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Page 3.

Madame Lussec's villa has two beautiful fountains and one large swimming pool with a kiddie pool off one side, not to mention a large jacuzzi seating eight, all on the south lawn.

Lorena and Helmut eat lunch with us on the shady east patio. Jane and Dashka arrive together from London, where Jane lives. Dashka had gone to visit her husband at a Royal Air Force base outside London, where he has been stationed as a Croatian air force attache. I will have more to say about the mystery of earthy, bewitching Dashka and that cold, distant husband, later in this erotic memoir.

We all get naked, which sets the mood for the next day's shoot. Everyone gets to see everyone naked. The models get to see and touch each other and form the little relationships and friendships that add genuine feelings to our shoot. Mina, little sex pot that she is, masquerades as a busy body (which is her job) as an excuse to touch people's bodies and private parts. She rushes around putting sun cream on everyone. Nobody objects when she takes her time and rubs cream into everyone's private parts, even those that don't get much sun. Mina's hands have a healing, electric touch from her years as a massage therapist in Rome, Italy.

I notice that Mina takes a strong interest in tall, charismatic Jane. She has Jane lie on her stomach on the warm concrete by the pool, while Mina rubs cream into her soft, narrow buttocks. Jane does not object at Mina's fingers touching her rear end, massaging her ass slot, and touching her puckered ass hole. Jane rests her chin on crossed forearms, while the warm, dry Mediterranean air ruffles her genuinely blonde hair. Jane smiles indulgently while Mina's hand travels down her ass crack to her cunt crack and rubs the wet, aroused valley between her labia.

Lorena, meanwhile, lies by the pool, eyeing Jane hungrily. Lorena is shorter than Jane, but a little taller than Dashka. Lorena is caramel-skinned, Mediterranean, dark-haired, with dark hot eyes, which flash as Jane's pale skin attracts her attention. Lorena makes no secret of her appetite. Wearing sun glasses, shining with sun block, she lies on a towel. She supports herself with one elbow, ignoring the fashion magazine before her, whose pages flip idly in the wind. Lorena has only eyes for Jane's long, willowy body—her small, pink-nippled breasts that have never held milk; her long, narrow waist; her wide hips and small buttocks; and her long, thin legs ending in dirty soles. Lorena will make a move tomorrow morning, as I will relate, diddling Jane in front of the rest of us while Jane innocently rushes from flower to flower with a watering can in the villa. For now, Lorena lets Mina vicariously do the things she'd like to do to Jane. Watching is always a turn-on in itself.

Jane, we can all see, has eyes for Helmut. Jane is a straight girl, who will do WW for camera, but rarely in real life. I would have said never, but an encounter with sexy earth goddess Dashka will cause me to reassess.

As dusk slowly descends, I notice Dashka and Helmut talking a lot together in small, intimate tones. They have never met, yet they seem made for each other. In the isolated bubble of time and space that is our three-day shoot, they are definitely an instant boy-girl item. At one point, I see them sitting opposite each other at a picnic table. As they talk in low, urgent voices, his hands rest on hers. She has a habit of looking through her floating cloud of hair with a serious mien—forehead tilted forward, eyes brimming with unspoken messages. What is it about her? What is that need or urgency or wounded intensity that she radiates when she stares at a person? At some point, I see them still in that posture, only now her hands cover his hands. They definitely have something going.

Jane, meanwhile, dives into the pool and emerges, splashing and coughing, which attracts everyone's attention. Lorena's fingers are under her shorts, stroking herself as she watches water twirl from Janes rocking little pale snow cones and from her hopping pink nipples. Lorena, Mina, and the men watch in fascination as water cascades from Jane's generous, curly blonde bush. Everyone's heart misses a beat as Jane stops to make some adjustment—spreading her knees and reaching with both hands to separate her pussy lips under that hair with an array of fingers. Does the chlorine make her inner, little lips itch? Did the warm water arouse her garaged clitoris, and is it now chafing under its hood, so that she must squirm to make everything fit easily together? She also pats her buttocks as she walks, leaning forward, to retrieve her towel, and squiggles a fingertip on her butt-star to relieve some little watery itch.

We have almost missed the sight of Dashka and Helmut walking hand-in-hand toward a shady grove. He holds a joint in one hand, which he sucks deeply before handing it to her. She accepts it in one hand, while slipping her free hand around his waist. They are like old friends—or lovers. As the sun becomes a reddish-black liquid floating on the Homeric sea horizon, their pale figures can just be discerned in the last light.

Dashka, as traditional in some ways as she is dramatically free-spirited in others, lies on her back on the grass while Helmut strokes her naked belly, her full breasts, and her hard thighs. She is shapely, though less so than the other women. She is full-figured, though not fat, not even baby-fat, just firm and solid in ways that make both men and women want to hold her close and shut their eyes as if it were a dream. Helmut's fingers move down to Dashka's full forest of reddish-brown hair, and into the wet slot that awaits his touch. She begins descending into early orgasm territory, and lowers her mouth against his chest to give him countless kisses. She wants to taste his flesh, lick his skin, suck on his man nipples, carress his chest and abs with her wondering fingers. Her hands look small and heavy, and Helmut cannot resist but to take one in his hand, pet it like a small animal, and then suck on her fingers while she shifts around, spreads herself open a bit, and with her free hand pulls his achingly erect huge cock into her trembling hole. In the last light, we all watch with sighs and bated breath as he rolls over on her, how she hooks her short legs around his waist, and how she angles her full bottom up so that he can effortlessly plunge into the warm, moist forest that she offers. We see Helmut rocking leisurely on her, in her, while she tears at her hair and turns her face, mouth silently open, from side to side. It is a beautiful view to kiss the sun goodnight.

Lorena and Helmut eat lunch with us on the shady east patio. Jane and Dashka arrive together from London, where Jane lives. Dashka had gone to visit her husband at a Royal Air Force base outside London, where he has been stationed as a Croatian air force attache. I will have more to say about the mystery of earthy, bewitching Dashka and that cold, distant husband, later in this erotic memoir.

We all get naked, which sets the mood for the next day's shoot. Everyone gets to see everyone naked. The models get to see and touch each other and form the little relationships and friendships that add genuine feelings to our shoot. Mina, little sex pot that she is, masquerades as a busy body (which is her job) as an excuse to touch people's bodies and private parts. She rushes around putting sun cream on everyone. Nobody objects when she takes her time and rubs cream into everyone's private parts, even those that don't get much sun. Mina's hands have a healing, electric touch from her years as a massage therapist in Rome, Italy.

I notice that Mina takes a strong interest in tall, charismatic Jane. She has Jane lie on her stomach on the warm concrete by the pool, while Mina rubs cream into her soft, narrow buttocks. Jane does not object at Mina's fingers touching her rear end, massaging her ass slot, and touching her puckered ass hole. Jane rests her chin on crossed forearms, while the warm, dry Mediterranean air ruffles her genuinely blonde hair. Jane smiles indulgently while Mina's hand travels down her ass crack to her cunt crack and rubs the wet, aroused valley between her labia.

Lorena, meanwhile, lies by the pool, eyeing Jane hungrily. Lorena is shorter than Jane, but a little taller than Dashka. Lorena is caramel-skinned, Mediterranean, dark-haired, with dark hot eyes, which flash as Jane's pale skin attracts her attention. Lorena makes no secret of her appetite. Wearing sun glasses, shining with sun block, she lies on a towel. She supports herself with one elbow, ignoring the fashion magazine before her, whose pages flip idly in the wind. Lorena has only eyes for Jane's long, willowy body—her small, pink-nippled breasts that have never held milk; her long, narrow waist; her wide hips and small buttocks; and her long, thin legs ending in dirty soles. Lorena will make a move tomorrow morning, as I will relate, diddling Jane in front of the rest of us while Jane innocently rushes from flower to flower with a watering can in the villa. For now, Lorena lets Mina vicariously do the things she'd like to do to Jane. Watching is always a turn-on in itself.

Jane, we can all see, has eyes for Helmut. Jane is a straight girl, who will do WW for camera, but rarely in real life. I would have said never, but an encounter with sexy earth goddess Dashka will cause me to reassess.

As dusk slowly descends, I notice Dashka and Helmut talking a lot together in small, intimate tones. They have never met, yet they seem made for each other. In the isolated bubble of time and space that is our three-day shoot, they are definitely an instant boy-girl item. At one point, I see them sitting opposite each other at a picnic table. As they talk in low, urgent voices, his hands rest on hers. She has a habit of looking through her floating cloud of hair with a serious mien—forehead tilted forward, eyes brimming with unspoken messages. What is it about her? What is that need or urgency or wounded intensity that she radiates when she stares at a person? At some point, I see them still in that posture, only now her hands cover his hands. They definitely have something going.

Jane, meanwhile, dives into the pool and emerges, splashing and coughing, which attracts everyone's attention. Lorena's fingers are under her shorts, stroking herself as she watches water twirl from Janes rocking little pale snow cones and from her hopping pink nipples. Lorena, Mina, and the men watch in fascination as water cascades from Jane's generous, curly blonde bush. Everyone's heart misses a beat as Jane stops to make some adjustment—spreading her knees and reaching with both hands to separate her pussy lips under that hair with an array of fingers. Does the chlorine make her inner, little lips itch? Did the warm water arouse her garaged clitoris, and is it now chafing under its hood, so that she must squirm to make everything fit easily together? She also pats her buttocks as she walks, leaning forward, to retrieve her towel, and squiggles a fingertip on her butt-star to relieve some little watery itch.

We have almost missed the sight of Dashka and Helmut walking hand-in-hand toward a shady grove. He holds a joint in one hand, which he sucks deeply before handing it to her. She accepts it in one hand, while slipping her free hand around his waist. They are like old friends—or lovers. As the sun becomes a reddish-black liquid floating on the Homeric sea horizon, their pale figures can just be discerned in the last light.

Dashka, as traditional in some ways as she is dramatically free-spirited in others, lies on her back on the grass while Helmut strokes her naked belly, her full breasts, and her hard thighs. She is shapely, though less so than the other women. She is full-figured, though not fat, not even baby-fat, just firm and solid in ways that make both men and women want to hold her close and shut their eyes as if it were a dream. Helmut's fingers move down to Dashka's full forest of reddish-brown hair, and into the wet slot that awaits his touch. She begins descending into early orgasm territory, and lowers her mouth against his chest to give him countless kisses. She wants to taste his flesh, lick his skin, suck on his man nipples, carress his chest and abs with her wondering fingers. Her hands look small and heavy, and Helmut cannot resist but to take one in his hand, pet it like a small animal, and then suck on her fingers while she shifts around, spreads herself open a bit, and with her free hand pulls his achingly erect huge cock into her trembling hole. In the last light, we all watch with sighs and bated breath as he rolls over on her, how she hooks her short legs around his waist, and how she angles her full bottom up so that he can effortlessly plunge into the warm, moist forest that she offers. We see Helmut rocking leisurely on her, in her, while she tears at her hair and turns her face, mouth silently open, from side to side. It is a beautiful view to kiss the sun goodnight.

Lorena, our dark-haired beauty of 22 from Florence, Italy lounged in one of the plush armchairs in the Sun Hall in the Villa Venusia. She lay back, watching Helmut and Jane, and idly stroking herself along her tanned legs, flat stomach, and generous breasts.

Six of us were waiting for our production assistant Mina to pick up Tony, our sound guy, at Lipa's little air strip. That's me, Lorena, Jane, Dashka, Helmut the German stud model, and Frad our Jamaican camera genius. We sometimes call ourselves Team Med, meaning the production team on location, including models.

Madame Lussec's fabulous 19th Century winter home is on the sunny Adriatic island of Lipa, where we were about to shoot a series of erotic video clips.

I'm Max Ready, the production manager for Mme Lussec's pet project, Villa Entertainment Venusia (VEV). I have taken it upon myself to write a memoir of our adventures as one of the kindest, gentlest, cleanest, and sexiest erotica art and cinema companies in the world. I will start with this little incident of Lorena oogling Jane's panties, which captures the laid-back, friendly, and super-hot atmosphere around our way of doing things.

So we have two missing persons at the moment—my production assistant Mina Palmarino, and Mr. Sonic himself, Tony Alfano.

Speaking of Madame Jeanne Lussec: with a retired Cold War female spy in charge, aged somewhere over 70, and still capable of sending Uzi-toting special forces to escort one of her models through a tough Russian city, how could we not be unique?

Mme Lussec means business, all the way, all the time, whether it's erotica cinema, or counting her millions, or preemptively sending in crack troops to save her girls. Okay, not crack troops in the sense of cocaine or pussy. Storm troopers, as in French Foreign Legion. Honest, it really happened.

Mme knew someone who knew three seasoned Russian NCOs in the FFL, stationed on Corsica, who were going home on leave during the worst 1990s chaos after the Soviet Union fell. Picture those three ultra-tough, armed killer paratroopers with sinister eyes, scarred cheeks, and heavy beard shadow under tight black berets. They traveled in plain clothes, hands in their pockets, where each carried a heavy black automatic. They escorted a pair of beautiful young women—who looked like church secretaries in conservative Easter Sunday clothes—through crack house neighborhoods in the former Stalingrad (now Volgograd, Volga City) one winter night. From what I hear, it was a two hour death march down freezing cobblestone streets—to the mixed sounds of little clattering high heels and heavy, clomping paratroop boots—past at least one dead addict sprawled in a gutter. Not a cop in sight anywhere that night. The troopers escorted Madame's 'my girls' into a train station full of muggers, prostitutes, needle addicts, pushers, and murderers—god help anyone who got in the way of this small army—and safely out to Paris where the ciné shoot was that week.

If you need someone to bake a little intimate cake, Madame Lussec will send just the right girl. If you need a tire changed, Madame also has the girl for that job. If you need a heavily armed military patrol, experienced in killing people, Madame sends the French Foreign Legion. You do not mess with Madame. Besides, she is on personal speaking terms with top government and industry officials in several major European countries. Her company is listed on the Frankfurt stock exchange, and she is one of the wealthiest women in Europe.

Mme Lussec worked as a spy, first for East Germany and then the West. She learned not only the arts of secrecy from her spycraft, but also the wonders of preemptive warfare. That's why we operate safely and in a shroud of secrecy to avoid the vast criminal underworld flowing around us with porn, drugs, sex slavery, and all sorts of horror. Mme Lussec runs a clean show—the steel fist in the velvet glove. You could not ask for a kinder, gentler erotica art house. Believe me, she is not often on set, but she runs the show, and how. But we all love her. VEV is her pet project in retirement, and she takes great care of her staff and 'my girls' so that we are all safe, well-paid, and happy.

So now back to Lipa in the sunny, peaceful Adriatic Sea. Memories of Milosevic and the former Yugoslavia are long gone, at least on tiny Lipa amid the sparkling blue sea. Even amid today's female sex tourism, Lipa is a rest and recreation spot for tired European, Australian, and North American women. Such women do need a break from gigolo clowns in white suits, open to the navel exposing hairy rugs and gold chains, and Blues Brothers sunglasses. Just imagine the healing silence, in which you can hear a bee buzzing on a meadow 100 feet away, or listen to the distant sound of surf breaking on foamy rocks near sandy beaches.

In the morning, we were still missing Tony. Mina had driven off in her little red Simca to get Tony as soon as his flight arrived at the air strip.

Lorena, our dark-haired beauty of 22 from Florence, Italy lounged in one of the plush armchairs in the Sun Hall in the Villa Venusia. She lay back, watching Helmut and Jane, and idly stroking herself along her tanned legs, flat stomach, and generous breasts.

Six of us were waiting for our production assistant Mina to pick up Tony, our sound guy, at Lipa's little air strip. That's me, Lorena, Jane, Dashka, Helmut the German stud model, and Frad our Jamaican camera genius. We sometimes call ourselves Team Med, meaning the production team on location, including models.

Madame Lussec's fabulous 19th Century winter home is on the sunny Adriatic island of Lipa, where we were about to shoot a series of erotic video clips.

I'm Max Ready, the production manager for Mme Lussec's pet project, Villa Entertainment Venusia (VEV). I have taken it upon myself to write a memoir of our adventures as one of the kindest, gentlest, cleanest, and sexiest erotica art and cinema companies in the world. I will start with this little incident of Lorena oogling Jane's panties, which captures the laid-back, friendly, and super-hot atmosphere around our way of doing things.

So we have two missing persons at the moment—my production assistant Mina Palmarino, and Mr. Sonic himself, Tony Alfano.

Speaking of Madame Jeanne Lussec: with a retired Cold War female spy in charge, aged somewhere over 70, and still capable of sending Uzi-toting special forces to escort one of her models through a tough Russian city, how could we not be unique?

Mme Lussec means business, all the way, all the time, whether it's erotica cinema, or counting her millions, or preemptively sending in crack troops to save her girls. Okay, not crack troops in the sense of cocaine or pussy. Storm troopers, as in French Foreign Legion. Honest, it really happened.

Mme knew someone who knew three seasoned Russian NCOs in the FFL, stationed on Corsica, who were going home on leave during the worst 1990s chaos after the Soviet Union fell. Picture those three ultra-tough, armed killer paratroopers with sinister eyes, scarred cheeks, and heavy beard shadow under tight black berets. They traveled in plain clothes, hands in their pockets, where each carried a heavy black automatic. They escorted a pair of beautiful young women—who looked like church secretaries in conservative Easter Sunday clothes—through crack house neighborhoods in the former Stalingrad (now Volgograd, Volga City) one winter night. From what I hear, it was a two hour death march down freezing cobblestone streets—to the mixed sounds of little clattering high heels and heavy, clomping paratroop boots—past at least one dead addict sprawled in a gutter. Not a cop in sight anywhere that night. The troopers escorted Madame's 'my girls' into a train station full of muggers, prostitutes, needle addicts, pushers, and murderers—god help anyone who got in the way of this small army—and safely out to Paris where the ciné shoot was that week.

If you need someone to bake a little intimate cake, Madame Lussec will send just the right girl. If you need a tire changed, Madame also has the girl for that job. If you need a heavily armed military patrol, experienced in killing people, Madame sends the French Foreign Legion. You do not mess with Madame. Besides, she is on personal speaking terms with top government and industry officials in several major European countries. Her company is listed on the Frankfurt stock exchange, and she is one of the wealthiest women in Europe.

Mme Lussec worked as a spy, first for East Germany and then the West. She learned not only the arts of secrecy from her spycraft, but also the wonders of preemptive warfare. That's why we operate safely and in a shroud of secrecy to avoid the vast criminal underworld flowing around us with porn, drugs, sex slavery, and all sorts of horror. Mme Lussec runs a clean show—the steel fist in the velvet glove. You could not ask for a kinder, gentler erotica art house. Believe me, she is not often on set, but she runs the show, and how. But we all love her. VEV is her pet project in retirement, and she takes great care of her staff and 'my girls' so that we are all safe, well-paid, and happy.

So now back to Lipa in the sunny, peaceful Adriatic Sea. Memories of Milosevic and the former Yugoslavia are long gone, at least on tiny Lipa amid the sparkling blue sea. Even amid today's female sex tourism, Lipa is a rest and recreation spot for tired European, Australian, and North American women. Such women do need a break from gigolo clowns in white suits, open to the navel exposing hairy rugs and gold chains, and Blues Brothers sunglasses. Just imagine the healing silence, in which you can hear a bee buzzing on a meadow 100 feet away, or listen to the distant sound of surf breaking on foamy rocks near sandy beaches.

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