Lust on the Loose

by Noel Amos

  'Women have always had to suffer in the cause of glamour. You know that, Sophie.'

  'Well, I don't see how anyone could sing in this.'

  'Just thank your stars you're not Melissa thing. She'd never stuff her Melones into a smart little number like that.'

  Then, having arranged to change in Betsy's room before the performance, Sophie inspected the premises. No one bothered to ask her what she was doing, they were all too busy. She ambled the grounds and spotted Billy, Brick and Tracy sitting on the river bank. She poked her head into the marquee on the lawn where Arnold's army of caterers were setting up the buffet tables. She even ventured into the auditorium but retreated swiftly, not wishing to be involved in a screaming match between a statuesque Italian woman and a harassed electrician.

  The sun shone, the setting was idyllic and the excitement of the evening's performance was infectious. Sophie was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Ambrosia was right. Danny Fretwork would not show. This was a world far removed from villains of his ilk. Even if he had discovered Billy's whereabouts he'd never follow him here. Not even Danny Fretwork was crazy enough for that.

  At that moment, on a train leaving Victoria Station, a burly man took his seat amongst an elite throng. Like many of his fellow travellers he wore a dinner jacket and black bow-tie - though from the way he tugged at his collar this was obviously not his accustomed garb. He was on his own but it soon transpired he was a sociable fellow, something of an expert on Spanish property values and Scuba diving if a little shaky on the staging of Aida at Verona. Contrary to Sophie's expectations, Danny Fretwork fitted in rather well.

  Chapter 58

  The evening's entertainment began slowly. Murdo Cameron, the Scots baritone, was not known as the most exciting of performers. Candy and Imogen had been at a loss where to hide him on the bill but had concluded he would do least damage if he came on first before anyone had had time to get bored. Fortunately, his Wagner solo and arrangements of Celtic folk songs were over while the audience were still eyeballing each other.

  Next up was the Drax Trio - three sisters who played avant-garde violin music in sequinned halters and black mini-skirts. They had a strong appeal to the young, the trendy and the simply lecherous. The arts critic of The Rag, Pandora Britches, was seen to applaud enthusiastically.

  There followed another longueur in the programme - Cecily and Archibald Cherry, the husband-and-wife team who specialised in duets from operettas. With many an arch twinkle and coy glance, the leathery pair hammed their way through the greatest hits of Lehar and Offenbach. In her seat at the back of the circle Sophie stifled a yawn.

  The Cherrys finally relented and gave way to the first of the evening's widely touted events - The Marian Mucus Ballet. They were dancing a new piece specially devised for the occasion. It told the symbolic story of a lost cat: a pampered fireside moggy who had strayed from home to be confronted by the horrors of the Real World such as Cars, Pollution and Big Business. Finally the abused hero met up with a band of gypsy cats who rescued him from capture by a man with a bowler hat and they all frolicked happily together in the finale.

  That was how the programme explained matters but, to Sophie's eyes, the stage was simply filled with leaping and prancing females who were almost entirely nude. After the first shock she realised that they were just wearing flesh-toned body stockings. Sylph-like creatures that they were, they nevertheless displayed sturdy thighs and temptingly rounded buttocks to full advantage. At their appearance the hitherto comatose gentleman on Sophie's left jerked into life. 'Amazing what you can get away with in the name of art,' he muttered loudly to his wife. All the same he applauded loudly as, after an energetic ten minutes, the panting dancers flitted from the scene.

  By now many of the audience were thinking ahead to the sumptuous buffet which awaited them in the brilliance of the summer evening. However, there remained one more act to endure before the first half drew to a close. Rebellious patrons shuffled in their seats. How much was one expected to suffer in aid of a good cause?

  Halfway back in the stalls Pandora Britches tightened her grip on Patsy's hand. In her function as critic she would be entirely objective, within feminist parameters of course, as to the merits of the performance that was about to take place. Personally, however, she hoped that her former lover, Tracy Pert, would play her allotted role in life and make a right tit of herself.

  Loud rock suddenly blasted through the air, cruelly jerking some from their slumbers as the curtain rose to reveal a gyrating Tracy, microphone in hand, swivelling her notorious curves on top of a hastily erected dais. She wore tiny tight black leather shorts and thigh-high, leather boots that glistened in the spotlights. Her amazing bosom was cupped in shiny black latex with crossover straps which moulded the twin globes upwards into two firm bowls of flesh.

  Tracy wailed unintelligibly against a down-and-dirty barrage of electronic noise, giving it her all. She dipped and swooped, posed and preened, brazenly displaying every pouting inch of her spectacular form. She turned upstage and presented her pumping buttocks to the audience of the great and good who sat frozen in their evening finery, mesmerised by her lewd display.

  The bum cheeks wiggled and wobbled, the pussycat tail flicked saucily from side to side. Then she swung back to the front, bending low so that her big breasts threatened to topple free from their constraints. Then she straightened up, rocking back on her heels and bumping her pubis forward in unmistakable copulatory invitation. Grabbing her tail with her free hand she pulled it upwards between her legs, closing her eyes and moaning in fake ecstasy as she sawed it suggestively across her pubic delta. With a final squeal, her hand yanking on the woolly limb springing from her bulging crotch, the lights went out and the curtain descended in deafening silence.

  'Fantastic!' cried Billy, waiting in the wings to throw his arms round Tracy in a hug of congratulation. 'That woke the stuffy bastards up!'

  'Good God, that was obscene,' said the woman on the right of Sophie. The man on the left was pounding his palms together, adding to the growing tumult of applause in defiance of the icy glare of his wife.

  Patsy pulled a stunned Pandora to her feet, 'Let's get a drink quick. You look like a woman in need.'

  Chapter 59

  Amidst the bustle of the long supper interval Arnold Brie was in his element. He was the master chef, the wizard of the kitchen who could wave a magic wand and make people happy. People adored his food and they were wild about his Bedside Summer Punch, specially concocted for the occasion. Candy had requested a cocktail to make the evening go with a swing and Arnold had complied. He knew what was required. What's more, the fizzing, ice-cold creation tasted damned good. He allowed himself another glass.

  The first person to feel the full effect of Arnold's punch was Lavender Roe. Overtaken with a coughing fit during the ballet, she had made an early exit. Consequently she was two glasses up on her mother by the time they were reunited in the interval crush on the lawn outside the marquee.

  'Lavender,' barked Lady Roe, 'what have you done with your wrap, you look positively indecent.'

  There was some truth in this, the cerise swatch of silk was intended to be worn over a flimsy top suspended by two thin straps and cut low beneath the arms to allow for maximum air circulation on a hot night. The garment could hardly be worn with a brassiere and was only suitable for women who had no breasts or those with a firm and youthful pair that could stand up for themselves. The fair Lavender fell into the latter category.

  'Don't fuss, mother, it's far too hot to wear anything unnecessary. You don't think I look too naughty, do you?' She addressed this to the tall waiter who was busily recharging her glass.

  'I think you look gorgeous,' said he, openly ogling her half-exposed bosom.

  'Well, I think you look gorgeous too. Will you come and help me look for my wrap? I think I dropped it over there in the bushes.' And she sailed off with the waiter in tow, leaving her mother, for once, completely speechless.


  The new Minister for the Arts was another who felt the early benefit of the Bedside Punch. It was well-known that Godolphin Sumner hated anything of a cultural nature and he particularly resented boring evenings at the theatre and the opera. It was all right for Henrietta, she could sink three gins in the interval and go straight to bed. He, on the other hand, still had to face those bloody ministerial boxes no matter what time the fat lady put a sock in it.

  Tonight, however, he felt different. Perhaps it was the effect of the beautiful evening amid perfect surroundings though, to be fair, he wasn't usually affected by mawkish considerations of this sort. If he were honest he'd put it all down to all those little ballet girls prancing around almost in the buff. They were artistes, of course, and he knew he wasn't supposed to think naughties about them. But that Tracy female, all leather and rubber and bulging boobs - there was no doubt what a chap might think about her and, by George, he was thinking it! It was a pity her contribution hadn't lasted longer.

  'Minister - I'm delighted to see you here!'

  Sumner grinned and extended his hand to the stunning woman who had appeared in front of him. She wore a black-and-white striped stretch cotton dress with embroidered bodice that thrust out an inviting expanse of golden breast-flesh. The Minister had a feeling he ought to remember this filly - she was a hell of a looker.

  'You remember Candy Kensington, don't you, God?' said Henrietta Sumner on cue as usual. 'She's the clever lady who has made this wonderful evening possible.'

  'Marvellous!' he boomed. 'Let me bestow a kiss upon you, Candy, courtesy of HMG.' And he did so, making a big fuss of placing the ministerial lips on both of Candy's cheeks, sneaking a long look down her cleavage as he did so.

  'I say, God, steady on,' said Henrietta, adding to Candy, 'I haven't seen him so enthusiastic for years.'

  Candy turned her smile on Sumner at full beam and placed a slender hand on his arm. 'Who have you enjoyed most so far?'

  'Why, Tracy, of course,' shouted Sumner and gulped a glass of punch in one go. 'That girl's got talent! She's a great ambassador for British culture.'

  Curious glances were cast amongst the knot of people which had formed around the Minister. Usually voluble critics were struck dumb. Then came a cry of 'Hear! Hear!' from the fringe of the group and Prince Roger pushed himself forward.

  'Couldn't agree more, God. A most stimulating performance.'

  Thus Tracy Pert from Stratford East received the seal of approval from God and the Crown - a unique accolade that spread amongst the assembly like bush fire.

  Danny Fretwork looked through the throng with a keen eye, his glance passing swiftly over the elegantly attired women. For once, an abundance of alluring feminine curves did not hold his interest. His mind was focused on a man - Billy Dazzle. Though he had never wittingly clapped eyes on the detective he had studied photographs. So far his quarry had eluded him.

  Danny grabbed two glasses from a passing waiter. He didn't intend to drink them - he needed to keep a clear head - but it gave him a pretext to roam the lawn peering at the crowds as if in search of a missing companion. In fact, he rather wished he had brought one - young Amanda, say, she would have been good cover. Not that he wouldn't have felt bad about involving Amanda in a hit. However, he had only been able to turn up one ticket. He grinned to himself. Amanda was a stunner, he'd have enjoyed rigging her out in posh togs and setting her loose at this fancy do. She'd have turned a few heads.

  'Basil, hello!' cried a voice by his side and a small brown-haired woman in a cream suit stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. As she did so she whispered in his ear, 'For God's sake, pretend that you know me!'

  Danny's first impulse was to tell her to piss off but he was suddenly riveted by two bird-bright eyes, a full kissable mouth and, looking down from his height into the shadows of her jacket, a fully exposed and perfectly formed left breast.

  'Hello yourself,' he replied and relinquished a glass to her. She drank deeply. Danny took in the petite curves and slim brown legs set off enticingly by the lightweight summer suit. The breast was now no longer in view but the notion of its availability sent a surprising shiver down his spine.

  'I'm sorry to thrust myself upon you,' she explained, 'but I can't stand the old goat who brought me here. He's been fingering my arse ever since the lights went up. I told him I'd spotted an old flame and fled.'

  'Do you want me to sort him out for you?'

  'Don't be silly, he's a superintendent in the Metropolitan Police. He's my boss.'

  Danny's shock was evident. The woman placed a slender hand upon his arm and squeezed. 'Don't worry, tonight's my night off. My name's Ambrosia - what's yours?'

  Backstage in her cramped dressing-room Tracy carefully tucked the tails of her white silk shirt into the waistband of her short black skirt. She had decided that classic simplicity would be suitable for her appearance with Brick. The thought of it made her head spin.

  There was a knock at the door. She swore under her breath. It was probably Billy but, much as she liked him, she couldn't afford to be distracted by him now. She knew just what he'd be after but he'd have to wait. Tonight Brick came first.

  It wasn't Billy, it was one of the ballet girls from next door. 'Won't you pop in and have a drink with us?' she said. 'They've sent some goodies round from the buffet in front.'

  'Oh,' said Tracy, caught completely off-guard, 'I don't think so, I've got to get ready.'

  'Rubbish, darling,' cried the dancer, grabbing Tracy by the hand and tugging her out of the door, 'we insist.'

  'But I thought you didn't like me,' spluttered Tracy, unable to resist the other's surprisingly strong grip.

  'Don't be daft. We think you're fantastic. And we just love your fabulous figure. Don't we, girls?'

  'Yes!' they cried, surrounding Tracy as she allowed herself to be pulled inside their dressing-room.

  'Don't you realise,' said a thin elf as she pushed a glass of fizzing punch into Tracy's hand, 'we'd all die for tits like yours.'

  'But you do fancy me, don't you?' said Ambrosia, edging Danny up the staircase that lead to the darkness of the balcony overlooking the gardens of Bedside. 'If you don't, why do you keep looking down my front?'

  'Look, Ambrosia, of course I fancy you but it's just not on! We'll be seen.'

  'No, we won't. Besides, so what? I'm a senior policewoman. You're safe with me. Live dangerously for once, Basil. Forget your boring office job, seize this romantic moment.'

  She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. They were at the top of the stairs now and he couldn't help kissing her back just as ardently.

  'This was meant to be,' said Ambrosia, 'I know it. When you told me your name really was Basil I knew something special was about to happen to us.'

  She turned her back to him and bent forward over the stone balustrade of the balcony. 'Put your arms around me,' she instructed, 'cuddle up close from behind.'

  Danny did so, dazed by the sequence of events. He couldn't believe he was about to be seduced by a police inspector on her night off. But what could he do about it now? Her hands had reached behind her and she was already fumbling in his fly for his prick.

  Danny was not a man to look a gift-horse in the mouth where crumpet was concerned. Besides he was feeling incredibly randy. So what if the woman currently tugging his cock from his trousers was a policewoman? There was no denying she had a tidy little arse and he was going to enjoy unveiling it.

  His big hands were now under the hem of her skirt, bunching it up over her hips to reveal smooth firm thighs and a tight bottom encased in silk french knickers. He savoured the sight of the twin cheeks stretching the material taut over her outthrust seat.

  'Come on!' hissed Ambrosia, pulling aside the flimsy fabric of the gusset to reveal a pink and hairless pussy slit. 'We've not got much time. Stick it up me quick!'

  Danny did not fail her. His iron-hard shaft slid up her channel in one delicious thrust. She was warm, wet and very willing.<
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  'Ooh,' she moaned, answering his pelvic jabs by wiggling her arse back into his crotch. 'Ooh, yes, you don't know how badly I need this!'

  Her need, in fact, was a complete puzzle to Ambrosia. Twenty minutes ago, with the ghastly Armstrong leering at her, she could have sworn that the entire process of sexual connection was repellent. And now here she was, with a complete stranger rodding her from the rear and she was revelling in it!

  As the orgasm hit her, the whole scene - the jostling crowds on the lawn, the lush green valley, the fading pink of the evening sky - seemed to go fuzzy at the edges. It may have been the booze or the fact that vanity dictated she keep her spectacles in her pocket but it added to the unreal magic of the moment. It was a joy to be relieved, if only for one evening, from the pressure of tracking down Danny Fretwork.

  She remembered her conversation that day with Sophie and she laughed out loud. Danny took this as his cue to slide a hand round her hip and down into her split from the front.

  'Silly Starkers,' muttered Ambrosia to herself as a coarse finger strummed across her clit, making her shiver, 'as if that ape Fretwork would ever show his face at a classy event like this.'

  'What's that?' whispered Danny into her ear, his fingers teasing the neat crop of fur at the head of her crack, his belly thumping into the soft cushion of her arse-cheeks in a steady rhythm.

  'Forget it, Basil, just bring me off again with your beautiful prick!'

  And he did.

  Further along the same balcony a pair of women stood dumbfounded, their intimate tete-a-tete irrevocably disrupted by the arrival of Danny and Ambrosia.

  'My God,' said the small blonde one, 'that's my two-timing bastard of a husband!'