Lust at Large

by Noel Amos

  Josie got to it first, breathing hard. It was Craig Gammon.

  'Time to go to work, Robyn,' she said, holding out the receiver. 'If you can bear to take that man out of your pussy.'

  Chapter 43

  An urgent rapping at the door roused Chantal from her fitful slumber. For the duration of the Gartertex visit she had been allotted a spare room on the top floor and the unfamiliar bed and the usual night-time disturbances of a hotel had not allowed her much rest.

  'Merde,' she muttered as she stumbled out of bed. 'What do you want?'

  A bespectacled face gazed at her in adoration through the crack in the door.

  'Gray Ham,' she said, her anger draining away. Then it surged through her afresh as she guessed the reason for his presence. 'You can tell your father to fuck off. It's too early.'

  'I've brought you breakfast,' he said, pushing at the door with the tray he was holding. 'My father knows nothing about it.'

  With a show of reluctance, Chantal stepped aside to allow him entry. She regarded him with interest as he laid the tray on the small table by the bed and drew the curtains. He arranged two large white china cups and began to pour. The aroma of coffee suddenly ravished her senses.

  'Croissant?' he asked, turning to her for the first time, his eye on her nipples through the cotton of her T-shirt. She curled up on top of the bed exposing her thighs almost to her rump and grinned at him.

  'You know, Graham, I like you very much. You give me champagne and coffee and croissants. For an Englishman that is impressive.'

  'I can give you more than that,' he said. 'I'm in love with you.'

  'Oh la la! It's eight o'clock in the morning and he talks of love.' She laughed and bit into a croissant.

  'There's no need to make fun of me, Chantal. You may think I'm a milksop, like my father does, but these few days have opened my eyes. I know what I want. I want to make Louche Lingerie the Rolls-Royce of underwear. And I want you.'

  Chantal drank her coffee and said nothing.

  'My father's not going to go on for ever, you know. He's so fat he could keel over at any moment, God forbid. And when he does, the fate of Gartertex will be in my hands. I'm going to need all the help I can get.'

  'Is this a proposal of marriage, Graham?'

  'Well, er yes. I suppose it is.'

  'Formidable. It's so nice to start the day with a declaration of love. You are a sweet boy.' She put down her coffee cup and stretched one leg high up in the air, toes pointed prettily, thus exposing the bewitching expanse of her naked belly to his hungry gaze.

  He accepted the unspoken invitation and fell to his knees by the side of the bed, plunging his face into her crotch. She folded her leg over his back and carefully removed his spectacles as he covered her soft and scented skin with tender kisses.

  'What you say is very interesting, Graham. I promise I will think about it seriously.' That was true, her brain was already buzzing with possibilities.

  'You will?' He raised his head and gazed at her earnestly.

  Without his glasses his eyes were misty pools of azure. His jaw was firm and his cheekbones sharp. Chantal pushed a thick black lock of hair from his brow and lifted her hips. 'Kiss me,' she said.

  For a lad without much experience of women he did it well, she thought. 'You are a naughty boy, Graham, the way you tease my chatte, my little pussy. You mustn't get me too excited. Your father would not be happy.'

  'Sod my bloody father!' cried Graham, pulling away and leaping to his feet. Chantal watched with surprise as he began to rip his clothes from his body.

  'Non!' she cried but she made no attempt to close her legs and the moist petals of her vagina were whispering a very definite oui.

  Naked, he was no awkward lad. There were muscles in his arms and shoulders and though his flesh was white and unbronzed it was trim and firm. From the black hair of his belly sprang a long curving weapon that glowed with anticipation. Chantal looked at it with pleasure and alarm.

  'Put that big thing away, Graham,' she squealed. 'Your father must not see I have been with another man. You must not - ooh!'

  He sank the stiff tool into her in one smooth thrust, all the way in until it seemed to touch the very bottom of her. His mouth devoured hers, his tongue filling her up, as his hands lifted her T-shirt to her neck and his broad chest crushed the soft rounds of her small breasts.

  He rode her furiously but not without skill. He was strong and fast and urgent but he was not rough. She continued to protest but her cries of 'No' and 'Stop it' changed to 'Please, Graham' and 'Ooh yes' as his irresistible rhythm swept her away with the force of his naked desire.

  Then she began to moan without calculation or artifice, begging him to fuck her, to fuck her hard, to keep on and on and - to her utter surprise she suddenly found she was coming. She listened to the sounds ringing round the room aware, for the first time she could remember, that this was the sound of her own untarnished pleasure.

  Graham lifted his body off hers to watch the feverish clutch of her pussy on his plunging tool. As the writhing of her perfect flesh subsided he pulled his weapon from her cunt, leaving the flushed vaginal mouth empty and bereft.

  To her eyes his cock looked huge. Red and sticky with their juices, it shuddered and twitched in the air and shot a bolt of spunk the length of her body, splashing her face and neck and breast and belly. She had never seen anything like it before.

  'There,' he said through lips drawn back in a rictus of jealousy and lust, 'now all you've got to do is wash and you'll be as good as new.' And then he began to cry.

  As Chantal hugged his shaking body in a gooey embrace she felt an emotion that she couldn't identify. She stroked his long neck tenderly and held him fast to her soft bosom.

  Chapter 44

  Craig Gammon turned out to be a tricky customer.

  'I think it only fair to let you know that we are already in discussions with another party,' said the voice in Robyn's ear, returning her swiftly to the sordid cut-and-thrust of massmarket journalism after the happy interlude at the hands of Rodney the masseur.

  All the relaxation text books claimed that a satisfying workout would provide a long-lasting inner glow guaranteed to relieve the stress of business. But Robyn, sitting on the bed covered in oil and sex juice, found it difficult to conceal her irritation with the victim of the Flintwhistle Philanthropic. 'We' indeed! However, she was a professional.

  'I presume you mean the Daily Dog, Mr Gammon?'

  'Er, precisely. They have given us certain assurances as to the matter of our expenses and other incidental costs.'

  'You've been talking to Maxwell Shaftesbury, haven't you?'

  'As a matter of fact, I have and I'm very impressed. I've seen him on the telly.'

  'Then you'll know what a smooth-talking bastard he is. I'd caution you not to be too easily impressed. I bet whatever he's promised you is worthless.'

  'What are you on about?'

  'You're the wrong sex, Craig. The man's a rabid lecher devoted to separating other men from their women. He'll buy you a ploughman's lunch and knock up your fiancee. Believe me.'

  'I suppose he did say he wanted to meet Franny...'

  'Don't worry, I've got a better idea.'

  'Eh?'

  'Come to the hotel this morning. We'll talk real terms. And I promise you I'm much prettier than he is.'

  'But what about the identity parade?'

  'The identity parade?' This rang a bell - what had Archie Monk said?

  'I had this idea for a photo in the paper. You know, with me looking at a row of suspects, all topless beauties like Bra-less Brenda. He thinks it's a great idea.'

  'So it is,' said Robyn, desperate not to lose her advantage. 'We'll do it in the Bunny. Have you got a car?'

  'I got a motorbike.'

  'Good. Leave home right now and come straight here. Don't speak to anyone, don't answer the phone, just leave.'

  She put the phone down with a groan. 'Oh God, now I've done it.'
<
br />   A pair of strong male arms folded themselves around her body and tugged her down onto the bed.

  'Don't worry,' said Rodney, 'we'll make a plan.'

  'But how am I going to set up this bloody photo? I don't even have a photographer, let alone the models.'

  'Don't be stupid, Robyn,' said Josie, nestling down on the other side of the agitated reporter and running a soothing hand along her thigh. 'This place is bursting with pretty girls and there's the best glamour photographer in England on hand, isn't there, Rodney?'

  'Yes indeed.' Rodney's voice was muffled because his face was buried in Robyn's hair, nuzzling the back of her neck. 'Cliff Rush will love the idea. It's just up his alley.'

  'Really?' The gloom fell from Robyn's face. 'Do you think he would?'

  'Leave it to me,' said Rodney.

  'You're fantastic!' cried Robyn and pulled Rodney's mouth to hers for a thank you kiss that soon stretched into something more interesting. When Robyn came up for air she reached for Josie. 'You, too,' she said and kissed her.

  Josie froze as Robyn's tongue pushed hesitantly into her mouth. The sensation was somehow more intimate, more forbidden, than the other woman's fingers in her pussy. Robyn was kissing her insistently now, the long tongue exploring, and Josie sucked on it, kissing her back. They broke away and looked sheepishly at Rodney whose cock was at attention and whose eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  'I expect Cliff will need paying,' he said.

  'Of course,' said Robyn. 'The Bunny always plays fair. We'll pay a fee.'

  'If I know Cliff, he'll be more interested in a personal favour.'

  'He wants you and me to pose for him,' said Josie. 'He said so last night.'

  'You'd look fabulous together,' said Rodney, thinking of his private portfolio.

  'Oh Christ,' muttered Robyn, though in truth, as her hand toyed with the firm nipple of Josie's pretty left breast, the notion was not unpleasant.

  'Mmm,' said Josie, resting her head on the pillow next to Robyn's, 'that's nice.' And she began an exploration of Robyn's own flushed and perky bosom.

  The two of them kissed again and this time their bodies entwined, the long slender American wrapping her limbs around the softer, smaller English girl. As Robyn's fingers caressed the silky swell of Josie's hip, a fleeting image of Mercedes Birch swam into her mind and she probed lower, over the creamy skin of Josie's belly.

  Suddenly Robyn was rudely shocked out of her explorations as a hand descended on her rump. 'Ow,' she yelled and jerked open her eyes to see a grinning Rodney standing over the pair of them.

  'Sorry, girls,' he said. 'There's no time for this kind of hanky-panky. Before your star witness turns up, Robyn, your other benefactor needs paying. So which one of you ladies would like to settle my account?' And he pointed to his penis, which was jutting from his loins in a flagrant display of male impatience.

  Josie giggled at the sight but closed her thighs on Robyn's curious finger, pressing it to her pussy mound with her hand in a gesture that clearly stated her preference.

  Robyn fought back an impulse to tell Rodney to jam his dick into a keyhole somewhere and instead found herself spreading her luscious legs wide open in invitation.

  'Help yourself, lover,' she said. 'Like I said, the Bunny always plays fair.'

  Chapter 45

  Max Shaftesbury stood on the doorstep of a terraced cottage on the outskirts of Flintwhistle and swore.

  'The little bastard's legged it,' he said to the woman by his side. Her lovely mouth curved into a grin which, Max knew from long experience, did not necessarily mean she found the situation amusing. Adriana accepted the ups-and-downs of life without fuss, treating triumph and disaster with a sloe-eyed smile. Some people found this bloody irritating. Others thought she was stupid. Max knew for a fact she was neither.

  'Let's try the neighbours,' she said and knocked at the next door along. There was no response. Max took over and thundered all his impatience into the agitation of the door knocker. This brought results of a sort. The door on the other side of the first swung open and a voice said, 'Knock all you like but she won't hear you. They buried her six weeks ago.'

  The woman who spoke wore a well-filled purple housecoat and pink mules with bobbles on. Her hair was pinned up on her head in a brown tangle and her jaw was large and firm. She looked Max straight in the eye and challenged him to contradict her.

  The journalist swung into action as if programmed. His face lit up as he looked at her, crinkling the laughter lines round his deep brown, soulful eyes. The voice was deep brown as well.

  'Maxwell Shaftesbury of the Daily Dog,' he intoned, smoothly invading the woman's personal space, 'I'm delighted to meet you, Miss...'

  'Mrs to you. Margot Scallion, with two ells if you're putting it in the paper.'

  'We might, Mrs Scallion. You're our only hope.' His face looked plaintive. Get their sympathy right off the bat. It was a cardinal rule.

  'How's that?'

  'I had an appointment to speak to Mr Gammon and he's not answering his door. You don't know where he is, by any chance?'

  'Aha,' she said, leaning against the doorjamb and searching in her pockets for a packet of cigarettes. She took her time placing one to her lush lipsticky lips and Max supplied the flame, leaning in close to shelter his lighter from a non-existent breeze.

  'If you could tell me anything about Mr Gammon's disappearance, Mrs Scallion, it would be of considerable assistance to my paper. My editor would be shocked if I did not offer you some small token of our gratitude.'

  On cue, Adriana produced a thick wallet from her handbag and peeled off six five-pound notes.

  Margot Scallion looked at her and sniffed. 'Put away your brass and come on in, Mr Shaftesbury. The little girl can wait outside.' And she turned and disappeared through the door.

  Adriana said, 'Attaboy, Max,' and retraced her steps to the blue Spacewagon parked on the other side of the road. Other women might have been insulted, Adriana gave no sign of it - it was one of the reasons she had kept her job for so long.

  Max stepped into the tiny hallway, momentarily unbalanced by the swirly pink carpet and flower-patterned wallpaper. Mercifully, Mrs Scallion was in the kitchen where the linoleum was plain and there was a view of the tiny back garden. Three very large brassieres hung amidst other items of family apparel upon the washing line. A Charentais melon would fit snugly into each cup, Max thought.

  'So,' began his hostess as she poured tea the colour of mahogany, 'you want to know what's going off with him and her next door.'

  'Tell me, Mrs Scallion.'

  'Well, she - that's Franny Wintergreen as is supposed to be marrying Craig - she's in a right tizzy over what went on yesterday with him at work. They had a real set-to and she smacked his face and made him sleep on the sofa.'

  'Why?'

  'She said he shouldn't have been looking at that girl's chest and he said he couldn't help it what with her having a gun. She said he should have kept his eyes on her face so he could identify her and he should have stalled till the police got there. He said that was all right for those whose lives weren't in peril and if she, Franny, wasn't so flat-chested he'd never have been so gobsmacked by such a whopping great pair in the first place.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'Quite. That was when she hit him. My Brian and I were trying to watch the television but we decided the entertainment was better through the wall and we turned it off.'

  Max took a reluctant sip of his tea which was noted by Mrs Scallion. She was a lady who missed little.

  'Here,' she said, producing a bottle that looked as if it had once held disinfectant, 'let's freshen that up a bit.' And she poured a generous slug of brown liquid into both mugs. 'I suppose you'd like to know about the other reporter?' she went on.

  Indeed he would, his disappointment at the news was tempered by the scorching pain of raw whisky in the back of his throat. Did Mrs S brew the stuff herself? he wondered.

  'She fetched up about nine, aft
er they'd had the big ding-dong. I heard her say she was from the Daily Rabbit. Franny told her to bugger off. She wouldn't let her talk to Craig.'

  'Did this reporter have an American accent?'

  'Most definitely. She was very tall with lots of dark hair. She knocked on my door after but I wouldn't let her in. Not like you.'

  Max mulled this over. He wasn't personally acquainted with Robyn Chestnut but he knew all about her. He'd just love to pip her to this one. It was fortunate that firebrand Franny had opened the door to her. He'd got Craig himself on the phone that morning and he'd sounded like your average avaricious prick who could be bought on the cheap. The girl sounded like a killer.

  'So where is Craig now?' he asked. Maybe La Chestnut had him after all and he'd lost out. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

  'Aha,' said Margot Scallion and looked at him significantly.

  'So you would like some money?' Max said. He was not surprised. In his experience banknotes, along with drinks, were rarely scorned.

  'No, I'd prefer your opinion on the new rug upstairs.'

  He wished he hadn't been on the road since dawn. He couldn't seem to get his wits going today. 'I'm sorry?' he said.

  Mrs Scallion laughed, a contemptuous high-pitched cackle that reverberated through Max's limber frame. 'Eeh, I am disappointed in you, Mr Shaftesbury. You're not living up to your reputation at all. Us ladies don't have etchings or stamp collections in our parlours but we do have shag-pile rugs on our bedroom floors. Do you get my drift?'

  Max looked over her shoulder at the dangling melon traps on the washing line. He got the drift.

  'It will be my pleasure, Mrs Scallion.'

  'Margot, from now on, please,' she said as she got to her feet. 'You know you mentioned your editor was keen for you to offer me a small token of gratitude?'