The Naked Spy: Holly's Initiation

By Pippa May

For a brief time in July 1940 the eyes of British and Nazi intelligence agents were drawn to one city in Europe. The Nazis planned the most audacious operation of the war so far.
To thwart the German plot, the British needed information – and they would get it from whatever source they could.
Could an innocent young woman foil a ruthless SS snatch squad by submitting to their every sexual whim?

'The Naked Spy' is a breathlessly erotic, fast-paced novel based in Portugal during World War II.
Neutral Lisbon was a nest of spies during the war, with British, German and Americans vying to obtain secrets from each other.
Into this mix Pippa May (author of Pantsdown Abbey) throws two of the most stunningly sexy spies ever to feature in the pages of a book: sultry prostitute Ana and pretty English rose Holly.
At a brothel in the city spies come and ago, and Ana uses her sexual charms to secure information for the British.
But a new spy is needed and British Embassy secretary, Holly, an innocent young woman, finds herself working alongside Ana in the house of ill-repute.
Ana recruits Holly and shows her how to pleasure her clients – before they both embark on an astonishing mission which could change the course of the war.
The action and sex never lets up as the pair face a race against time to foil an audacious Nazi plot.
The Naked Spy bristles with intrigue and dirty sex.

"The sexiest thriller you'll read this year. The men crack the whip and believe they are in charge but the women always come out on top."

"A cleverly-plotted novel with convincing characters, excellent period dialogue reflecting contemporary attitudes, and all the deliciously erotic sex scenes anyone could wish for."

"Great combination of plot and sex. Mixing the sex with the story made it a real turn on for me." Reader reviews on Smashwords*

Pippa says: "I love the story. It is a filthy ride filled with thrills, spills and the dirtiest sex. It’s packed into a few short days. There are some great spy characters, a super sexy prostitute and the innocent abroad, Holly, who discovers her sexiness and her power. Writing her scenes of sexual discovery pretty much blew my mind!"

*The book was originally published under Pippa's pseudonym, Eddy Vale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pippa May
• Release date: Feb 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311363978

Pippa May

Pippa May says that writing erotica is something she does out of a burning desire to thrill herself – and her readers.She cornered the market in first person POV (point of view) erotic short stories before publishing her first novel, Pantsdown Abbey, which is out now.Her erotic shorts Ruby Red Lips and Caught In The Act, in which she describes a sex fantasy direct to the reader, involving them in the act itself, are available in all e-book formats.“I want to get as intimate as I can with the reader,” she says. “E-readers and Kindles mean I can create a fantasy in which I am talking directly to them. That’s very erotic for me and hopefully very sexy for the reader.”She lives in London and, by day, she works in sales.Ahead of the launch of Pantsdown Abbey, publisher Blue Angel Nights spoke to Pippa May about the writing of her cheeky new novel.Blue Angel Nights: How did you come up with the idea for Pantsdown Abbey?Pippa May: I’m just a great fan of all costume dramas. I watch them all. And what struck me is that they are all really about sex. About who is thinking about it or who is having it. They are often about how people are repressing those desires but they are having them just like you, me and anybody around now.That’s the way I see them anyway. Maybe it’s just me!Blue: Maybe it is!PM: Maybe. I think also there is much else that is very sexy about them. The clothes. The master and servant relationship. It’s all there.Costume dramas are all sex between the lines – I’ve put it between the sheets, in the woodshed, you name it!Blue: How did you get into writing in the first place?PM: I’m at home or on the road alone most of the time. I’ve had stories going around in my head for years. They drive you mad unless you write them down. I’ve had a few experience myself too – and that helps!Blue: Experiences? They say you should write about what you know. Did you follow that rule?PM: Is it a rule? If so, maybe no I didn’t. It’s not about a thirty-something living in London, is it? Maybe the next one will be.Blue: Not more Pantsdown? I think people will want more Pantsdown!PM: I hope so. It’s my intention to turn them into a series. I’m working on the second plot now.Blue: Could you tell us about it?PM: Not yet! More sexy new characters. More maids and lords! More of the Countess!Blue: Do you have a favourite character?PM: Oh, I couldn’t say. I love them all. But I adore writing the Countess, Lady Caroline. She has a filthy mouth and a filthy mind!Blue: Thanks, Pippa. Good luck with the book.PM: Thank you! And thanks to everyone who buys it. Bye!

Book preview

THE NAKED SPY

PIPPA MAY

Published by Blue Angel Nights Books

Copyright 2021 Pippa May

The writer owns any and all copyright interests in the text of the work.

The right of Pippa May to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

All rights reserved.

Discover other titles by Pippa May and enjoy free stuff at http://myrubyredlips.wordpress.com

Preface

For a brief time in July 1940, the eyes of British and Nazi intelligence agents were drawn to one city in Europe, Lisbon, where the Nazis planned the most audacious operation of the war so far.

To thwart the German plot, the British needed information – and they would get it from whatever source they could.

Could an innocent young woman foil a ruthless SS snatch squad by submitting to their every sexual whim?

Chapter One: Thursday

IT WAS the man in the loose-fitting white suit again. Ordinarily, it would be a conspicuous outfit to wear for tailing someone, but here in Lisbon, in the height of summer heat, it fitted in. But the man’s almost white blond hair and pale skin, reddening in the sun, did not.

William Hardy ducked into the bookshop to get a glance at the man. He had first noticed him a day earlier. He had been hanging around outside the British Embassy, or sitting in the park opposite. Sometimes he had pretended to read a book but he never turned the page. Hardy had seen him making notes, little descriptions of the diplomats and staff going in and out. Somehow, it seemed, the man had decided to follow Hardy, believing Hardy was something other than what he pretended to be.

Well, at least the man in the white suit had got that much right. Hardy’s role as military attaché – he held the rank of major – was just a cover for his real work for the Secret Intelligence Service, Britain’s spy organisation, better known as MI6. All the same, this was the first time that German intelligence – the Abwehr or the SD, Hardy did not know which – had put a tail on him. He could make a good guess why, though: it was because of the man at Estoril. If so, what was the Nazi’s intention?

Hardy had come out of the embassy and walked through the streets to see if the man was interested him in particular. It seemed he was. That was a problem: as Hardy was due to make the hour-long trip to Estoril along the coast by car this afternoon. He would have to lose his tail.

It seemed unlikely that Hardy could outrun the man. The German was in his early twenties, while Hardy was the wrong side of forty. Hardy was not unfit, but he had lost some lung capacity in a gas attack on the Western Front back in 1918 and now spent too much time behind a desk.

Hardy asked the bookseller if there was a back entrance to the shop, but the man looked suspicious and shook his head. These things didn’t always work out like they did in films.

Hardy went into the street. It was quieter than he would have liked it. He walked a block, performed a U-turn in a park, like a man returning to the office after lunch, and walked right past the man. The German looked edgy. No, not experienced. Young, eager, belonging to a group which valued Nazi fanaticism above skill and intelligence.

Hardy felt the car key in his pocket. Better to outrun him in the Ford. If Hardy got back quickly and headed out of town, perhaps the German would not be prepared, would have to find his own transport. Hardy only needed five minutes on him to lose him completely.

He casually quickened his pace and arrived in the square a few hundred yards ahead of the man following him. Hardy’s black Ford was parked opposite the embassy. Hardy pulled out the key, opened the door quickly and switched on the ignition. He saw a figure flash past in his rear view mirror, as he turned quickly in the street. The German was running for his car. Blast! It was parked right there in the square. Within two blocks the German had caught up with him.

Hardy roared past the Jardim da Estrela, where he had walked quietly in the British Cemetery so many times, and sped down the Avenue Infante Santo, before turning right onto the coast road.

The German’s grey Mercedes was still behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye Hardy saw a small fleet of sailing boats coming in from the sea into the shelter of the Tagus. Lovely for some, he thought to himself, as he crossed the centre line to pass a truck belching out dark smoke. The German overtook too.

They passed the Torre de Belém, the tower which for centuries was the last landmark seen by Portuguese travellers as they headed out into the unexplored world, and Hardy decided that for him it marked the moment at which he had to lose this troublesome German.

Five minutes on, Hardy turned right onto a track which led up a hill away from the coast. His tyres churned up dust and stone as the Ford climbed the hill, the dark green leaves of the laurel bushes on each side touching the metalwork and windows as the track narrowed. The lane wound to the right but he knew the German was still behind as he had seen him preparing to turn off the coast road.

At the top of the hill Hardy stopped, got out quickly and headed down a path. He knew that ahead there was a quarry owned by a wealthy local businessnessman who had built many of the newer homes on the outskirts of Lisbon. Somehow he had to find a way to ambush his pursuer.

Suddenly the path dropped away into nothing and Hardy struggled to keep his footing. The quarry opened up before him, the toes of his boots on the edge of a hundred foot drop. Away in the distance he could see a mechanical digger with a metal arm moving rocks, a truck and several workers. There was nothing he could do about that. Even if they saw him, they wouldn’t be able to identify him at this range.

He took out a pen knife, reached deep into a laurel bush and cut off a large branch. Holding the branch in front of him, he edged backwards into the bush. It would look undisturbed from the path; it was a trick he had seen used in Ireland in an ambush on British troops.

As he sat on his haunches in the bush he heard rapid footsteps and his pursuer’s panting. Within seconds, the dark shape passed Hardy and came quickly to a halt: the man had done almost exactly the same as Hardy, coming to a stop only just in time to keep himself from falling headfirst into the quarry. At that exact moment Hardy sprung forward, pushing out his arms, the branch and his hands driving into the startled man’s back.

The man tried to twist around, grabbing at the laurel branch and reaching out for Hardy, but his own weight was taking him over. He went with a scream, his body striking the dusty edge of the rock wall as it went down, disturbing a small avalanche of stones which fell to the bottom with him.

Hardy glanced quickly over at the workmen. None appeared to be looking his way. He turned quickly and headed back to where the cars were parked.

He searched quickly through the German’s Mercedes but found no ID or documents. He let off the hand-brake, gave the car a push and it rolled back into the bushes. It did not disappear altogether but went far enough not to be visible to someone driving up the hill. Hopefully, the car and the German would remain undiscovered long enough for the mission to be completed.

Hardy got back in his car and continued the drive out west to meet the man at Estoril – the man he assumed the Nazis were keen to track down.

*

Leutnant Heinrich Ritter wandered through the square opposite the embassy for the second time. Müller was still nowhere to be found. Where had that Dummkopf got to? The idiot’s job was simple enough: to check on the British Embassy strength, identify the SIS agents, and monitor any newcomers. Ritter and Müller’s bosses in German intelligence, the SD, in Berlin had information that the British were up to something in Portugal – no-one had told Ritter what – and they were expecting an important new arrival.

Ritter went to a café, ordered coffee and a drink that tasted as close as he’d been able to find in the bars here to a schnapps, and waited. He hated when things went wrong. It filled him with an uncomfortable nervous energy.

Perhaps Müller had changed his mind. Instead of waiting here to report, he’d headed home and would report in the morning. That would be alright: he’d tackle him then.

Ritter watched the waitress in a thin white dress, as she wiped a table. No, he chuckled to himself, Müller won’t have gone home. He’ll be with one of those girls he likes in the Madeira or the Red Lamp, the dingy clubs frequented by sailors and businessmen looking for an hour or two of fun.

That’s what I should be doing, Ritter thought. A bit of fun. Work off this bad feeling. He wouldn’t go down the alleys to Müller’s haunts though: he’d seen a report back in the German Embassy about girls at a special house in the Alfama district. He’d memorised the address. There was no sign on the door, apparently, but the place belonged to Angelita and if you asked for her she’d make sure someone would give you just what you needed.

He threw some coins on the table, put on his hat, and left.

*

The evening sun was fading but still refusing to fall behind the buildings of Alfama.

It came through the slats in the window and spread a fan of golden light across the bed.

Ana’s stomach tightened in excitement. This was the time of day she liked best. Soon the narrow streets of this old district of Lisbon would twinkle with the lamps of the busy bars and restaurants.

She liked working this room, too. The window was high and wide, letting in the cooler evening air and the sounds of the streets.

As she lay on the bed she listened to the snatched conversations, some murmured, some rapid and passionate. People coming out to eat or heading home from work. So many more languages now that there was a war on and France had been invaded. Many people had fled to Spain and Portugal.

She looked around the room. There was not much to it. Just this double bed with its creaky brass frame, its white sheets and the rather faded green blanket which she had pushed away with her foot; a chest of drawers, a wash-stand and a full-length mirror.

She had the mirror turned to the bed. Most clients like that. She studied herself in it. She was tall and slim, with tanned skin. She had grown up on a bull ranch in the countryside and, although everyone said she was very beautiful, she had the fiery look of an animal. Her nose would flare in anger or passion; her eyes were dark and defiant.

She ran a hand through her hair. It was jet-black and fine, and it flowed over her shoulders.

She wore a yellow, silk nightgown which hung low at the neck, almost revealing her breasts right to the nipples. Her breasts were large but not sagging, her waist was thin and her hips wide. She was twenty-six and the