by Noel Amos
'The Sex Police,' said the sergeant. 'You're on our list, Mr Big-shot. We're going to eat your bollocks.'
Chapter 9
'What do you mean - "eat my bollocks"? This is outrageous!' Tom used his power voice - it had worked for him so far - and reached for the alarm button by his bed. A small but firm hand captured his before he could summon help.
'There's no need to be alarmed, Mr Glass,' said Inspector Quartermain. 'Amy sometimes jumps the gun. This is only a preliminary chat so we can get to know one another.'
'I demand to see Dr Flint,' said Tom, only half mollified. Amnesiac or not, he knew these two were trouble.
'Of course you can see Dr Flint. But there's no point. We're here with her blessing. She's always most cooperative.'
The wind was now almost gone from Tom's sails. 'Well, make it quick. I'm still not feeling well.'
Claire Quartermain smiled. Her eyes were bright and quick, like those of a small rodent. Her smile did not reassure Tom in the least.
'Excellent,' she said. 'Perhaps we can start with your version of events last Friday evening. Why don't you tell us what happened?'
'I don't remember. I've just spent three days in a coma. I'm surprised Dr Flint didn't mention it.'
'So you have no recollection of how you came to be exposing yourself in the street in full view of the audience leaving a London theatre?'
'You tell me, Inspector. I trust you are investigating what seems like an obvious assault on my person. And when you find who is responsible let me know. If you don't prosecute, I'll sue.'
The policewoman seemed unimpressed.
'For someone with no memory of the events in question you seem very sure of yourself, Tom.'
'Mr Glass to you, Inspector.'
An awkward silence descended. Tom blustered on, aware he was making an enemy of this woman but unable to stop himself.
'Why do you assume that I'm in the wrong? I'm the injured party here. I fell ten storeys into the street and it's a miracle I'm alive. Now I'm stuck in hospital unable to run my business. I've lost my memory. And every day I'm pilloried in the newspapers as if I'm some filthy pervert! It's not fair!'
'Oh dear,' said the inspector, 'I can see we've got off on the wrong foot. I know how to cheer you up, though. Amy!'
The blonde sprang to attention. 'Yes, guv?'
'Get out your goodies. Let's put a smile back on Mr Glass's face.'
'Excuse me, guv, but I don't know that I want to. He is a pervert, you can see for yourself.' And Amy pointed to the sheet bunched over Tom's loins. It was not bunched sufficiently to conceal the tumescent column of flesh that reared without apology between his thighs.
How could Tom explain that since he had regained consciousness he had been in an almost permanent state of sexual arousal? That he had been plagued by sexy nurses and importunate fiancées and that his dreams had been peopled with naked, cock-happy conquests from his lurid past?
A steely hand shot out and grasped Tom's bed sheet. Claire Quartermain jerked the cover from his body and suddenly his penis was laid bare, stretching from crotch to belly button in unrepentant glory.
'Blimey,' said Amy, her features now animated, 'what a salami!'
'Precisely, Sergeant Tooth. The sausage that stopped the West End. The subversive weapon that undermined an entire business community. Exhibit number one for the prosecution in The Primrose Court, I'll be bound.'
'Oh for God's sake,' shouted Tom. 'It's my penis, you stupid harpies, and what I do with it is my own affair—'
A shriek of high-pitched laughter rang out from Amy Tooth, cutting across Tom's protest.
'My, my,' said Inspector Quartermain, 'maybe you really have lost your memory. Either that or you are sorely in need of retraining. I can see that we have a serious investigation on our hands, Sergeant. Stop tittering and do your duty.'
Tom watched in dumbfounded astonishment as Amy Tooth unzipped her hideous shell-suit from throat to navel and emerged from it like a butterfly from a chrysalis. He gulped at the sight of two grapefruit-sized breasts packed tight into a shiny gold satin brassiere that lifted and separated, offering to his fevered imagination a feast of succulence. Her creamy midriff was bared to shiny black PVC shorts, cut high on the thigh and tight across the bulge of her pouting mons veneris.
Her legs were long and fleshy, the skin of her thighs smooth and white above gleaming leather boots that encased her up to the knee. She was a cock-stiffening dream-come-true - even for a man like Tom whose cock needed no further stiffening. It jerked on his belly in salute.
Amy turned to rummage in her bag, bending at the waist to do so, thrusting out her gleaming posterior in heart-stopping provocation.
Inspector Quartermain observed Tom's interest with satisfaction. 'She's got a hell of an arse, hasn't she? I thought that might be to your taste.'
He could not deny it. The swollen hemispheres of flesh filled his vision and his exposed cock pulsed with guilty desire.
Amy straightened and turned, one hand now sheathed in a rubber surgical glove, the other holding a small plastic bottle.
'Don't be alarmed, Mr Glass,' said Inspector Quartermain. 'She's just going to take a sample.'
'A sample?' said Tom as Amy stepped up to the bed. 'What sample?'
'Tell him, Sergeant,' said Quartermain, a smile licking her thin lips.
'A sperm sample,' grunted Amy as her gloved fingers closed on the shaft of Tom's penis. 'We need a sample of your filthy, pervert's spunk. It's standard procedure, isn't it, guv?'
'Just routine,' said the inspector. 'I'd lie back and enjoy it if I were you. Sergeant Tooth is renowned for her technique.'
Amy shot the elder woman a poisonous glance and began to pump Tom's cock with no attempt at finesse. Her breasts thrust against her halter, the nipples like big buttons beneath the satin. Her mouth was set in a hard line and her eyes were fierce.
'Hey!' shouted Tom as she almost lifted him off the bed by the root.
'Pardon me, darling,' she drawled sarcastically and smacked his cock from side to side across his belly.
'Do it properly, Amy,' said Quartermain.
'Sorry, guv,' the girl said and began to massage the head of Tom's tool in earnest.
'That's better,' said the inspector. 'She does know what she's doing really, Mr Glass. She's had lots of practice.'
Amy's hand speeded up, flicking Tom's foreskin up and down the crimson glans. Her brow was furrowed with concentration and the pink tip of her tongue protruded from between her pursed lips.
Tom stared ahead at the junction of his abuser's white thighs and at the mound of her sex encased in gleaming black. He was paralysed by lust and fear.
Claire's voice broke the silence.
'She's pretty, isn't she, Tom? I bet you'd like to see her naked. Peel off those pants and get your hands on her creamy bum. Spread her legs and stick your tongue up her puss. She tastes of sea, did you know that? Some girls are sweet. Pussies made out of spun sugar and candied fruit. Like your little Petra, I bet. Amy's just the opposite. She's musky and tangy, all salt and spray. She's got a savoury cunt, haven't you, Amy? I bet you'd like to make a meal of it, Tom - Oh, I say! That's more than enough for a sample, Mr Glass, you've quite filled up the jar.'
'So what did you make of him, then?' said Claire Quartermain to Amy Tooth as they made their way along the corridor outside Tom's room.
'He's just your average offender, guv.'
'Average offenders don't run billion-pound businesses, Sergeant.'
'You know what I mean. Out of his smart suit he's a pervert like all the rest.'
'Better endowed though, wouldn't you say?'
'I wouldn't.'
'I see. You've had so many that size, you're blasé.'
'Oh please, guv.'
The inspector grabbed her subordinate by the arm and shoved her roughly towards a door marked 'Toilet. Staff only.'
'In here,' she said, bundling the sergeant inside and locking the door. 'Strip. I want
everything off.'
'Claire, for God's sake!' cried Amy.
'Get your tits on parade at the double, Sergeant. Now.'
Amy fumbled at the zip of her shell-suit. Her hands were shaking as she peeled it off her trembling body.
'You made me do it, Claire,' she protested. 'You made me jerk him off. He could have done it himself - or the nurse—'
'What's the point of that, you little fool? I wanted to see how you would handle it. And you liked it, didn't you?'
'No, I swear.' Amy was almost naked now, her big breasts dangling as she bent to ease the skin-tight pants over the bulging mounds of her buttocks. Claire took a nipple between finger and thumb and squeezed.
'You adored it, Amy, you little tart. You love a big prick, don't you? For two pins you'd have stuck it in your mouth, wouldn't you?'
'No! Layoff, Claire - you're hurting!'
'Not until you admit you're a cock-happy nympho at heart. God, you're sopping!'
Claire had two fingers buried deep between the girl's legs and now she forced two more fingers inside. They slid into the wetness without resistance. Her other hand continued to pull at Amy's nipple viciously. Their bodies were moulded against each other, one clothed, one naked. Amy slipped a hand beneath the other's skirt.
'I'm sorry, Claire, I couldn't help it. I mean, with that sodding great thing in my hands...'
'So you admit it?'
Her eyes bored into Amy's face.
'I admit his cock turned me on but the rest of him turns me off! He's a degenerate like all the rest.'
Amy's hands were now inside the inspector's knickers. The two women stood eyeball to eyeball, their fingers busy between each other's legs.
'So you're not fucking men on the side and doing me just to help your career?'
'No, Claire. Honest.'
They kissed at length, both of them shaking with passion.
'Stand up on the seat,' hissed the inspector and Amy scrambled to obey, presenting her drooling vagina at head height to her superior.
Claire spread the thick lips of the puffy pink pussy on offer and teased its length with the tip of her tongue. Her hands slid up the back of Amy's thighs to her shapely buttocks.
'Oh yes,' muttered Amy, her fingers in the other's soft brown hair, urging her to mouth her aching cunt.
The inspector began to chuckle. 'Of course, Sergeant, if you're very good to me I might let you handle Mr Glass again in the near future. When we get him in the cells.' And she pressed her mouth to Amy's vagina and went to work.
'Oh yes,' sighed Amy, on the brink of her first orgasm, 'when we get him in the cells...'
Two - Shagged Rotten
Chapter 10
Kelvin arrived at the offices of Nouveau feeling light-headed. He hoped it wasn't the onset of a cold or one of those inexplicable viruses that afflicted people in the summer - usually during Wimbledon fortnight, in his observation. Kelvin took some pills and examined his eyes in a small hand mirror for signs of strain. If he were honest he well knew the cause of his fatigue - sexual excess. He and Petra had been at it like rabbits most of the night and again that morning. What had got into her? he wondered. Not that he was complaining.
'No recreational drugs in the office,' said a beery voice in his ear, 'not unless you share them with me.'
Kelvin looked up guiltily into the puffy face of Ted Flinch, the editor, and quickly tipped the aspirins and mirror into his desk drawer.
'Of course,' Ted rumbled on, 'you kids know naff-all about dope. You think coke's just a sticky drink, don't you? If I said, "Give me a hit" you'd think I was asking for a punch on the nose.'
This was a familiar theme of Ted's, a survivor of many a youth trend - and the magazines that went with them. In the heyday of flower-power he had launched Wow, Babe!, to be followed a couple of years later by F**k, a journal of street cred printed in multi-coloured inks on black paper. At this point he had sold out to IBG, the magazine big boys, and had presided over a variety of offerings ever since. As he often said, at least twice a day by Kelvin's reckoning, his heart was in the sixties but his pension was in the next century. Someone on the top floor had had a good laugh when they saddled him with Nouveau, a politically correct magazine for the nervous nineties.
'Congratulations,' said Ted. 'You're now our chief correspondent on contemporary human relations. In old-fashioned parlance, our sex writer. Write about these.' And he dumped a bundle of thick paperbacks on Kelvin's desk.
'What's the big deal, Ted?'
'That feminist rag Neurotica is running a mail-order offer on female sex novels. Take a look.'
'It says on the back, "Not for sale to men."'
'Yes. That's the angle. These aren't ordinary old wanking fodder - pass the Kleenex, let's toss off in the bog, kind of thing. This is sensitive, politically aware, blessed by the sisterhood, erotic literature, for God's sake. Anyhow, it's all yours. Talk to a few women, see what they think of it. Then I want an in-depth evaluation for our readers.'
'Thanks a bunch, Ted,' said Kelvin.
'Don't sound so glum, man. Don't quote me but I bet if you can persuade a woman to actually read that mush you'll soon have her screaming for the real thing. Play your cards right and you'll shag your way to two thousand words. Speaking of shagging, I want your piece on Prosecutor Cuntface on my desk by Friday night.'
'Neanderthal,' muttered Kelvin under his breath as his boss shambled off. He wondered for the umpteenth time how Ted had ended up editing a magazine for the thinking man.
The reference to Gossamer, however, had him reaching for the phone. Despite his recent exertions with Petra, the thought of Prosecutor Hawk had his prick at a stretch to equal, he presumed, the heroes of the literary works that now adorned his desk.
Tom was still shaking when Petra arrived at the hospital.
'He's already had one lot of visitors this morning,' said Nurse Biscuit as she ushered Petra into his room, 'and I think they've tired him out. Perhaps you'd better not stay too long.'
Tom looked at this new arrival with suspicion. She had an intelligent face and there was kindness in her round brown eyes. But she wore a business suit and carried a briefcase that looked like a newer version of Claire Quartermain's. Surely this wasn't some other crazed official come to torment him?
'Who the hell are you?' he snapped.
Petra was flabbergasted. She had been thrilled to see Tom conscious, sitting up in bed, his eyes once more alive with fierce intelligence. But there was something else there, too. Surely it couldn't be fear?
Nurse Biscuit spoke up. 'Tom, surely you remember Miss Rosewater? She's been here every day while you've been unconscious.'
The suspicion vanished from Tom's face but his eyes bored into hers, as if looking for a clue.
'It's great to see you alive again, Tom,' said Petra. She wanted to touch him but she didn't dare.
'Leave us alone please, Eve,' he said and then he grinned in his old familiar way. 'I'll be all right with Miss Rosewater, I promise.'
The smile vanished as soon as the nurse did. Petra cleared her throat nervously. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed her hand.
'Are you really a friend of mine?' he hissed.
His grasp was painful but she didn't want to break it. 'I like to think so,' she said. 'Why are you behaving like this? If it's a joke it's in poor taste, Tom. I've been really worried about you. So has everyone at the office.'
'Aha.' He relaxed his grip. 'So you work for me, then?'
'I'm your Deputy Executive Officer, for God's sake. Why are you asking me these things?'
'Just one more question. This is important, believe me. Are we, or have we ever been, er, lovers?'
'For crying out loud!' she shouted and smacked him round the face with her free hand. Then she froze, shocked at what she had done.
He didn't move a muscle but his cheek began to pulse scarlet as he said, 'That doesn't exactly answer my question.'
'No, damn you,' said Petra. 'We haven't, we d
on't and we never will. I'm sorry I hit you.'
'Oh, that's OK.' He leaned back on his pillows and grinned at her. 'It's just that I've lost my memory. Well, my recent memory. I don't even know your first name.'
'Petra.'
'Ah.' A thought stirred in his head but he remained silent.
'Look, Tom, we've got a lot of business to discuss.'
He shook his head. 'You deal with it. Use my name. Just while I get myself together.'
'Really?'
'I mean it. I'm going to trust you. But there's one thing I want you to do. Ring whoever runs Black Raven and tell them to talk to Marianne Matthews about their new arts programme.'
Petra grinned. 'So you haven't forgotten everything?'
'Marianne came to see me. She reminded me of a few things.'
'Like your forthcoming wedding?'
He didn't reply. Instead he closed his eyes and his chin settled on his chest.
'There's one more thing, Tom. I'd rather leave it but I've got no choice. The Primrose Court is investigating you for sex crimes. I think you need some advice.'
He laughed. 'It's too late.'
'What?'
'Two witches from something called the TCU were here just before you. To be honest, Petra, I feel like I've suddenly woken up in a world gone mad. I can't remember anything that's happened in the last twenty years. The best thing you can do for me is to tell me what The Primrose Court does and why there are stormtroopers marching around in PVC pants calling themselves the Sex Police.'
'OK.'
'And when you've done that, Petra Rosewater, you can explain how come Inspector Claire Quartermain says your vagina tastes like spun sugar.'
Her jaw dropped.
He grinned. 'That's what she said. I mean, how would I know? Not that I doubt it for a moment.'
She didn't hit him again. But she wanted to.
Chapter 11
Tom surreptitiously slipped the tie from his neck and slid it into his jacket pocket. A club jam-packed with expectorating punk rockers clad in leather and safety pins was not the venue in which to sport a necktie. Nor was it the place to wear a blue blazer with a college crest, rumpled grey cords and Hush Puppies. Not for the first time in the uncomfortable half-hour since he had arrived Tom wondered why he had come.