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Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born

Guns may win a war, but pillow talk can cause you to lose one. That’s the philosophy of 1918’s most erotic secret weapon—Dexeter Foxxe. She’s sexy, shrewd, sneaky, smart, and spins a yarn like nobody’s business when she’s in a jam.

Facing Germany’s greatest offensive of World War I, the U.S. Army employs our resourceful heroine as its own Mata Hari to spy behind enemy lines. Coached and assisted by Lieutenant Faust Ricci, a suave, sharp-tongued Intelligence officer, Dexeter’s mission is to romance German officers and pry from them top secret information to help the Allies.

It’s a job fraught with peril. If she’s caught, she could face the firing squad. If she’s not careful, she could lose her heart. This historical romance novel, mixes eroticism with international intrigue, European locations, and a plot that has more twists and turns than a cabaret dancer’s striptease.


PARIS, 1918:

"If you can imagine it, I've probably already done it."

Sure, it was a boastful comment. I'm not disinclined to make them. What's more, I'll admit to the occasional embellishment. What girl doesn't massage the truth now and then when there's a useful purpose? I, Dexeter Foxxe, deemed this to be a purposeful occasion.

I was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, hoping the newly purchased pink dress I was wearing would have a seductive impact on the man behind the tiny table in the corner of the room. The man was Monsieur Robinet. He'd been a professional photographer in Paris almost since the days of the old Daguerreotypes. They were some of the earliest photographic images.

Want to know what they took the first photos of? Buildings, mostly. They stood still long enough for those slow cameras to capture the image. Often it took several minutes for one exposure. Of course, they soon improved the process so it didn't take so long and they could add people to the pictures. People still had to stay still but, according to Monsieur Robinet, it was a technological breakthrough because now photographers could take pictures of what they really wanted to be shooting—naked women.

Honestly! If you thought the 1800s were only about Queen Victoria and ladies who wrapped themselves, toe-to-chin, in several layers of heavy apparel, you really should do your homework on 19th century erotica. Bare breasts, asses, and pubic hair. The more risqué photographs featured bare vaginas, either modestly closed up like a fuzzy clam or flagrantly spread open like a rose in bloom. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to figure those blooming ladies got that way by playing with themselves for the camera. Yes, right under Victoria's puritanical nose, women twiddled their pussies even then—and doing it for an audience of prim and proper men who paid good money to buy photos of those bedeviling females. Harlot they'd call that kind of girl in public. In private, they'd call her Sweet Dreams.

Anyway, that was mostly before my time. I wasn't born until 1900. I came into this world in my mother's home in Washington, D.C., just after midnight on January 1st. Based on the rocky relationship I had with her, I think my mother always kind of resented that I spoiled her New Year's Eve by making my entrance when I did. Good timing has never been my strong suit.

For example, here I was in Paris, having arrived only a few weeks before the German army launched its biggest offensive since the European war began in 1914. After almost four years of a virtual stalemate, Germany was advancing rapidly—trying, with a massive push, to end the war before newly involved America could get its troops to the front lines. In Paris, you could actually hear the sounds of the distant canons, and shells were landing menacingly close to the city. A lot of Parisians fled. Me, I had nowhere else to go. I was an eighteen year old girl, new in town, new in the country, with almost no local acquaintances, a limited understanding of the language, and a disappearing supply of money

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