Lust on the Loose (22 page)

'Yes!' she
cried and sank her pelvis down, slotting her delicious hole over
his shaft. 'Give it to me, Billy, stuff it right up my cunt!'

And, despite
his tired limbs and wounded pride, that's exactly what Billy
did.

It's
well-known that beds on boats are not large. Whoever builds
medium-sized cabin cruisers does not put a high priority on
providing maximum bonking space. Nevertheless there is no
accounting for human ingenuity when the blood is up. Hence Patsy,
Danny and Pandora now reclined in a mass of sweaty, sticky limbs on
two small mattresses pushed together on the floor of the state
room.

Patsy had been
as good as her word. She had not allowed Pandy first use of Danny's
next stiffy. Indeed she had quite shamelessly thrown herself on her
back and lifted her knees to her chest, presenting the pair of them
with the sight of her gaping honeypot, and commanded Danny to ram
his dick home. What loving husband could fail to obey such an
injunction? Pandora had been relegated to the role of interested
bystander which, in truth, was only proper for a novice in the
realms of heterosexual fuckery.

'Christ,' she
had said as she knelt on hands and knees to observe up close the
pistoning of Danny's slick and angry rod as it drove in and out of
Patsy's hungry quim. 'It's so beautiful. What power! What energy!'
And she had tentatively reached out a hand to touch the hairy
jumping bollocks in front of her. From there the hand had crept
upwards to tickle the base of Danny's throbbing cock at the point
where it drove between the frilled lips of Patsy's pretty
pussy.

Soon Pandora
had both hands running over their most sensitive parts, hunting
between their bodies, dipping into the dark hairy crack between
Danny's muscular arse cheeks, and fondling his balls. Then, as
their huffing puffing climax approached, Pandy's curious fingers
delved into the top of Patsy's notch to rub the tiny nub of her
clit and she threshed in orgasm like a landed fish.

Afterwards, in
the balmy glow of gratitude, Patsy had settled herself between
Pandora's spread thighs and wriggled her wicked little tongue in
and out of Pandy's slit. Then she had sucked on the long fleshy
vaginal lips, pushing two fingers deep inside Pandy's twitching
hole while she licked and nibbled Pandy's clit to a spectacular
climax.

This activity
had, quite naturally, stimulated Danny's own interest and the moans
of Pandy's orgasm had no sooner faded than he was inserting the
head of his big tool into her well-oiled orifice, sliding it home
with a grunt. This being Pandy's first proper fuck, in that this
time she knew she had a cock up her, Patsy had intended to stay out
of the action. But the sight of Danny's animal thrusting between
Pandy's long and slender legs had enflamed her. In her newfound
spirit of sexual adventure she had straddled Pandy's neck, her arse
in Danny's face, and poked her still-hungry pussy back onto his
mouth.

The three of
them were joined together like that for an age, licking and probing
and thrusting. Danny had his cock in the hot tight channel of
Pandy's almost-virgin cunt, his face in the cleft between Patsy's
pert twitching buttocks and his hands everywhere - full of breast
and thigh and juicy quim. He was in heaven. If the entire
Metropolitan Police Force had come aboard at that moment he could
not for the life of him have stopped what he was doing.

Now, as he lay
between two naked and well-fucked women, he reflected on his
current situation. And burst out laughing.

'What's
funny?' asked Patsy.

'It just
occurred to me. I've achieved what I set out to do.'

'What's
that?'

'Shaft the wife
and
the tabloid press,' he said, running a
proprietorial hand over Patsy's pert right buttock and lightly
smacking Pandora's smooth left one. 'Now you,' he said to Patsy,
'are coming back to me. Sell the house. Come out to
Spain.'

'Are you two
getting back together?' said Pandy, scenting a scoop.

'I don't
know,' said Patsy. 'It's for me to say. I've got other things on.
There's our book.'

'What book?'
said Danny, instantly suspicious.

'I'm doing a
book with Pandy. About my life living with a gangster.'

'What!'

'Don't get alarmed, Danny,' said Pandora. 'You should come in
with us. Why don't the pair of you tell me your story? We could
keep all the stuff about a woman coming to terms with the world of
violence and racketeering. And we could tell Danny's side of it,
about how he had to turn to crime to express himself and how he was
exploited by society. You
were
exploited by society weren't you,
Danny?'

Patsy laughed.
'Yeah. And we could get Billy Dazzle along to take some sexy photos
to spice it up a bit.'

Danny's mind
was racing; he wasn't all that enamoured at the turn this
conversation was taking. 'Who the fuck is Billy Dazzle?'

'He's a
private dick. He took those photos of your skinny-dipping party in
Kent.'

'That's the
bastard who screwed me up right and proper! He was working with the
Old Bill.'

'No, he
wasn't. He was working for me,' protested Patsy, but Danny wasn't
listening.

'He signalled
to them. He jumped out of a tree and they went for us. I had to
leave the country because of him.'

'It was an
accident. He didn't know the police were there.'

'That's only
what he said,' interrupted Pandy. 'I know about this man. He's not
to be trusted. He seduced a friend of mine. He hid beneath her bed
and listened in on an intimate conversation.'

Patsy giggled.
'That does sound like Billy. But he's harmless, Danny, really.'

'No, he's
not,' said Pandy forcefully, 'he's a cheap stud with the morals of
a sewer rat and I don't see why you are standing up for him, Patsy
Fretwork.'

Suddenly Danny
sat up. His face was grim. He leaned over to Patsy and gripped her
jaw in his huge hand, forcing her to look directly into his cold
blue eyes. 'Tell me one thing, Patsy.'

Patsy glared
back at him, unable to break from his grip.

'Has he fucked
you?'

She did not
reply.

'Well - has
he?'

The silence
stretched on. And on.

Four - License to
Lust

Brick Tempo
was not exactly as Billy had expected. He bore no obvious
resemblance to the rock star whose ever-changing image had been a
fixture in the cultural firmament throughout three decades. Long
gone was the sixties' Afro and droopy moustache, the seventies'
ponytail and Old Father Time face fuzz, even the eighties' bouffant
and designer stubble. The slouching man who stared blankly at him
from the cushioned comfort of the armchair in Imogen's office wore
a grey suit and scuffed brown shoes. His short-back-and-sides was
stubbled with silver and a battered holdall lay across his lap. He
could have been a bank clerk or a ticket inspector except, Billy
reflected, not even public servants looked quite so terminally
depressed.

Imogen was
making the introductions, explaining that Billy was to take care of
Brick's every little need while he was in London, expressing her
own great confidence in Billy's competence. Billy noticed that she
was enunciating her words clearly with the volume turned higher
than usual. He flashed Brick his warmest smile of welcome, added
his own good wishes to the end of Imogen's speech and pressed
Brick's hand firmly.

It was like
gripping lettuce, nevertheless Billy was in awe. This man had been
famous throughout all of Billy's life. He had had million-selling
records when Billy was in the womb. He had faced death and disaster
many times yet he had survived. He had Been There. He was a walking
soundtrack to millions of lives. He opened his mouth and the chills
ran down Billy's spine.

'I feel like
shit,' he said. 'Would you run me a bath?'

The Living
Legend had so far not turned out to be a live wire. That first
afternoon, Billy had settled him into the apartment, unpacked his
bags and run him a bath. Brick had then requested dry toast and
milkless tea, disappeared into his room and remained there till
eleven the next morning. Billy had watched television till the
small hours, alert to any movement from next door - there was none
- till he had finally flopped onto the bed in the spare room.

He decided the
next day, as he served more tea and toast to his silent guest, that
this was like being a manservant to a Trappist monk. His brain
buzzed with questions that he didn't quite have the nerve to ask.
What had it been like to play with Bob Dylan in Greenwich Village
in 1962? Had Brick really got his leg over all of the Dancing
Pretties onstage during his Get It Up tour? How had he managed to
crawl down Woodsmoke Mountain after the plane crash which wiped out
all the other members of the band? Most of all he wanted to ask for
an autograph for his mum but he didn't dare.

'So, Brick,'
he said as the rock star pushed his half-empty cup to one side of
the table, 'what kind of a day do you want? The office has been
fielding a string of requests for interviews from all the media. It
would be good publicity for the Gala. Or would you rather hit the
shops? We've got some musicians standing by, too, in case you want
to run through any of your stuff before the performance. Just say
the word.'

Brick did not
say any word at all. Billy wondered if he had heard him.
Remembering the way Imogen had spoken to him he said loudly, 'It's
up to you.'

Brick slowly
turned his head in Billy's direction. His eyes were empty
slits.

'Imogen has
asked me to look after you, Brick. Surely, there's something I can
do.'

There was a
long pause. Was the man deaf? Had thirty years of the electronic
guitar damaged his circuits?

Brick slowly
raised a hand and pointed to the sliding window that lead out onto
the sunny balcony. He finally spoke.

'There's
something you can do.'

'Yes?'

'Fix me up a
chair out there.'

'Sure thing.
Anything else?'

'Yeah. Get
lost.'

Billy was
thoroughly pissed off. Playing Jeeves to a rude relic from the
so-called Swinging Sixties was not his chosen role in life. He was
contemplating telling Imogen where to stick her job - and he knew
just where - when the doorbell rang.

It was Tracy,
her blonde ringlets cascading around the dewy fresh beauty of her
heart-shaped face down to the shoulders of her smart powder-blue
linen suit. She strutted straight past him on her three-inch heels
positively bristling smart summery sex appeal. 'Where is he?' she
demanded, tossing her artfully distressed leather attaché case onto
the sofa.

'You're
looking smart,' said Billy, struck by her change of style. 'What's
with the fancy luggage?'

'I've brought
my music. In case he wants to rehearse. So, isn't he here?'

Billy pointed
to the balcony where the great man's cowboy boots could be seen
resting on a cane chair. Tracy was through the french window in a
trice.

'Hey - Brick
Tempo!' she cried. 'We meet at last!' Billy didn't hear a response
but it may have been drowned in Tracy's onward gush.

This was
incredible! effused Britain's Bustiest Beauty. She'd been brought
up on the music of the great Brick Tempo and now here she was on
the same bill as him, about to share a stage in honour of a Worthy
Cause. To think that she, Tracy Pert from the East End, a
singer/songwriter in her own little way with a record at number
thirty-seven this week, funnily enough, should be teaming up with
him was measure enough of how far she had come. Etcetera.

Billy still
couldn't gauge the Tempo response. There was no sound of a male
voice amidst the piercing tinkle of Tracy's chatter.

She had now
moved onto the weather, the summer heat that was making silly old
her so uncomfortable since she had foolishly put on a suit that
morning. She had thought that just wearing the top would be cool
enough but it really was scorching and, well, she just had to slip
it off and let some air on her bare skin. Oh wow! That was better.
It was so great to feel the heat on her body. Maybe she'd better
slip out of her skirt, too. He didn't mind, did he? It was a bit of
a cheek but he must have seen it all before. Back in the sixties
they were half-naked all the time, weren't they? They were free
then, they let it all hang out. She'd always envied that. She
wished she'd been there in the sixties, was it as great as they
said? Grooving in the raw to all that great music and letting their
minds and bodies come together like in that John Lennon song...

'Billy.'

The deep rich
male voice shook Billy out of a half-stupefied reverie as he
watched the almost-naked Tracy, wearing just the briefest of pink
cotton briefs, sway along the balcony, evidently heading for the
rock singer.

'Billy!'

Brick's voice
rang out again, clear and imperious, and Billy stumbled out into
the sunlight, a part of his mind thrilling to the knowledge that
the singer had remembered his name.

'Yes,
Brick?'

He was
reclining across two chairs, a big white Stetson in his hand.

'You still
want to do something for me?'

'Of
course.'

'Get Little
Miss Big Tits out of here.'

A strangled
squeak came from Tracy's lips and her adorable body shook in pain
and fury as Brick clapped the hat on his face shutting her from his
sight.