Lust on the Loose (12 page)

'Don't worry,
sergeant, I don't expect the Metropolitan Police to foot the bill.
Or don't you drink while you're on duty?' Pandy was enjoying
herself. Her hand was by now quite at home on Sophie's right thigh,
roaming over the firm bare flesh, probing and squeezing as
pruriently as any male suitor about to effect a boozy
seduction.

'Actually,'
said Sophie, eagerly raising the flute of pink sparkling liquid to
her mouth, 'I only say no when I'm in uniform.'

'I should like
to see you in uniform,' said Pandora, taking the hem of Sophie's
skirt and slowly raising it upwards to her waist. The journalist
studied the exquisite picture thus revealed, of creamy white thigh
flesh and gently curving belly barely concealed by black lace
panties. The bulging mound of Sophie's bush was clearly delineated
beneath the thin material.

'I've always
wanted to look at a policewoman's cunt,' she said.

Sophie
returned her gaze. She was obviously being tested. 'You mean, in a
public place? Like the dining-room of a club dedicated to the
memory of women's suffrage?'

'Quite,' said
Pandora, letting go of her skirt, leaving it bunched around
Sophie's waist.

'It looks like
your lucky day, doesn't it?' said Sophie, pulling the gusset of her
panties to one side and exposing a thatch of auburn pussy curls and
the long crinkly lips of her pink quim. She held her other hand to
Pandora's lips and pushed two fingers into her mouth. 'Lick them,'
she ordered, 'make them nice and wet.'

Sophie lowered
the moistened digits to her cunt and slipped them inside herself,
pushing obscenely in and out, then sliding them to the top of her
crack, splaying them in a vee, revealing her long erect clit to
Pandy's eager gaze. The ripe smell of pussy rose in the air. Pandy
sniffed it in eagerly.

'You're a
little saucebox, aren't you? You must want to see Patsy Fretwork
very badly.'

'I want to see
her husband very badly,' said Sophie, continuing to play with her
clit, the colour rising in her cheeks, her breath already beginning
to shorten.

Pandy removed
her spectacles, then slipped to her knees beneath the table and
positioned herself between Sophie's open legs.

'Won't someone
notice?' said Sophie. 'Or doesn't anybody care what you do in a
place like this?'

But there was
no reply from Pandy. Her mouth was otherwise engaged.

Billy returned
to his office. There wasn't much point in going home; he knew he
wouldn't be able to rest as planned. Frustration and humiliation
were burning him up. His erection throbbed in his trousers, a
painful reminder of the ignominy he had suffered at the hands of
Candy Kensington. Yet it was an unnatural sort of hard-on,
iron-hard and unrelenting. Something funny was happening to him and
he couldn't work it out. How come he had been so hot for Candy
after an energetic night with a sex queen like Tracy? In other
circumstances he would have been overjoyed at this evidence of his
virility. But now, having suffered the bum's rush from La
Kensington, he was well and truly pissed off.

Suddenly the
phone rang. He had been reconnected - well, that was something. He
snatched up the receiver.

'You blew it,'
announced the ice-cool tones of Katie Crisp. 'Candy's been bending
Imogen's ear for the last half an hour. You're off the pay
roll.'

'Well...'
spluttered Billy, 'what about Tracy and Orlando Verdi, shouldn't
I—?'

'Don't do
anything. It's all covered. And you're out of it. Don't bother to
invoice us, you've been paid enough already.'

'In that case,
Katie,' said Billy swiftly, his tumescent state calling to mind her
perky posterior and milky white thighs, 'now I'm not working for
you, why don't we meet up later for a drink?'

But she had
already rung off, the bitch. He chalked up another insult to be
avenged.

Billy quickly
dialled Tracy's hotel.

'You rat,' was
the first thing she said, 'you didn't tell me you were working for
Imogen.'

'How could I,
Tracy? My job was to build bridges and I've done that, haven't I?
Look, about Orlando Verdi—'

But she
interrupted him, 'Yeah, I know. I'm going round there now and if I
have to suck his slimy Italian dick before I get a deal I'm going
to send my brothers after you. Don't think I wouldn't.'

'Perhaps I
could see you later?' said Billy, clutching at straws. 'Let me take
you to dinner, you can tell me how it went.'

'I know what
you're after, Billy Dazzle, and you've had plenty of it already
under false pretences. So you can get lost.'

She hung up,
too.

Billy slammed
the phone down. He wished he hadn't had the bloody thing
reconnected now. He felt just as wretched as he'd been the other
morning, before Patsy turned up out of the blue. And that was
another thing...

He'd bought a copy of the morning's
Blizzard
on the way back to the
office. He spread it open on the desk. Part two of the confessions
of Patsy Fretwork stared him full in the face. What was more, some
familiar photographs also confronted him. Bloody hell, the little
cow had only used his photographs of the poolside orgy to spice up
her story! Mind you, there had been that thousand pounds and the
tumble over the desk. There's no such thing as a free fuck, he
reminded himself.

He remembered
with some pleasure the jiggle of Patsy's plump little buttocks as
he pumped into her and her gratitude for the service so lustily
performed. His cock throbbed again in his trousers. He wondered how
Patsy was getting on with that voracious dyke, Pandora Britches,
whose byline was prominently featured on the page next to her
own.

He took from his desk drawer the one photo Patsy had left
behind, the shot of the bum of his dreams: voluptuously rounded
cheeks and flaring hips thrust backwards to reveal a glistening,
pouting quim - there was no doubt she couldn't have used that in
the
Blizzard!
His
penis throbbed even more urgently. God, this afternoon was turning
into a nightmare.

The phone rang
once more. Billy let it ring for a bit. Doubtless more bad news.
Eventually he picked up the receiver without enthusiasm.

'Billy Dazzle?
It's Arnold here, just checking to see if you're in. I'm coming
right round, if that's convenient.'

'Arnold?' The
chef. The saviour with the coffee. Oh well, maybe what he needed
was a bit of male company. 'Come right over, Arnold, no time like
the present.' Funnily enough, by the time the chef arrived Billy
was feeling significantly improved in the stiffy department. His
cock had suddenly shrivelled up, the blood dashing off to do useful
work elsewhere in his system, leaving his sex organ limp and
somnambulant. For once in his life Billy had no regrets about a
vanishing erection. He bade Arnold hello quite like the old
Bouncing Billy.

Arnold folded
his elongated frame into a chair.

'How did it
go? Your meeting with Candy Kensington?'

'Badly, if you
must know, and I'm not sure why you should.'

'Oh dear.'
Arnold's face fell in sympathy. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's nothing
to do with you but thanks. What's up? How can I help you?'

'It's very
embarrassing. I've got this problem with women.'

'Join the
club.'

'No, it's not
the kind of problem you'll have. It's my, er, size.'

'Better to be
too tall than too short. Anyway, women don't care about that sort
of thing. They're always telling me it doesn't matter what a man
looks like. That's usually after they've dumped me for a dwarf with
a Porsche, of course.'

Arnold did not
laugh. 'No, it's the size of my, um, member.'

Billy composed
his features to look sympathetic. 'Isn't all that stuff just in the
mind? The girls always say they're not bothered if it's on the
small side.'

'No, it's not
that. It's too big.'

'Too big? I
didn't know it was possible to be too big.'

'Take it from
me, chum. I'm not kidding.' Arnold's face grew long and serious.
His lank black hair fell around his face as he spoke passionately.
'I worship women. I watch them walking down the street in their
short skirts and tight T-shirts. I see their cute little mouths and
sweet jiggly titties and I just want to wrap them in my arms and
protect them and - and—'

'Rip their
clothes off and fuck them stupid. Arnold, I know just how you feel,
it's entirely normal. So what exactly happens when you've charmed
them out of their short skirts and tight T-shirts?'

'When they
catch sight of it for the first time and see how big I am - well,
they mostly go into shock. One girl threw complete hysterics and
another ran from the room.'

'Blimey,' said
Billy, 'you must be something special.'

'Another woman
offered me a job in dirty movies. She was a producer, she said I
could have a great career. But it's not me, Billy, I'm just a chef
who wants a girlfriend.'

'Have you
never actually found anybody to, er, accommodate you?'

'No, and until
recently I'd given up hope. I haven't tried to go to bed with a
woman for nearly ten years. You see, I fell in love and it was
going all right until I got her into bed. Then she told me she just
couldn't go through with it. She said my cock was monstrous. It
cast a bit of a blight over our whole relationship. So I put
girlfriends out of my mind. I threw all my creative energies into
my cooking. Now I'm a star in the kitchen but it's not enough. And
when I see blokes like you effortlessly knocking off crumpet like
Tracy Pert, well... You'd feel hard done by, too.'

Billy nodded
in agreement. He would indeed. Poor old Arnold.

'Anyway, I
suddenly thought, given your reputation, you might be able to help.
Maybe you could find me someone who wouldn't be put off.'

'Well,' Billy
was thinking, 'you've tried professionals, of course.'

'Only once.
She just laughed at me, said it wasn't worth her while no matter
what I paid her because she'd need a month off work to recover. She
offered to toss me off into her knickers instead but it wasn't
really what I wanted.'

Billy had the
beginning of an idea. 'Suppose I do know someone... tell me frankly
- how big is it?'

'It's not
that
big,' said Arnold, 'it just looks it. It's about twice the
size of the average.'

'You mean
about a foot long?'

'Yes. Well,
maybe a bit bigger.'

'My God,'
Billy breathed, 'that's certainly impressive. OK, let me just make
one call...'

The sand dunes
seemed to stretch for ever, pale and shimmering in the baking heat
of the Spanish sun. It was the middle of the afternoon, still
siesta time for the sensible but play time for the newly liberated
- like Beverly from Brum. She walked gaily along the wet strip of
sand that separated surf from beach, a floppy straw hat on her
head, sandals and T-shirt in her hand. Behind her, grim-faced but
mesmerised by the vision of those swinging hips and striding thighs
ahead of him, trudged the coal-eyed Placido. This was Fun-Fun Beach
where the sunbathing was nude and the dipping skinny, where dope
was smoked openly and the boogying went on till dawn - and where no
nice girl ever went because her very presence was an open
invitation to all-comers. There would be hell to pay for this,
thought Placido, if Signor Fretwork ever found out...

'There,'
announced Beverly and pointed to a patch of sand some fifteen feet
from a group of blond hippy youths, strumming guitars and passing a
bottle. Placido spread the towels as ordered. This was going to be
worse than he thought.

The guitars
stopped playing for a moment or two then broke into an up-tempo jig
as the youths took in Beverly's spectacular build: swelling bosom
and violin-curved hips barely contained by a cerise bikini which
she was already shimmying out of. She put her hands behind her back
to unfasten the clip of her top and shrugged her big brown breasts
into view, tossing the garment at the unhappy Placido.

There were
three boys and one girl in the watching group; all were naked. The
boys smiled at Beverly and called out their appreciation in German.
The girl scowled, crumpling her remarkably pretty face. She had
very small pointed tits.

Beverly slid
out of her bikini bottom, displaying her full and rounded posterior
to the boys as she did so. Her arse had now recovered from the
treatment meted out by Danny a few hours earlier and two triangles
of white flesh, fore and aft, flashed into view. The sun sparkled
on the blonde tuft of hair at the junction of her thighs. One of
the boys whistled.

Beverly was
enjoying herself hugely. Ever since Placido had returned from the
airport without Danny she had felt as if the door to her prison
cell had been unlocked. Which was a laugh really, considering that
she hoped a key would soon be turned on Danny. The silly bastard
had obviously hotfooted it to England. At least, that's what she
had told that butch DCI Spicer when she had rung her from the post
office on the way to the beach. Now she would be able to return
home without a beef hanging over her own head, if Spicer played
fair. She felt no remorse for Danny - he had turned into a pain in
the butt, anyway. Funny how life sometimes just worked out
right.

She took the
suntan lotion out of Placido's hand and, still standing, began to
smooth it into her skin. She took great care to rub it into all her
most intimate crevices, lifting each breast and smearing the
undercreases, running her fingers right into her bum crack and
splaying her legs wide to get at the inner flesh of her upper
thigh. Placido grudgingly palmed some oil across her back between
her shoulder-blades. His touch was tender though his jaw remained
set and his eyes blazed with disapproval. Beverly squirmed
appreciatively under his fingers, flaunting herself shamelessly. If
the Spaniard was going to be such a stuffed shirt, she had other
fish to fry. She lay face down on the towels to wait.