LUST AT LARGE
by
NOEL AMOS
Lust at Large first published in 1994 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Avid eBooks.
Smashwords Edition
New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.
Cover image by Barbara Jensen
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Noel Amos. The right of Noel Amos to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The girl is wearing white shorts. They cling to the swollen curves of her buttocks like a second skin. The boy can't keep his eyes off them as he walks behind her, struggling to keep pace as her long brown legs bound up the hill. He longs to stop and catch his breath but the cotton-clad rounds of her sumptuous behind draw him on.
At the top she points to the village far below. The buildings are tiny, made insignificant by the vast carpet of meadow and moorland beyond. On the other side of the valley, distant peaks beckon against an ocean of cloudless summer sky.
The girl leads him down to a spring which bubbles from the rock. The water is clear and pure and she splashes it over her face and neck. It runs into the turquoise fabric of her T-shirt, turning the blue to black, moulding to the contours of her heavy breasts.
The boy drinks his fill, guzzling from cupped hands. He strips off his shirt and exposes his body to the sun. The girl gives him a curious look as she considers his lean pale frame. He catches her glance and grins. They have known one another for less than a day.
She wants to sunbathe and asks if he minds. She doesn't wait for his answer before pulling her top over her head and dropping it on the grass. He stares in wonder at her big bare breasts. They are brown, like the rest of her, and they sway as she moves to sit beside him on the bank.
She smiles when she sees the hunger in his eyes and makes no protest when he kisses her. Her mouth is hot and wet and the soft pressure of her bosom on his chest makes him dizzy. For a moment he is blinded by accomplishment and then he remembers he is a man with a mission. Before he can live again, Gavin Bird must lay a ghost - a ghost of flesh and blood.
He bends to his task and, as the girl's hand finds the belt of his jeans, he takes a raspberry-sweet nipple between his lips...
Chapter 1
The big city was in the grip of a summer heatwave. As they sweated in traffic jams and sweltered on commuter trains, life for the average work-person was hell. It was a special kind of purgatory for the necktied and besuited male as he strap-hung next to his female counterpart on bus or subway train. He was imprisoned in yards of unnecessary cloth, she wore scarcely anything at all.
So began the worst day of Gavin Bird's life. Across the aisle of his carriage sat a curvy blonde, her hair teased upwards only to cascade down in delightful ringlets across her bare, bronzed shoulders. All she appeared to be wearing on her succulent body was a candy-pink vest-top with a scooped-out neck, a black micro-skirt and a tiny pair of white cotton briefs now revealed to the ogling Gavin as the girl crossed her legs. An expanse of shapely thigh was spread out in front of him and he marvelled at the delicate texture of the golden skin. He longed to plunge forward and trace with his tongue the inviting path from the tip of her knee up past the hem of her skirt and into the vee of her thinly pantied crotch.
Gavin wondered whether it was simply Josie's absence that made his sexual hunger so acute. They had been sleeping together for almost a year and he took their regular lovemaking for granted. She had been gone for three weeks now and he felt about ready to explode. Mind you, he couldn't picture Josie Twist doing to him the things he really fancied. The things he wanted the girl opposite to do to him.
He imagined strap-hanging in front of her, his loins on a level with her pretty, heart-shaped face. She'd smile up at him and then unzip his fly to slip her tiny fingers inside and free his aching cock. She'd pull it out, balls and all, and it would swing there right in her face and her mouth would open in a perfect O of wonder before she'd greedily suck it in, as deep as she could, between those pouting lips. He'd look down, through the tousled curtain of her blonde hair, into the cleavage beneath her flimsy top and feast his eyes on the bob and shift of her bulging breasts as she worked on him with mouth and hands, urging him on to a crescendo that would fill her sulky mouth with foaming spunk...
Gavin tore his gaze from the girl's full pink lips. He couldn't allow himself to think about sex. Not yet. Not here. Not at eight thirty in the morning, for God's sake. He turned his head away. In front of him now was a tall teenager, leaning against the window, the sun silhouetting the profile of her large breasts through the thin silk of her blouse. I wonder if she's wearing a bra? thought Gavin, he couldn't help it. The girl shifted her position, sending ripples through her superstructure. Beneath the fragile material it was obvious she wore not a stitch. Gavin closed his eyes.
By mid-morning he was alone in the front of the office, sitting at his work station, waiting for the next patron of the Kent Kindly Building Society. A plastic tag on his lapel read G BIRD, Trainee Manager. Gavin, a first-class English graduate with a half-written thesis on the lyric contemporaries of Keats to his credit, considered this the ultimate insult. Trainee Tea-maker would have been a more accurate description of his role.
Behind the door to his right, the female members of staff sat out the lull before the lunchtime rush. As a rule, Gavin enjoyed their company but today he was happy to mind the store. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was Josie's absence, but today he couldn't bear being closeted with Janice Melting and her pals. Janice knew his weaknesses too well. Earlier she'd sent him to fetch a Coke from the next-door news agent's fridge. She'd deliberately thrust the can into the vee of her blouse and rolled its icy coolness across the plush brown skin bulging over the lacy edge of her bra cups. She'd laughed at him when he'd stared at her with transparent hunger.
'Shame on you, Gavin,' she'd said, 'you're almost a married man.'
He wished now he'd never told Janice that he and Josie were engaged. She was always asking him about the wedding, offering advice and making jokes about the honeymoon. The truth was, he wasn't into this whole wedding-culture bit. He and Josie had simply agreed they would be married some day. It was more of an intellectual commitment, one to make them feel better now Josie had got this job which had landed her in Wales. To be honest, he wasn't sure about marriage. Not when he felt like he did about that blonde on the train this morning. Or even when he considered Janice and her can of Coke...
'Excuse me.' The young woman was standing right in front of his desk. Another gorgeous blonde. The world was full of them. This one was smiling. She held open the flaps of her light summer jacket. 'Hot, isn't it?' she said.
Gavin was thunderstruck. Her yellow halter-neck top was moulded to her body, tightly encasing her extravagant and voluptuous figure. The dark points of her protruding nipples were clearly visible through the thin material.
'I can tell you like my tits,' said the woman in a low, mellifluous voice. 'Would you like to see them properly?'
Without waiting for a response, she pulled the hem of her top to her chin, exposing two large, naked and stunningly proportioned breasts which quivered in front of Gavin like ripe fruit.
Then, in a tone no less intimate, she said, 'While you're looking, put the money in the bag.'
Gavin dimly realised that a plastic carrier bag was on the counter. He ignored it and stared at the wondrous, dangling glories in front of him, at the full curves of their undersides, at the way the flesh dragged ever-so-slightly to the side so the heavy rounds pulled away from the centre of her chest. He was mesmerised by the vivid scarlet of her nipples, standing out proudly from the crinkled haloes of her areolae like exotic berries. He could almost taste them.
'Hurry up, darling,' she said, 'or this will be the last set of jugs you'll ever see.'
Then Gavin became aware that beneath the adorable right breast, clasped firmly in an elegant hand, was a metal object of a distinctly unfriendly nature. Gavin's eyes flicked backwards and forwards, from tits to gun, and back again. This is some surreal movie, he said to himself. And I'm in it!
'Quick, you little twerp. Put the money in the bag!'
And that's what he did. Nearly £4000, that's what they told him later, though the papers said it was ten. When he'd finished filling the bag and had handed it back, she jiggled her fabulous bosom at him with a shake of her shoulders and blew him a kiss. Then she was gone. It had taken less than a minute.
Chapter 2
'Are you a tit man, Monk?'
'I beg your pardon.'
'I mean,' said Superintendent Hatter turning from the window to face the man sitting opposite his desk, 'in the hit parade of feminine attributes, what is your number one?'
Inspector Archibald Monk stared at his superior and said, 'I don't quite follow you, sir.'
'Don't be bloody obtuse, Monk, you know just what I'm getting at.'
'I presume you are referring to this,' said the other, leaning forward and tapping the front page of the Daily Rabbit which lay on top of a pile of newspapers on the Super's desk. In letters an inch-and-a-half high it screamed: BRA-LESS BRENDA STRIKES AGAIN.
For a moment Monk's long lean face cracked into something that might have been a smile. 'I have been keeping an eye on developments,' he said. 'Like the rest of the country, I must confess to being mildly amused.'
Hatter sat down heavily in his chair and stared at him. 'From now on, Monk, I guarantee you won't find it so bloody funny.'
'What's it got to do with me? I'm condemned to exile among the paper-pushers for the rest of my days. You sentenced me yourself. Sir.'
The final word was an undisguised insult. Monk had no time for this fat flanneller, just as he had little regard for any of his senior colleagues. In his eyes, most of them were soft and poisonous, like jelly fish.
In Hatter's view, Monk was an obstinate, pig-headed, Scottish git incapable of rubbing along with his fellow man, who had the inconvenient habit of shining a spotlight on the force's own transgressions. There had been a recent and embarrassing incident. Which was why Monk was currently sidelined on a report about the efficacy of residents' parking schemes in the inner cities.
It was unfortunate that Monk also happened to be Hatter's best thief-catcher: brave, incorruptible and shrewd, a man who lived without the distractions of friends or family and devoted himself day and night to the task in hand. A man with ice-water in his veins. Immune to temptation. Just the man to handle the hottest potato on the books.
'I'm letting you out of jail, Archie,' said Hatter. 'I'm giving you Bra-less Brenda.'
It was not strictly true that Monk was a man without love. His passions were private and ran deep. There had been women. One had even walked up the aisle with him and into his bed for nine wild and wonderful months. But bonny Hannah McFee had left him for a double-glazing manufacturer with a BMW, saying that Monk could wear a hair shirt all his life if he wanted to, she preferred silk and cashmere with a dash of Christian Dior, thank you very much.
There had been friends, too. For a few months after Hannah there had been room-mates called Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels, until Monk decided he had better live without them if he wanted to live at all. After that, apart from the vicissitudes of Partick Thistle, there had only been his cases. He'd gone after the killers, con-merchants and racketeers with all the single-minded devotion of a great lover. And he'd succeeded, his conquests were legendary yet his zeal had left him unappreciated, unsatisfied and unloved.
And now came the case of Bra-less Brenda.
'Look at this,' muttered an ill-tempered Hatter, thrusting that morning's Daily Dog into Monk's hands.
'WHAT A PAIR OF CHARLIES,' he read. 'Two blushing bobbies were yesterday left grasping thin air as bare-breasted robber Belinda the Bosom once more waltzed off with a record cash hand-out from a high-street building society. Her intentions stuck out a mile, claimed witnesses who saw her enter the Grisewood branch of the Norwich Nicely. But still the local boys in blue failed to lay a finger on her. What's up with the nation's finest? You'd think every red-blooded copper on the force would be dying to place this little lady under close arrest!'
'Belinda the Bosom - that's a new one,' said Monk.
'That's what they're calling her today, last week it was Naughty Knockers Nina, next week no doubt we'll have Tina the Topless Tealeaf. The gutter press are loving every minute of this, the whole country is having a laugh at our expense and I'm getting it in the neck from upstairs. All because some silly tart is flashing her tits at spotty erks in building societies.'
'And pointing a gun at their heads and stealing thousands of pounds in the process,' added Monk. 'It's a serious business.'
'Precisely. I knew you would appreciate the true nature of this pernicious affair. I want some fresh thinking on this case, from someone who won't be sidetracked by the daft remarks and smutty innuendos of the press, the public and, I regret to say, his colleagues.' Hatter's large, jowly face spread into a menacing grin. 'She's all yours, Monk. Go and bring her back alive. And with clothes on.'
Chapter 3
The phone rang at an inconvenient moment for Josie Twist. She was in a hurry to change and meet Gwen at The Plastered Prop, but first she was on her way to the kitchen. She was starving.
'Oh, Gavin,' she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, 'I'm in a bit of a rush at the moment, can I—'
But Gavin was in no mood to be fobbed off and Josie's heart sank. A part of her felt disloyal for she did love Gavin, in her own way, but things were changing in her life now that she had this new job.
He was telling her about his day at that bloody building society and she had to fight hard to keep her mind off her empty stomach. He was upset, that was obvious, but what was new about that? Anyone would be upset slogging away at the Kent Kindly, where nothing ever happened - if you discounted the shameless behaviour of that cow, Janice Whatsit. And then she realised what Gavin was saying.
'Good God, Gavin - are you all right?'
He wasn't sure. He was OK physically, he said, but his mind was screwed up.
'It would be,' said Josie, genuinely sympathetic. 'Anyone would be freaked out if they'd been threatened with a gun.'
It wasn't just that, the robber was a woman.
'So what? It doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman if you think they're going to shoot you.'
But there was more to it and as Gavin blathered, unable to come out with the precise circumstances of his humiliation, the truth dawned on Josie. Gavin had been mugged by the Topless Raider. The lads at The Prop had been joking about the Raider for weeks. Only last night they had taken a vote on which girl would make the best titty-robber and Gwen had won because hers were by far the biggest.
Josie didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Whether to ask for all the juicy details or face the horrible fact that her Gavin could have been shot dead. She listened to the whole saga in stunned silence. She was in shock herself, which was why what happened happened - or so she rationalised it later.
She was sitting on the living-room sofa, half out of her work clothes; her white blouse was still buttoned to the neck, but her bottom half was clad in just a pair of black tights. As she listened to Gavin she began to unbutton her blouse, conscious that she was running late. Her hand had just opened the third button down when she heard a sound and looked up to see Ivor, Gwen's boyfriend, standing in the bathroom doorway.
Apart from a large white bath-towel slung carelessly around his hips, Ivor was naked. His dark hair was plastered to his head and beads of moisture glistened on his broad pectoral muscles. His coal-black eyes were fixed on Josie's sprawling legs.
Josie smiled at him nervously and he acknowledged her with a nod of his head. Ivor always made her feel ill at ease. He said little and his gaze was so fierce it seemed to burn into her, stripping away her defences and challenging her in a very basic fashion. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever met.
There was another reason he made her uneasy. A few days after she had moved into the flat she had surprised him and Gwen on the very sofa on which she now sat. She had taken to bed early, had woken up after midnight and gone to investigate the strange noises in the living-room. If she hadn't been half asleep she would have known at once what was going on. Convinced that Gwen was crying out in pain, she had burst into the room and found the pair of them in the crucial stages of a vigorous fuck.
Gwen was lying on her back across the sofa with Ivor kneeling on the floor in front of her. Her bum overhung the seat and her legs rested on Ivor's shoulders as he thrust in and out between her legs. He wore an unbuttoned shirt and she wore black suspenders and stockings and a coffee-coloured camisole that had been pushed up around her neck.
From her position in the doorway, Josie could see the intimate collision of their bodies in every detail. Ivor's cock drove into Gwen like a thick white wand, stretching wide the outer lips of her pink pussy. He had one hand spread across her belly, his fingertips at the top of her slit, probing and nudging her clit. His other hand was out of sight beneath Gwen's bottom. Whatever he was doing to her, it was highly effective, for she was twisting her head from side to side, whipping her long red hair across her large juddering breasts.
Josie had withdrawn swiftly and she and Gwen had laughed about the incident the next morning. But Josie had never discussed it with Ivor and every time she saw him the image of his slim hips and long white cock sprang to her mind.
Now he was smiling at her as he unslung the towel from his waist and began to rub the moisture from his chest. The length of towelling fell down between his thighs, still concealing his groin - though Josie fancied she could see the bulge of his genitals beneath the swaying material. As Gavin continued to drone into her ear, Josie's eyes were glued to Ivor, to the smooth pale skin of his long flanks, to the muscles in his shoulders and to the scooped-out hollows of his buttocks as he turned to one side.
He was teasing her, there was no doubt. The towel flicked backwards and forwards over his crotch and her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed again that pale finger of flesh that so fascinated her. Then he was drying his back, sawing the towel across his shoulders, and his whole body was on view. His penis was erecting, she could see. It pointed downwards from a knot of black hair at the base of his belly but, as she watched, it seemed to swell and jerk upwards. Now it was pointing straight out from his body and she felt as if she, like Gavin earlier, were staring down the barrel of a gun. The pale foreskin had peeled back to reveal a pink and glistening head as the cock swung up to full erection.
Josie's need for food was forgotten. Right now she felt a different kind of hunger.
Gavin was still talking as Ivor walked towards her and stood with his big penis on a level with her face. He folded his arms over his chest and bumped his hips so his cock waved in front of her. She looked up to see him grinning at her without shame. He ran his tongue over his lips in obvious suggestion. Josie couldn't help herself; she reached out and took hold of him.
His prick felt hot in her hand. It seemed to pulse with life and urgency. She ran her fingers up and down its length, tentatively at first, then boldly, rolling the foreskin right back to reveal the broad head, now reddening under her touch.
'I'm going to have to go now, Gavin,' she said firmly, tipping her hand between Ivor's legs to cup his furry balls. 'I've got lots of things to do.'
But she couldn't get rid of him that easily, there was a ritual to their conversations and she had to indulge it.
'Darling, I miss you, too,' she said, adding - as she knew me must - 'and your cock.'
That set him off. She knew he looked forward to talking dirty to her on the phone and up till now she'd felt rather prim about it. But at this moment, with Ivor's throbbing erection in her hand, it was undeniably exciting.
He was telling her how badly he wanted to ravish her - to throw her on a bed and rip her panties off her arse and thrust his bursting prick deep inside her until she screamed for mercy and then screamed for more!
'Oh yes!' Josie cried as Ivor's hand suddenly dived between her legs and began to probe her sodden cunt through her tights.
Gavin was expanding on his theme, describing his urge to spunk all over her body, in particular to thrust his cock between her breasts.
Ivor's busy hand had now found a tiny hole in the seam of her underwear and, in one fierce movement, he ripped away the material covering her crotch.
'Oh God!' wailed Josie as a thick finger was thrust inside her.
Gavin was still on about her satin-smooth breasts and how he longed to wrap their bulging contours around his aching member. Josie knew he was jerking off as he talked and she was feeling so hot herself the idea thrilled her.
By now, Ivor had three fingers inside her and his thumb was rubbing her stiff little clit. She humped her bottom up off the sofa to meet his thrusts. Her juices were running down the inside of her thighs and somewhere in her head she realised she'd leave stains on the cushions - but then there must be plenty of those on the sofa already.
She reached forward and did what she had been dying to do all along - suck that beautiful dick into her mouth as far as it would go. God, it tasted wonderful! Salty but clean, a rich man-taste. She gobbled deeply then slid her mouth backwards and forwards, pumping with her hand on his shaft, rubbing the fat head on the roof of her mouth.
Gavin was getting close, she could hear it in the breathy tones of his voice and the way he kept repeating himself, saying the words 'big wobbling tits' over and over and—
Her mouth was suddenly flooded as Ivor's prick jumped and pulsed in her hand and shot a thick wad of semen down her throat. God, this is obscene, said Josie to herself, but it's fantastic! And then she came too, wriggling in ecstasy on Ivor's fingers.
'Goodbye, Gavin,' she said, her throat thick with spunk, and replaced the receiver.
'Well, well,' said Ivor, 'what a randy little piece you turned out to be.'
But she wasn't listening. It had only just dawned on her - Gavin wasn't drooling over her tits at all. It was that horrible Topless Raider!
Chapter 4
Twenty-four hours after their first meeting Monk returned to the Superintendent's office. For once, Hatter greeted him with enthusiasm.
'How are you getting on, Archie? Any leads?'
Monk avoided a direct response.
'I've been studying the incidents, looking for the common denominators in the crimes.'
'I would have thought they were pretty obvious.'
'Indeed. Our perpetrator pitches up in a small branch of a building society, one which hasn't got the most sophisticated security. She waits till the place is empty and targets a young male cashier. Then she flashes her charlies, whips out her shooter and tells him to put the cash in a plastic carrier bag. She's softly spoken, very sexy, and gives the boy a real eyeful. She's out of the place in seconds.'
'It's a joke.'
'It's got a point to it. The breast-baring is obviously a distraction, designed to shock and to keep attention away from more easily identifiable portions of her anatomy, such as her face. So far it seems to have worked. Witnesses are sketchy on facial description. She's been clever in selecting young men who are completely overwhelmed by her behaviour and their statements only describe one thing. Two things, actually. As for the women who have seen her, their observations indicate that this lady has a variety of disguises. She must have an array of wigs, contact lenses, spectacles, fingernails and so on. And, of course, she's ringing the changes with her clothes and make-up. Given the resources at her disposal she's capable of looking entirely different from one day to the next.'
Hatter, whose initial optimism at Monk's appearance was draining away fast, ruminated on this information. 'Sounds just like my daughter. Or my wife. Or any bloody woman I know if they put their mind to it.'
At that moment the telephone rang. Hatter answered it without enthusiasm, his bejowled face a picture of dejection. Within seconds all had changed. As he listened, his eyes lit up and the dewlaps wobbled with joy.
'They've got her!' he cried, thumping the phone back into its rest and leaping to his feet. 'They caught her in the Bristol Bountiful with her blouse open and an imitation pistol in her handbag. She's downstairs now.'
'The Bristol Bountiful,' said Monk as he followed Hatter out of the door en route to the stairs, 'the papers will love that.'
Euphoria was short-lived. Monk knew at once that the suspect was not his girl.
When they arrived she was being attended by four policemen. Others milled around in the corridor trying to get a peak inside the interview room.
'Hi, guys,' she said as Hatter and Monk squeezed inside. 'Just how many of you are needed to take care of one little girl?'
She spoke in a high-pitched voice that, to Monk's ears, said 'low-class tart' and he fixed her with his Mad Monk stare. It was his speciality.
The suspect blew him a kiss. 'Oooh, that one's sexy,' she squealed, adding, 'You'd better not leave me alone with him!' as Hatter ordered the other officers from the room.
'It's not her,' said Monk.
'What do you mean?' shrieked the woman. 'I'm Brenda, Brenda the Bra-less Robber. It's a fair cop, you rotten bastard!'
Hatter ignored her and spoke directly to Monk.
'What are you on about?'
'Don't you see? She may be a thief but she's not the one we're looking for. This is copycat crime.'
'You swine!' shouted the object of their conjecture, her bracelets rattling with rage as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. 'Here's your bloody proof!'
With these words she yanked open her shirt and displayed herself from neck to navel, intruding into the conversation two pink and shiny rounds of flesh which sat high and immobile on the broad expanse of her chest.
For a moment there was silence.
'Well,' she cried in triumph, 'what do you think of those?'
'I think,' said Hatter to Monk, 'that you are dead right.
Let's get out of here and nick the real Naughty Nora.'
Upstairs in Hatter's office, the Superintendent was philosophical. 'I suppose it was too good to be true, her turning up like that out of the blue. You knew at once, didn't you?'
'So would you have done if she had arrived five minutes later. I was about to discuss the video evidence and the one aspect of Brenda's appearance that she can't disguise.'
'The breasts themselves?'
'When you study the pictures from the fixed cameras you can see at once how Tiny Tits downstairs could never pass herself off as the real thing. Quite apart from the fact that she's really Dickless Dora straight off the boat from Casablanca.'
'A sex change, you mean?'
'Exactly. Didn't you notice the shoulders and the hands? She probably used to work on building sites. Of course, the real giveaway was the silicone job - those knockers wouldn't have shifted a millimetre if you'd asked her to stand on her head.'
'Oh hell,' said Hatter.
But Monk did not hear him. He was spreading a pile of black-and-white photographs across the surface of the desk.
'Now, look at these. This is the real thing. It's the photo sequence from last week's raid at the Gloucester Generous. Here's our girl in one of those halter-neck jobs. It's very handy for her purposes, it means she can yank the material up with her left hand and go for the gun with her right, all in the same movement. See, here and here. She gets in close for the hit, makes it very intimate between the cashier and her body. Gets all her guns to bear on him, as it were.'
'What does she say to them?'
'"Do what I say or this is the last pair of tits you'll ever see." She said to one of them, "Take a good look, lover, I want you to die with a smile on your face."'
'Nice,' muttered Hatter.
'That's what they say afterwards. All the tellers agree that hers are a Grade-A, number-one, first-class set of bazookas, and they share a sense of privilege at being invited to ogle them. There is concern that some of them may be traumatised for a while as a result of this experience.'
'Huh, it doesn't take long for them to cough up the cash.'
'If you ask me, it's the psychology of the carrot and the stick. And the fact that most British males under the age of thirty are mother-fixated.'
'You mean, they are all big babies and the sight of an overblown pair of breasts makes them compliant?' Hatter obviously did not consider this much of an excuse.
'It's a line of thinking that sells a lot of newspapers.'
'Don't mention them. We'll never keep the lid on that fiasco downstairs.'
'Maybe not but I have an idea that the papers could be of use to us.'
Hatter narrowed his piggy eyes and shot Monk a look loaded with suspicion.
'I'll need your permission,' continued Monk, 'but here is what I intend to do.'
Hatter listened intently and as he did so his fat face settled into a mask of gloom.
Chapter 5
Robyn Chestnut burst out of the editor's office in a rage. Her colleagues in the newsroom of the Daily Rabbit smirked to themselves as she stamped back to her desk. The American girl lost her cool on a daily basis and it was usually very entertaining.
'What's today's drama, sweetie?' asked the diary editor.
'Fuck off, Crispin.' Robyn had upended her handbag on her desk and was pawing through her things, an unlit cigarette dangling from her wide curvy mouth. 'Just tell me what it is with you Brits and tits.'
Crispin produced a light and Robyn took a deep drag. 'I mean,' she said, 'I took this job on the basis that I would deal with proper women's issues. I know it's a tabloid paper but that means you can be more direct, show the human face, go straight for the guts.'
Crispin cut her short; he'd heard all this before. 'Let me guess, he's put you on Brenda.'
'Of course he's put me on Brenda. There isn't another story on this entire paper. It's twenty-eight pages everyday about a woman and her tits! It's un-fucking-believable.'
'Don't knock the breast, darling. It's our entire editorial philosophy. It's politically balanced, too. You see, there's a left one and a right one.'
'Oh shut up!' But Robyn grinned all the same. She couldn't stay pissed for too long.
Her phone rang.
'Robyn Chestnut,' she announced sharply. Then, as she listened, her look of impatience disappeared. She put the phone down a few moments later and began to gather up her belongings. Crispin raised his eyebrows.
'I just got a break,' she explained. 'An inside line on Brenda that might even please the Big Bastard - if I can bear to talk to him after what he said to me.'
'What was that?'
'He told me that just because I wore an A-cup I shouldn't be jealous because this Brenda woman took a double D. He said a true professional would not let her own physical deficiencies get in the way of a good story.'
And, with that, she uncoiled her slim six-foot frame from her chair and strode angrily out of the office.
In fact, Robyn did not despise her editor or even the story she was forced to work on. She could think of one or two angles on this topless-robber thing well worth exploring. But she did seem to be operating on a very short fuse these days and she knew the reason why. It was sex - she wasn't getting enough of it. Though it wasn't for want of trying.
The night before, she'd turned up at Alistair's unannounced. It was outside their arrangement but, where her hungry pussy was concerned, why make an appointment? He'd not been at home, Wednesday being one of his TV nights, so she'd waited for him to return from the studio. She'd dressed up for him or, rather, dressed down in his favourite costume of white blouse, short pleated grey skirt, blue serge knickers and white ankle socks. She'd put her long black hair in bunches, painted freckles across the bridge of her nose and placed the riding crop on top of the television set. While she waited for him to arrive, she watched his programme.
Alistair Needle's professional life had changed radically in the two years Robyn had known him. They had met as staffers on a dull sociological monthly, The Pill, for which Alistair had covered financial and home affairs. He'd worn rumpled corduroy suits and Hush Puppies, played rugby for the Old Boys on Saturdays and slept alone, still brooding over a long-dead, childless marriage. Robyn had changed all that - once she'd discovered a way through his defences.
The Needle was much sought after by the females on the magazine but none of them had the chutzpah that Robyn did. A few hours of beery conversation at the pub near the office revealed that Alistair had the hots for the Princess Royal, loved traditional English country pursuits and every year took his two nieces to schoolgirl hockey internationals. Before pouncing, Robyn had tested her theory. She'd worn jodhpurs and riding boots to the office once and had seen his eyes light up. She'd inveigled him into a walk past the local girls' school playground during a netball match and gauged his interest. After that it was easy.
The costume she wore tonight was the one that she had revealed to him an evening almost two years ago. The sight of her long long legs and tight bottom then had him glassy-eyed. She'd brazenly eased his big tool out of his corduroys in the hall of her flat and after that there had been no stopping him. They'd called in sick to the office for the next two days and had humped their way all round her small apartment. And, though she had paid a heavy price in carpet burns and minor bruises, she had never regretted it. As they'd said at The Pill, she'd got The Needle, all right.
Within weeks the corduroys had hit the dustbin along with the rugby boots and she'd turned the threesome at England v Scotland into a foursome - which was a deadly way to spend an afternoon but a blissful way to pass the following night. Just at the point when she had sharpened up The Needle's wardrobe to include some smart designer suits and had shown him the way to the local dry-cleaners, he had landed a reporter's job on a heavyweight TV news programme. He'd been an instant success. His laid-back public-school arrogance had pricked a few politicians' bubbles and suddenly he was a name, with a late-night show of his own.
Sometimes Robyn regretted it. If she'd left him in his stained corduroys she might have been able to keep him all to herself. But these days she was not sure if that was what she really wanted. As she waited for him to return she kept glancing at the whip she had placed on top of the television. Knowing that she was going to get her bum whacked gave her a thrill, there was no doubt, but only because she would enjoy a hard penis between her legs afterwards.
She fell asleep before Alistair returned home. He found her curled up on the floor, her small round posterior thrust cheekily towards him. He smacked it.
'Hey,' shouted Robyn, instantly awake, 'that's not fair!'
'Naughty little girls who turn up unannounced deserve everything they get,' he drawled, picking her up and draping her over an armchair.
'What about "Hello, darling, what a marvellous surprise"?' she protested as he peeled her knickers down her long thighs.
'How's this for surprise?' he replied and thrust his cock without ceremony into her spread pussy.
'Christ, Needle, you're some romantic. Aren't you even going to whip me first?'
'Later,' he said, lunging into her at full bore, stuffing his bony tool with brute force deep into her juicy hole. 'Then I'll fuck you all over again, just the way you hackettes on the Bunny like it.'
But he hadn't, he'd fallen asleep on top of her and in the morning they'd had a row about her turning up when she wasn't supposed to. Now, as Robyn peered through the gloom of The Frog in a Bucket looking for her mystery caller, she reflected that there had to be an easier way for a girl to get her rocks off.
Chapter 6
Josie cupped her left breast and weighed it in her hand. It wasn't big but she could hardly be called flat-chested. It was average, pretty much like the rest of her, she reflected. Average face, average height, average tits. Lots of boys had said that she was ravishingly pretty but that was because they wanted to stick their cocks in her average pussy. Most of them were pretty average themselves. Except for Gavin. And Ivor.
She began to squeeze her nipple as she thought of Ivor, teasing it out into a perky pink stub. Most of her life had been average. Swotting at school and university to keep up. Working overtime at this research job in this boring bit of Wales.
Except that what had happened the other night with Ivor had not been average. That had been brilliant. It shone like a diamond next to all the other dull episodes in the chain of her limited sexual experience. Even her times with Gavin weren't thrilling in the same way. With Gavin there was always a hidden agenda, a burden of emotional need that detracted from the sheer pleasure of sex.
Whereas, on the sofa with Ivor, there had just been the feel of his cock in her mouth, the squirt of his juices down her throat and the tingle of his fingers in her pussy. And after she'd put the phone down he'd done just what she'd wanted him to - fucked her like he'd fucked Gwen that night. With her arse half off the seat and her legs around his waist, he'd shagged her long and hard. He'd pulled open her blouse, pushed her bra up over her breasts and had gone wordlessly to work between her thighs.
Just as he had with Gwen, he'd placed a hand on her belly and toyed with her clit, while the other roved beneath her, over her pliant buttocks and into the crack between. When he'd pushed a finger firmly into her anus she'd come off with a scream. His dark eyes had bored into her, drinking in every detail of her soft slim body as she writhed in ecstasy beneath him. It had been delicious.
Her hand was in her knickers now as she thought about it. Her pussy was dripping with excitement, just as it had been for days. Oh God, she thought, I'm going to have to wank again.
'Hey, Josie,' said Gwen, sailing into the small bedroom without bothering to knock and then freezing as she took in the half-naked girl lying on the bed. 'Oops, I'm sorry, were you asleep?'
'It's OK.'
'I've brought you a drink to buck you up. Is red wine all right?'
'Who says I need bucking up?' said Josie, taking the glass nevertheless.
'With your boyfriend far away hallucinating about big-titted blondes, of course you do. Cheers.'
Josie had told Gwen about Gavin's babbling phone call and his fixation with the busty raider. She had omitted her own activities during the course of the call.
'If you ask me,' said Gwen, 'you need a man closer to home to keep your morale up.'
Josie gulped her drink and said nothing. Gwen had turned into a good friend but she may not remain one if she found out about Ivor.
'Why don't we go down to the rugby club? I fancy a little action myself.'
'What about Ivor?'
'He may be my home fixture but who says I can't play away from time to time?'
'Gwen, that's shocking. Do you really?'
'Every chance I get. So what about it some night?'
'I don't know. Anyway, it's the off season, isn't it?'
'Not for the kind of game I'm talking about.' She laughed and drained her glass.
Josie followed suit and said, 'Can I ask you a personal question?'
'Anything, darling.'
'Do you think my boobs are big enough for titty-bonking?'
'What?'
'Don't look so surprised, I really want to know. If Gavin's getting so worked up about doing it over that woman's chest I suppose I ought to make myself available. But mine don't seem substantial enough. Look.' And she squeezed them together with her hands.
Gwen sat next to her on the bed and peered closely at her friend's delicate rosy bosom.
'I see what you mean. You're wondering whether there's enough flesh to go round. A prick might just flatten them out.'
'Yes, what do you think?'
Gwen picked up a tube of moisturiser from the bedside table and pushed it experimentally into the thin line of cleavage. 'Hmm. It sits on top a bit rather than sinking in. And most dicks are a bit bigger than this.'
'Most dicks! You've done a survey, have you?' Josie was beginning to feel a bit hysterical. And tipsy, Gwen had been topping up the glasses with a heavy hand.
'Look at it this way,' said Gwen, 'you might strike lucky and find a guy with a tiny cock. You'd be made for each other.'
She shook with laughter and peeled off her T-shirt. Her large tanned breasts were supported by a black bra with gauzy patterns that revealed the pale flesh beneath. Her freckled cleavage was deep and enticing. Josie felt woefully inadequate.
'Gosh, Gwen, they're gorgeous.'
'Well, yours are gorgeous, too, and you know it. Any guy with taste would adore to rub his knob all over those pretty little boobs. I just want to demonstrate how things work for us large-scale girls.'
By now she had shrugged off her bra and her great brown knockers were swinging free, their weight pulling them downwards ever so slightly. Taking a big tit in each hand, she said, 'Put that tube in the middle.'
Josie did as she was told and the tube vanished for a moment as Gwen folded her breasts over it. Then it reappeared as Josie, entering into the swing of things, began to push it backwards and forwards in imitation of a rearing penis.
'That's it,' said Gwen. 'It's usually best if you lie back and the guy straddles you. Or you can kneel in front of him. Some oil on the tits helps and you've got to give him a good gobble on the upstroke - they all love that.'
'You are rude, Gwen,' said Josie and pantomimed a dick in orgasm, thrusting the tube up and down in little jerks.
'What's very important is to rub the come all over your titties when he's finished. It helps get the feller going for the next round - which, Josie, I guarantee you'll be dying for.'
'Gwen, I am dying for it this very minute.'
There was a knock at the door.
'You're in luck then, girl. That'll be the boys.'
'What?'
'Stay here and don't panic.'
'Gwen!' But she was gone, her big boobs swinging as she left.
Josie slammed the door shut behind her, her heart pounding. From the hall she heard laughter. Male laughter. And cheers - Gwen had obviously opened the door half naked. Josie didn't know what to do.
The noises and whoops grew muffled; they must have gone into the kitchen or the living-room. Now there was silence. Josie made herself take deep breaths. She began to calm down.
She pulled on a thick sweater and a skirt and sat on the bed, breathing deeply. Five minutes went by. What were they doing? Surely Gwen wasn't so shameless as to start fucking on the living-room floor? Who could say? There must be at least two of them. The thought made her feel funny.
There was a tap at the door. 'Who is it?' said Josie.
Ivor stepped into the room, a look of concern in his big black eyes.
'Are you all right?'
'Go away, Ivor.'
'I thought you liked me.'
'Oh, I do.' It came out rather too quickly. He smiled and sat on the bed beside her.
Josie shrank away from him. 'What about Gwen?'
'She's talking to Terry. Are you hot?'
'No.'
'Well, I am.' And he began to unbutton his shirt.
Josie watched, mesmerised, as he bared his broad chest, then stood and unbuckled his belt. He shucked his jeans and underpants off in one movement and stood in front of her stark-naked. His penis was fully erect.
Josie began to giggle, she couldn't help it. 'Is striptease your only seduction technique?' she asked.
He picked her bodily from the bed and she clung, laughing, to his neck. Her earlier excitement had returned. He was going to fuck her once more and she couldn't wait.
They kissed hungrily, his tongue probing her mouth with a tenderness that surprised her. His hands were under her sweater and palming her breasts, pinching her nipples, then pulling her to him to press her naked flesh against his. She wasn't laughing now.
He pushed her skirt up to her waist and pulled the gusset of her panties to one side. She was sopping wet. He grunted his approval as he tipped her backwards onto the bed and positioned himself over her.
'Oh yes,' she whispered as he pressed the fat head of his tool into her crack, 'put that big thing in me. Shove it right up me. Hurry!'
His eyes were blazing into hers as he thrust home and she pushed her tongue into his mouth and sank her nails into his buttocks as she took the weight of him. She came at once. It was bliss.
He stayed motionless inside her as she calmed down and then began a more relaxed thrusting. She gloried in the feel of his strong hard body on top of hers. She loved the fact that he hardly spoke, he just appeared in her life and fucked her. She'd never had a relationship like it. They said it was what men really wanted from women. She could understand why. It was perfect.
He was doing his clit-tickling, bum-probing trick. It was obviously a speciality of his; he was bloody good at it. She came again, a slow, lingering orgasm this time that left her satisfied for the moment.
'Get off me,' she said. 'I want to do something.'
He obeyed and allowed himself to be positioned as required. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the half-light as she smoothed ointment over her breasts.
Kneeling between his legs, she held his stiff organ between her tits, trying to envelop him in her cleavage. She kept him there by lacing her fingers and pressing her breast flesh inwards with her wrists. Held captive, his wet prick pressed into her bosom, the red knob-end just inches from her lips.
'Go on, Ivor,' she said, 'fuck my tits.'
He needed no urging, plunging his cock into the slippery hole made by her breasts and fingers. The head thrust up and down, getting redder and redder, the eye in the tip seeming to wink at her as he poked.
'Lick it, Josie,' said a voice behind her, 'give it a good suck.'
Gwen was standing in the open doorway and by her side was a boy Josie had seen with Ivor once or twice. Gwen was naked, her big breasts thrusting out proudly, her pubic bush a wild profusion. The boy - Terry - had his hand between her legs with two fingers hidden inside her. He was fully dressed but his flies were open and Gwen was holding his cock in her hand.
For a moment this extraordinary sight had Josie bewitched and she stopped her lewd movements. Then she did as she was told, dipping her head to capture Ivor's member between her lips, flicking at the glans as it thrust up and then retreated.
Suddenly Ivor groaned as if he had been struck and, on the up-stroke, a bolt of semen shot from his tool, inundating Josie's face and neck.
'Good God,' said Terry, 'that's the horniest thing I've ever seen.'
'Fantastic!' said Gwen and placed her free hand over Terry's fingers, pressing them further between her legs.
Josie said nothing but basked in the approval of her squirming flatmate as she began to rub Ivor's come into her tits.
Chapter 7
'So, Ms Chestnut, what do you think?' said Archibald Monk to Robyn in the dingy snug of The Frog in a Bucket.
Between them on the scarred and beer-ringed pub table lay a large brown envelope. Robyn picked it up.
'Are these the pictures? May I look?'
Monk nodded but Robyn had already reached inside and extracted a dozen black-and-white photographs. There was no one near them in the deserted back room but she instinctively held them close to her body, safe from prying eyes.
'Oh wow. These are fantastic!'
'I thought they might appeal to you.' Robyn shot him a sudden look.
'Not you personally, of course, Ms Chestnut, but your readers.'
'Call me Robyn, for Christ's sake. Yeah, these are just the kind of thing our ten million punters love to drool over. What's the catch?'
'There is no catch. We must find this woman and we need help from the general public. By making these photographs available in your newspaper we hope a reader will recognise her and come forward.'
'A nationwide womanhunt led by the Daily Rabbit. We'll be deluged. The post office will need a forklift truck.'
'I can set up one man on a special hot line, that's all we can spare. You'll have to deal with the calls and mail that come to you. Most of it will be worthless but someone must know who she is.'
'You bet,' said Robyn, examining a shot that showed the half-naked robber reaching to grab a plastic bag of money. 'You'd expect a pair like that to stick in the mind. They're unforgettable, wouldn't you say?'
'If you like that sort of thing.'
'Don't you?'
'I wouldn't admit to it while I'm on duty.'
Robyn eyed the tall Scotsman with interest. Did he have a sense of humour? She found it hard to tell.
'Tell me one more thing, Inspector—'
'Archie.'
'Why haven't you given this to the Dog? You did say we had this exclusively?'
'We are going to ask for cooperation from both of you. But the Daily Dog's leader this morning decided us in your favour. They suggested that my superior, Superintendent Charles Hatter, and the men at his command were not motivated to catch Brenda because she was the wrong gender.'
'I don't get it.'
'The headline read ARE THERE FAIRIES IN THE MAD HATTER'S GARDEN? He is very upset.'
Robyn arrived two hours later for dinner. She thought that was pretty good going considering the amount of work she had put in at the office redrafting the next day's edition. The editor had been ecstatic and had completely remade the first half of the paper. He'd chucked out the intended glamour-girl spread on page three, saying that Brenda made her look like a grade-B slag. It was true, the grainy scene-of-the-crime shots from the security videos had a power all of their own. The robber's curvaceous body and flowing limbs made a vivid image on the page. Robyn had to admit it, she was damned sexy.
DO YOU KNOW THIS BODY? shouted the page-one headline next to a cut-out photo of Brenda in profile. 'The Bunny joins forces with the boys in blue to track down the country's most wanted woman. Be a Bunny Boob-Hunter - ring the Brenda Hot Line today!'
It was hardly Woodward and Bernstein, she had to admit, but they were going to sell a hell of a lot of papers. She'd left the office on a high.
She did not intend to share her euphoria with her dinner companions, however. She was a guest of Wanda Sherman, Alistair's producer, and The Needle did not approve of Robyn discussing her work in public. He would have preferred it if Robyn had done almost anything in the world but work for one of the nation's most notorious tabloids. Now, seated beside the empty chair that had evidently been waiting for Robyn all evening, he shot her a look of pure venom before turning his attention once more to an exotic Brazilian beauty on his other side.
The others were not so disapproving, however. They were making inroads into the brandy and were eager to hear of Robyn's exploits. As she attacked her dried-up salmon, they pressed her for details.
'I can't say,' she protested. 'It's a hot story but you'll have to wait till the paper comes out.'
'Come off it,' spat Alistair. 'Who here would dream of picking up the Daily Rabbit?'
'Actually,' said Barry Cresswell, a TV news editor, 'it's an essential tool of my trade.'
Boos and guffaws greeted this remark and Diana Ardent, the novelist, said loudly, 'It's only because you want to look at the naked boobies.'
'And read about Bra-less Brenda,' added Wanda Sherman. 'It's the biggest story around and the tabloids have got it all to themselves. Are you sure she's not on your payroll?'
Robyn laughed and poured herself another glass of wine; she had a lot of catching up to do.
'I wouldn't mind seeing Brenda's boobies,' said Barry, 'just to check out what the fuss is all about.'
'Buy tomorrow's paper,' said Robyn without meaning to.
'What? You've got her in the Bunny?'
'Well, as a matter of fact... none of you work for the Dog, do you?'
'Don't be stupid,' muttered Alistair, his face like thunder.
'So what's she like?' asked a fair-haired man called Nick.
'Fabulous. I hate to say it, but she's a real knockout. We've got pictures from security cameras and we're running an appeal to see if anyone recognises her.'
'No chance,' said Barry. 'There are only three kinds of breast - big, little and saggy - what do you say, ladies?'
'I think,' said a voice which had not so far been heard - Mercedes Birch, the Brazilian - 'that every bosom is individual, like a fingerprint.'
'Really?' said Nick.
'I will prove it,' said Mercedes and got to her feet. She was a tall young woman whose curvaceous figure was encased in a plunging scarlet sheath dress. She turned her back to Alistair and said, 'Pull down the zip, please.'
The Needle hesitated for a moment then did as he was asked. Robyn was certain his hand shook as he did so.