Lust at Large

by Noel Amos

  'Yes?'

  'It'd bloody well not be small or I'm never buying the Dirty Dog again.'

  Max drained his spiked tea to the very dregs. All stimulation was welcome at this point. Then he followed her large purple bottom up the narrow stairs to bed.

  Chapter 46

  'Mercy,' said Melanie as she looked out of the window of the bedroom she shared with her sister, 'do you see what I see?'

  Mercy joined her twin and looked over the back garden, past the vegetable patch to a knot of trees by the river.

  'It's a bloke with a pair of binoculars,' she said. 'So what? There are walkers and bird-watchers all over the place.'

  'That one has been there for half an hour and he's not taken his bins off our house for a moment.'

  'Maybe Mum's doing her exercises in the nude again. You couldn't blame him for peeping at that.'

  'This is serious, Mercy. Don't you recognise him?'

  'Is he at the hotel?'

  'Room 31. Next door to his friend in 32.'

  'Oh.' The grin faded from Mercy's pretty face. She had seen the occupant of 32 in action and Inspector Archibald Monk was not high on her list of favourite people. Not after the way he had treated Julia the night before.

  The realisation that an associate of Monk's was spying on their house filled her with alarm. 'What shall we do, Mel?' she asked.

  'Not bad-looking for a copper, is he?' said Melanie. 'A bit young.'

  'Nice hair. Long legs. Tight bum.'

  'You can't see his bum from here.'

  'I've checked him out before.'

  Mercy was not surprised. 'So what are we going to do?' she repeated.

  'Teach the little bastard a lesson.'

  'But he's a policeman!'

  'No man would bring charges over what I've got in mind.'

  Stephen Fantail was a conscientious fellow. He enjoyed his work, in particular the detail. What most of his colleagues considered to be tedious and bureaucratic thrilled Stephen the most. Files and paperwork, computers and databases, these were the things that gave his life meaning. Other aspects of police work, such as doorstepping the public and confronting witnesses face to face, appealed to him rather less. Until last night, that is. Until his hands-on interrogation of a woman suspected of being the country's most wanted criminal. Until he came face to face with Felicity Dodge.

  He watched the big old farmhouse with unseeing eyes, his mind filled with breathtaking images of Fliss. Maybe his reflexes had been undermined by the loss of his virginity, maybe he was simply tired after his romantic exertions on the hillside but, trained observer that he was, he didn't see what hit him.

  Crash! He thumped onto the ground as his legs were swept from beneath him and his head smacked into the rough bark of a tree. The ground was as hard as concrete and punched the air from his body and the binoculars flew from his fingers to land on his face.

  Despite his strength and fitness, there was nothing Stephen could do about the weight on his chest which pinned him to the ground. Hands tugged at his clothing and he was aware that his legs and arms were being bound. In his imagination, when considering the possibility of being jumped by a villain, he had always seen himself dodging and parrying, his lightning reactions saving him from the thrust of a knife or the swing of a crow bar. Now he learned the truth. A victim of total surprise, he was as helpless as a captive toddler having his nappy changed.

  This unlikely image entered his mind as he became aware that his jeans were being lowered and his loins bared.

  'Get off me!' he protested and took a hefty smack on the ear. His skull rang with the impact and his eyes watered with pain.

  'Shut up, you wanker,' hissed a voice. 'I'm going to show you what we do to Peeping Toms around here.'

  The voice was female but his vision was fogged and he could only make out a shape in shiny scarlet bending over him. She was wearing something on her face, he realised, probably a stocking, and the features were distorted into a weird blurry mass.

  'Mmm, that's nice,' continued the voice and a hand slid over his bared belly. He writhed and struggled but his arms were above his head, tied to something, and there was a soft but immovable weight on his knees.

  The hand was between his thighs, at the fork of his body, cupping his twitching testicles.

  'Don't worry, darling, if you're a good boy you won't get hurt.'

  Fingers were on his penis now, tracing its flaccid length, teasing the furled knot of skin at the tip.

  In his distorted vision the shape in scarlet resolved itself into a woman in a figure-hugging lycra leotard that left nothing to the imagination.

  'Come on, baby,' she said, 'get it up for mama. Show me all you've got.'

  At her neck the silver tab of a zip fastener glinted in the sunlight. Two fingers took hold of it and began to ease it down with a soft metallic purr.

  Stephen's breath caught in his throat as the hills of a magnificent bosom soared into view, spilling from the sea of scarlet in a soft tumble. The swollen pink nipples swung over his face and he lifted his lips involuntarily, yearning for their touch despite his predicament.

  'You like them, don't you?' said the voice. 'You're as stiff as a post.'

  He was, too. He couldn't help himself.

  The spectacular tits shivered and wobbled before his eyes, swaying just out of reach, the creamy rounds full and firm, the nipples big and berry red. Stephen was mesmerised. His head hurt with looking as the balls of flesh dipped and trembled. It seemed that there were two bosoms now - four breasts, four nipples - two identical pairs of lefts and rights dancing before his confused gaze.

  His breath was coming hard as the hand in his crotch speeded up, pumping the barrel of his tool, slicking the juicy folds of his foreskin backwards and forwards over the bursting knob.

  'That's right, big boy,' said the low sexy voice, 'keep your eyes on my tits. They really turn you on, don't they? I bet you're going to come soon.'

  That much was true. His loins were out of control. He could no more hold back than uproot the tree he was tied to. But, as he gazed on the wondrous breasts in front of him and a river of spunk spat from his jumping prick, other images floated before his disarranged mind's eye. Grainy black-and-white images produced by photographic enlarging. Images he had pored over for hours. Photos of Bra-less Brenda's breasts.

  Chapter 47

  Margot Scallion need not have worried. Maxwell Shaftesbury's token of gratitude was far from small, indeed it was bloody enormous - as Margot described it to her friend Dolores over a laced coffee the following morning. For now though, she clung on to the real thing and savoured every millimetre of its warm baby-smooth length. She had never before had such an object of beauty between her lilac blue sheets and she knew she never would again - she was making the most of it.

  'Margot,' muttered Max through a mouthful of brown rubbery nipple, 'do you really know where Craig is?'

  'Of course I do. You don't think I'd take advantage of you unfairly do you? I might be a woman with appetites but I wouldn't do the dirty on you, love.' She ringed his firm stalk in her big strong fingers and began to jiggle it up and down.

  Max groaned and pushed business to the back of his mind for the moment as the perfumed flesh of her vast breast swamped his face. Her hot hand on his cock was as reassuring as a mother's touch and as knowing as a whore's mouth. This was not what he had expected when he had climbed the stairs.

  Margot was indeed a woman of appetites. Beneath the purple housecoat she had been wearing peach-coloured French knickers and a brassiere that was a marvel of structural engineering. Tall and square-shouldered, with a cascade of chestnut locks now loose about her neck, she was a formidable-looking woman. But it wasn't just the obvious things - the bulging melons of her breasts, the violin-curve of her hips, the satin-creased outline of her pussy - that engaged Max's attention and shook him from his early-morning lassitude. It was the expression on her face. The firm-set mouth, the glistening black eyes, the straight nose tha
t pointed at him like the barrel of a gun. This woman knew all about him and she wanted her money's worth.

  Maxwell Shaftesbury's reputation was on the line.

  He'd got on his knees and placed his mouth over her bush through the thin material of her knickers. He'd slid his hands up both legs of the satin bloomers, grasped a handful of bottom flesh and pulled the weight of her onto his face. Kneeling at her feet fully clothed, he'd pressed his mouth, his nose - his entire famous star-reporter face - into the hidden folds of her vagina until she was panting and clawing at his thick curly hair and begging him to put her on the bed and fuck her.

  He'd done that too. First he'd released her quivering tits from the restraints of her mighty brassiere, catching the big pink beauties as they tumbled from the cups and licking and kissing the ridged brown pegs of her nipples which thrust, as hard as nuts, into his mouth. Then, throwing his elegant designer casuals onto the vile shag-pile rug, he'd plunged his ever-ready tool between her big white thighs, through the open gusset of her knickers and into the moist petals of her hungry cunt. When she came - and she had come quickly - she had squealed like a stuck pig and thrashed like a beached fish.

  That had been Round One to Max but he was aware, as he nuzzled the intoxicating flesh of her bosom, that the bout was far from over.

  'Come on, Margot, spill the beans. What's Craig Gammon up to?'

  'He went off on his bike just before nine. Why don't you put your hand just a little lower? Ooh that's nice. We had a little chat before he left.'

  'And?'

  'He did mention he was off to meet the woman from the Rabbit.'

  'Damn.'

  'Don't stop, Maxwell. Eeh, you've got a right naughty pair of hands on you.'

  'Did he say where they were going to meet?'

  'Well, he were in that much of a hurry I can't recall exactly which hotel it was. He was all excited that she was going to put a photo in the paper of him looking at topless girls. You know, like in an identity parade. Mind you, I think he's mad. That Franny will kill him when it comes out. What's up, Maxwell? You look right poorly.'

  'Poorly' didn't adequately describe the naked reporter as he squatted on his haunches above Margot, his face as stiff and red as the cock which stuck out from the flat muscles of his belly.

  'That was my idea!' he shouted, his eyes blazing and his penis waving in the air between Margot's dimpled thighs. She folded a comforting hand around the fat shaft and pointed the head downwards into the dark forest of hair that covered her pussy - it was as well to put a dangerous thing like that somewhere safe.

  'I spoke to Gammon about that this morning!' raved Max as his cock disappeared into Margot's moist tunnel. 'I've got a photographer with me, I've got quotes from the police, it's going to make a great spread!'

  'Aye, it will,' agreed Margot, pulling the delirious man on top of her and folding her solid haunches around his hips. 'Pity you'll have to see it in the Bunny though.'

  'But it was my idea,' repeated Max, his pelvis pumping as he responded to Margot's demands.

  'Genius is rarely recognised in its own lifetime,' she said philosophically and shut him up by pushing her large plush tongue between his lips.

  It had been a long road that had led Maxwell Shaftesbury to the rigours of Margot Scallion's bed. Australian by birth, he had become such a part of the British entertainment scene that few remembered his origins. The high point of his career had been his own TV chat show, whose success was based on the sexual chemistry between the good-looking, abrasive host and a stream of sporting female guests. It was set to run for ever until, as the station boss put it, Max had 'overcooked it'.

  He'd been flirting harmlessly with Henrietta Suckling, a cut-glass English actress whose carefully groomed beauty had improved, like good wine, with the march of time. Her cunningly managed career gave her an entree to almost any kind of work, from drawing-room sitcoms to voice-overs for after-dinner mints to sitting on judging panels of literary prizes. The interview had been going well. Too well, as it turned out.

  'I have a theory about you, Henry,' he'd said.

  'How thrilling, darling,' she'd cooed in her famous breathy tones and crossed her long legs with a cock-stretching swish.

  'I think you're the woman of every man's dreams because you come across like an intellectual whore.'

  'Really?' A pencil-thin eyebrow arched upwards.

  'I picture you sitting at home reading philosophy with no knickers on.'

  'Darling, I do lots of things without knickers on.' Swish, swish went the legs amid much studio laughter.

  'Such as appearing on TV chat shows?' Louder laughter. 'I'm not saying.' Swish. 'That's for you to find out.' There was a whoop of delight from the audience.

  'Are you telling me, Henry, that if I put my hand on this adorable knee here and let my hand slide up beneath your skirt like this...' Ooh! from the studio audience. 'She's wearing suspenders, ladies and gentlemen, and has the smoothest, silkiest thighs...'

  'I didn't know this was a consumer research programme, Max,' said Henrietta staring him coolly in the face, her full lips curled into a trademark smile that was pure sex.

  In retrospect this was the point at which he could have retreated and still kept his job. But, with his hand halfway up her thigh and the audience egging him on, he needed a rebuff from her to get him off the hook. As he looked into her pale grey eyes he knew he had met his match, there would be no backing down from her. He thrust his hand right up her skirt.

  A collective intake of breath came from all around, followed by a burst of applause. To his amazement she sat as cool as a cucumber while he explored.

  'Well, Max, what's the verdict?' she'd said.

  He'd not replied but, with one hand on the soft down of her pussy and the other round her waist, he had fastened his lips to hers and rolled her backwards onto the plump cushions of the studio couch.

  The audience had roared and whooped and the station had pulled the plug on the show and Max's TV career. He'd often thought that the following few days he'd spent tucked up in bed with Henrietta at her sister's flat - to escape the newspaper ratpack - had made it all worthwhile. One thing was sure, the whole business had done nothing to harm Henry's prospects. He had mixed feelings these days every time he saw those damned commercials.

  It was ironic that Max now found himself part of the ratpack. Only a sleazy rag like the Dog would take him on, of course, but they knew their market. The public still loved him and Max often consoled himself with that thought. The real public, that is, not the high-minded watchdogs of public morality who loved to lay every ballooning crime statistic and undesirable social phenomenon at the door of the media. He knew he had a following of people like Margot Scallion who even now, as she relaxed after her fourth orgasm on his redoubtable cock, asked him, 'When that Henrietta Suckling was on your show, was she, you know...?'

  'No, Margot. The hot bitch wasn't wearing any knickers.'

  'By gum, that's disgusting!' She sat up in bed, her huge udders swaying dangerously.

  'Absolutely,' said Max, eyeing the shifting of sweet pink flesh with a frisson of alarm.

  'I'm never going to give Brian them mints again,' she said as she swung her legs across his supine torso and took hold of the brass rail of the bed head.

  'Margot, where is Craig Gammon meeting that reporter from the Daily Rabbit?'

  But her reply, if she made one, was lost in a whirl of perfumed motion as Max's ears were buffeted with a mass of breast flesh, like soft satiny sandbags smacking backwards and forwards across his head. Between his thighs, his prick rose to the carnal call of a titty-whipping the like of which the great cocksman of the Dirty Dog had never experienced before.

  Margot Scallion climbed aboard his long curving prong, guiding the big banana up her pussy with a sigh of immense satisfaction. This was turning out to be the best morning of her life since she and Dolores had entertained that dishy plumber and his mate. Better, in fact. What plumber, after all, could give
her the inside story on Henrietta Suckling's knickers?

  Chapter 48

  Clifford Rush had leapt at the opportunity to work as a stand-in photographer for the Daily Rabbit.

  'Just keep my name out of the paper,' he told Robyn, 'and I'm yours for the morning. Then you're mine for the afternoon. Agreed?'

  'It's a deal,' said the reporter, lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of her last. 'Get me through this and I'm yours for life.'

  Cliff rushed off to prepare the room they were going to use for the shoot. It was a large and dingy storeroom with a tiled floor and once-white walls. Rodney had suggested it might make a suitably stark location and Robyn was only too happy to agree. She was also relieved that Cliff had volunteered to round up a selection of suitable models.

  Rodney and Josie had disappeared in Rodney's car to Smegley, the nearest town, to buy a selection of Brenda-style T-shirts and halter-necks. Which left Robyn to handle the man of the moment, Craig Gammon.

  He was dressed in motorcycle leathers and a grubby vest and wore it's-my-day-off stubble on his chin. It occurred to Robyn that the reason he had not shaved was probably to avoid running a razor over the left side of his face which was swollen and pink. His left eye was half closed and every minute or so he brushed away a tear which seeped down the side of his nose.

  'I fell down the stairs last night,' he said as he lowered his big shambling frame into the chesterfield in the sitting-room of her suite.

  'Did Franny push you?' asked Robyn.

  'How do you know?' he asked, fixing her with his one good eye.

  'I met her myself. I thought she was going to take a pop at me too.'

  'Oh aye,' he nodded unhappily. 'She were right worked up yesterday. It weren't my fault that Brenda come in the bog shop and flashed her charlies while I were there.'