedoms. The woman still wants the man to think she is something sweet and feminine and soft. A deception very ill-advised for the proper enjoyment of love games. Ask any psychiatrist. Freud had his nose to the right grindstone, all right. The completely uninhibited woman still has the best time in bed. Bar nobody.

  “Ah, Master . . . that is so big and round and nice. I feel as if you are stuffing me with a mango tree and the tree is full of chattering, playful monkeys all running around among the branches and leaves. Ohhhhhhh . . . Popocapattakeetle . . . !”

  She mispronounced it but what the hell. I wasn’t humming along with her pagan tunes because she had perfect diction. The point is she thought I had and as always, that is very good enough for me.

  I had forgotten all about Danielle Lebeau’s very interesting thesis, now lying abandoned on the floor where the wind of Minda Loa’s up-and-down flurry of body had blown it to the carpet.

  Fire and ice, suction and succulence. Little Minda Loa was a poem of passion. A pearl of the Pacific. I wondered what island chain had gotten her so keyed up. Her olive face was a fiery mask of exotica now, despite the tears of joy flooding her eyes. But her mastery and complete cooperation and abandon had sucked out the marrow of my bones and turned me to jelly.

  She collapsed on my stomach. I sagged back in the swivel chair. Our boiling bodies were plastered together like two strips of flypaper. There was that exceedingly rich, delightful dampness of our bodies that so clearly is the evidence of a happy time.

  “Again?” she whispered softly in my ear.

  “Don’t you ever get tired?”

  “Not with you, Master. And dare you call the kettle black when your pot yet smolders?” Okay, it was true. As sated as I was, the old divining rod was as amiably stout and solid as ever. Just a trifle subdued around the edges.