by Noel Amos
'OK, lover,' she said, 'you just lie there and do as I say.' And she straddled his body on all fours facing his feet. Very slowly she lowered the fork of her crotch until she judged it to be about six inches from his face. He had to be gazing right up her sopping pussy. Crazy and shameless, she thought to herself.
'Oh boy, Steph,' came a voice from between her legs, 'you've got some ass.'
She made no reply but felt his hands on her upturned rump, spreading her cheeks. Then came the first licks as his knowing tongue began to meander across the tops of her inner thighs. She shivered. This was going to take all her concentration.
With Kingsley thus occupied Sophie began surreptitiously to loop a stocking around his left ankle like a cord. She tied the other end to the bedpost.
'Hey, what are you up to?' he asked.
'Shut up and suck,' she replied, settling her bottom squarely on his face. He didn't protest.
She quickly began to wind a silk scarf round his other foot, at the same time trying to ignore the sensation of his mouth and tongue on the most intimate portion of her anatomy. But some things cannot be ignored and, as he licked in long, agonisingly slow strokes from the tip of her crack to the rose of her anus, she felt the unmistakable onset of orgasm. Her hands worked furiously at the knot in the silk. His tongue fluttered sensationally over her throbbing clitoris. She pulled at the material, it held fast to the right-hand bedpost. He flick-flick-flicked with his tongue and she came in a rush, grinding her pussy down onto his lips, squeezing his face between her thighs and moaning an incoherent litany of lust.
There was silence for a long moment, broken only by her ragged breathing.
Finally he said, 'What the hell have you done to my feet?'
She pushed herself up and turned to face him. 'Didn't I tell you I was kinky? I love to tie men up. Now, don't worry, the best bit's still to come.'
'I hope I'm still to come,' he said but she didn't reply. Instead she hooked her leg over his body and poised herself above his straining cock.
She gave the big tool an exploratory squeeze and a pearly drop of juice swelled from the tip. 'Poor thing,' she said, 'he's feeling a little left out.' And she fed the fat head between the lips of her vagina and sank down.
'Ooh baby, that's more like it,' said Kingsley. 'I think I like this feminist fucking.'
'You think! I tell you this is the best lay you'll have for years.' She swayed forward and dangled her breasts temptingly above his face. The big white globes swung like ripe fruit.
'What do you think of my tits?'
'Magnificent.'
'Don't touch. You can only look.'
'Why?'
'That's the rules. No tit-fondling or I'll have to tie your hands.'
'You are kinky.'
'You bet.'
Then they were struggling. He trying to squeeze and pinch her breasts, she cunningly winding a stocking round his wrist and tying his hand to the bedpost just as she had fastened his feet. He laughed, it was fun submitting to this spunky redhead who was bouncing on his cock and pushing her succulent breasts into his face. He lay back and suckled happily at her nipple as she turned her attention to tying down his other hand.
Sophie was exultant. She had him now - in every way. She leaned back and grinned down at him exultantly. He pulled experimentally at his bonds. They held. He pulled harder. They still held.
'Gotcha,' she said.
'Looks like it,' he replied. 'Now what are you going to do?'
Sophie had fully intended at this point to make tracks for the phone next door and summon assistance. But somehow it was not easy to unhitch herself from the warm pole of the beautiful cock throbbing deep inside her. Nevertheless DS Stark prided herself on her professionalism and here was the opportunity she had schemed for. The sacrifices she made in the call of duty!
'Sorry, Chris,' she said as she reluctantly raised herself from his body, allowing the stiff and eager penis to slip from between the puffy pink lips of her pussy. It made an unhappy wet plopping sound as it flopped back against the tautly muscled flesh of his belly.
'Hey!' protested her abandoned lover and he yanked viciously against his bonds.
'Now, now,' she admonished, sliding a teasing finger down his chest and into the sticky knot of curls above his angry-looking cock. 'I'll be back soon. The waiting is the best bit. It'll make you appreciate me more.' And she slid her hand between his legs and cupped his balls, squeezing gently. She had the bugger all right, though it might be prudent to tie him tighter.
He began to complain more loudly as she fetched belts and a dressing-gown cord and began to reinforce his bonds.
'Cut it out, Stephanie,' he said firmly, 'a joke's a joke but now I've had enough.' Then, as she took no notice but continued to bind his wrists, 'Look, you silly cow, I'll give you such a belting if you don't let me go right now.'
Sophie realised she had to do something to shut him up or else he might wake the neighbours. She wadded up a pair of panties and thrust them into his mouth, then tied them firmly into place with another scarf.
She surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction and smiled. The gorgeous gangster was spreadeagled helplessly, his once-powerful cock now wilted and wet against his thigh, his eyes bulging and his face red with fury. Trussed and tied, this turkey wasn't going anywhere.
She took her CID badge from the bedside table drawer and flipped it open so he could read it.
'Sorry, Crispin,' she said, 'you've just been comprehensively shafted.'
Chapter 3
Billy's second surprise visitor showed up approximately sixty seconds after Patsy had made a noisy and affectionate exit, clasping the bag of photos to her well-handled bosom. Billy was slumped in a chair, the sound of Patsy's retreating bangles still jangling in his ears, when the brisk clack of an approaching pair of shoes had him reaching for the trousers still concertinaed round his ankles.
There was no discernible lapse in time between the perfunctory rap on the door and the entrance of a severe young woman in a charcoal grey suit and spectacles. Apart from the discreet gold crucifix at her pale throat, she wore nothing that could be construed as decoration - no jewellery, no make-up, no perfume. Her skirt fell below the knee, her stockings were dark, her shoes were low-heeled lace-ups, her hair was scraped back and her mouth was turned down yet Billy's heart leapt to see her. Like Patsy, she was as welcome as the sun in February. The presence of Ms Katherine Crisp, solicitor, could mean only one thing. Work.
She took in his dishevelled state at a glance and sniffed. Her thin pink lips were pulled into a disapproving sneer as she said, 'When I passed that blonde slut on the stairs I thought I might find you half naked.'
'And did you consider that an enticing prospect, Ms Crisp?'
She ignored the question. 'I wouldn't have thought entertaining prostitutes in office hours would enhance your business.'
'Correction. That was a valued client.'
'Really? It looks as if your friend forgot her fee.' Katherine picked up the envelope of bank notes from the middle of Billy's desk. In doing so she revealed beneath it a photograph - it was Billy's favourite bum shot - evidently a parting souvenir from Patsy. The solicitor dropped the envelope as if it had bitten her.
'I can see I'm still your detective of choice, Ms Crisp.'
'You disgust me, if you want to know.'
'It's nice to know your affections are constant.'
'Your phone's not working.'
'I've been cut off. Won't you sit down?'
'No, I don't know what I might catch. Get dressed, if you want a job. I'll meet you downstairs. I'm not staying here to be polluted.'
Settling himself into the passenger seat of her white Golf - brand new, top-of-the-range, he observed, doubtless with clean ashtrays - he said, 'If I'm so despicable, how come you make use of my services?'
'Because, Mr Dazzle, if your drain is blocked you need a plumber who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty.'
'And I suppose you've got
a bunged-up drain for me to tackle? I have noticed that all your jobs seem to involve me bugging someone's bedroom or stealing their personal correspondence.'
'Not this time, I hope. My client is very respectable.'
'So?'
'She is a highly successful show-business representative with an office in Mayfair.'
'Oh God, a bloody agent. This is not a blocked-drain situation, it's a cesspit.'
Ms Crisp cut inside a taxi as she accelerated into Berkeley Square. 'If you don't want the job, Mr Dazzle, you can walk back. But I'd suggest that a so-called businessman who can't pay his phone bill can't afford to pick and choose. Besides, you'll adore Imogen. She's the kind of inspirational woman who will be a good influence on you.'
He laughed without much joy. Recently women had only inspired him to spend money, shed tears and lose sleep.
'There are some kinds of influence,' he said, 'that I can do without.'
She parked the car outside a solid and imposing Victorian mansion with brass plaques on the door. The only dirt on the pavement was a poodle turd. They had arrived in the heart of Mayfair.
Billy was smiling. In reality he had no objections, he was already calculating his Mayfair-sized fee.
Almond Associates oozed wealth and class: a fashion-plate receptionist sat in a large anteroom with high ceilings, wedding-cake mouldings, marble fireplaces and mahogany panelling - all doubtless polished and perfumed and prettified on a daily basis. The office of Imogen Almond herself was on the first floor and reached by a staircase that would have graced the set of The Merry Widow.
Imogen was waiting for them at the door. Cool, slim fingers pressed Billy's in a firm handshake.
'Hello, Mr Dazzle,' she said. 'Do you always walk around with lipstick on your nose?'
Billy gulped. In her high heels she was as tall as he was and a pair of wide-set eyes of limestone grey bored directly into his. She was in her early forties but with barely a wrinkle to show for it. Blonde, elegant and expensively clad in caramel cashmere, she was as immaculately groomed as a champion show-jumper. Billy fancied her rotten immediately.
'Katie, darling,' said this imposing presence, 'why don't you pour us all a glass of wine so we can break the ice?'
Ms Crisp positively dimpled to be so addressed and jumped to fiddle with a bottle and some glasses standing on a low table in front of a sofa and a straight-backed dining chair. Obviously this was where the get-to-know-you process was to take place. Billy sat as instructed, surreptitiously dabbing at his nose with a tissue and observing La Crisp in a new light. In all their dealings he had never seen her smile before; it brightened her up no end. His regard for the woman who had induced this reaction was climbing.
Imogen Almond sat next to Billy on the sofa. Ms Crisp handed them both a full glass and perched herself on the chair opposite them. The elder woman began to speak.
'I run a very special business here, Mr Dazzle. I represent a variety of artists from opera singers and concert pianists to performers whose talents are less rarefied. I don't have many clients and I don't have a big staff - despite appearances,' she added, as Billy's gaze flitted round the vast room. 'I like to keep the whole business of representation as personal as possible and my clients treat me as a friend or a sister or a bossy aunt - whatever. Each relationship is different. With some I run their entire lives, I tell them what to eat, what to wear and which shoelace to tie first. With others I just negotiate the deals and tell them where to show up. You get the picture, Mr Dazzle?'
'Please call me Billy.' There wasn't much else to say, she hadn't got to the point yet. Ms Crisp was pouring herself another glass of wine, she'd probably heard all this stuff before.
'There's one thing I hate. That's parting company with an artist. Sometimes that's inevitable and, frankly, sometimes that's to my advantage. But sometimes a client will threaten to leave and I won't want them to go. Particularly when I have worked very hard to bring them to the brink of success.'
There was a pause in the monologue. 'That must be very frustrating,' said Billy, aware he was expected to react. 'But what can you do about it?'
'I persuade them by whatever means are available. Non-violent means, of course,' she added, seeing a look of alarm cross Billy's face. 'Don't worry, the means I prefer are entirely pleasurable.' And she placed one long, exquisitely manicured finger on his thigh. 'That's where you come in.
'Katie,' she continued, 'bring me the book that's lying on the desk will you, darling?'
In a rustle of skirts Katie rushed to do so, handing Imogen a large black album and reseating herself clumsily on the chair in a manner that displayed a flash of stockinged thigh. Billy noticed that her glass was empty again. He placed his own, virtually untouched, on the table in front of him to accommodate the portfolio which Imogen was opening across his lap.
'I bet you know who this is,' she said as she began to leaf through the pages for his benefit. A tousle-haired blonde with a snub nose and sky blue eyes strutted her stuff before him. In some shots the hair was up, in others down, she wore leotards and boxer shorts, T-shirts wet and dry, mini-skirts and thigh-high boots, she lolled on golden sands, sprawled on Formula One racing cars, splashed in pools, clowned around with a cheesy grin and posed deadpan in tiara and floor-length evening gown. And the one constant in all these images was the emphasis, by some magic of the flesh or art of the photographer, on her breasts. To Billy and, he guessed, to every man who had ever ogled these pictures in papers and magazines, this girl's breasts seemed to zoom off the page and thrust themselves into his face. The two-dimensional image seemed to carry three-dimensional weight. He could feel the warm mass of these mammaries in his hands, imagine the yielding cushion of flesh pressing against his chest as he gazed into the void of that blue-eyed stare, taste the salty sweetness of those perfect raspberry nipples fed into his mouth after a marathon of lust...
'Yes,' he said at last, 'of course I know her, it's Tracy Pert, the tabloids' top totty for the past three years.'
'Didn't I tell you, Imogen?' La Crisp spoke for the first time. 'I said he was an expert on crumpet.'
'What do you mean?' complained Billy.
'Katie did mention that you had considerable expertise in certain areas,' Imogen added.
'What I said was,' Ms Crisp continued loudly, 'that if ever you went in for Mastermind your specialist subject would be bimbos of the twentieth century.'
Billy stared at her, more out of surprise than wounded feelings. The solicitor's glass was empty but so was the wine bottle.
A strand of dark curly hair had come loose and now coiled prettily down her long neck, and her skirt had ridden up over her crossed legs to reveal, praise be, a suspender strap and a flash of porcelain-white thigh.
She met Billy's amazed appraisal of her charms with a sudden smile that turned her usually cross and sulky face into a picture of sweetness and light. 'I imagine,' she went on, 'that you would be unbeatable with a subject like that.'
Billy smiled back. The ballbreaker had been replaced by a tipsy flirt; it was a hell of an improvement.
'You come recommended, Billy,' said Imogen. 'Katie thinks very highly of your talents and I always back her judgement.'
Now the two women were smiling at one another in a conspiratorial fashion and Billy began to feel a trifle uneasy. Just what was this funny set-up?
'But what's this got to do with Topless Tracy?' he asked. 'Surely you don't represent her?'
'As it happens, I do. The glamour industry is a sideline of mine. As well as the actors and singers and concert performers, I also handle Tracy.'
'And now,' chipped in Katie, 'Imogen would like you to handle Tracy, too.'
'Very neatly put, darling,' said Imogen.
'Eh?' said Billy stupidly.
'Go on, Billy Dazzle, admit it,' said Katie, 'you'd just love to get your hands on her chest.'
'Well, of course I would. So would ten million readers of the Daily Dog. I'm only human.'
'That's a matter
of opinion,' muttered Katie with a return to her accustomed tartness.
'You see, Billy,' cut in Imogen, 'I have been having a little trouble with Tracy and I've come to the conclusion I need some outside help. As you know, she has been a fantastically successful model for the past few years but a career in the glamour business is necessarily short-lived.'
'Gravity dependent, you mean.'
'Precisely. So I have been steering Tracy in other directions. Into fashion, into music, into acting. She'll never be Liza Minnelli but she's not without talent.'
Billy said nothing.
'I've been quite successful on her behalf and now I'm on the brink of a breakthrough movie deal for her. But - and I admit this to you in strictest confidence - we have had something of a falling out. She won't talk to me and neither will her family. I suspect she's fixing herself up with another agent. I need to know what's going on before I set up a meeting with Orlando Verdi. Do you know who I mean?'
Billy nodded. That fat piece of pizza had put together more movie deals than a jumbo jet of Hollywood executives. The problem was that all the films stank. But who cared about that? Obviously not Imogen.
'And you need me to find her?' asked Billy, light suddenly illuminating this unlikely interview.
'Not really. I know exactly where she is, she's staying at the Asquith round the corner while she's shooting a walk-on for TV and pretending she's already a big star. I'd like you to see her for me.'
'But why can't you go?'
'I've already told you. We've had rather a big row. She won't see me or Katie. She won't return calls. We've been there, we've tried and as time is short we've decided we need a different approach.'