Vicky Valentine's Erotic Adventures Volume 6: A Neo-Noir Erotic Series

By Smashwords

NEO-NOIR PULP EROTICA!

Gambling debts, blackmail, some microfilm, a bottle of rye. Tongue on the roof of her mouth, hard-boiled exotic dancer Vicky Valentine loves solving a mystery. A scream. A dead stiff. A nymph giggling. Black and white chiaroscuro shadows represent Vicky's world. She's a globetrotting babe who fucks with abandon and rocks out, while still finding the time to paint her nails. With her sidekick and double-agent ex-boyfriend mucking up the production, Vicky dances her way to erotic ecstasy.

In Volume 6, Vicky Valentine glides down the Mekong Delta in a Laotian open boat, engaging in a little voyeurism and self-pleasure on the way to Ho Chi Minh City. Later, she participates in a four-way oil massage in a Vietnamese “barber shop.” She discovers the whereabouts of an enigmatic cult leader who knows the location of her prey, Don Diab. The dangerous journey to the Bates Family compound becomes a whirlwind of jungle peril, anal play, and sex-cult shenanigans. Vicky reluctantly accepts an invitation to a licentious ritual, but will she succumb to the cult leader’s animal magnetism or enact her bloody revenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smashwords
• Release date: Dec 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005297329

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Gambling debts, blackmail, microfilm, a bottle of rye. Tongue on the roof of her mouth, hard-boiled exotic dancer Vicky Valentine loves solving a mystery. A scream. A dead stiff. A nymph giggling. Black and white chiaroscuro shadows represent Vicky's world. She's a globetrotting babe who fucks with abandon and rocks out, while still finding the time to paint her nails. With her bisexual sidekick and double-agent ex-boyfriend mucking up the production, Vicky dances her way to erotic ecstasy.

Part One

HOLIDAY IN CAMBODIA

My thoughts meander through a mindscape of dire consequences as I glide down the Mekong Delta on my way to meet Johnny Crepax. A revelation too insane to entertain, the stolen document, weighs heavily on my heart. Why was it in Countess Carmilla Karnstein’s safe at Arcadia Roulette? And what about the name on it? Is it legit? I don’t know, but I intend to find out.

After my larceny, I bolted from the stronghold, leaving the Golden Triangle and Wilhelm Wilder in the dust. I lost my way for a few weeks in Laos, smoking weed, keeping out of sight. A few days ago, I received another email from Crepax. After a few correspondences, I agreed to meet him at the Quicksilver Club in Saigon.

Now I sit in an open boat as it glides across the brackish water’s surface like a lurking crocodile. A sweet breeze cuts the incalescence. Slight waves patter against the old but reliable hull. The craft resembles a penis but wider; precisely three dicks wide by one dick long. Rickety posts hold the ramshackle corrugated roof from collapsing atop bench seats. Four chairs surround an olive-colored champaca table in the center. I lounge in front of the cranky motor, far from the other insipid travelers, finishing my battered copy of Love for a Day. The Civil War reaches its conclusion as the dramatic conflict tears Lance from Bryn. That’s the way love goes, Lance, my dear.

A tiny Laotian man captains the boat with a cool expertise as he sits atop a rickety stool with a ratty pillow at his back. The man’s silence satisfies my need for anonymity. Every hour, he negotiates the penile boat to shore with amazing accuracy, finagling into a tight spot amidst many other craft vying for perch. Insert a gang-bang joke here, but I’ll refrain for now.

In one of my Laotian guesthouses, I butchered a Ronnie James Dio Rainbow in the Dark t-shirt into an impromptu wife-beater. Despite the heat, obsidian remains my color of choice. Tight 1970s athletic shorts reveal my tan legs. A fedora angled toward one eye shields the bright sun. Pitch-black Ray-Ban sunglasses complete my rainforest chic. Every few minutes, I eye the other travelers through my dark sunglasses, wondering if agents of Carmilla or Diab sit among them.

At noon, we make a stop at a local village. I dislike these intrusive visits into these communities, but the people enjoy travelers because of fat wallets. The scene plays like voyeuristic National Geographic, with barefoot kids frolicking naked in the streets, chickens clucking, and dozens of thatched houses resting on stilts. A group of kids play a game similar to volleyball. Instead of a ball, they use a wadded plastic hunk fashioned into a sphere. More kids run nearby, play-acting. Some ride rusty bicycles. I marvel at these merry children who entertain themselves without televisions, computers, or other doohickeys—or even a fucking Spalding.

We exit the boat for a quick break near Vinh Long. I enter a dilapidated shack with a drinks and snacks sign above it. An orange soda beckons me from the iced cooler. I grab the can and place it against my