Lust at Large

by Noel Amos

  'It's all true,' she found herself saying. 'I sucked Dewy's cock and swallowed all his sperm and he never even touched me up. Those men took their pleasure and left us high and dry. It's disgraceful!'

  'I can see the club's honour is at stake,' said Officer Buckler, switching off the torch and placing it on the ground. 'I can't let two lovely lasses like you go home thinking the Dibble Dragons aren't up to it.'

  Suddenly Josie was seized in a powerful embrace and kissed comprehensively, his tongue exploring her mouth with purpose. Next, her dress was pulled to her waist and she found herself lying face down on the bonnet of the car by the side of Gwen. She pushed her bottom backwards and felt the warm night air play over her bum cheeks as large male hands swiftly pulled her panties to the ground.

  'Well, well, he said, evidently savouring the sight of two nude and wriggling female arses in the moonlight, 'what a pair of hungry cunts. Where shall I begin?'

  'Fuck me first,' said Josie, shameless in her excitement. 'At least Gwen's had some fun; I never even had his thing up me.'

  'You horny bitch. You weren't like this when you arrived from London,' muttered Gwen.

  But Josie couldn't hear, all her sensations were concentrated in her pussy as she felt a stiff warm penis nose its way between her labia.

  'Oh,' she cried as the cock drove into her, all the way up her well-juiced passage in one thrilling strike. 'Oh God, yes! Fuck me, fuck me, please!'

  Beside her, Gwen gasped as a strong hand descended on her fat white bottom with a resounding smack. Then she grunted as the hand delved into her crotch and his fingers sought out her aching clitoris.

  Sergeant Buckler's prowess on the rugby field is not recorded but he turned out to be a skilled and courageous player of the games of lust. With pumping cock, teasing fingers and an inventive line in whispered indecencies he brought both girls to the brink at the same time.

  As he did so, the headlights of a car lit the sky as it swung into the driveway.

  'Who's that?' cried Josie, her buttocks trembling against the hard muscles of the policeman's stomach.

  'Relax,' he said, not slowing his short rhythmic shafting. 'My brother always picks me up at this time. Just wait till he sees you two.'

  Fantastic! thought Josie and came once more all over his spunking cock.

  Chapter 13

  'Nick! What the hell are you doing here?'

  Robyn wasn't displeased to see the fair-haired man who had greeted her so warmly but she was suspicious. She remembered the way Nick had ogled her at Wanda's. She smelled a setup.

  'Where's the Professor?'

  Nick's grin grew broader. 'That's me. Take a seat, quaff the bubbly - or would you prefer something else?'

  'I'd prefer to know what you're playing at. Where's the old boy, Hugo Dalrymple-Ripley?'

  'Up the road in Highgate cemetery. Dad's been dead for ten years. Your appointment is with Professor Nicholas Dalrymple-Ripley. Me.'

  Robyn subsided onto the sofa and killed off her glass in one gulp. This put a different complexion on things.

  'Don't worry,' said Nick, taking a seat beside her, 'this is a genuine attempt to help in your search for the topless robber. I was very interested in our discussion the other night about the female breast being as individual as a fingerprint. And when I saw the photographs of the girl in your newspaper I knew I had to talk to you.'

  He refilled Robyn's glass and continued. 'In fact, this really is about my father. Apart from the philosophical work for which he was famous, he was a great countryman. He published many books about country lore and activities.'

  He pointed to one of the shelves in the bookcase by the fire. Robyn read along the cracked, leather-bound spines: The Cry of the Curlew, Down Among the Dalesmen, A Hummock for My Head - there were a good half dozen.

  'All written in the twenties, of course,' said Nick, 'before he went to Japan and returned with the theories that made him famous. And the real reason he went to Japan was because he had become infatuated with a small area of the North Grinding, a place called—'

  'Blisswood-in-the-Dale,' said Robyn.

  'Precisely!' said Nick. 'Obviously you're on the same track. Yes, in his youth my father spent a lot of time there. He always said it was the making of him. It inspired in him his love of the countryside and set him on the road to evolving his famous Japanese Precepts. His biographies tell you all this but they don't tell you the real reason why he fell in love with Blisswood and why he fled from there to Japan.'

  'And why did he?'

  'Because the women of Blisswood have the most fabulous breasts - round, flawless, satin-smooth, shapely. And with very distinctive nipples that distend, when aroused, to form the shape of a small strawberry.'

  'Strawberry peaks.'

  'Exactly. That's how connoisseurs refer to them.'

  'And your father went for these fruit-salad boobs in a big way, I suppose.'

  'He couldn't get enough. He spent five years there writing topographical books and researching the local history.'

  'And boffing the local bimbos.' The champagne had gone straight to Robyn's head but Prof Nick did not turn a hair.

  'One day he realised he had to get away. If he stayed he would never have the energy to do anything else in life. He just couldn't exist any more surrounded by women with such perfect breasts. And so he chose the one place where he knew he wouldn't find any. Japan.'

  'Fascinating. So I take it you think that Brenda has a pair of these Blisswood tits.'

  'Definitely,' he said and poured the dregs of the champagne into Robyn's glass.

  'But how would you know, Nick? Even if all this is true about these women with these special bazookas, your father had his fun seventy years ago. Your theories have got a lot of dust on them.'

  'Not exactly.' Nick's eyes had a gleam of triumph as he leaned forward, his face just inches from Robyn's as he said, 'I can offer you proof! My father wrote about the phenomenon before he left for Japan. I want you to look at the manuscript in a moment. It's all there: drawings, photographs and his private papers of the time. But first...'

  He leapt to his feet and marched to the door. 'Joyce!' he bellowed down the corridor and, in an instant it seemed, the smart but sulky figure of the secretary appeared in the doorway.

  'Come in, Joyce, and take off your blouse.'

  The green eyes behind the heavy spectacles flickered with surprise.

  'Hurry up, woman,' commanded Nick. 'Don't just stand there like some bug-eyed rabbit.'

  The thin mouth set in a stern line and the big eyes flashed briefly before, to Robyn's amazement, the secretary lifted her hands to the button at her throat.

  'You've met Joyce, haven't you?' said Nick as she began to unfasten the buttons over her bulging chest. 'She was my father's last secretary before he died and, like all his female staff, she was recruited from the North Grinding. Weren't you, Joyce?'

  'That's correct,' said the woman, pulling the blouse from her waistband and sliding it off smooth dimpled shoulders. 'I was born in Blisswood-in-the-Dale and joined the old Professor straight from school. He was a proper gentleman,' she added as, without being asked, she pulled her camisole over her head to reveal a matching pink brassiere embroidered with rosebuds and heavy with a formidable load of flesh.

  'But that didn't stop the old boy gobbling your goodies till the day he died, now did it?' Nick was behind her, his fingers on the hooks of the straining undergarment.

  'The Professor was a wonderful man,' said Joyce directly to Robyn. 'He used to say that it was my figure that kept him so young at heart.'

  'The randy old bugger had her tits out every day till he was over ninety. Still, you can't blame him, can you?' said Nick as he slipped the straps of the bra down Joyce's arms and revealed her naked bosom with a flourish.

  They were a stupendous pair, there was no denying. Big but shapely, their weight making them swing and tremble, Joyce thrust them out with pride, happy to display her greatest assets even to a tablo
id journalist.

  'Wow!' said Robyn, her reaction not faked, her professional interest quick to spot the similarities to the photos of Bra-less Brenda. There were differences but, as Joyce was in her forties and the robber was probably twenty years younger, it was really only age that distinguished between the two bosoms. Lusher, heavier, lower though they may be, Robyn had to acknowledge that Joyce had a beautiful pair of breasts.

  Nick was enthusing over their finer points.

  'Look,' he said, rolling a thick pink nipple between thumb and forefinger, 'see how the tissue is erecting. It's like a little balloon swelling up!'

  'Really, Nicholas,' muttered Joyce in distaste. Nevertheless, Robyn observed that she was leaning back against Nick and that his right hand had slid up to cup and support her other boob. The nipple in question had grown till it was a thick red bud, broad at the base and rounded at the tip. In a curious way, it did resemble a strawberry.

  Robyn had a sudden flash of Mercedes Birch's pebble-hard buds in her mouth. She leapt to her feet on unsteady legs. It had to be the champagne.

  'Impressed?' asked Nick, now cupping both of Joyce's breasts in his hands as she swayed in front of Robyn, her green eyes narrow slits behind her glasses.

  'Yes, indeed,' said Robyn. 'Look... thanks for everything but I'd better get back to the office.'

  'Oh no. Not before you've looked at my father's material.'

  'Well, I'm not sure I have time...'

  'Please.' The hand on Robyn's arm was Joyce's. It gripped her tightly. 'I went to a lot of trouble to dig it out.'

  And so Robyn found herself directed to a small room that lay just off the main study. She sat at a small walnut table and confronted a stained and ageing box file. From where she sat she could see into the main room. Nick and Joyce were out of her sight but she could hear the low murmur of their voices. Joyce's blouse and slip still lay across the seat of a straight-backed wooden chair.

  With an effort, Robyn turned her attention to the yellowing papers in the file. There was a lot of handwritten material, the penmanship immaculate and clear despite the pale sepia ink. It looked like a diary. She flipped to the bottom of the pile and discovered some drawings in pencil. They were of hills and moorland vistas, trees and birds and naked women. There were far more naked women than anything else, sitting on chairs, lying on beds and reclining by river banks. Some were quick sketches, that was obvious, but in all of them the breasts had been drawn in great detail.

  From next door came the sound of voices at odds. Robyn thought she heard Joyce say, 'I've never been so humiliated' followed by a whisper 'ssh' from Nick. Robyn tried to concentrate on the papers.

  There were photographs amongst them, small and brown but with clear images of hearty country lasses en deshabille. Again the camera focused on the breasts, on strawberry nipples erected three-quarters of a century in the past and still standing sweet and proud.

  There were rustling noises from next door and Robyn saw that a charcoal-grey skirt and a man's pair of bleached jeans had been added to the pile of clothes on the chair. She took out her notebook and began to make notes as she flipped quickly through the pages of the diary.

  6 August 1920. A red-letter day! Martha J and her blonde friend took me up the hill to the tarn and allowed me to sketch them as they bathed. Of course they knew that I really wanted to taste their little fruits (Eleanor had told them of our Sundays, I discovered) and they were only too keen themselves. It is a puzzle though; Martha is such a strapping lass and Chloe a little slip. Yet both have the same shaped titties. Such wicked, delicious girls!

  26 June 1922. I am hardly yet recovered from the Midsummer's Festival. What a night! Did ancient Rome ever stage such a debauch? If I believed in God I would pray for an extra pego to do myself justice next year. I've changed my plans. I cannot possibly leave here now.

  10 November 1923. I am in paradise but I fear for my sanity if I stay. I only remain in this backwater, betraying my intellect and my ambition, because I am a slave to the flesh. Oh, sweet Rosie and Martha and Mrs H and Dolly M and all you others - you have robbed me of my senses. How can I break free? I don't think I could live without my daily spunking between the round titties of my Blisswood belles...

  From the next room came a high-pitched squeal, an intake of breath, then a moan that reverberated round the small side room. Robyn put away her pen and stood up. She was damned if she was going to calmly read some dead guy's sex diary while next door two people she hardly knew were having it off. She was getting out of here to get laid herself. At least Needle wasn't working tonight.

  As she made her way to the study door the sight before her stopped her in her tracks. Nick was stretched out on his back on the rug in front of the fire with Joyce squatting on her haunches on top of him, wearing just a pair of black-seamed stockings and suspenders. From Robyn's position by his feet his face was obscured and only his chin was visible, peeping out from beneath the wild confusion of Joyce's thick black pubic hair as he licked and tongued her snatch. Robyn could hear the slurping sound of his lips on hers as he ate her out.

  Joyce looked up and smiled smugly at Robyn. Her hands were in the crotch of the nude male spread beneath her, toying with the beefy erection sprouting from the hair of his belly. His fat balls lolled obscenely in the fork of his legs, moving to the pull of her fingers on the skin of his scrotum. The smell of cock and cunt was thick in the air.

  'Had enough have you?' said Joyce, waggling the fleshy stick from side to side. Her hair lay mussed and unfettered across her shoulders but the severe spectacles were still in place.

  'Yes.'

  'Very wise. I imagine you'd like to say goodbye to the Professor but, as you can see,' and she shifted her big bottom squarely on top of Nick's face, 'he's otherwise engaged.'

  Robyn could hardly tear her eyes from the bulging pink sausage being squeezed and moulded between Joyce's fingers. The secretary noticed Robyn's interest and speeded up her manual stimulation, slicking the tunnel of her hand back and forth on the stiff shaft. The purple penis head winked at Robyn out of its one eye.

  'What's he a professor of?' she asked.

  'Sexology,' said Joyce, the cut-glass accent now gone, replaced by flat northern vowels. 'He's the world's leading expert on Differential Mammary Responses in Double D-Cup Females.'

  Her hand speeded up and the winking eye suddenly spat a volley of cream through the air, leaving a sticky trail across the carpet to Robyn's high-heeled shoes.

  'Oops,' said Joyce, 'nearly missed you. I'm so sorry.' And she dipped her finger in a blob of juice and began to rub it dreamily into a swollen strawberry-shaped nipple.

  Outside the rain was bucketing down. It washed the spunk off Robyn's shoes though it did nothing to quench the fire raging in her tiny soaking-wet panties.

  Chapter 14

  Janice Melting blamed her sister. She'd shown Tina the article in the paper about Gavin, and she'd drooled over his photo.

  'Cor, you never told me he was such a dish.'

  'He's not. He's a bit wet.'

  'Oh come on, he's dead cute. You've been keeping him all for yourself.'

  'Well, he wouldn't fancy you. He's got a degree and you're not exactly the sophisticated type.' Which was true. Tina was all push-up bras and fuchsia-pink lipstick though, secretly, Janice didn't doubt that Gavin would be easy meat for her man-eating little sister.

  'I think it's a great shame you haven't been round to comfort him in his hour of need,' said Tina. 'If you don't feel up to it, I'll go.'

  Which was why Janice was now ringing the doorbell of Gavin's house, her bare brown legs and white sandals splashed by the sudden cloudburst. The door was opened by a man who was not Gavin but who looked remarkably like him some five hard years down the track.

  'You must be Phil,' said Janice, stepping smartly inside. 'Is Gavin at home?'

  'No, he's not.' The man was still holding the door open, obviously intending this unexpected visitor to clear off, back into the rain.


  Janice was having none of it. She shut the door behind her and chucked her wet umbrella onto the doormat. Unbidden, she removed her denim jacket to give Gavin's brother an early glimpse of her slim full-bosomed figure in tight white top and blue denim skirt. She shook out her softly curled mass of brown hair and flashed him her best cheesecake smile.

  'I'm Janice Melting, Gavin's boss in a manner of speaking. I've been meaning to come for ages.'

  'Well, he's not here.'

  'I'll wait.'

  'There's no point. He's gone away.' The brother's eyes narrowed as he considered the curvy brunette in front of him. Recent experience had taught him to closely scrutinise gift-horses, especially female ones with big brown eyes. Nevertheless he said, 'Come and sit down,' and led the way into the front room and pointed to a black leather sofa.

  Janice took the seat, not making much of an attempt to stop the denim riding up her lean brown thighs, and looked around. She was not impressed. Apart from the leather suite and a glass-and-metal coffee table, there was a dearth of furniture. She observed the gaps on the wall, the abundance of cardboard boxes, what looked like a car battery being recharged and a complex stereo system that trailed wires around the edges of the room. She also noted the framed photographs of a lanky female with big gormless eyes and stringy black hair. Even if she couldn't see Gavin, this was turning out to be quite interesting.

  'Drink?' asked her brother, waving a bottle of supermarket whisky at her. 'I've got brandy, if you prefer.'

  Janice did prefer and knocked back half an inch in one. She helped herself to a refill.

  'So - where is he, Phil?' she asked.

  'Up north. Walking the moors, so he said.'

  'Will he be all right?'