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I returned to New York with my eyes on an assignment perhaps not as big as the space program, but certainly of world-wide importance.

I didn't even wait to check into the Uptown Inn; I called Jim Hillsdale from the airport. "Jim, about my next assignment . . ." "We can discuss it tomorrow in the office."

"Jim, how about we discuss it at the Uptown? Give me a few hours to take a bath. I feel shitty after the flight."

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Jim, it's been a while." I lied. He didn't have to know about General Porter and the very talented Admiral Scrivner. "I'm in dire need."

"I'll call Mrs. Hillsdale. There's a huge story about to break," he laughed.

When he arrived at my room, there was no pretense; I answered the door naked. It wasn't too long before I was on the bed on my back, and "Holly, I'd almost forgotten how delicious your pussy is. Let my tongue please you all night."

"You mean please my delicious pussy?" I was learning.

"Yes, your delicious pussy."

Between his tongue and his cock, my pussy was pleased much of the night. In the morning, after a blowjob, I got what I wanted. My next assignment was Berlin, where the US and Soviet Union were face-to-face in a cold war that could turn hot any day.

"I still don't think Berlin is any place for a young girl," he lamented as he got dressed.

"Maybe, if you come back tonight, my tasty pussy can convince you," I giggled. I was learning.

"Don't you ever get enough?"

I was under the blankets. I threw them off, and spread my legs, "Jim, don't you ever get enough?" I laughed.

It wasn't just Berlin; it was all of Europe, from the Scandinavian counties to Sicily, and even North Africa and the Middle East. I'm not sure how the rumor started, but it wasn't too long before I was getting invitations from kings, princes, presidents and prime ministers. Those invitations also came from high administrators in countries behind the Iron Curtain and from business leaders, too.

Of course, they all wanted one thing, what every man wants, but in my case, "Miss Pellegrino, I've heard that you have the most incredible taste; a taste a man would sell his children and all his wealth for. My villa in Monaco would be the perfect place for me find out if all this gossip is true." A man would whisper in my ear at some event I was covering.

I was discerning; was there a story which my editor would find not just newsworthy, but front page newsworthy.

Not all these men were good lovers, but I will tell you that the history books are filled with stories about Frenchmen making love with their faces. True.

They didn't eat my pussy; they made love to it. When I ended up in bed with some clod who slobbered all over me or had no idea where to stick his tongue, I'd rush back to Paris and into the arms of an Andre, an Etienne or a Francois. "Andre, my pussy has missed your delightful tongue; make love to me one more time." Andre or whoever the Frenchman of the day was, was so accommodating. His tongue was so accommodating.

After two or three days, the stench of that awkward, incompetent clod had washed away. Washed away by a tongue that made me see stars.

All of these men were in their forties, fifties, even sixties. I was not

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