by Noel Amos
'Oh dear,' said Billy sympathetically, recharging her glass. The bubbles were bursting fast now. Delectable areas of Tracy-flesh were gradually inching into view. 'But if you think that, how do you feel about the glamour photos that have made you famous?'
'Oh, I love them, they brought me millions of fans. But that's all in the past, now I want a proper career to fulfil me as an artist and a woman.'
Billy loosened his tie. The heat in the small room was stifling. He was sure he could just make out the tip of one delicate pink nipple bobbing in the surf. He continued his Maurice act, pretending to scribble notes as he did so.
'I understand your agent is about to launch you into a whole new career.'
'Oh yeah? On my fat fanny! She's the one who's holding me back. She's got all these fancy people on her books and they get all the high-class gigs. Me, I just get the wobble-ons.'
And Tracy polished off her third - or was it her fourth - glass of champagne, banging the receptacle down on the tiles dangerously as she warmed to her theme. Billy had spotted the second nipple now, its pretty crinkled nose peeping out of the foam, while beneath the suds the bulk of her entrancing bosom lay as yet unseen.
'Do you know,' she said, 'she's organising this big charity gala in aid of dead cats or something. It'll be a real nobs' night out at some mansion in the country, diamonds and tiaras on show, you know. And she's got all her posh clients in on it, that Italian singer Melissa Whatsit and the composer Sebastian Silk and Brick Tempo - I love Brick Tempo, I'd die to be on the same stage as Brick Tempo - and that smartarse cow won't let me in on it. If you ask me, she's the worst exploiter of the lot. She'll take fifteen per cent of my boobs till they drop to my belly button and then I'll be on the scrapheap. I'm a woman and an artist and I'm not just a pair of tits!'
Tracy shot bolt upright in her fury and suddenly there they were, the Nation's Number One Knockers, dangling in front of Billy's pop-eyed gaze in all their swollen rosy-pink free-swinging glory. Enough to make a man's mouth water, his palms itch and his trousers swell - all of which reactions hit Billy at precisely the same moment.
'Well,' demanded the steaming nymph, 'what do you think?'
'I think,' replied Billy, goggle-eyed, 'that those are the most fabulous breasts I've ever seen in my life—'
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. He was cut off by a wall of water as, furious and spitting, Tracy lunged for him, catching him by the collar and plunging his head into the bath.
Despite her extravagant proportions Tracy was only a small woman, but she was fit, energetic and fighting mad. A few minutes before Billy would have died for the pleasure of getting into the tub with her, now it looked as if he was going to do just that. She held his head under with manic fury, at the same time trying to bash his skull against the side of the bath. Then there came a terrible ringing in his ears and it was this that saved him.
Billy lay panting and spluttering on the floor for a full minute before he realised Tracy was talking on the telephone. He had noticed the receiver hanging above the bath during the interview. Thank God for ritzy hotels, he thought.
'But he's here, Pandy,' Tracy was saying, 'and I think I've half drowned the bugger.'
Still shocked, Billy listened in a daze. And, despite the evident dangers in so doing, he openly admired her dripping curves. She stared right back at him as she spoke.
'No he hasn't. No beard, no hair except on his head, lots of it, curly black, blue eyes, broad shoulders, about six foot and not bloody bad if you like that sort of thing.' Just as he had concluded he ought to take it on his toes out of her delectable presence she winked at him and plonked the handset back on its rest.
'So,' she said, 'you're not here to do an interview.'
'No.'
'And your name is not Maurice.'
'No.'
'But you like my tits and you're soaking wet.'
'Yes.'
'Well, why don't you get out of your clothes and do something useful? Like soap my back.'
What man could refuse an invitation like that? Billy wondered. And though there had to be a catch he began to strip.
Chapter 6
'MY DANNY IS A DIRTY DOG' blazed the tabloid headline. 'By the Woman He Left Behind' read the more modest sub-heading. Sophie devoured the story on sight, her hands shaking as she leafed through to its continuation on the centre pages of the Blizzard. Her gin and tonic stood untouched on the shelf just by her chair and the panoramic vista of the Thames at dusk, as seen through the window of Ambrosia Spicer's Docklands apartment, no longer held her admiring attention. She only had eyes for the stirring prose of Mrs P Fretwork, as told to Pandora Britches.
Though I sussed in those early days that my Danny was on the fiddle, I knew he couldn't be up to anything really bad. I thought he might be a little late with his VAT or taking advantage of loopholes in the tax laws but nothing more serious than that. He was, after all, a bright young businessman keen to make his way in Margaret Thatcher's Britain of the early eighties.
Nor did I believe the rumours that he had a string of girls on the side. We used to laugh together at these attempts to blacken his name by those envious of his entrepreneurial talents. Of course I was madly in love with him back then and completely blinded by his phenomenal powers as a lover.
'This is garbage,' said Sophie, 'Patsy Fretwork must be bloody hard up.'
'And fed up,' said Ambrosia, eyeing her protegee keenly as she reclined on the sofa opposite her. 'Wouldn't you be if your two-timing husband had kicked you out of his villa on the Costa del Sol to shack up with a stable of bimbos? And you were left minding the fort in Ilford with a Keep Off sign on your back?'
'I thought they no longer cared what the other got up to.'
'Don't be daft. They're husband and wife. They've been married ten years. They may leave each other stone cold but you can bet they are very interested in who the other is bonking.'
'And who is Patsy bonking?'
'No one. Danny's boys keep an eye on her and she's off limits to anyone who wants to stay healthy. The poor thing is very frustrated, I hear. They say she's turned to girls.'
Sophie looked at Ambrosia sharply. Ambrosia smiled back and said, 'Why don't you finish the article?'
It turned out he was wanted on one count of murder, three of manslaughter and a whole string of protection and racketeering charges. But what really hurt was the revelation that his gang would regularly meet up at a house in Kent for wild 48-hour sex orgies. These were attended by society groupies and show-biz personalities together with specially selected high-class prostitutes who made sure things went with a swing. There were always plenty of beautiful people who got a thrill out of rubbing shoulders and a whole lot more with the criminal element.
Don't miss tomorrow's sensational instalment when I name names and expose what went on at these poolside sex parties.
'I have a hunch,' said Ambrosia. 'Once Danny reads this, I think he'll be back.'
'But why should he? Surely he's got people here who can sort it out?'
'So? This is very personal, it requires hands-on attention. His hands on his wife. I don't think he'll trust some third party to do it right.'
'But if he comes back he's risking a life sentence.'
'First we've got to catch him, Starkers.'
'Please don't call me that.'
'Why not? It's very appropriate. It is, after all, the condition you were in when you let Danny Fretwork get away last time.'
'Ah.' Sophie blushed. 'So you know about that?'
'I know, Starkers, that you attended one of these so-called poolside orgies posing as a high-class tart - one of your regular disguises, I suppose. I know that you took part in the entertainments there, presumably with the intention of getting your hands on Dirty Danny but the evening ended in fiasco and members of your back-up team barely escaped with their lives. The next day Danny popped up in Spain and two years' worth of painstaking investigation by yours t
ruly and many other dedicated officers was put on hold. And quite possibly consigned to the scrapheap.'
'But I nearly had him! I was at the point of luring him into the bushes where Sergeant Bacon was waiting to make the collar when that bloody idiot fell out of a tree.'
'What bloody idiot?'
'I don't know. Some man. He was hidden up a tree, out of sight. He nearly fell on Sergeant Bacon. When he ran off we all saw he had a camera. A lot of Danny's boys gave chase but he got away.'
'Unlike Sergeant Bacon.'
'Unfortunately. But Mark is very brave. I've tried to make it up to him.'
'I'm sure you have, Starkers.'
Sophie squirmed with embarrassment. 'Ma'am, give me another chance. He's the only one who's ever got away from me. Let me try and put the record straight.'
'Don't worry, that bastard won't get away this time. My team will maintain a watch on all points of entry into the country and on his known haunts. We'll turn over our informants and dig up what kind of information we can. You, however, are not a team player. It seems to me your presence spells potential disaster to all those around you. I'm going to turn you loose to employ your special skills as you think fit. You report directly to me.'
'Oh, ma'am, I don't know how to thank you.'
Ambrosia, stretching one trim leg elegantly along the sofa so her skirt rode up her thigh, said, 'Actually, Starkers, I think you do.'
Chapter 7
Billy was not the kind of fellow who was generally averse to a spot of striptease. His experience of it in pubs, clubs and, more than once, at boozy parties was almost entirely pleasurable. But then, it had never been him doing the actual stripping.
Now, in the steamy confines of Tracy Pert's hotel bathroom, with the piercing baby-blue peepers of the nation's top glamour girl fixed upon him, he felt seriously embarrassed. His smart new jacket lay in a soggy heap on the floor and he hopped awkwardly on one foot as he pulled off a sock.
Tracy lay back in her still-foamy bath, her magnificent curves entirely hidden from view, a critical smirk spread across her pretty features.
'You look a right prat,' she said cheerfully. 'It's funny how a woman doffing her togs is dead sexy but you guys haven't a clue how to go about it.'
Billy angrily ripped open his shirt, sending a button pinging against the mirror over the sink.
'Doh, that's more like it,' said Tracy. 'You've got a nice chest. I don't like them too muscley.'
'Neither do I.'
'Oh, I know what you like.' And she sat up, cupping her breasts in her hands, the soapy water running down the valley between the creamy hills. She jiggled the plump gourds on her palms, lifting and spreading the damp pink tit-flesh, revealing them to his hungry gaze in all their glory.
'Oh, Tracy,' Billy groaned, transfixed by the sight of her. Her slender fingers moved over the quivering opulence of her bewitching bosom with practised ease. Now she began to pinch her nipples, pulling the bright pink nubs erect, giving herself evident pleasure.
'Well,' she said, her voice suddenly low and husky, 'aren't you going to help me? Or are you just going to stand there till I've shrivelled up like a prune?'
With shaking hands Billy unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers to the floor. His thin white cotton briefs could barely contain his excitement. For his part, this was not a shrivelling situation.
'Ooh,' murmured Tracy in appreciation, 'there's more to you than meets the eye.'
Billy said nothing but shucked the inadequate garment down his thighs and kicked it beneath the sink. The time for talking had passed as far as he was concerned.
'Ere,' squawked Tracy as he dropped to one knee and plunged his arms into the bath, one sliding under her thighs, the other circling her back.
'Oy,' she shouted but he fastened his lips over hers, cutting off the sound. Her mouth was warm and welcoming and those eyes he had once dismissed as vacant now blazed into his. She kissed him back avidly, hooking her arms round his chest and hanging onto him as, in a great torrent of foam and water, he pushed himself to his feet lifting her bodily out of the bath.
She squealed in surprise and pleasure as he carried her out into the bedroom and tumbled her onto the big double bed. Then they were all over one another, squeezing and groping and giggling. He buried his face between her breasts, taking first one nipple between his lips then the other as she cradled him to her.
Both were in a hurry now and there wasn't time for finesse. She had one hand on his cock and the other between her legs as she spread herself beneath him. She aimed, he thrust and both groaned with pleasure as his cock slid in one smooth movement deep into her dripping pussy.
It didn't last long. Billy was already at fever pitch but so, thank God, was she. She had her ankles wrapped around his neck as he began what was meant to be a disciplined shafting and soon turned into a wild ride way off the road and out of control. Her wicked little tongue was in his mouth and her fingers were raking his back as he humped into her, holding her fast by the bum cheeks, diddling her bottom hole with his little finger.
He groaned out loud as she took her lips from his and sank her teeth into his neck. He pushed his finger into the ring of her anus. She bucked her loins furiously back and forth, revelling in the sensation of cock and finger filling her at the same time. He dipped his head to her breasts and she hugged his face to them as he nibbled and sucked and licked deliriously, his mind a jumble of lewd visions. He shot his spunk deep into her just as she came too, shrieking her pleasure into his ear.
They lay in a tangle of limbs, panting, wet from the bath and the sex, unable to speak. Tracy planted a gentle kiss on Billy's bruised neck. Finally she whispered, 'If you're not Maurice - who the bloody hell are you?'
Chapter 8
'I think we should start,' said DCI Spicer, 'with an inspection. Why don't you show me the equipment you will be using to lure Britain's most wanted man into custody?'
'Ma'am—' Sophie was standing to attention on the Turkish rug in front of the sofa. Back straight, heels together, arms by her side - in her off-duty best of crisp turquoise blouse and cream silk skirt, she felt distinctly silly. And vulnerable.
'Take off your skirt.'
'Oh ma'am, please.'
'Off with it, Stark. I want to have a good look at the Metropolitan Police Force's secret weapon.'
With trembling hands Sophie unzipped and slid the feather-light garment down her long legs till it pooled in a discreet ring around her gleaming black stilettos. 'You do know what I'm talking about, Sophie, don't you?'
'No!'
'Come off it, Starkers. You know just what I mean. I want to see what it is that all these street-smart villains are prepared to risk their liberty for.'
And she leaned forward and fixed her beady stare straight ahead of her on the sumptuous form of DS Sophie Stark clad, from the waist down, in just a pair of high-heel shoes and a wisp of panty cut high on her glistening hip, describing a deep white V over the dimpled plain of her belly. Sophie knew the dark thatch of hair in her groin was clearly visible through the thin cotton and, though bereft of only one garment, she had never felt so naked in her life. And she knew what was coming next.
'Off,' ordered Ambrosia.
Sophie opened her mouth to protest but it was useless. Her panties joined the ring of material around her feet.
Ambrosia leaned further forward till her nose was just six inches from the thick chestnut thatch that concealed Sophie's most secret nooks and crannies.
'Feet apart,' said Ambrosia.
As if in a dream, Sophie obeyed.
'Now, show me.'
'Ma'am, please!'
'Show me, Sophie. I want to see this special place of yours. Every detail of it. I want you to demonstrate to me that your equipment is in full working order for the greatest assignment of your life.'
'Oh God,' said Sophie but her fingers were already at work, gently opening herself up, spreading the pearly pink lips along the length of her split, automatically de
lving between them to emerge glistening with her own juices. Her knees trembled. She was violently aroused.
'Good girl,' said Ambrosia, as if she were praising a favoured child. 'Run your finger all the way round, just on the inside.'
'God, ma'am, I feel such a—'
'Slut?'
'Yes.'
'If I were a man I dare say I'd agree. But I'm not and you aren't. You're a hot-blooded woman with a gorgeous body and an enviable lack of inhibition. You should be proud of yourself.'
'Oh, ma'am - do you really think I'm gorgeous?'
'I wouldn't lie to you, Starkers. Now, slide your finger up your cunt. To your clit.'
The tiny pink nub of flesh stood proudly visible between Sophie's rhythmically moving fingers.
'That's right. Keep doing that and use your other hand as well. Push your fingers inside.'
'Oh. Ohh.' The little cries came bubbling from Sophie's throat. She couldn't help herself. 'You're very wet, aren't you?'
'Yes, oh yes.'
'Faster. Harder. Another finger.'
'Ohhh.' Her knees were shaking as she manipulated her sopping pussy shamelessly before the other's all-devouring gaze.
'That's it, Sophie, that's beautiful.'
'Oh God, oh God!' Her busy fingers were a blur.
'You can come now, Sophie—'
'Oh, OHHH!' Sophie's legs gave way.
'—if you haven't already done so, that is.'
There was silence, broken only by Sophie's heavy breathing as she squatted in a heap at Ambrosia's feet. Then Ambrosia leaned forward and began to stroke Sophie's tangled mane of auburn hair.
'That was very impressive, my darling.' One elegant, ringless hand slid round to the nape of Sophie's neck and gently urged her head forward. 'Unfortunately, I need you to run through your entire repertoire before I can end the inspection.'