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Helen sat upon the bed and pulled the trembling Tina down beside her. Then Helen lay upon the bed, her head upon the pillow, pushed the teddy bear aside gently and patted the place beside her.

When at last Tina lay beside her, she gently stroked the other woman from head to toe, lingering on the breasts and the pelvic region and ending with two fingers inside Tina's cunt, searching out her mysteries.

Again she kissed Tina's breasts and soul-kissed her lips and ran kisses along her spine down to her ass cheeks, which she nibbled and nipped.

Then she kept Tina on her back, gasping, and lifted one of the girl's long legs and kissed the toes and sucked at them.

"Oh gawd, I'm going to fly away, I'm going to turn into jelly," moaned Tina.

"I'm so glad I make you happy. Now…"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Helen drew her lips down along the calf of the uplifted leg and when she came to the back of the knee, she lingered. It was not for nothing that she had sported with two women in Conference One.

And when she compared what she was doing with the callow techniques of high-school girls who get interested in each other's bodies, she felt glad she had reached a higher plane of experience and expertness.

Working on the nerve centers behind the knee, even though it hardly seems a sexual organ, she got Tina almost unable to catch her breath, beating her hands on the bed, saying the kind of no-no-no that they both knew meant yes.

Helen now traveled her lips down the inside of Tina's thigh. She went an inch at a time. And as she approached Tina's cunt she slowly pushed the leg outward and then the other leg so that the way to the honey pot showed straight and clear.

Somewhere in Tina's past there must have been a mother or an aunt or even a hygiene teacher who had told her of the so-called dangers of lesbianism. Tina could not forget this. She actually pushed at Helen, moaning, "No, you mustn't, you can't, I won't let you, it's naughty, it's dreadful. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. OhOhOhOhOhOhOhOhOh…" But Helen's educated tongue got to work on her steamy cunt, sucking, lapping, tugging at the lips, thrusting into the fuck tube with a tongue that would not be denied.

It was hard work, making Tina come. With her tongue and her fingers and even with her breasts rubbing Tina's in a wild saraband, Helen kept at it and kept at it. Toward the end, as she felt passion nearing its climax, she made sure it did not recede by adding the excitement of a bum hole tickle and then her tongue at the same place while her hand worked at Tina's cunt savagely.

Then back to the fuck tunnel, now feeling with tongue and fingers and even her cheeks as she pressed her face into the big wet crotch, how the tremors had begun deep inside and were rising along the wildly fluttering tissues.

When Tina came, she clamped Helen's head with her legs and humped herself and screamed.

When at last the big woman lay exhausted and smiling, with sweat-wet hair falling across her face, Helen knew she had created a lesbian.

Both exhausted, they went to bed together. Murmuring of how grateful she was, and how deeply she loved Helen, Tina took Helen's head to the plump pillow of her breasts. Helen fell asleep.

"You were talking in your sleep last night, sweetie," said the blushing Tina next morning. She had worn her best frilly bed jacket to the breakfast table.

"What did I say?"

"Oh, it wasn't very clear, but you said, I think, When I return, we have unfinished business, remember. Hey, sweetie, you and I, we don't have any unfinished business after last night!"

"I must have heard someone say that somewhere, about unfinished business, but I can't remember who," said Helen. But she lied. She remembered very well how Hank Hastings had told her, with those very words, that he would return to her and take up their love-life again.

Suddenly, in the bright sunshine of that morning, with her new conquest, Tina, already feeling her beneath the table and ready for lesbian fireworks, Helen felt lonely and cold.

In Europe, secret agents, male and female, prowl the back alleys of sleeping cities and the marble corridors of power.

And also in the United States, secret agents make rendezvous in boudoirs and beds, or on park benches within sight of the White House, and secrets flow from pocket to pocket. In the USA, a heavy-lidded gal in a slinky black dress may be nobody at all, or she may carry in her cunt the plans for a secret satellite.

This goes on in Europe too, only more so. The cities are older. The national boundaries crowd closer. People have had extra centuries in which to learn the arts of espionage, with which the arts of sexual temptation have always been closely connected.

Now and then, pilots who fly the Atlantic find themselves doing favors for heavy-lidded gals in slinky black dresses. In 1982 a pilot suffered serious frustration when one of those heavy lidded gals forgot to remove the usual secret plans she was carrying in the usual place.

This had not happened to Hank Hastings yet. Also he was involved merely in doing favors for the State Department.

Thus he found himself showing his credentials to the guard at the door of the United States Embassy in London.

Once inside, and waiting in an anteroom, he further identified himself by taking out a cigar, smoking half of it – right down to a nearly invisible mark – and then extinguishing it by rubbing the fiery end into a marble ashtray.

The ashes would be collected later and would by chemical analysis reveal a great deal.

Hank then looked casually out through a window. He kept his eye on a man in a black raincoat who was feeding pigeons. A very careless secret agent. Everybody knows that secret agents feed pigeons to make them look innocent while they wait and watch.

Hank's mind filled with thoughts of Helen Troy. Yes, he thought, the day I get back to Chicago, that sweet kid Helen and I are going to snuggle down and catch up on our fucking.

What a sweet kid she is. Always has been.

And such a good airline hostess.

Those stupid bastards at HQ. Just because some executive's smart nephew took a course in the psychology of sex, they think they know all there is to know about the adroit commercial handling of the sexual undercurrents.

No lesbians. Mad!

That poor kid. All mixed up. Likes men. Likes women. Fucks men a little. Fucks women a lot. It would be all right if she were a straight-out bisexual. Her trouble is, she can't make herself at ease.

Well, wait till I get back to Chicago. I am going to ram it into her so hard and so often that I think she'll decided it's a man she wants, after all.

Someone entered the room, behind him.

Hank made no sudden motion. He didn't want a knife in the back. But the tiny mirror he wore on his signet ring showed him only the figure of a slight red-headed girl with small but well perched tits beneath a casual morning outfit that surely had been born in the shop of a famous couturier in Paris.

The Ambassador's daughter.

Hank still did not turn. The rampant erection that had taken charge of him, the moment he had thought of lying naked in bed with naked Helen Troy, nuzzling her breasts and losing his pecker in the depths of her cunt, well, he wanted that hard-on to die down.

He recalled a lecture on good manners he had had, when a youth, from his ne'er-do-well cousin, a notorious fucker-around-town.

"A gentleman," his cousin had told him, may be cunt-hunting around with Woman A, Woman B, Woman C, Woman D, and so forth. But he must never forget the courtesy due his women, no matter how many. Should a gentleman find himself with an erection caused by the remembrance of ecstasy he has shared with Woman A, for example, he must never let Woman B see the bump that hard-on makes in his trousers. Any woman whom a man respects as good company and a good lay is entitled to see a bump in his trousers that she herself has caused. Let her know only of the hard-on that is dedicated to her alone.