Italian connection, p.1
Italian Connection, page 1
part #1 of Cherry Delight Series
CHERRY DELIGHT
The world’s sexiest crime fighter, gives her whole to the destruction of the mafia.
ITALIAN
CONNECTION
Book #1 in the Sexecutioner Series
by Gardner F. Fox
written as Glen Chase
Originally printed in 1972
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel 2017
for the Gardner Francis Fox Library
Copyright © 2019 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library.
The Gardner Francis Fox has given Kurt Brugel the right to reprint Italian Connection.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics, Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also know for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels. We are proud to present - - -
Kurt Brugel (1969 to Now) is the Custodian and Illustrator for the Gardner Francis Fox Library. Kurt is a lifelong resident of Wilmington, Delaware. All illustrations for this book were done in scratchboard. He considers the Howard Pyle tradition his greatest influence.
www.kurtbrugel.com
Table of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter One
I lay naked in my coffin. However, I was very much alive. My big brown nipples were standing up so stiffly, they actually ached. And my genital folds were positively twitching in sexual excitement, to say nothing of my slightly over-sized clitoris which was poking up between those scarlet lips.
Now believe it or not, I was hard at work. Fact! But since I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O.—the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization—some of my work takes me into the damnedest places. Like this expensive silver and mahogany coffin, for instance.
The handsome young man with the feather in his hand with which he had been tickling my rather large mammaries and my even more intimate private parts, drew a sobbing breath. Mark Condon is my contact man with N.Y.M.P.H.O., which means he brings me the orders which the boss-man of the organization, called The Controller, wants me to carry out.
Right now he was drawing the ticklish fronds of that ostrich feather up and down my girlish body, pleasing me no end and getting me in the mood for polite rape. You see, I had a date with a Cosa Nostra member and everybody, including the Cosa Nostra boy himself, wanted me in the right mood. His eyes were bugging out as he saw how hard my breasts were, how my slight mound of belly quivered when he ran the feather over it, and the way my pubic hair bristled as those fronds became extremely intimate with certain personal possessions of mine.
“You s—sure you k—know what to do?” he panted. “Relax, already,” I told him, smiling sweetly. “You’ve done your part of the job, you’ve gotten me in the mood for fun and games.”
He had gotten himself in the mood, too, I saw as I sat up in the coffin and peered over the edge of what was standing at attention in his glen plaid slacks. Ordinarily, I’d have been more than willing to fry his bacon for him, but we had no time for fooling around. I had to be shipped across town to the Giuseppe Turessi Funeral Home within the hour. I felt sorry for Mark, it really was hard on him, playing with my nudity like this, but it was part of his job.
My name is Cherry Delight. Okay, okay. I was baptized Cherise Dellissio, but friends and lovers have since tabbed me with the more euphonious Cherry Delight. And I love it, because it’s true. I am just what the name implies, a delightful red-headed pussy. I am also a member of the Femmes Fatales, that special branch of N.Y.M.P.H.O. which consists of a few very, especially selected sexy girl operatives whose job is that of call girl and killer, spy girl and seductress.
I have also been trained to crack a safe, to pick a pocket as neatly as any professional dip, to fight in an assorted varieties of ways, including judo, karate, and even Burmese boxing. I can talk half a dozen languages, I’m able to hit the bulls-eye with a revolver or automatic nine times out of ten, and I’m reasonably expert in any field you can name that might help me against the crime lords. As a result, I’m unleashed like a hunting hound when there is a need for my services.
Like now.
Our enemy is the Mafia, that underworld branch of a Sicilian society that has spread out across our world. It makes its money from vice and prostitution, from gambling and the numbers rackets, from protection payments, from takeovers of legitimate businesses, usually by threats and intimidation, from drugs, from usury, and from whatever else that turns a buck. I’d stake my sweet life that the Mafia even runs a number of governments.
It is very hard, if not downright impossible, to fight an organization like that by recognized legal means. Police and judges have been known to take bribes, and witnesses are often murdered or threatened, so the legal remedies of court trial by jury are worthless. Even if you bring in a few members and get a conviction, others spring up to take their places.
The Mafia operates outside the law, so the only way to fight them is to play the game by their own rules. Which is why the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization was formed. It works with Federal and local agencies in the United States and outside its boundaries, it has contacts with Scotland Yard and the Surete, with Interpol and the police forces of quite a few nations. A N.Y.M.P.H.O. agent is given carte blanche to get the job done, no matter who gets hurt in the process, and with no questions asked about the legality of method.
Which brings me into a coffin. The Turessi Funeral Home was suspect. My organization had it tabbed as a meeting place for gangsters, an unofficial headquarters where information and mob secrets were gathered, sorted out and then relayed on to the big bosses. Now the real control of the Mob is not here in Uncle Sam land, it’s in Europe. Where? Who knows? Part of my job was to find that real boss of bosses and to eliminate him. The Controller figured that if I could scratch the Mafia chief, it might thrown the rest of their outfit into a power struggle for the top spot. This would give the police departments of the world a little breathing room.
There was more to it than a search out and destroy mission, however. We people from N.Y.M.P.H.O. use wiretapping and underworld informers to keep us abreast of what’s going on. And we’d heard via the goon grapevine that something big was in the wind. The Mafia boss of bosses had his grubby paws on some kind of gadget that would make our own job harder than ever.
What it was, nobody on our side knew. This was where Cherry Delight, Mafia Hunter, got to run with the hounds. It was my job to learn what that gadget was and to lay hands on it while at the same time—if at all possible—I must prevent the crime lords from using it for their own ends.
First of all, I had to get into that mortuary. Alive, naturally. This part of it was easy, because Giuseppe Turessi who runs the joint, had asked for a Femme Fatale. So I was being shipped naked and with a case of the hots to Joe baby, whose taste in females was something more than notorious.
So why a coffin? Well, Joe Turessi was a boss, which was pretty high up in the “confederation family” of Mafia crime lords. He also had a bit of a sexual fetish of which he was ashamed. Besides, he didn’t trust his Mob brothers, he was afraid they’d rat on him if word got about what he did in a certain upstairs room of the funeral home. The boss of bosses might think him ripe for sexual blackmail and have him removed, which means killed, in this instance. So he made certain arrangements with Femme Fatales, and here I was. Joe Baby liked his job and wanted to keep it.
Since our N.Y.M.P.H.O. boys had been on his trail for some time, they didn’t want him replaced, either; it would have meant a lot of work getting to know and understand his replacement. So my N.Y.M.P.H.O. bosses decided that they’d play along with him and send him his call girl in a coffin.
The coffin was my cover, in more senses than one. What’s more natural to ship to a mortuary than a coffin, outside maybe a dead body? My pink nudity would be delivered to Joe Turessi, he would lift the coffin lid and out I’d pop like an entertainer from a cake at a convention. A cute red-haired pussy present for a Mafia boss.
Of course, the coffin was fitted out with a can of oxygen and an inhalator, and here and there cleverly hidden holes had been made so that fresh air would come in. The silken lining of the coffin was zippered, I could push it down and out of the way so I wouldn’t suffocate.
The feather was drifting idly back and forth between my thighs, up against my labial folds. My hips lurched, my breath came faster, faster. I couldn’t help the low moan rising from between my parted lips.
“Damn you, Mark,” I breathed. “Stop torturing me.”
“The Controller said to tease you good,” he panted.
His eyes were fastened on my big breasts which were like water-filled balloons, right about now. My brown nipples were up so high they hurt. That damned ostrich feather was like hands and lips traveling all o ver my nudity. If the Controller wanted to make sure I gave Joe baby so good a time that he’d take me with him to Europe, he sure knew how to get Mark Condon to go about it.
Mark was suffering too. His blue eyes were like glass and the sweat-beads on his brow were even more pronounced. The hand that held the feather was shaking. And down there in his pants, his male member was standing at full attention.
Any other time I would have hopped out of that damn coffin and onto that rigid meat-bar, but duty is duty. I had a case of the hots that musn’t be wasted on Mark Condon. It had to be used to make myself indispensable to Giuseppe Turessi. He just had to take me to Europe with him.
“Please. Close the lid. Let’s get going,” I whispered.
Mark licked his lips, nodded. He tossed aside the feather, lifted his hands to the lid and slowly brought it down, closing off the world. I lay in darkness, shivering faintly. Sure, sure. I was hotted up, but I was also being sealed inside a coffin, not quite sure whether I would ever come out of it.
I knew how important my job was, I was gung-ho on seeing it through. Just the same, I was cut off from the world around me and morbid fancies began trotting through my head. Suppose somebody made a mistake and thought mine was a dead body? Maybe this Joe Turessi was a smarter guy than N.Y.M.P.H.O. believed him to be, he might guess I wasn’t just a call girl but a secret agent working for an anti-crime organization. In which case, he might nail shut the coffin lid and send me to some cemetery.
I felt the coffin being rolled along the floor, lifted and carried. It was slid into a delivery truck. I heard the truck motor revved to life, felt the truck begin to move. I quieted a little, telling myself the ride would not take more than thirty minutes, a mere half hour. I closed my eyes. It would be nice to drift off to sleep, to be awakened by an amorous man. But who the hell could sleep? I didn’t want to be buried alive. I love life, the things the world can offer a healthy, vital girl-girl. I twisted restlessly inside the coffin, it seemed I could not breathe.
My hand reached for the inhalator, fumbled it to my face. I turned the valve and breathed deeply. The cool oxygen felt good to my lungs, it soothed me. I quieted and lay motionless. The trip could not take much longer, I told myself. After all, a half hour isn’t very long. And yet it was an eternity.
All things come to an end, though. Even such a ride as this, with me sweating inside that coffin and telling myself I was an idiot to have become a member of the N.Y.M.P.H.O. team and most especially, its Femmes Fatales branch. I could have had a nice, safe job as somebody’s personal secretary, somewhere or other.
The truck jerked to a stop. I held my breath. Would I feel the thud of a hammer and nails on the coffin lid, nailing me in there forever? No! The coffin began its slide down the truck floor, it was lifted out, carried.
The coffin was set down. This was the moment of reckoning. It was now that the nails would come thudding into the lid, if Joe Turessi suspected who I was and why I was here in his mortuary. There was a long silence. Come on, come on my mind screamed. Let’s get this show on the road.
The lid rose up. I found myself staring into the flushed face of a middle-aged man, his black hair dusty with gray, as was his tiny mustache, while his sideburns were flecked with white. But his black eyes were alive, roving across my big breasts as if kissing them. They slid down my pink-skinned belly to my fluffy red Venus boskage. His tongue came out and went around his full lips.
“You darling,” I breathed, reading his thoughts. I did a little shimmy, making my breasts slide back and forth. The lust fever which Mark Condon had put in my erogenous zones with that ostrich feather was about to be satisfied. My bare arms came up, I slid inside the coffin until I was sitting up.
Joe baby reached for my hands, eyes sparkling. He had a hump hunger inside him that told me he liked what he saw as I gave my hands to his and lifted upward in the coffin until I was standing stark naked in front of him.
I bent forward, my breasts dangling, bloated with rut need, swollen into huge, blue-veined love jugs. The nipples were long, thick. I bent a little more, brushed his flushed face with my titties. Joe Turessi groaned.
“I want this to last a longtime,” I whispered, almost smothering him in the masses of my breasts.
“You betcha, kid. Me, too.” He was not the slick, polished Mafia member I had expected. There was a part of the ghetto still inside Joe Turessi, and it showed. His tiny mustache tickled my nipples as he moved his face back and forth, kissing my breast-flesh. My eyes went down to his striped trousers. He had what the French call pine d’officher. In other words, his erection was making like a tent-pole in his pants.
I lifted one leg upward, as if looking for a place to step. His eyes widened as they slid up my inner thighs right to the scarlet folds of my pussy, half hidden in crisp red genital hairs. I posed like that while his tongue came out again to run around his mouth.
“You’re teasing me, doing that,” I whispered. He caught on fast, saying, “I like do that to you, kid. I’d like to get in there between those swell gams of yours and show you how I can work my tongue.”
“But not yet?” He laughed softly. “Not yet, nah. I’m gonna take my time. Ya see, I like to watch. I wanna see you walkin’ around bare-ass and then wearin’ clothes. It’s kind of a thing with me.”
“Oooooh, you make it sound so exciting!”
“It’ll be exciting, kid. You wait’n see.” He cupped his hands, offering them as a stirrup for my foot. I put my bare toes in his palms, leaned forward and began to slide downward. Of course, since he was so close, my bare legs brushed his face all the way up to my pubic hairs. His lips nestled amid those hairs for a brief moment, I felt his lips kissing, then his tongue giving my wet folds a little lick.
“That feels terrif,” I panted, rubbing back and forth against his face.
It did, too. After what Mark Condon had done to me, I was ready to indulge this man in any kind of sex he wanted. I think he sensed this because he drew back his head and stared up at me with slightly bulging eyes.
“I ain’t begun yet, kid. Wait’ll I really get goin’ on ya. I’m gonna eat that hair pie of yours like nothin’ you ever felt. You’re the kinda doll I go for!”
Score points for my side. Well, this was why I was here, to rack up so many Brownie points that Joe Turessi wouldn’t be able to do without me and the ego-maniacal attentions I would give him. It was the name of my game. Then he would invite me to accompany him to Europe so I could lay hands on whatever it was he was going to Europe to get from his fellow Mafia mobsters.
As I say, this was the battle plan. I set myself to bring it to fruition. I slid down on my middle-aged lover boy until my perfumed belly-flesh was against his lips and he was covering that flesh with kisses and tongue-licks. He was panting hard, I could see the sweat-beads on his high forehead.
Down I went until his lips closed over one of my nipples and drew it deep into his warm, wet mouth. He suckled slowly, lovingly. I tabbed Joe Turessi for a mouth man, he liked to get his lips and tongue on any part of the female anatomy that attracted him.
The other breast now. His teeth bit gently into the base of my thickly swollen nipple as he tugged the rest of it deep into his mouth. He was quivering, standing here with his arms wrapped about my slim middle, feasting on my titties. When he loosened the grip of his arms I slid down a little more, threw my arms around his neck and placed my open lips on his.
We French-kissed like that a long time. His eyes were glassy when we parted. “I ain’t never met nobody like you before, kid. I go for you. I really do. You’re something else, real special.”
“I want to be—for you,” I whispered, kissing him hungrily. “But you mentioned clothes, honey. What kind of clothes?”
Sex has many aspects. Turessi might be a sadist, in which case those clothes would hurt, in some way. There would be something tight for my breasts, something rough to chafe my tender pussy-lips But I didn’t exactly think so. Joe Turessi was getting his jollies just by kissing and licking me. This told me he wasn’t a sadist.
