Lust at Large

by Noel Amos

  'It's Ms Chestnut, isn't it?' said Julia quickly, seeing the American's face freeze into a mask of rage. 'I believe I took your booking earlier. We're delighted to see you. We've put you in the Holmdale Suite.' And she plucked a key from the board and indicated the way to the grand wooden staircase. 'I'm sorry we don't have a lift but Chantal will arrange to bring your bags upstairs.'

  Josie set her rucksack next to Robyn's small overnight case and shot the Frenchwoman a look of triumph. Robyn followed Julia in a daze, hardly listening to her effusive apologies. As they ascended the stairs Chantal called out, 'Madame Julia, the Holmdale Suite is occupe,' but Julia ignored her.

  As it turned out, occupe did not quite cover the situation.

  Julia led them first into a large and beautiful sitting-room which looked out of the front of the house down the long driveway flanked by fields of grazing sheep. As they appeared at the window, a scattering of rabbits fled for the trees, their white scuts twinkling in the golden light of the summer evening.

  'Hey, this is fantastic,' said Robyn, the tension now gone from her face.

  They were just as impressed with the first bedroom with its chaise longue and swagged curtains. Josie threw herself onto a bed the size of a billiard table, saying, 'This is more like it.'

  She dragged herself to her feet to view the second bedroom and was glad she did for she would otherwise have missed one of the high spots of events to date.

  This room was even more sumptuous, with high ceilings, delicate watercolours and an antique writing desk. But it was the four-poster bed that took the eye and, in particular, the blonde beauty reclining on a mountain of pink and lacy pillows, the cones of her breasts glistening in the glare from the lights erected around the bed. She appeared to be naked but for peach silk stockings and garters and an exquisite pair of matching satin shoes that waved in the air as her legs threshed, egg-beater fashion, over the form of a man kneeling between her thighs.

  'Oh my God,' said Julia. 'Clifford!'

  The great photographer raised his bushy head, revealing that the girl was indeed naked to all intents and purposes. Her pussy was pink and wet from his tonguing, a small knot of blonde hair providing no cover for the open split with its spread lips and yawning scarlet interior.

  'Give me just one moment, girls,' said Cliff. 'I've got her just how I want her.' And he scrambled to his feet and positioned himself behind a camera on a tripod aimed directly at the nubile vision on the bed.

  The spectators were too stunned to say anything but Cliff was in his element and chatted away as the camera-shutter clicked. 'That's fantastic, my love, fabulous. Oh you're gorgeous. Toss your head from side to side. That's my girl.

  'Just look at the way the light catches the hair on the pillow,' he said by way of an aside. 'And look at that pussy glisten. It's taken me half an hour to get her like this. She's dying for it. Just watch.

  'OK, darling, think sexy. You're on the brink of orgasm, you've been tongued to the point of ecstasy and any moment now your lover is going to give you the benefit of his big cock. But you can't wait, you're going to have to give yourself a little feel. That's right, tweak that nipple, make it stand up, roll it between your fingers. Imagine that lovely Mario you told me about is going to suck it. Feel the excitement build in your belly, let it run right through you like an electric current, right down to your clit. Hey, I've really got you going now!'

  And it was true. The girl on the bed was playing with herself without shame, one hand plucking and pulling at her nipples, the other delving into her crotch. Cliff was shouting out instructions and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  'That's it, baby, that's it! Spread those pussy lips for me. Let's see inside, open up your tunnel. Imagine that great cock. Think of it filling you right up. Picture him thrusting it in all the way! Now stroke your clit. That's it! Go for it! You're going to come soon, aren't you? You can't help it, you're on the brink! Here it comes, here it comes! Oh yes!'

  'AAAH!' screamed the girl on the bed, her fingers a blur between her legs, her pelvis pumping in mid-air.

  She flopped back on the coverlet, her limbs askew, her sex red, pouting and running with juice. There was silence, broken only by the clicking of the camera as Cliff took his final shots.

  He turned towards the spectators and ran a handkerchief over his sweating brow. He looked as though he had just run ten thousand metres. 'Fantastic,' he said. 'Rodney told me your local girls were something special, Julia, and he was right.'

  'Clifford Rush,' said Julia in a croak, her mind suddenly empty of anything appropriate to say. 'Clifford, this is Robyn Chestnut and this is—'

  'Josie Twist,' said Josie, holding out a hand and gazing at Cliff in awe.

  'Pleased to meet you,' he said, grinning and curious. 'Did Rod send you two along? It's possible I could fit you in tomorrow. I'm sure I could come up with something special for you, Robyn, your legs are just fabulous. And there's something rebellious and sexy about you, Josie. Those big brown eyes would be great for what I've got in mind. Unless,' he added, a brainwave striking, 'all of you would be game right now. I feel I'm on a roll and I could shoot some good stuff with all three of you on the bed here. You're such contrasting physical types. I know you've turned me down already, Julia, but imagine your beautiful peaches-and-cream tush spread out with this sexy twosome. It would be fantastic! I'm coming in my pants at the thought!'

  'Cliff!' The shout from the bed brought this bizarre proposition to an end. 'Get those cows out of here and take your pants off. You can't leave me like this!'

  Cliff shrugged apologetically at the three dumbfounded women. 'Duty calls,' he whispered as he ushered them out of the door.

  Julia collapsed into an armchair and covered her face with her hands. Josie looked at Robyn and, to her relief, saw she was struggling to control her laughter.

  'Did I tell you I was a national newspaper journalist?' said Robyn to Julia.

  An unhappy noise rose from the armchair.

  'And you know that complimentary bottle of champagne you mentioned?' said Josie. 'I think it might have to be a case.'

  Chapter 22

  Monk was working late. He'd had a grim day and he was in a foul mood. The air in his office was like soup. He popped an indigestion pill in his mouth to settle the bile left over from his daily row with Hatter. For two pins he'd chuck it all in and retire to a Scottish loch to fish, except he hated fishing. But the thought of escape, of getting out of the foul heat of summer in the city, that soothed him. It would be balm for the soul and that's what he needed. However, he'd never run away from an investigation yet. Then he remembered his conversation that afternoon with Robyn Chestnut. Maybe there was a way to get out of town and to stay on the Brenda trail. He was about to dial Hatter's number when there came a tap on the door.

  DC Stephen Fantail was not the most assertive member of Monk's team. He was tall and awkward and blushed at the smallest thing. Given the nature of the Brenda investigation he spent almost the entire day with a red face. However, he was young and keen. Monk liked him. He also acknowledged that he had a sharper eye for detail than any of his colleagues.

  'I'm sorry to bother you, sir,' he said as he stood in the doorway hopping from one foot to the other. 'It's about Brenda and it's probably not important. That is, it could be but I'm not sure. Shall I come back tomorrow?'

  Monk pointed to the chair facing him but Stephen did not take it. Instead he spread a selection of 12 x 14 black-and-white prints across the desk and stood looming over his superior. Monk could smell his excitement.

  'See here, sir, and here.'

  At first Monk couldn't grasp what was before him. The prints had been enlarged so much the shapes were indistinct. It was like looking at pictures of so-called UFOs in the trashy papers. Then the shadows resolved themselves into all-too-familiar configurations. These were no UFOs but Bra-less Brenda's breasts.

  'This is from the most recent robbery, sir. You can see it more clearly here.' Stephen stabb
ed his finger at a blur which, as Monk peered closely, took on surprising detail.

  'It looks like the wing of a butterfly,' he said.

  'Yes, that's what I thought, sir.' The young detective was beaming.

  Monk turned over the implications in his mind. 'You mean that our lady friend has tattooed tits?'

  'Possibly, sir, but look at this one from the previous raid. You can see the underside of both breasts and here's the tail of the butterfly, it's just visible.'

  'So?'

  'Tattoos don't move, sir. This is her left breast but in the other photo the butterfly is on her right one. And she doesn't have them on both breasts as you can see.'

  'Hmm. What are you suggesting?'

  'It must be some kind of a transfer. You know, something you can stick on the skin.'

  'Very interesting. Congratulations, Stephen, no one else spotted it.'

  'Thank you, sir. I thought I saw something on the first set of prints but it wasn't till I did the blow-ups that I was sure.' Fantail was flushed with pride.

  'I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm,' said Monk, 'but why does she do it? It can't be for effect, you can hardly see the damn things. And why would she move the butterfly from tit to tit?'

  Stephen's face fell. 'I don't know, sir.'

  'Nevertheless, it's good work. All we need now is a suspect with a selection of stick-on butterflies in her vanity chest. We'd better get to work on who manufactures butterfly transfers and how they are distributed. They're probably carried by every Woolworth's in the land,' he added as a gloomy afterthought.

  'I doubt they'd use this particular butterfly, sir,' said Stephen.

  Monk stared at him.

  'I mean, this butterfly is very rare. If I were a cosmetics manufacturer I'd just use any old design for a butterfly. I wouldn't go to the trouble of copying a Lepidoptera extasis.'

  'What?'

  'You see, the irregular wing shape and bifurcated body do not correspond to the clichéd concept of the butterfly. I'm sure most young ladies would prefer a generalised pretty shape.'

  Monk stood up and placed his face inches from that of the chattering youth. 'Do you mean to tell me, Fantail, that you can recognise the precise kind of butterfly this woman is wearing?'

  'Oh yes, sir. It's a Moorland Martyr or Lepidoptera extasis. As I said, it's got a distinctive wing shape and the body is forked. You can just make it out in this photo here. It's a fascinating creature with a life span of only two days and it breeds in the high moorland in just one area of the country.'

  'And what area would that be, Fantail?' Monk's voice was cold.

  'The North Grinding, sir. It's just—'

  But Stephen's wind was cut off as the inspector seized him by the throat and backed him up against a metal filing cabinet. Monk's eyes were like chips of ice as he glared at his spluttering victim.

  'I've always thought you were clever, Fantail, but I never took you for a smartarse. You are going to be very sorry you tried to take the piss out of me and my investigation.' He slammed the young detective viciously against the cabinet and the boy slumped to the floor.

  'Who put you up to it?' Monk shouted. 'Have you been talking to the press?'

  Stephen couldn't answer for a moment. His eyes danced with fear as he tried to regain his powers of speech.

  'I haven't talked to anybody, sir. You're the first to know about this. I can prove it, too,' he added ruefully as he clambered to his feet.

  A few moments later Monk was staring in disbelief at the entry in Butterflies of Europe. It was all there, just as Stephen had said. The insect existed. Exclusively in the North Grinding.

  Monk was out of the habit of making apologies. 'You're a keen butterfly-fancier are you, Stephen?' he muttered.

  'I prefer bird-watching, sir.'

  'How appropriate. Pack your binoculars and turn up here at eight tomorrow morning. We're off to the country for a few days.'

  'Sir?'

  Monk smiled at him. 'Don't worry, Stephen. You've done brilliantly. The clean air of the North Grinding is what we both need.' And he shooed the young man out of his office with a cheery wave. The effect was terrifying.

  Monk picked up the phone again and this time he did dial Hatter's number. As he did so, his mind was not on his carping superior but on how to handle a certain newspaper reporter. The Daily Rabbit might be quick off the mark but if Robyn Chestnut knew a butterfly from a bumblebee he'd be surprised - and he didn't intend to enlighten her.

  Chapter 23

  Rodney Holmdale chuckled as Chantal recounted the arrival of the American woman and her scruffy companion. He particularly enjoyed the account of Julia leading them into a suite and interrupting a naughty photo session. Chantal enjoyed it too.

  'I told Madame Julia it was being used but she wouldn't listen. When I went up with the bags I found her promising those women all sorts of things. One of them is a journalist. No wonder she has no manners. They are having dinner right now. On the house. I thought you ought to know, Mr Holmdale.'

  Rodney smiled his approval. Chantal was a most useful girl in all sorts of ways and enjoyed keeping him up to date with the gossip. He suspected she loved bitching even more than she liked men - but who could complain about that?

  His attention drifted, as it invariably did whenever Chantal paid these impromptu visits to his private annexe, to the scarlet swell of her lips. Lush, ripe and elastic, the lower curve was a tempting half moon, the Cupid's bow of the upper lip scarcely less full. There was something positively carnal about that mouth of hers. He couldn't look at it without longing to plunge his cock deep inside the pouting ring of flesh.

  So far she had only sucked him off once, at the interview. Since then she had allowed him to kiss and paw her through her provocatively skimpy attire but she had withheld the further use of her bewitching mouth. Obviously she needed a little incentive.

  'I've been thinking, Chantal.'

  'Yes?' The big black eyes regarded him with amusement. She could guess what he had been thinking.

  'Julia has rather a lot on her plate at the moment. The Gartertex sales conference starts tomorrow and there are certain aspects of it that need sensitive handling. I've been wondering whether we have anyone else on the staff who could help out.'

  He broke off and strolled to the sideboard. He poured two glasses of sherry and offered one to Chantal. She took it but did not drink.

  'Naturally, increased responsibilities would merit increased remuneration. However, I do need to be assured that the person I select has the right attitude.'

  He touched his glass to hers. 'Drink up.'

  She took an infinitesimal sip and he watched the imprint of her mouth on the glass with ill-concealed fascination as he waited for her response.

  'Would this person have to report to Madame Julia?' she enquired.

  'Not necessarily. Considering the nature of some of her duties it would be better if she reported directly to me.'

  'So this person will be a woman?' She was teasing him. He had no option but to make matters crystal clear.

  'Gordon Garter, Chairman and Managing Director of Gartertex, would not relish a man as his liaison officer. GG requires some very specific services. As I remember from your interview, you would be well equipped to take on the role.'

  'How much extra?'

  'I was thinking of another fifty pounds a week.'

  She sank her sherry in one gulp and set the glass down on his desk with a tiny click.

  'Two-fifty and five hundred pounds cash before I lay a finger on him.'

  'Now, look here, Chantal—'

  'Ssh.' She placed a slender forefinger on his lips, stilling his protest instantly. Her other hand fanned out over the crotch of his trousers. 'Say yes, chérie, and I give you a reminder of my attitude right now.'

  'Oh yes,' he breathed and her knowing fingers began to trace the outline of his straining cock.

  Fliss was so furious she could hardly eat. The trout on her plate stared balefu
lly at her as she prodded it and her stomach turned over.

  'Take this away,' she said to the waiter.

  'Is there something else I can get you?' he asked.

  'Another drink,' said Fliss. 'A very large glass of the most expensive cognac you have.'

  She lit a cigarette and drew on it with gusto. The people at the next table stared at her crossly but she didn't care. They were the reason she was upset, so fuck them, she thought. The truth was, though, that Clifford was the real source of her unhappiness and the two women beside her were merely the unwitting bearers of bad news.

  Dining on her own - she had waited long enough for Cliff and he had warned her he'd be busy - she couldn't help overhearing every word that passed between the tall American woman and the English girl. It hadn't taken her long to work out that they had stumbled on Cliff in mid-shoot. And it soon became clear that when her lover had said he would be 'up to his ears' in work he'd meant that literally.

  'He really got her going, didn't he?' said the English girl.

  'You thinking of taking up his offer?' asked the American.

  'No fear.'

  'If you posed for him there'd be a modelling fee.'

  'Ooh, yes. I wonder how much.'

  'Payment in kind, no doubt.'

  And they'd dissolved into giggles. Fliss felt like throwing her food in their stupid faces.

  She drank her brandy fast and called for another. Already this morning's plan, conceived as she knelt between Clifford's legs and shook her bottom for him in the mirror, seemed doomed. Then, charged up and randy, she had imagined pandering to his voyeuristic desires and capturing his affections once and for all. He was always egging her on, pleased whenever she flashed her panties climbing out of a car and urging her to bare her titties on the beach.

  To date, Fliss had always been reluctant to go too far. Maybe now was the time. Perhaps he'd like to see her really go wild. She'd get him to take photos of her masturbating. With a banana maybe or a big dildo. That would be just the kind of visual stimulus he'd enjoy. And how about other guys? She'd offer to fuck and suck as many as he liked and he could snap away. What did she have to lose? At least she might get a stiff dick in the proper place.