by Noel Amos
Gwen was lying on her back across the sofa with Ivor kneeling on the floor in front of her. Her bum overhung the seat and her legs rested on Ivor's shoulders as he thrust in and out between her legs. He wore an unbuttoned shirt and she wore black suspenders and stockings and a coffee-coloured camisole that had been pushed up around her neck.
From her position in the doorway, Josie could see the intimate collision of their bodies in every detail. Ivor's cock drove into Gwen like a thick white wand, stretching wide the outer lips of her pink pussy. He had one hand spread across her belly, his fingertips at the top of her slit, probing and nudging her clit. His other hand was out of sight beneath Gwen's bottom. Whatever he was doing to her, it was highly effective, for she was twisting her head from side to side, whipping her long red hair across her large juddering breasts.
Josie had withdrawn swiftly and she and Gwen had laughed about the incident the next morning. But Josie had never discussed it with Ivor and every time she saw him the image of his slim hips and long white cock sprang to her mind.
Now he was smiling at her as he unslung the towel from his waist and began to rub the moisture from his chest. The length of towelling fell down between his thighs, still concealing his groin - though Josie fancied she could see the bulge of his genitals beneath the swaying material. As Gavin continued to drone into her ear, Josie's eyes were glued to Ivor, to the smooth pale skin of his long flanks, to the muscles in his shoulders and to the scooped-out hollows of his buttocks as he turned to one side.
He was teasing her, there was no doubt. The towel flicked backwards and forwards over his crotch and her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed again that pale finger of flesh that so fascinated her. Then he was drying his back, sawing the towel across his shoulders, and his whole body was on view. His penis was erecting, she could see. It pointed downwards from a knot of black hair at the base of his belly but, as she watched, it seemed to swell and jerk upwards. Now it was pointing straight out from his body and she felt as if she, like Gavin earlier, were staring down the barrel of a gun. The pale foreskin had peeled back to reveal a pink and glistening head as the cock swung up to full erection.
Josie's need for food was forgotten. Right now she felt a different kind of hunger.
Gavin was still talking as Ivor walked towards her and stood with his big penis on a level with her face. He folded his arms over his chest and bumped his hips so his cock waved in front of her. She looked up to see him grinning at her without shame. He ran his tongue over his lips in obvious suggestion. Josie couldn't help herself; she reached out and took hold of him.
His prick felt hot in her hand. It seemed to pulse with life and urgency. She ran her fingers up and down its length, tentatively at first, then boldly, rolling the foreskin right back to reveal the broad head, now reddening under her touch.
'I'm going to have to go now, Gavin,' she said firmly, tipping her hand between Ivor's legs to cup his furry balls. 'I've got lots of things to do.'
But she couldn't get rid of him that easily, there was a ritual to their conversations and she had to indulge it.
'Darling, I miss you, too,' she said, adding - as she knew me must - 'and your cock.'
That set him off. She knew he looked forward to talking dirty to her on the phone and up till now she'd felt rather prim about it. But at this moment, with Ivor's throbbing erection in her hand, it was undeniably exciting.
He was telling her how badly he wanted to ravish her - to throw her on a bed and rip her panties off her arse and thrust his bursting prick deep inside her until she screamed for mercy and then screamed for more!
'Oh yes!' Josie cried as Ivor's hand suddenly dived between her legs and began to probe her sodden cunt through her tights.
Gavin was expanding on his theme, describing his urge to spunk all over her body, in particular to thrust his cock between her breasts.
Ivor's busy hand had now found a tiny hole in the seam of her underwear and, in one fierce movement, he ripped away the material covering her crotch.
'Oh God!' wailed Josie as a thick finger was thrust inside her.
Gavin was still on about her satin-smooth breasts and how he longed to wrap their bulging contours around his aching member. Josie knew he was jerking off as he talked and she was feeling so hot herself the idea thrilled her.
By now, Ivor had three fingers inside her and his thumb was rubbing her stiff little clit. She humped her bottom up off the sofa to meet his thrusts. Her juices were running down the inside of her thighs and somewhere in her head she realised she'd leave stains on the cushions - but then there must be plenty of those on the sofa already.
She reached forward and did what she had been dying to do all along - suck that beautiful dick into her mouth as far as it would go. God, it tasted wonderful! Salty but clean, a rich man-taste. She gobbled deeply then slid her mouth backwards and forwards, pumping with her hand on his shaft, rubbing the fat head on the roof of her mouth.
Gavin was getting close, she could hear it in the breathy tones of his voice and the way he kept repeating himself, saying the words 'big wobbling tits' over and over and—
Her mouth was suddenly flooded as Ivor's prick jumped and pulsed in her hand and shot a thick wad of semen down her throat. God, this is obscene, said Josie to herself, but it's fantastic! And then she came too, wriggling in ecstasy on Ivor's fingers.
'Goodbye, Gavin,' she said, her throat thick with spunk, and replaced the receiver.
'Well, well,' said Ivor, 'what a randy little piece you turned out to be.'
But she wasn't listening. It had only just dawned on her - Gavin wasn't drooling over her tits at all. It was that horrible Topless Raider!
Chapter 4
Twenty-four hours after their first meeting Monk returned to the Superintendent's office. For once, Hatter greeted him with enthusiasm.
'How are you getting on, Archie? Any leads?'
Monk avoided a direct response.
'I've been studying the incidents, looking for the common denominators in the crimes.'
'I would have thought they were pretty obvious.'
'Indeed. Our perpetrator pitches up in a small branch of a building society, one which hasn't got the most sophisticated security. She waits till the place is empty and targets a young male cashier. Then she flashes her charlies, whips out her shooter and tells him to put the cash in a plastic carrier bag. She's softly spoken, very sexy, and gives the boy a real eyeful. She's out of the place in seconds.'
'It's a joke.'
'It's got a point to it. The breast-baring is obviously a distraction, designed to shock and to keep attention away from more easily identifiable portions of her anatomy, such as her face. So far it seems to have worked. Witnesses are sketchy on facial description. She's been clever in selecting young men who are completely overwhelmed by her behaviour and their statements only describe one thing. Two things, actually. As for the women who have seen her, their observations indicate that this lady has a variety of disguises. She must have an array of wigs, contact lenses, spectacles, fingernails and so on. And, of course, she's ringing the changes with her clothes and make-up. Given the resources at her disposal she's capable of looking entirely different from one day to the next.'
Hatter, whose initial optimism at Monk's appearance was draining away fast, ruminated on this information. 'Sounds just like my daughter. Or my wife. Or any bloody woman I know if they put their mind to it.'
At that moment the telephone rang. Hatter answered it without enthusiasm, his bejowled face a picture of dejection. Within seconds all had changed. As he listened, his eyes lit up and the dewlaps wobbled with joy.
'They've got her!' he cried, thumping the phone back into its rest and leaping to his feet. 'They caught her in the Bristol Bountiful with her blouse open and an imitation pistol in her handbag. She's downstairs now.'
'The Bristol Bountiful,' said Monk as he followed Hatter out of the door en route to the stairs, 'the papers will love that.'
When they arrived she was being attended by four policemen. Others milled around in the corridor trying to get a peak inside the interview room.
'Hi, guys,' she said as Hatter and Monk squeezed inside. 'Just how many of you are needed to take care of one little girl?'
She spoke in a high-pitched voice that, to Monk's ears, said 'low-class tart' and he fixed her with his Mad Monk stare. It was his speciality.
The suspect blew him a kiss. 'Oooh, that one's sexy,' she squealed, adding, 'You'd better not leave me alone with him!' as Hatter ordered the other officers from the room.
'It's not her,' said Monk.
'What do you mean?' shrieked the woman. 'I'm Brenda, Brenda the Bra-less Robber. It's a fair cop, you rotten bastard!'
Hatter ignored her and spoke directly to Monk.
'What are you on about?'
'Don't you see? She may be a thief but she's not the one we're looking for. This is copycat crime.'
'You swine!' shouted the object of their conjecture, her bracelets rattling with rage as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. 'Here's your bloody proof!'
With these words she yanked open her shirt and displayed herself from neck to navel, intruding into the conversation two pink and shiny rounds of flesh which sat high and immobile on the broad expanse of her chest.
For a moment there was silence.
'Well,' she cried in triumph, 'what do you think of those?'
'I think,' said Hatter to Monk, 'that you are dead right.
Let's get out of here and nick the real Naughty Nora.'
Upstairs in Hatter's office, the Superintendent was philosophical. 'I suppose it was too good to be true, her turning up like that out of the blue. You knew at once, didn't you?'
'So would you have done if she had arrived five minutes later. I was about to discuss the video evidence and the one aspect of Brenda's appearance that she can't disguise.'
'The breasts themselves?'
'When you study the pictures from the fixed cameras you can see at once how Tiny Tits downstairs could never pass herself off as the real thing. Quite apart from the fact that she's really Dickless Dora straight off the boat from Casablanca.'
'A sex change, you mean?'
'Exactly. Didn't you notice the shoulders and the hands? She probably used to work on building sites. Of course, the real giveaway was the silicone job - those knockers wouldn't have shifted a millimetre if you'd asked her to stand on her head.'
'Oh hell,' said Hatter.
But Monk did not hear him. He was spreading a pile of black-and-white photographs across the surface of the desk.
'Now, look at these. This is the real thing. It's the photo sequence from last week's raid at the Gloucester Generous. Here's our girl in one of those halter-neck jobs. It's very handy for her purposes, it means she can yank the material up with her left hand and go for the gun with her right, all in the same movement. See, here and here. She gets in close for the hit, makes it very intimate between the cashier and her body. Gets all her guns to bear on him, as it were.'
'What does she say to them?'
'"Do what I say or this is the last pair of tits you'll ever see." She said to one of them, "Take a good look, lover, I want you to die with a smile on your face."'
'Nice,' muttered Hatter.
'That's what they say afterwards. All the tellers agree that hers are a Grade-A, number-one, first-class set of bazookas, and they share a sense of privilege at being invited to ogle them. There is concern that some of them may be traumatised for a while as a result of this experience.'
'Huh, it doesn't take long for them to cough up the cash.'
'If you ask me, it's the psychology of the carrot and the stick. And the fact that most British males under the age of thirty are mother-fixated.'
'You mean, they are all big babies and the sight of an overblown pair of breasts makes them compliant?' Hatter obviously did not consider this much of an excuse.
'It's a line of thinking that sells a lot of newspapers.'
'Don't mention them. We'll never keep the lid on that fiasco downstairs.'
'Maybe not but I have an idea that the papers could be of use to us.'
Hatter narrowed his piggy eyes and shot Monk a look loaded with suspicion.
'I'll need your permission,' continued Monk, 'but here is what I intend to do.'
Hatter listened intently and as he did so his fat face settled into a mask of gloom.
Chapter 5
Robyn Chestnut burst out of the editor's office in a rage. Her colleagues in the newsroom of the Daily Rabbit smirked to themselves as she stamped back to her desk. The American girl lost her cool on a daily basis and it was usually very entertaining.
'What's today's drama, sweetie?' asked the diary editor.
'Fuck off, Crispin.' Robyn had upended her handbag on her desk and was pawing through her things, an unlit cigarette dangling from her wide curvy mouth. 'Just tell me what it is with you Brits and tits.'
Crispin produced a light and Robyn took a deep drag. 'I mean,' she said, 'I took this job on the basis that I would deal with proper women's issues. I know it's a tabloid paper but that means you can be more direct, show the human face, go straight for the guts.'
Crispin cut her short; he'd heard all this before. 'Let me guess, he's put you on Brenda.'
'Of course he's put me on Brenda. There isn't another story on this entire paper. It's twenty-eight pages everyday about a woman and her tits! It's un-fucking-believable.'
'Don't knock the breast, darling. It's our entire editorial philosophy. It's politically balanced, too. You see, there's a left one and a right one.'
'Oh shut up!' But Robyn grinned all the same. She couldn't stay pissed for too long.
Her phone rang.
'Robyn Chestnut,' she announced sharply. Then, as she listened, her look of impatience disappeared. She put the phone down a few moments later and began to gather up her belongings. Crispin raised his eyebrows.
'I just got a break,' she explained. 'An inside line on Brenda that might even please the Big Bastard - if I can bear to talk to him after what he said to me.'
'What was that?'
'He told me that just because I wore an A-cup I shouldn't be jealous because this Brenda woman took a double D. He said a true professional would not let her own physical deficiencies get in the way of a good story.'
And, with that, she uncoiled her slim six-foot frame from her chair and strode angrily out of the office.
In fact, Robyn did not despise her editor or even the story she was forced to work on. She could think of one or two angles on this topless-robber thing well worth exploring. But she did seem to be operating on a very short fuse these days and she knew the reason why. It was sex - she wasn't getting enough of it. Though it wasn't for want of trying.
The night before, she'd turned up at Alistair's unannounced. It was outside their arrangement but, where her hungry pussy was concerned, why make an appointment? He'd not been at home, Wednesday being one of his TV nights, so she'd waited for him to return from the studio. She'd dressed up for him or, rather, dressed down in his favourite costume of white blouse, short pleated grey skirt, blue serge knickers and white ankle socks. She'd put her long black hair in bunches, painted freckles across the bridge of her nose and placed the riding crop on top of the television set. While she waited for him to arrive, she watched his programme.
Alistair Needle's professional life had changed radically in the two years Robyn had known him. They had met as staffers on a dull sociological monthly, The Pill, for which Alistair had covered financial and home affairs. He'd worn rumpled corduroy suits and Hush Puppies, played rugby for the Old Boys on Saturdays and slept alone, still brooding over a long-dead, childless marriage. Robyn had changed all that - once she'd discovered a way through his defences.
The Needle was much sought after by the females on the magazine bu
t none of them had the chutzpah that Robyn did. A few hours of beery conversation at the pub near the office revealed that Alistair had the hots for the Princess Royal, loved traditional English country pursuits and every year took his two nieces to schoolgirl hockey internationals. Before pouncing, Robyn had tested her theory. She'd worn jodhpurs and riding boots to the office once and had seen his eyes light up. She'd inveigled him into a walk past the local girls' school playground during a netball match and gauged his interest. After that it was easy.
The costume she wore tonight was the one that she had revealed to him an evening almost two years ago. The sight of her long long legs and tight bottom then had him glassy-eyed. She'd brazenly eased his big tool out of his corduroys in the hall of her flat and after that there had been no stopping him. They'd called in sick to the office for the next two days and had humped their way all round her small apartment. And, though she had paid a heavy price in carpet burns and minor bruises, she had never regretted it. As they'd said at The Pill, she'd got The Needle, all right.
Within weeks the corduroys had hit the dustbin along with the rugby boots and she'd turned the threesome at England v Scotland into a foursome - which was a deadly way to spend an afternoon but a blissful way to pass the following night. Just at the point when she had sharpened up The Needle's wardrobe to include some smart designer suits and had shown him the way to the local dry-cleaners, he had landed a reporter's job on a heavyweight TV news programme. He'd been an instant success. His laid-back public-school arrogance had pricked a few politicians' bubbles and suddenly he was a name, with a late-night show of his own.