Lust at Large

by Noel Amos

  Our Verdict

  The Bunny says we look forward to the time when sensitive lads like Gavin Bird can repair their shattered lives. And that day will only come when this wobbling witch and her mercenary mammaries are safely behind bars. Or should we say bras?

  Chapter 10

  'How are you doing, Josie?' Gwen's voice was a mischievous gurgle in the dark.

  'She's doing just fine,' said a rich baritone voice in reply. 'She'd say so herself if she could talk.'

  Which was true. Josie was having the time of her life.

  Correction - was still having the time of her life, the time that had begun the night Ivor interrupted her phone conversation with Gavin. And the reason she couldn't speak right now was because her mouth was full of cock.

  'She's got wicked little lips, this friend of yours,' said the baritone, whose name was Dewy. It was Dewy who owned the large and comfortable BMW parked up the hill from the rugby club where they had spent the evening. It was as well the ear was large as there were four of them stretched across the seats and Dewy himself was six foot six. He had been the Dibble Dragons' best line-out jumper in living memory and now boasted that he was the club's best cocks-man. But, of course, claim to that tide was less easy to substantiate.

  Josie slurped happily at the large knob in her mouth. It felt like a warm apple stretching her jaw wide. She had both bands on his genitals, stroking the solid shaft and playing with the slack of his scrotum, rolling the big balls gently in her fingers. She wondered if he would come in her mouth and just how much he would shoot. Buckets, she expected. Lovely.

  She heard a gasp and a squeal from the back seat. She wondered what Dewy's friend was doing to Gwen but didn't want to leave the task in hand to find out. Dewy solved her problem.

  'What you doing to her, Gerald my old mate?' he asked.

  'Just getting her tits out into the open,' said Gerald. 'She's got some pair.'

  'Let's have a look,' said Dewy, craning round to look into the back of the car. 'Oho, I see what you mean, boyo. Give us a feel.'

  Josie felt Dewy lurch in his seat as he thrust a long arm into the back of the car and, presumably, made contact with Gwen's opulent charms for there came a yell of protest. 'Get off,' cried Gwen.

  'Come on, girlie, you've got plenty to go round,' said Gerald.

  There was a scuffling sound and a smack of hand on flesh. Josie tried to raise her head to come to her friend's aid but found herself pushed back firmly onto Dewy's rampant cock.

  There came another smack and a hiss of indrawn breath. 'Hey, look at those tits swing! Like chapel bells, man,' shouted Gerald.

  'You're a pair of right crude bastards,' muttered Gwen.

  'But you love it, don't you?' said Gerald cheerfully. 'Now, let's have your knickers off.'

  'Fuck you!'

  'That's the idea, girlie.'

  There came further scuffling sounds but Gwen's protests were cut off, Josie guessed from the following silence, by Gerald's mouth on hers.

  A rhythmic thumping began to rock the car and the noises of fucking filled the small space. Josie heard and felt the slap of flesh on flesh from the back seat as its occupants became more excited. The hot rod in her hands seemed to grow even harder and longer as Dewy, too, was swept up in the thrill of the moment.

  Now came sticky, sucky noises as of a moist cock burrowing eagerly in and out of a wet pussy. Josie relished the thought that Gwen was getting shafted in the back seat while she was sucking a penis in the front. God, how incredibly rude. Josie could hardly credit that she was doing it, let alone enjoying it. How things had changed since she had left London!

  'Look at this arse, Dew,' came Gerald's voice in the dark, thick with lust. 'Have you ever seen anything like it?'

  The cock in Josie's mouth seemed to expand as she heard Dewy exclaim, 'God, Gerry, that's incredible!'

  'Put that light out!' came Gwen's voice.

  'No chance, darling. Wiggle it about. Show us all you've got. Oh, that's grand!'

  What the hell was going on? Josie wondered as she gummed the swollen glans in her mouth and teased her fingers up and down the throbbing barrel of Dewy's tool. It felt monstrous as it rubbed urgently against the soft skin of the roof of her mouth. His great hands were twined in the coils of her hair urging her head down into his crotch. The grunts of onrushing male orgasm were in her ears and Josie made as big an O as she could with her mouth and prepared to receive—

  A deluge. The thick salty liquid gushed from Dewy's penis as her face was pressed against the hard muscle of his hairy belly. She swallowed and almost gagged, then swallowed again, determined to drink in all of this teak-hard Welshman whom she had no desire to ever see again. She had come out tonight intending to behave like a slut and she was revelling in it.

  'God,' said Dewy, 'how I needed that.'

  The energetic thrusting from the back seat had now stopped and harsh male panting filled the small space. A female curse split the air.

  'You haven't come, have you?' said Gwen.

  'Sorry, love,' muttered Gerald. 'You stay right there while I go and have a slash.'

  The car lurched on its suspension as one of the back doors opened and Gerald got out.

  'Take five, girls,' said Dewy as he unravelled himself from Josie and clambered out of the driver's door.

  The two women watched in silence as the bold rugby players strode off into the gloom to relieve their other needs.

  'Is the key in the ignition?' asked Gwen.

  'Yes.'

  'Right then, I'm driving.'

  'Gwen!'

  But there was little point in protesting. And no time to do so for Gwen was in the driver's seat in a flash and firing up the engine. As the big car swung round in a U-turn on the edge of the hillside, Josie turned to look out of the rear window. For an instant she thought she could see the trouserless figure of Gerald, his mouth open in a shout of protest, then he was lost in the darkness.

  Gwen screamed with laughter as she bounced the powerful motor at speed down the rough track.

  Chapter 11

  Robyn divided the responses to the Rabbit's Brenda appeal into categories. Leaving aside the cheerfully rude - as in the many 'she can pinch my deposits any time' letters - she was left with two other significant kinds of reply. There was the 'that's the slag I used to go out with two years ago' pile and the 'she's the tart he was two-timing me with last year' collection. Most were accompanied by names and addresses, photos even, and about half of them were signed. These the police took more seriously and enquiries were made, as they say. Few, if any, genuine suspects emerged and they all turned out to have perfectly good alibis.

  That left the cranks and the polemicists (the far left of the Women's Movement had naturally taken Brenda to heart) and a small pile of responses that identified not a person but a place.

  'Archie,' said Robyn as they reviewed the situation at their table in The Frog in a Bucket, 'have you ever heard of Blisswood-in-the-Dale?'

  Monk shook his head. 'Where is it?'

  'It's a small town in the North Grinding. We've had three letters and two phone messages telling us to search there for this woman. Look.'

  She laid the letters in front of him, adding, 'I don't think they can be from the same source. The letters are from Sheffield, Bournemouth and Barnsley and the calls came from Manchester and here in London.'

  Monk picked up a thick bundle of Basildon Bond and scanned through the wobbly script that covered the blue paper. He read snatches of it aloud in a flat monotone without emphasis of any kind.

  'Them are Blisswood titties I swear and I should know as I was brought up on 'em. My Ma was a Blisswood girl and swore she fed me on those bosoms till I was nearly two. When I was sixteen I first went to the Midsummer's. I can still see all the girls in the barn, their hair flying loose, their cheeks rosy red and their feet thundering as they danced. And their bare titties wobbling and bouncing in the candlelight. Afterwards in the moonlit fields they made a man of me.'


  Monk paged through the letter to the end. Then he picked up another and read:

  'We like the Blisswood lassies

  Even though they're shockers

  We like their pretty sparkling eyes

  And love their great big knockers'

  He paused for a few moments before continuing, 'We used to chant this piece of doggerel on the way home from school when we were boys. But it held a germ of truth in it as I found out later in life. My wife was born and bred in Blisswood-in-the-Dale and I can swear to you that, in her youth, she exactly resembled the woman in the paper. Her combination of slender frame and high full bosom with the distinctive "strawberry peaks" is only to be found in women who come from this part of the world.'

  Monk laid the page down and turned his attention to the last letter. It said simply: 'If the authorities have any sense they will concentrate their search on a small town in the North Grinding called Blisswood-in-the-Dale.'

  'What about the phone calls?' said Monk.

  'One's from an old duck in Barnsley saying all the girls from Blisswood have got busts like Brenda and she was born there so she should know. The other is from some professor's secretary telling me to make an appointment as soon as possible to discuss the fertility rites of the North Grinding in connection with the topless robber.'

  Monk said nothing.

  'So, Archie?' said Robyn. 'What do you think? There's something in this, isn't there? I can feel it.'

  His mouth turned down at the ends and he sighed. 'I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm, Ms Chestnut, but you've either got a collection of letters from misty-eyed old cranks or someone is playing a little joke.'

  'But these people all live in different parts of the country! They've given their names and addresses! Why else would they be on about this funny place that hardly anyone has ever heard of?'

  Monk considered the point while Robyn fidgeted with her empty wine glass and regarded him critically. He was handsome but infuriating. She had the urge to give him a good kick, just to speed him up.

  He was returning her stare now and it was just possible there was a hint of amusement in his eye. Was her impatience so obvious?

  'Who is this professor?' he asked.

  'Dalrymple hyphen somebody. I'm off to see him this afternoon.'

  'Hugo Dalrymple-Ripley? I thought he was dead.'

  'You've heard of him?'

  'He's a famous old boy. Used to march with the CND alongside Bertrand Russell. An English gent - just your type.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Monk did not reply, he was getting to his feet and gathering up the letters.

  'You tackle the professor, Ms Chestnut, I'll handle the rest of your star informers.' And he disappeared into the gloom of The Frog, leaving Robyn feeling vaguely insulted. For once the mother had been fast on his feet.

  Robyn's taxi driver stopped at the top of an unmade road on the edge of Hampstead Heath and pointed in the direction of a clump of vast and gloomy horse chestnuts.

  'Down the track there, love, mind how you go. You shouldn't really have worn those high heels, should you? That'll be seven pound thirty. Oh, a tenner. Very kind. I don't think I've got any change.'

  Robyn came up with the exact money from the bottom of her purse and set off down the path to the sound of the cabbie's moans. She skirted a large puddle carefully. No, she shouldn't have worn heels and a short skirt but this was her professor-slaying outfit and spectacular legs in silk stockings were guaranteed to win over an ageing Brit. At least, they had never failed yet.

  To her relief she found the house at once and made her way to the front door down an overgrown garden path behind an untrimmed yew hedge. As she waited on the doorstep and stared at the solid but worn wooden door she felt the first spots of rain on her cheek.

  She was admitted by a square-jawed and sullen-faced woman who took in her skin, her legs and her scarlet lipstick at a glance and sniffed.

  'You're the journalist from the Daily Rabbit,' she accused Robyn in cut-glass tones. 'The Professor is waiting for you.'

  Robyn was led down a narrow uncarpeted corridor, the sound of her heels echoing off the wooden floor. Disapproval rose like steam from the woman ahead, whom Robyn took to be the Professor's secretary. From the rear she was surprisingly attractive, with a slim waist, rounded hips and slender calves set off by a plain silk blouse and a charcoal-grey pencil skirt. Robyn decided to try out the business-efficiency look on Archie Monk. There had to be some way to get change out of that tight-arsed Scot.

  Robyn was admitted to a room lined with books that gave onto a glass conservatory filled with high spiky greenery and a selection of cane tables and chairs. A cluttered desk dominated the foreground of her vision, piled high with papers and computer paraphernalia. An intricate Oriental carpet covered the floor and a fire burnt low in the rich mahogany fireplace, taking the chill off the damp summer's day. It was a delightful room - comfortable and welcoming, unlike the rest of the house.

  But the chief surprise for Robyn was in the figure who rose to greet her and kiss her on both cheeks in an enthusiastic fashion. This was no decrepit old academic two steps from the grave. This was a man she had met in embarrassing circumstances just a few nights earlier at a memorable dinner party. A man who had cheerfully allowed the hostess to pull his prick out of his trousers and suck him off while he appraised Robyn's naked breasts.

  'Hello, Robyn,' said Nick, thrusting a glass of something cold and fizzing into her hand and ushering her towards the sofa, 'I'm so looking forward to resuming our discussion about Bra-less Brenda's tits.'

  Chapter 12

  'You can't just leave them there,' said Josie, as Gwen steered the BMW into the rugby club car park. It was empty but for Gwen's small Renault.

  'Why not? They won't come to any harm. It'll only take them a couple of hours to walk down.' She was scrabbling in her handbag in search of something.

  'You haven't lost your keys, have you?' Josie was struck with panic. The sooner they were out of this car and this place the happier she would be. The thought of Dewy and Gerald's revenge was terrible.

  'Aha,' said Gwen in triumph and held up a lipstick, 'here's my pen. Now, what's my message, I wonder?'

  Josie climbed out of the car. She didn't know what her friend was on about, she just wanted to go home. 'Come on, Gwen,' she called over her shoulder as she made for the Renault.

  But Gwen was busy. She was leaning over the bonnet of the BMW writing on the windscreen with her lipstick.

  'Gwen!' cried Josie but all the same she retraced her steps to read: DEWY IS A DICKHEAD AND GERALD HAS A TWO-INCH DICK.

  'Oh Gwen,' she said, 'that's brilliant!'

  'It's also illegal,' said a male voice from behind them, freezing the laughter in their throats. 'Defacing stolen property, I imagine. Unless, of course, you can prove that you are driving Dewy Bishop's car with his permission.'

  The torch beam was shining directly into Josie's eyes and so she had only a vague impression of the presence behind it. But he was big and he was close. Josie was paralysed with fright.

  'Who the fuck are you?' said Gwen, taking a bold step towards the torch bearer.

  'Police sergeant John Buckler, madam.'

  'Why aren't you in uniform then?' Gwen had a point; the torch beam had shifted and now Josie could see that the tall figure in front of them wore a civilian shirt and trousers.

  'Because this is my night off. But, as a member of the club's management committee, I make it my business to keep an eye on late-night security.' The voice was firm and authoritative. 'Now, would you care to tell me whether you have permission to drive Mr Bishop's car?'

  Gwen dropped her aggressive posture and switched to another tack. 'Ooh, officer, you're not going to take down my particulars, are you? If so, you're out of luck.'

  'Why is that?'

  'Because I'm not wearing any. Look.' Gwen turned and lifted the hem of her short dress to reveal a pale and shapely buttock quite unencumbered
by underwear of any description. 'You see, my friend and I went for a quiet drive with Dewy Bishop and his friend Gerald and Gerald stole my knickers.'

  Gwen pulled her skirt up to her waist and thrust her bum out in the gleam of the torch. The globes of her cheeks were smooth and full in the harsh white light, the valley between them deep and inviting.

  The policeman said nothing but the sound of pennies dropping in his brain was almost audible.

  'If you ask me,' continued Gwen, 'the real offence was committed by them. Gerald spunked off all over my bottom while Dewy watched and pawed my titties without permission. Here—'

  Josie was mesmerised as Gwen took the policeman's free hand and thrust it into the shadow between her plump cheeks.

  'There, feel that. It's all wet and spunky, isn't it? There's your evidence, all up my bum crack.'

  Sergeant Buckler's fingers now began to palpate the firm flesh in his grasp and there was a chuckle in his voice as he said, 'Are you intending to press charges against Mr Bishop and his friend?'

  Josie realised that her fear had disappeared, to be replaced by a raging desire. All her previous frustration had returned in a rush and the frisson of danger in their present predicament only heightened her desire to fuck.

  'If we did press charges,' continued Gwen, 'we'd have a good case. They took us both up there for a good shagging and we never came once. Frankly, officer, if that's not an offence it bloody well ought to be.'

  The policeman had been openly fondling Gwen's bottom and now he slid his fingers between her legs. She bent over and leant across the bonnet of the BMW, thrusting the hairy purse of her pussy into plain view. Josie drank in the sight of the policeman's fingers probing between the wet pink lips and wished he was doing it to her.