The Honeytrap (EBOOK)

JUST RELEASED: 

Camilla Lee is the world's deadliest honeytrap assassin. But being the best at anything comes with its own unique problems. After several successful missions, MI6 order Camilla to take a break. You would think she'd be happy to return to Australia and catch up with her friends and lovers, but Camilla, being the problem operative she is, has different ideas. She pursues her private goals like an out-of-control wrecking ball. No one and nothing is safe when Camilla has a point to prove.

Fair Warning: Camilla, our honeytrap, is a nymphomaniac and exhibitionist who satisfies her sexual urges at every opportunity. Her actions tend to be on the wild side and you get to ride along with her. This novel opens with a string of steamy scenes, each of which lay the groundwork for Camilla’s undoing in a slow burn plot which we promise (no spoilers) will keep you turning the pages to the end.

So be warned. If lots of titillating sex is not your thing, this book may not be for you.
The Honeytrap is a work of fiction and contains erotic scenes. They are not porn. Never intended as porn. Nor written as porn. The author’s intention is to entertain. Should it do more… well, lucky you!

In the author's defence, Furnell writes to please, and his fans regularly write to say how much they enjoy Camilla’s bedroom shenanigans.

The Honeytrap is unapologetically spicy from beginning to end. Furnell has tried hard to keep his descriptions tasteful and inoffensive. It is one reason the editing took so long. This author wanted to keep Camilla’s crazy antics believable. The girl is a nutter, that’s for sure. And that's what makes her so captivating. It's why we cheer her on. And it's why you'll love every word of this novel. It may well be Furnell's best yet!

Grab it now. You'll be glad you did.

The Honeytrap.
Chapter 1

Some girls want diamond rings. Some just want everything. I just want to rid the world of child traffickers. But Tony Walters, my roguishly handsome and terribly British boss at MI6, Hong Kong, refuses to offer me a new mission. Instead, the bastard insists I take six months R & R.
It is barely half a year since I became a special agent, yet Julia Wang, our in-house psychologist, believes I am on the verge of burnout. The frigid old cow tells London I have become more a liability than an asset.
Yes, it has been a crazy six months, but I feel my track record proves this tiger is on her game. Just look at my journey; less than a year ago, I was finishing school, not a care in the world. Then everything turned on its head after a home invasion left me in a coma, and my parents dead. In my search for answers, I discovered my father was a former enforcer for the Seven Dragons triad in HK. He fled the triad and started a new life, but they found and assassinated him. I learnt the truth and dished out some payback, but it backfired. After confronting the head of the triad, Dragon Master Wu, he left me no choice but to defend myself and take his life. But instead of a pat on the back, I faced murder charges for a crime most would label a righteous slaying.
Seven months ago, I thought my days of freedom were over. I faced a murder trial and almost certain gaol time. However, the Seven Dragons triad wanted me sooner. The new Dragon Master, Leong Xu Li, ordered my head on a plate. He sent a hit team to ambush the embassy car as it returned me from Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok Airport after I farewelled my lover, Big Red.
I survived the ambush, only to find my life taking yet another unexpected turn. It culminated in MI6 recruiting me to a top secret division in Hong Kong. However, Camilla Lee had to die. A deception needed to end the police hunt, and defuse the Seven Dragons, sworn to find and kill me.
Now, the tables have turned, and the Dragons are the ones fighting to survive. My last mission wreaked havoc on the triad after I freed hundreds of underage girls from sexual slavery in the triad’s many Hong Kong brothels. To add more nails to the coffin, Sonny, MI6’s top computer nerd, and his hacker friends flooded social media with posts exposing the Dragons for what they really are; evil, child-abusing criminals.
Much to my disappointment, three-hundred-year-old triads do not die altogether. Yes, I clipped the Dragons’ wings, but according to the latest intel from Sonny and Cartwright, head of signals, the triad’s criminal activity has resumed. Just on a smaller, less public scale. More drugs, extortion, gambling, but fewer brothels. Yes, their brothels faced such intense police scrutiny, many were forced to close. It is no longer quite so easy for paedophiles to engage with underage girls. I am chuffed. Job satisfaction buoys my spirits. My confidence is on a high, so Tony’s insistence his best agent takes a “much needed break” strikes me as absurd. A waste of my time and skills.
He also reckons my continued presence in HK makes me a liability. The police have a city-wide alert for the “mystery woman” who freed those underage girls from the triad’s clutches.
However, the cops do not have my photo or any security camera footage because MI6’s computer geeks got there first. Nor do the cops know or suspect that the infamous Camilla Lee is still alive; not dead and buried, as publicised six months ago.
What they do have is the testimony of multiple witnesses, and an AI image which, I will admit, somewhat resembles me. Or… a thousand HK girls like me. It makes me the needle in the haystack, and so long as I do not draw attention to myself, I should be fine. I have my MI6 wig, special bra, and glasses to disguise my appearance should I need to hit the streets. So where is the problem?
But Tony disagrees. He says it is only a matter of time before someone sees the similarity between the AI image and the face in the closed file on the dead Camilla Lee.
Unfortunately for me, my quest to bring down the Seven Dragons triad left too much shit on the walls. Shit, which might attract the wrong attention to MI6’s secret HK operations.
The HK authorities want my head on a plate. The official police line is to stamp out reckless vigilante violence. Should they catch me, they will make a very public example of me.
In truth, several high-ranking officials fear exposure if I remain at large. Their support for the once popular Seven Dragons triad makes them complicit in child-trafficking and child-murder. They also fear they may be next on my hit list, and truth be told, if Tony would just give me the nod, I would be more than happy to snuff them out… one sick fuck at a time.
Hence the manhunt. They want me locked away, or better yet, dead.
Should China catch wind of Britain’s involvement in domestic affairs, there would be hell to pay. Consequently, Tony’s priority is to deflect suspicion away from our unit. To this end, Sonny has manipulated social media to convince the authorities that the woman responsible for upending the HK sex industry was a rogue whacko on a personal vendetta.
Sonny’s deception may have convinced the public, but the corrupt powerbrokers will not rest until I am caught and silenced.
‘Why don’t we turn the tables? Let me hunt them,’ I say, but Tony shakes his head and explains it would only stir more trouble. Far better, we leave the corrupt officials alone. Reckons six months should be long enough for the hunt to fizzle out.
I step around his desk, slide onto his lap, and nibble his ear. ‘I could do a mission in another country? Mexico’s sex industry has a terrible record for abusing children. Send me there.’
‘Camilla. I appreciate your spirit, but no. You’ve earned a break. Now take it. It’s for your own good.’
My own good? Ha! I am well aware it was our in-house psychologist, Julia Chang, who put Tony up to this. Probably hit him with some psycho-mumbo-jumbo like, “Our crazy nympho field agent needs time to get her head straight.” God bless you, Julia, you back-stabbing old stick. I know she cares, but, smart as she is, she really does not understand what drives me.
‘Fine. I’ll take a work break. But only after a quickie.’
‘Now?’
‘Hell, yeah. One-for-the-road. Six months is a long time. I’m going to miss this place, so make it good.’
And he does. Yet bonking the boss until his eyes spin does not change his mind, but it was fun trying.
So, here I am, six hours later, in the departure lounge at Hong Kong International Airport. I wear a knee-length yellow sundress, my wig and glasses, have my fake passport in hand, and a meagerly loaded backpack over my shoulders.
No missions for six months… which leaves this little nympho free to pursue my other passion; risqué sex. The riskier the better.
Keen for some mischief, I look around the lounge and spot a slim, sun-blonde, blue-eyed lad sitting in the far corner next to a backpack covered with skateboard stickers. Wisps of facial hair remind me of the boys at Saint Matthew’s College. He wears a brim-backwards Boston Red Sox cap, and sits alone scrolling his phone. I slip past and peek at the TikTok on his screen. It shows a Japanese girl in a white string bikini jiggling her jugs. He hearts it, then looks up as my skirt catches his eye. We trade smiles. His is flustered because I glimpsed his screen, and mine is fresh because, yes, he seems ideal for some teasing.
What better way to kill time before boarding?
I step away, take the seat directly opposite, then check for security cameras.
All clear.
Let the fun begin.
Taking a leaf from Tia’s playbook, I nudge forward and arrange my skirt midway above my knees, just right. Best not attract the wrong attention. Opening my camera app, I zoom in on the lad’s face, then swing my knee back and forth.
A slow minute passes before the movement catches his attention.
His eyes flare in surprise, then leap to my face.
Yep. No panties.
Head down, I study my phone and keep my expression blank. Let him think me guileless. His eyes jump to an older man sitting six empty seats away at the end of his row. He is engrossed in a paperback.
The lad’s gaze returns to my swinging leg. As far as he can tell, I remain clueless. He puts down his phone, and, smooth as a cat, turns his cap around, sets his elbows on his knees, leans forward, cradles his chin on his thumbs, and dips his head as if deep in thought or taking a nap. Wow, my audience is sneaky and smart. The brim conceals his gaze.
His schoolboy cunning triggers a flashback to a humiliating school experience last year. The Saint Matthew’s boys ogled me for weeks after a sneaky member of my father’s gym and dojo filmed me leading a workout class and posted the video on YouTube. It went viral before it got removed. By then, my reputation was in tatters. What sent it viral was an all-too-revealing gymwear malfunction caused by excessive sweat. My father had me run an advanced aerobics class before and after school. In the afternoon, I changed from my school uniform into a white cotton bodysuit, then put on my judogi or track pants. Perspiration is not usually an issue for me, but on that sweltering afternoon, the air-conditioning was on the blink. Everyone in my workout class was leaving a puddle. My sweat-soaked outer garments became clingy and restricted my movement. Heat must have affected my thinking, because I shed them without a second thought and pushed on with the class. While others flagged, I wanted to prove no amount of heat could slow me down. Big mistake. My sopping wet bodysuit became semi-transparent. My nipples stood out as clear as buttons, as did the cut of my sex. The schoolboys had little trouble picturing me naked. One clever kid even took a freeze frame, then used Photoshop to remove the bodysuit. That immortal pic still passes from boy to boy to this day. I was unware of the photo until a group of girls watching me change for swim class loudly declared that the clever bugger had nailed it. They told the boys, and the picture took on a life of its own.
My mortification seems tame now, but the former me, Miss PerfectLee, had been shy. I was yet to lose my innocence. And so, for the next few months, I died a thousand deaths every time I crossed the schoolyard. Dirty leers followed my every step. Yes, the old me quailed at their lewd murmurs, and low whistles, but in hindsight, I see now how their undisguised lust gave my emerging libido one helluva kick-start. If asked at the time, I would have denied it to my last breath, but deep down, the yet unformed nympho within relished the attention. At least it does in hindsight.
Back in the present, I raise my eyes from my phone. If I cannot see skater-boy’s eyes, he cannot see mine. Pausing my knee for a five count on the outswing, I watch his carotid pulse race. It puts a lie to his nonchalant stillness. His scrutiny arouses me like a magical feather drifting over my flower. I close my legs, grab my backpack, and lay it across my lap. He looks up. I smile. He throws another glance at the man on the end of the row, sees we are in the clear, and returns a nervous, unsure smile.
I part my knees, reach beneath my backpack and inch back my skirt. He seems to hold his breath.
Dipping my fingers, I fondle myself. To all outward appearances, I sit still. My backpack offers a window to no one but skater-boy. He gets the show of his life. A show, I suspect, he will cherish forever.
The sheer thrill of pleasuring myself in a bustling airport is reward enough for me. Butt-puckering zings course through my body. Skater-boy checks my face. I wink. He grins. I suck my bottom lip as my climax rolls in like a wave, straightening my legs and lifting my hips in a series of jerks. I grab the backpack before it tumbles, stare deep into the boy’s sky-blue eyes, and shudder like the airport is being rocked by an earthquake. God knows why nature wired me this way, but I am so grateful my orgasms come so easy. After-shocks of intense pleasure flash the length of me for a full minute. My thighs tense and untense, making me jolt and quiver as if tasered.
The risk and the rush are so, so, worth it. It seems forever before my face cools. A few people glance over, then look away as if unsure they believe their eyes. The man at the end of the row eyes me with interest. Crumbs, when did he cotton on? He clearly knows exactly what I did. Fortunately, he shows no inclination to report me. Is he worried about delaying the flight, or simply happy for the entertainment?
The gate staff announce business class boarding. I stand, straighten my skirt, and offer the man a thanks-for-not-telling nod. Passing the boy, I bend to his ear and say, ‘Mile high club later, perhaps?’
Skater-boy’s instant flush keeps me smiling all the way to my seat.