Fortunately there weren't too many stairs, or my Himalaya act may have come unstuck. Thrashing Bambi had been a strenuous process, and having Jay's ass without squashing her and Clara into immobility had put stress on yet another set of muscles. I was still half-hard too – I ration my entries to Jay's rear end and this had been one of the best.
Upstairs the lights were back on and the company had expanded. The Boners, still in costume, stood in a corner casting glances nervously at Botti who was tucking into jerk goat and looking lasciviously at my ex-wife's unfortunate new husband. I could guess what she had in mind for him, if Jay had tipped her off.
"Moah, boys! Moah!"
Miss Loretta Swat, doyenne of weather ladies and purveyor of Books of the Months, would have given her many fans a salutary shock. She lay full length on a beaten-up Victorian sofa, the boobs, which had so recently collapsed suspiciously pushing like minor foothills against a leather bodice.
"Next! Don't keep a Southern lady waitin'!"
An assortment of Texan historians and other spare males formed a masturbatory queue at the head of which (so to speak) la Swat was accepting donations. Her face was already slippery with what looked like a dozen healthy ejaculations. Another landed squarely in her open mouth as I watched. The next figure in line looked familiar from the rear view, but I couldn't quite place him. Then when his hand produced the source of the next contribution his identity was obvious…
"Oh mah gods! That, sir, is thu… never mind mah face, honey, yo'all are the first man I ever did see that could fill mah place of paradise, and that's where yo'all are goin' right now!"
Miss Swat whipped down a pair of rather tasteless rose-trimmed panties and spread her legs. Biggin knelt on the sofa with a bashful but pleased expression on his face. La Swat took hold of his mammoth manhood in both hands and wrapped her legs around him. She tugged and he descended…
"Oh maaaaaaaaaaaaah…!!"
There's nothing like a mutually satisfactory solution to two separate but related problems. This solution looked very mutual. The remainder of the queue dissipated disappointed in the direction of other entertainment.
The toy boys were standing in a corner with their backs to the room. Their trousers were round their ankles revealing well-exercised pale buttocks contrasting with their deep tans.
"There's nae substitute for a regular physical examination, laddies. Nae substitute for a thorough going over by a distinguished alumnus of the respected medical school of Invermuchie…"
Dr. Dunnett's voice disappeared into an incoherent mumble. If I didn't know better I would have said he had his mouth full. I turned my attentions elsewhere. Harry Neptune is tolerant to a fault, but confines distribution of his bounty to the distaff half of the human race. As much of it as possible.
Captain Ahab sat in an armchair with his uniform jacket buttoned to his neck as usual and a schoolgirl on his lap, not as usual. On closer examination she was the oldest schoolgirl this side of St. Trinian's, but no matter. She was whispering something in his ear and he was sliding his hand up her knee length white socks in the direction of her short skirt. Her plump black thighs parted accommodatingly. Ahab's R amp;R looked to be organized.
"More games! More games!"
No need to guess who was the owner of that girlish shriek. Mrs. Goldfinkel was backed up against Inspector Parrott with her bottom rubbing vigorously against his groin. She had a firm grip on his hands and was shoving them up her pink top.
"Ooh, what's that poking into Gigi's botty! You naughty boy!"
Parrott had a bemused expression on his face. I wondered if his libido was up to a Goldfinkel goring.
That seemed to be a full house. In fact overfull for my purposes. I beckoned to a couple of bouncers and issued instructions. In moments we were divested of toy boys, Biggin, Chad, assorted Texans, schoolgirl, Boobsies, and grinning bouncers. The door slammed and there was the sound of the lock being firmly closed. Bouncers and Boobsy's were to stand guard outside.
The company was down to the night of Raoul's demise, plus the Inspector. I cleared my throat.
"I expect you are all wondering…"
"What the hell are you up to, Neptune?"
My beloved had regained her senses and her feet and was glaring round the room.
Miss Swat lay on the sofa with her legs spread and a deprived expression on her face.
Dr. Dunnett knelt in the corner with his mouth open and a deprived expression on his face.
Captain Ahab sat in the armchair with a distortion in his trousers and a deprived expression on his face.
The Boners lurked by the buffet with perpetual deprived expressions on their faces.
The bouncers had separated Gigi and Parrott on principle and parked them on opposite sides of the room. They had deprived expressions on their faces.
Miss Lawrence stared up at me with what would have been a deprived expression if she had not just suffered a surfeit of non-deprivation.
I seemed to have done a pretty good job of depriving. Made a change from depraving.
I cleared my throat again.
"I expect you are all wondering why I have called a halt to the festivities. A temporary halt, I hope and believe. It may have escaped your memories in the flushes of excess, but it has not escaped my memory nor, I have no doubt, that of the redoubtable Inspector Parrott, that we are all under suspicion in the matter of the tragic and regrettable death of young Raoul the chanteur not so many evenings ago. I have been bending my intellect to…"
"Get on with it, Neptune!"
"All right – who done it?"
That got a predictable response. The silent population of the room stared at me.
"Right, let's try again. If no one will own up we'll have to do it the hard way – or the harder way. Grab a seat, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll begin."
The company adjusted its collective clothing. It drew seats up into a semicircle with H. Neptune Esq. as its focal point.
I produced a crumpled envelope from my back pocket and held it aloft.
"With the benefit of my extensive experience of criminal investigation-" Miss Lawrence snorted in a most unbecoming fashion "-I have weighed the evidence, carried out some inspired detection, and documented the inevitable result on the sheet of Caribbean Conch note paper in this here envelope."
All eyes were glued on the envelope including, curiously, those of Inspector Parrott. For a man whose assigned and preeminent role in the investigation was being so comprehensively usurped, the policeman was remarkably silent.
"A choice is before us, shipmates. Confession – or listen to me explain the chain of deductive logic that leads to the long drop. Which is it to be?"
Miss Lawrence shuddered.
"Someone better confess or I'll volunteer them. Where are the thumbscrews?"
"Here," volunteered Boner, holding up a deluxe pair. He had obviously purloined them from the dungeon in the manner of a house guest stealing the silver. However, a thief was not necessarily a murderer – yet.
"There is no call for such crudity. I have a subtler and more foolproof method. Or rather, my unbeloved ex-wife has. Get 'em out, Frippery!"
Frippery opened and closed her mouth in a fish-like fashion.
"Come on. I know you saved them before they rolled overboard. Out with 'em."
I held Frippery's gaze but she didn't move.
"Okey doke. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me…"
I pulled the wax doll out of my shorts pocket. A few strokes of finger nails on the head, a pinching at the waist, and a blobbing at the chest, and Boner's juju doll was transformed to Frippery's juju doll.
A sheen of sweat appeared on Frippery's brow. The rest of the suspects apart from Boner looked puzzled. He appeared to have an expression of sly anticipation on his prune-ish visage.
I cast around for a sharp implement or fire. Neither was to be found, but…
With three rapid strides I was at the buffet and thrust the doll's head into a dish of Judy's Extra Hot Antiguan Sauce. Frippery screamed and ran after me. She grabbed a large bowl of ice cold punch and tipped it over her head. The Hot Sauce bubbled.
"Here are the beathtly things!"
Frippery extracted an oilskin package from the depths of her catsuit and flung it at me. As I caught it I felt it throbbing. I gestured her back to her seat and held up the package triumphantly.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the circle of suspects. I lavished a rare but genuine expression of unbridled admiration upon Harry's triumphant form. I wasn't sure how he'd reached his conclusions but it probably had a lot to do with his passion for cryptic crossword puzzles and Angela Lansbury. Seldom passing up an opportunity to perform in a melodrama, I struck a glamorous bimbo assistant pose, all wide eyes and bright smile. My husband shot me a brief glare, then slowly began to unwrap the package. Two familiar objects emerged from the folds of the oilskin and Mrs. Goldfinkel cried out in dismay.
"Why, those are the fetishes I gave to Harry and Jay as a wedding gift! How could you, Mrs. Boner? Purloining a pair of valuable antiques – not to mention defiling the sanctity of matrimonial bliss!"
Frippery stamped her latex booted foot.
"I didn't purloin anything. They were on the deck outthide the Neptune's cabin. Pothethon is nine tenths of the law."
The Black Widow wagged a plump little forefinger at Harry and me.
"Now, really, my dears! That's no way to treat a nuptial gift! Get a little carried away in the heat of the moment, did we, so they popped out of your porthole?"
Harry frowned.
"You could say that, Mrs. Goldfinkel. Mrs. Neptune and I were remiss enough to leave our porthole ajar and fell foul of a stiff front from the Antilles. Rest assured that no disrespect was intended. Perhaps you would be kind enough to examine the fetishes carefully and ensure that no damage has been done."
Mrs. Goldfinkel shot Harry a rather sharp look then swiftly segued into simpering benefactress mode. She took the two pieces of finely carved and polished wood. There was a faint buzzing sound, not unlike an approaching swarm of honeybees, and her bleached blonde coiffure floated upwards. Miss Larry Swat giggled.
"Y'all need some serious styling gel, Mizz Goldfinkel! Oh my! Ah never did see…"
The Flyswat's amusement was rudely interrupted by a sudden rather violent outburst from Gigi Goldfinkel, who held the fetishes as tightly as a starlet on Oscar night.
"Dontcha Mizz Goldfinkel me, honey. Lily May Scroggins don't take no crapola from no one!"
There was another group intake of breath. Miss Swat gaped. The Black Widow's prim Happachappabunket tones had been replaced by pure Noo Joisy with more than a hint of the Bronx added for extra gritty texture. Knowingly, Harry stepped forwards and addressed the trembling figure in pink. The buzzing sound was intensifying, Mrs. Goldfinkel/Scroggin's hair swiftly unwound from its tightly permed curls and attained vertical status. Harry looked his victim in the eye. The tension was palpable.
"Tell me about Raoul, Lily May. The boy done you wrong – didn't he?"
The Black Widow screeched in a harpy-esque cackle.
"Done me wrong? Done me wrong! The little black-eyed, snake-hipped, two-timing blackmailing son of a bitch. He got what was comin' to him. No more. No less. No one tries to put one over on Lily May Scroggins, whose dear old daddy was One-Eye Olaf of the Greasegun Gang. Little squirt tried to blackmail me when he found out my Family connections, so I shot the fucker."
"Oh no, you didn't!"
There was a chorus of gasps and everyone turned to look at Captain Ahab. He smiled, a little apologetically.
"I'm afraid, dear lady, that you are very much mistaken. You may well have tried to plant a fatal bullet in the young man's chest but the winning shot was fired by none other than yours truly, Captain Herman Melville Ahab. I cannot allow you to take the blame for my action – or, if you'll pardon my immodesty, the credit for a damned good aim. I dispatched the Dago. He was blackmailing me in regard to some complex legal issues concerning my marital status."
"Ach, ah canna hold it in any longer! Ah killed the laddie too."
Everyone turned to stare at Dr. Dunnett, who shrugged and took a fortifying slug from his hip flask. Miss Swat kicked him on the shin but he continued regardless.
"The wee bugger found out that ah was struck off the medical register for malpractice in cosmetic surgery before ah took this job on board the Caribbean Conch. In fact, ah'm no a medical man at all, ah'm a plumber. The toe-rag was also blackmailing mah wee chum Loretta here, on accounts that she used to go by the name of Larry before she had some major reconstruction circa 1983. Alas, mah surgical craft was in its infancy and she willna forgive me. Loretta was counter-blackmailing me to pay off the slimy Latino. We bribed one of the other band members to shoot a wee poison dart in the back of the bugger's neck when he was shaking his maracas. Ah'm no sayin' which one did it. That'll stay a secret 'til the day ah die."
Harry nodded, sagely.
"And, to the put the final twist on the S-bend, my dear doctor plumber, you and Miss Swat tracked down and appropriated Raoul's ill-gotten gains."
"What???!!"
Everyone turned to glare at the doctor, who shrank down into his chair. Miss Swat looked furious. Frippery's thin, sharp voice piped up.
"We're none of us guilt-free. Will wath thticking pinth in a voodoo doll of Raoul. In fact, it wath probably the voodoo that weakened him enough for the bullet wound to prove fatal. Raoul wath blackmailing us too. He dithcovered that I write fem-dom ficthion. Not the done thing for a Puker Prize winner. And he knew that Will likes to dreth up in a frock."
Harry grinned.
"Not the done thing for a pseudo Dominant who's trying to launch a macho pulp fiction career."
Boner's face went red, then quite white with anger but he remained silent. There was a faint sound of grinding dentures.
Harry carefully took the fetishes from a thoroughly frizzed-up Black Widow and gently laid them at his feet.
"So. You all done it. Will and Frip cast a black magic curse. Dunnett and Swat bribed an assassin to shoot a poison dart. Lily May might have had her way, if her little bullet hadn't ricocheted off the bongos and ended up embedded in one leg of the dessert trolley. But the Captain it was that really cracked him. It's always the quiet ones."
Captain Ahab bowed modestly, an enigmatic smile playing about his lips.
Inspector Parrott finally broke his silence, reaching into his shirt pocket for a cell '"phone.
"All we need is Charles Aznavour and we've got a remake of Murder On The Orient Express. They'll never believe this back at headquarters. Never in a million years…"
"Plenty of spare handcuffs down in the basement, Inspector."
I couldn't resist a quip. Inspector Parrott grinned and winked.
"Don't worry, Miss Lawrence. The gang isn't going anywhere. I have had Henryk's surrounded for the last half-hour. Mr. Neptune, I take my hat off to you, but I will confess that I wasn't too far behind the game."
Harry bowed in an egalitarian fashion.
"Elementary, my dear Parrott. Elementary."
I looked at the circle of guilty parties, their faces showing assorted degrees of resignation and/or anger. All was not yet over. I had my own personal retribution to achieve. I whispered my desire in Parrott's ear and watched him smirk briefly then nod in assent. Slowly, meaningfully, I walked over to Boner. My ex lover stared up at me with a mixture of curiosity and acrimony, as I stood before him, hands on hips. I chose my words carefully.
"So, you don't like pussy, eh?"
Will flushed, then began to look really annoyed.
"What are you going on about? This is hardly the time…"
I interrupted him, placing one foot upon his scrawny thigh.
"Oh, but it is, Wilberforce, my dear. There is no time like the present for a little, shall we say, initiation."
I smiled enigmatically as I overheard Harry calling for the Boobsy Twins. To be totally truthful, I really didn't care to do this little job myself, but I would set the ball rolling. As it were. Boner shrank back into his chair as Bambi and Botti swayed towards him, all endless bronzed thighs and heroic cleavage. Quick as a flash, Botti whipped a pair of handcuffs out from behind her back and clipped my ex's wrists to the legs of the chair. Harry commandeered the sound system and it wasn't long before the raunchy sounds of "The Stripper" filled the room. Boner scowled as the twins began to bump and grind, their tiny dresses (or miniscule shreds in Bambi's case) riding up over their broad, firm asses.
"Very funny. You know striptease does nothing for me, Jaylene. Never has done, never will."
"Just you wait, Will, sweetie."
Big boobs did nothing for Boner either. I recalled his joy when my hard work at the gym paid off to the extent of dropping a cup size. I was devastated, he almost danced a jig. I watched with satisfaction as Bambi expertly popped her tits out of the straining skintight bodice and squatted down to thrust them into my ex's face. He tried to avert his gaze but the Amazon grasped his grizzled head tightly in both hands and effortlessly thrust it between the big brown pillows of her breasts. Anyone but Boner would have been overjoyed to go that way, crushed beneath a mountain of firm, dusky boob flesh. There was a spluttering sound and he came up for air before being unceremoniously shoved back into the bouncy crevasse. Botti grinned and moved behind the victim's chair, then firmly clasped Boner's cranium as her sister stepped back a little, then began to tug at her skimpy panties. All eyes were fixed upon her as she slid the tiny G-string to her ankles then delicately stepped out of them. The music ground on and Bambi's hands strayed to her naked crotch, clearly visible beneath the hem of her dress. She was very wet, her labia as plump and moist as a dew-soaked tropical flower. Again and again, she squatted down before Boner, giving him a full frontal view of her hungry snatch. Her long painted talons teased her clit and she moaned loudly. Will sat upright and rigid, a look of utter horror and disgust on his face. For one moment, I almost felt sorry for him, then I remembered the voodoo doll business and my compassion dwindled. Time for some action.
"Pussy him, Bambi!"
With one big bump and grind, the groaning girl thrust her pussy against Boner's face and squirmed her hips up and down frantically. I could barely contain myself and cried out again.
"Ride his face!"
Bambi's broad brown buttocks worked furiously as her twin held my ex's head in a grip of steel. I watched him struggling violently, heard him grunt and gurgle, saw copious beads of sweat erupt from his forehead. Bambi continued to fuck his face with consummate glee, her tiny dress riding up to form nothing more than a broad shiny belt about her waist. Her boobs flopped heavily and rhythmically against her chest, she arched her spine and triumphantly yelled out a rousing climax. When she stepped back, Boner's face was wet, his eyes and mouth tightly closed. Pussy juice glistened from every corner of his face, forehead to chin to ear and ear. Revenge was sweet. Soon he would have to stop holding his breath and feminine essence would broach the barriers and conquer Boner Land.
"Thank you, darling. I needed that."
I tucked a fifty-dollar note into Bambi's cleavage and left the room without a backward glance.
"I wonder what kind of a sentence they'll receive."
Harry and I sat together on the deck of the Caribbean Conch, as it began its return journey to Fort Lauderdale with a substitute master at the helm. My partner shrugged.
"Gawd knows! I pity the judge. It'd certainly be fun to be a fly on the wall, "though."
I laughed as I watched the misty silhouette of the islands fade into the horizon.
"A literary cruise, indeed! We didn't attend a single lecture."
"Neither we did. Quel dommage. So, do you still want a divorce, Shortie, or are you content to stay half-hitched to Sherlock Neptune?"
"I'm not sure, darling. Tell me – how did you know that Frippery had the fetishes?"
Harry smiled.
"No great powers of deduction involved there, I'm afraid. I simply saw the silly bint surreptitiously stuffing them down her catsuit. She was trying to get Boner to beg for a doggie biscuit."
"I see. And what made you think they would reveal the truth so accurately?"
My husband looked thoughtful.
"I'm not sure. They were certainly potent. Remember the night we tried to throw them overboard? We were carried away, you and I, as if we were caught up in the eye of a storm. It was incredible but scary too. Somehow, I knew they'd get to the heart of the matter, one way or another."
"I see."
Quietly, I reached down and retrieved two familiar objects from my beach bag. Harry frowned.
"What on earth are you up to, Lawrence? Trying to get us killed again?"
I shook my head and passed Biggin and Elvira to my partner, feeling a deep tingling thrill electrify every cell of my body. I was quite getting into the fetish effect. Harry braced himself and I watched his hair begin to stir. If the fetishes were elicitors of truth, I would put them to the test. I chose my question with care.
"Do you love me, Harry Neptune?"
A brisk wind chased around the legs of our deck chairs and my husband's hair began to curl. He looked deep into my searching eyes.
"I love you, Jay Lawrence. Married or not, you're the girl for me."
I pressed my case.
"The only girl, Harry?"
Harry's hair continued to twirl, Medusa fashion about his grinning face.
"Quit while you're ahead, Lawrence."
I slapped my husband then kissed him deeply on the mouth.
"No divorce then, Mr. Neptune."
"Connubial bliss, Miss Lawrence."
We looked at one another and decided it was time for a good stiff drink…
The End
Trouble In Paradise
"Hey, shortie, there are a couple of topless bathers down there. Naked boobies bouncing around in the surf. Fancy heading down for a lech?"
I thought of giving my husband a disapproving look but libidinous curiosity got the better of me. He sat out on the balcony of our hotel room, a pair of pocket sized binoculars glued to his sunglasses and a conical distension in the front of his white linen shorts.
"Lovely brown boobies. Decent sized too. Much better than the usual fried eggs."
I briefly toyed with the notion of forcibly wresting the optical equipment from Harry's face, then thought better of it. Shading my eyes with my hands, I squinted into the bright Tobago sunshine. Our hotel sat on a cliff top, overlooking a small beach fringed with giant palm trees. A Pepto Bismol pink palace, once the haunt of Hollywood starlets in the golden age of glamor, it now appeared to be favored by well-heeled senior citizens. I focused on the frothing waves steadily rolling in from the Atlantic, in which two girls and their male companions were gamely attempting to play catch the beach ball. One of Harry's hands strayed to his crotch.
"Damn that big palm tree. It's in just the wrong place, blocking the view. This will wake the Colonel up. Look, there he is, pretending to do the crossword in the Times. The randy old bugger'll have a heart attack!"
"Serve him right."
My gaze strayed from the arousing but distant spectacle of wet, wobbling tit flesh to an elderly gentleman in a rather loud Hawaiian style shirt. I had taken a prolonged dip the previous afternoon during a refreshing rain shower, wearing a white cotton lace-up top. Somehow, the combined action of copious water and the powerful waves had managed to achieve a rather exciting off the shoulder transparent effect. Thoroughly refreshed, I strode magnificently up the beach a la Ursula Andress in Dr. No, to find a hyperventilating senior citizen lurking behind my sun-bed, libidinous intent oozing from every wrinkle. I do like older men but I draw the line at hearing aids and white knee length socks. Harry sighed.
"This place has gone downhill. It's high season, for God's sake! This hotel should be buzzing. Wait 'til I get my hands on that big Welsh oaf. He must think I've got one foot in the bloody grave."
I looked at our light, airy white room, with its hardwood floor and four poster bed. It wasn't so long since I was bound by my wrists to one of those tall dark bedposts, a mess of warm sticky semen coating my upturned face.
"Darling, I'm sure it's not Cadog's fault. Anyway, I'm perfectly happy, even if it is a bit quiet. We could use a bit of r and r after Trinidad."
My husband grunted in grudging admission. It had been quite a year. A serious financial blow had left us virtually penniless and with the stark, cold knowledge that we would have to actually work for a living. Deciding that we had a better chance of being poor but happy in warmer climes, we headed south, in search of the big break that would be our salvation. Our hopes were high, our resumes elaborate and almost entirely fictitious. Somehow, via a convoluted process too complex to recount, we had ended up in Port of Spain, Trinidad, running Sudsy's, a laundromat cum massage parlor. This salubrious establishment was owned by one Cadog Madoc, a skinny redheaded Welshman, whose larger than life West Indian wife overshadowed him in almost every way imaginable. I don't recall actually accepting the job. Most likely, Trixie simply reeled us in. Now Harry spent his evenings surrounded by buxom brown beauties liberally coated in coconut oil, while I passed my days loading industrial sized washing machines with soiled laundry, while dressed in skimpy shorts, stiletto mules and a diamante trimmed halter top. I think it was known as the fuzzy end of the lollipop. For some months a revolution had been brewing in my steamy tropical laundrette, with many a putative game plan hatched amongst the towering piles of shirts and socks. But what could I do? Go home to Aunt Harriet in Poughkeepsie? Jump a freight train and join the circus? Harry had warmed to the tropics in more ways than one and had become downright Latin American in his style of husbandry. And that, dear reader, was what really kept me in the suds. What can I say? I became a full card carrying submissive, the willing recipient of a stringent daily spanking and frequent stern lectures about Knowing My Place. Oh, another minor coup would raise its argumentative little head each time I witnessed my dearly beloved beached like a whale with a six pack of Carib lager and his nose stuck in Massage Weekly, only to melt into helpless, happy acceptance the moment he glared at me over the top of his spectacles.
"No argument! Do as you're told or I'll give you something to cry about."
Hmm, it was just as well we weren't twenty-somethings or we'd have six squalling brats in no time. Maybe the sun had gone to my head but I was even going all hormonal. Anyway, next time, we wouldn't put all our eggs in one financial basket. Or at least not a Venezuelan basket. Oops.
"Can I fetch you something, sweetcakes?"
I had taken to inquiring after my Lord and Master's welfare at regular intervals, as the Caribbean seemed to give him quite a thirst. Harry stretched out in his plastic chair, the spyglasses dangling limply from one sunburned hand. The small tent in his shorts had collapsed and he had that post smorgasbord slump look about him. So much for the party animal. I picked up a brightly colored cushion from the bed and sat cross-legged by my husband's feet. I had taken to doing this as a matter of course. There were times when it almost felt strange to occupy a chair. Harry seemed to be asleep and I sat for a while, listening to the brisk breeze swish the huge feathered leaves of the coconut palms and watching the distant action in the surf. I was just about to carefully extricate the binoculars from my partner's limp fingers when a snatch of conversation drifted up from the lawn beneath our balcony. Two men spoke rapidly in Spanish. I'm not a fluent speaker but have spent enough time in Latin locales to get the gist. The word "muerto" stood out-dead. What or who had gone belly-up? Cautiously, I crawled forwards, just close enough to peer through the gap at the base of the canvas "sail" which formed the balcony screen. The voices were indistinct, now carried away by a gust of salty air, but I caught a glimpse of the two hombres. One was quite tall, heavy set, with a swarthy complexion and fleshy lips. He was dressed all in black and resembled a Sicilian Godfather type. The other was smaller, lighter, fairer, expensively dressed in a monogrammed designer shirt and sharply creased pants. A state of the art cell 'phone dangled from a cord about his neck and a tiny ear-piece protruded from one side of his closely cropped head. It was to this gadget the man talked, an endless unintelligible babble of words. Whatever was dead, it certainly wasn't the art of conversation. Hmm, this was interesting. As my immediate superior was temporarily lost to the conscious world, I made an instant executive decision. Quickly, I slipped on my espadrilles and, grabbing a beach towel and my bathing costume, left Moby Dick to dream of whatever perverts dream of. Whatever it was, he was starting to drool.
Outside, the path was wet from an earlier squall and I picked my way carefully, having come to an impromptu slithery halt the previous night, when returning from an outing to a local tapas bar. Harry was most disappointed when he realized that the waitresses were fully clothed from the waist up and the spiciest thing on the evening's agenda was the Shrimp Salsa. I still had the grass stain on my sarong from being dragged across the hotel lawn by a disgruntled rhinoceros doing a passable impersonation of my dearly beloved.
"Good morning, Mrs. Neptune."
I jumped, guiltily. There was no sign of the two Latinos and my path was blocked by the Colonel, on the way back from his constitutional leer at the beach. His sharp blue eyes immediately focused on my cleavage and I realized I was both bra-less and wearing one of my more transparent and skimpy tops, a salmon silk halter-neck. My nipples stood proud and erect through the slippery pink fabric and I waited for the Colonel to take the salute, idly thinking that it probably looked as if I was half-naked from a distance. Hmm, maybe it was time to ascertain whether military intelligence really was an oxymoron.
"Good morning, Colonel Shagfast."
I pointedly looked about me and then, seeing that the coast was clear, dropped my voice to a confidential whisper.
"Tell me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a couple of men, would you? Only I think that they might be up to no good."
The old man's bushy silver eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and he rattled his dentures excitedly.
"Hah! Up to no good you say? Been rum running? Contraband? Slave trade?"
I paused for dramatic effect, then pushed my silk clad nipples under the old reprobate's aquiline nose. The tip of his tongue protruded and I prayed that he wouldn't let his false teeth drop into my decolletage. I panted slightly, as if quite overcome with the thrill of it all.
"I think, Colonel, that there may have been a murder."
The old man straightened up, his eyes flashing fire.
"Murder! Seen a body, have you?"
I nibbled my lower lip pensively.
"Well, not exactly…"
Just at that moment I spied the two Latinos climbing into a whorehouse red convertible sports car. There was no time to lose. I grasped the Colonel's arm and propelled him towards the hotel parking lot.
"We can't let them get away! Follow that Mustang!"
The keys to our hire car were in the hotel room. A mere detail. I scanned the parking lot, looking for inspiration, which swiftly arrived in the form of a canary yellow moped, cheerfully ridden by Michael the hotel porter. There was no time to exchange pleasantries. He sat dazed in the dust as we putt-putted off in a cloud of blue smoke, only just squeezing under the entrance barrier as it came down in the wake of the speeding Mustang. I caught a brief glimpse of the attendant's startled face as we throbbed off up the steep and twisting coastal road.
"Mind that pothole!"
The Colonel had taken it upon himself to drive, with yours truly riding pillion. I suspected it had been some time since he was in charge of anything other than a golf cart. The Mustang picked up speed and disappeared around a corner. We would simply have to make up time on the downhill stretches. I tossed my head back, nonchalantly allowing the brisk ocean breeze to blow through my hair, only to make a frantic grab for the Colonel's waist as he swerved around another sizable hole in the road.
"Hah! Bloody minefield. Hold on tight, girlie, they don't call me Shagfast for nothing, y'know!"
We reached the brow of a hill and immediately began to gain momentum. I prayed the brakes weren't faulty. The road was quite tortuous and swiftly left the affluent residential area in which the hotel was located for more basic locales. Ramshackle wooden buildings advertised cold drinks, ice cream treats and juicy fruits, frequently in creative West Indian spelling. I barely had time to read the signs as we zoomed past, a rather worrying burning smell beginning to emit from Michael's bike. A gang of laughing children cheered and waved as we passed through a tiny village, closely followed by the frenzied gesticulations of the proprietor of Jules' Garadge. The acrid smell had swelled to a plume of choking smoke but we were gaining on the Mustang. Suddenly, the sports car made a sharp left turn onto a rough track, which disappeared into the lush interior of the island, away from the sea. A battered wooden sign read:
Casa Melvin
We just made the turn, narrowly avoiding a Land Rover with "Praise The Lord" emblazoned on the hood. Slowly, wary of revealing our presence to our prey, we chugged up the stony track, our progress artfully concealed by a thick pall of exhaust fumes. It wasn't long before the road opened out into a large clearing and a huge and ostentatious house came into view. Tall wrought iron gates slowly swung shut on the retreating end of the Mustang. The Colonel dismounted, staggered slightly on his bowed legs, then fumbled in the pocket of his shorts for a hip flask. He took a strengthening gulp of the contents then glared at the Mediterranean style edifice.
"Now that's what I call a den of iniquity! More security than bloody Fort Knox."
So far, the biggest crime I'd witnessed was the life-sized fiberglass replica of King Tut that guarded the entrance. Curiously, I tiptoed up to the gates. Voices echoed from a tiled courtyard and I caught a glimpse of bright blue water. A swimming pool.
"Spanky! Spanky!"
"Not a bad idea," I murmured, swiftly ducking behind Tut as the smaller of the two Latinos hove into view, still talking volubly on his cell 'phone. Somewhere in the vicinity of the courtyard a disembodied female voice called out.
"Here, baby!"
"Hah! They're not all Dagos then."
The Colonel had joined me behind the Pharaoh and had procured a tiny pair of binoculars from his other pocket, through which he squinted fiercely. A Chihuahua trotted into the courtyard, jingling softly from the bells on its collar.
"Ah, Spanky, baby! There you are, darling!"
The owner of the voice appeared and the Colonel gasped and almost dropped his spyglasses. My lower jaw did a close approximation.
"Bloody hell! I've never seen anything like it in my life!"
"I have."
The young woman tottered into a dazzling patch of sunlight and crouched down to pet the little dog. She wasn't especially beautiful; in fact, her features could almost be described as homely. Her mousy brown hair was brushed straight back from her forehead and braided into a thick plait, the tail of which skimmed the top of her sturdy buttocks. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose, giving her an absent-minded look. Few would give the girl a second glance but for one unmistakable fact. She had the biggest pair of natural boobs I'd ever seen and they weren't unfamiliar.
"It's Sadie Brown, the girl next door!"
The Colonel leaned against King Tut's gilded chest, hyperventilating, as Sadie straightened up and turned to one side, giving us a perfect silhouette of her bumptious attributes. I couldn't begin to imagine her bra cup size but her vast tits resembled ripe golden melons, each boob crowned with a dusky, almost velvety looking aureole. She wore nothing but a pair of semi-translucent white cotton panties and flat, demure looking leather sandals.
"I'd love to say hello."
I was actually quite a big fan of Sadie Brown, whose outsize assets regularly appeared in the glossy pages of such mammary obsessed publications as Bazookas! and Tit-anic. So far, she had eschewed a feature tour on the nude dancing circuit but had made Over His Knee, a rather interesting little blue movie that was rapidly becoming a hard-to-find collector's item. Sadie Brown was not just your average porn star. Sadie Brown was decidedly kinky. Her chosen niche was that of the chastised schoolgirl but her body type was far from typical for that genre. Most naughty schoolgirls were A- cup adolescents.
I sighed softly as my heroine wandered off into the shady recesses of the courtyard, the aptly named Chihuahua trotting along behind her. Once upon a time, I too had been a big boob model, dancer and porn star, plying my trade under various aliases including Betsi Bouncee and Titty Boomboom.
"Are you all right, Colonel Shagfast?"
It looked as if the randy old goat had finally met his match in Sadie Brown. He still slumped against the impassive frontage of Tut, a glazed look in his eyes and a small damp patch on his baggy shorts. I was just about to suggest that perhaps we should give up the game and go find a nice reviving rum punch, when there was the crunching of gravel and a vehicle could be overhead, approaching up the rough track to the house.
"Quick! We'd better hide!"
Briskly, I maneuvered the Colonel and the moped into the deep shade of the surrounding trees. In just a matter of seconds a large white mini-van came to a halt in front of the ornate gates, which slowly swung open. At that moment, I made a reckless decision. I knew what was happening at Casa Melvin. It was not unusual for the owners of large and ostentatious houses in exotic locations to rent their property out to adult movie producers. A quick appraisal of the van's passengers only added fuel to my fire. I would just have to bluff it and mingle with the bounteously boobed. I gave the Colonel a swift peck on the cheek and slipped between the gates, shielded from the courtyard by the van.
"Lotta Dumplinz! Haven't seen you since Hamburg!"
"Sadie, you vixen. You keep a low profile for someone in this business. How heff you been, darlinck?"
I lurked behind a fake Corinthian column, watching, with growing amazement, an incredible scene unfolding before my eyes. It was like a Who's Who of the cream of the adult movie business. Lotta Dumplinz was a legend, a tall, sharp-featured impresario from Berlin, whose arty black and white BDSM films had won many awards. She was wearing her trademark Louise Brooks style wig, a thick, heavy coal black bob. Her lips and talons were a glossy blood red and she was obviously tightly laced into a stringent corset, despite the heat. I wondered just what kind of movie was in the pipeline. Lotta was no lightweight. The subsequent appearance of a grinning Dirk Dastardly confirmed my suspicions. Sadie was moving into the darker side of adult films. Dirk was a master with the flogger, whip and cane.
"Come along – get yourself naked, girl. We haven't got all day."
I was startled by the harsh voice immediately behind me. A tiny, rather disgruntled looking man sporting a camp sun visor and carrying a clipboard, prodded me in the ribs. Without pausing to draw breath, he continued:
"You must be Iota, the whipping girl. Lose your clothes and stand by the column with the rope."
"Yes, sir."
I wondered where the real Iota was and how severe a whipping she was scheduled to take. Well, I'd come that far… I slipped out of my skimpy top and wraparound skirt, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my naked body. Maybe this was my last chance to make a comeback, and what a comeback, with a cameo part in a Lotta D. production. The dwarfish little man stomped off to harass a bevy of buxom beauties, who were switching their beachwear for mini-togas. Casa Melvin was to be the backdrop for a cruel Roman orgy. But no thigh-length toga for the whipping girl. Respectfully, I approached the column with the rope. Fortunately, it was shaded from the intense heat of the mid day sun. A lengthy flogging session followed by a bad case of sunburn would be just a bit much.
"Iota! There you are, darlink. Give Auntie Lottie a nice big kiss!"
Damn. It was too much to expect my ruse to work so easily. I surreptitiously stepped behind the column as a small, dark, rather wiry girl rushed up to embrace Lotta Dumplinz. I would just have to switch to Plan B. Behind me, a maid was preparing a buffet lunch in a large, well-appointed kitchen. Scanning the room for a makeshift toga, I spotted an apron hanging on a hook by what appeared to be a door onto a terrace. The maid opened an enormous stainless steel refrigerator, almost disappearing into its cavernous depths. I seized the moment and scuttled across the kitchen. The apron was mainly white but for a heart motif on the pocket which bore the legend "Kiss the Cook". I snatched it from the hook and was just about to repeat my silent sprint across the room when the maid emerged from the 'fridge with an armful of salad stuff. Quick as a flash, I slipped through the door and out onto the terrace.
"Hel-lo!"
A woman in a tiny white bikini was artfully arranged on a sun-bed just outside the kitchen door. Every detail of her presentation appeared to have been contrived by a stylist, as if she was posing for a photo spread in a glossy home and garden magazine. Her microscopic bathing costume matched the navy and white cushions of the chair she reclined upon, her long acrylic French manicured fingernails looked dazzling against her dark oiled thighs. Her hair was bleached and curled, Marilyn Monroe style, and her pert breasts, which threatened to escape from the confines of the translucent bikini top, were augmented.
What to do? What to do? I surmised it was the lady of the house and she seemed quite pleased to see me, so I approached the perfectly color coordinated vision with a friendly demeanor. On closer inspection, the woman looked to be forty-ish but well preserved by regular maintenance and the occasional comprehensive refit job. Marilyn stretched out a be-taloned hand and smiled broadly. I noticed that she hadn't added cosmetic dentistry to her overhaul and had a gap on one side.
"Baba."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name is Baba. I'm Melvin's wife."
I took the proffered hand and squeezed it politely. It felt divinely cool and as smooth as silk. I gazed down at Baba's smiling face, then my eyes wandered off into the firm, uplifting land of pumped-up cleavage. I fingered the stolen apron sheepishly.
"I forgot my toga."
The languid sunbather appeared to come to life.
"Ah! But I can help you with that. Come with me. What did you say your name was?"
I swiftly racked my brain for a suitable nom de guerre.
"It's Bo. Bo Delicious. You have a toga?"
Baba laughed and led me by the hand along the beautiful terrace. I paused to admire the stunning vista of the distant bright blue ocean, then let my new friend guide me through a vast pair of sliding doors and into an opulent master bedroom. She disappeared into an ensuite walk-in closet and I sat on the edge of the enormous bed to await my toga. The bed sloshed and moved beneath my thighs. A waterbed.
"What about this?"
A slender brown arm appeared round the closet door, waving a filmy white baby doll nightdress. More Valley Of The Dolls than Roman Empire. I bit my lip, not wishing to offend my generous hostess.
"Um…"
"Or what about this?"
The other arm dangled a skimpy Spandex mini-dress. Very sexy but not in a way that Caligula would recognize.
"I know! I will model for you, then you can decide."
Before I could protest, Baba had vanished into the capacious closet. I began to grow a little suspicious of her motives. The spoiled wife of a wealthy man with endless time on her immaculately manicured hands… I was her afternoon plaything. What was worse, I could use a shower…
"What do you think, Bo?"
"Mmm…"
Baba reemerged in the diaphanous nylon baby doll, which she had paired with the tiniest G-string I'd ever seen. The clingy see-through fabric revealed a fully shaven pussy and my mouth began to water for a suck on Mrs. Melvin's juicy peach. Her breasts were full, golden brown and almost perfectly round, with perky upturned nipples. She advanced towards me until she stood by the bed, the sweet musky scent of her moist pink cleft drifting in the warm atmosphere of the boudoir. Her voice was husky, full of pent-up lust.
"Play with me, Bo. Melvin won't let me watch the movie making. I have to sit outside. It's not fair."
Her pretty pink lips pouted petulantly. I placed the palms of my hands on her long toned thighs and my mouth over her Mound of Venus. The fabric of the G-string was so fine that it almost seemed to melt on my tongue as I explored the satiny contours of her plump, smooth quim. Baba panted and uttered a stream of little moans and shrieks. Her hands felt much warmer as they grasped my head. My mouth left her pussy and licked and kissed its way north to caress her beautiful boobs. Hungrily, she pushed me down onto the bed, swiftly maneuvering me into a sixty-nine position. I reached up to tug down her panties as a hot, wet cunt descended upon my face. She was delicious. Not a trace of prickly stubble marred the velvety cushions of her labia. I ran the flat of my tongue up and down, round and around, savoring the divine sensations of her silky perfumed haven. She had a long swollen clit and I nibbled at it, teasing the miniature member to come out to play. Then I felt sharp nails trace the insides of my thighs and a moist mouth sought out my own rampant den of iniquity. Baba proved to have the most incredible talent for oral stimulation, swiftly sucking and licking my dripping pussy to an intense climax. I came loudly, screaming obscenities into her wanton snatch, then redoubled my efforts to ensure that my gracious hostess wasn't far behind. The slut ground her trim little hips against my face, coating my warm cheeks with the sweet nectar of her love juice. I felt her clit swell between my lips, then she convulsed, electrified by her own massive orgasm.
"Oh yes! Yes! Oh, thank God!"
The waterbed beneath us rippled softly as our sated passion slowly ebbed. Baba moaned quietly, her baby doll nightdress prettily askew.
"Oh, thank you, Bo! You don't know what this means to me. I haven't been able to gain any relief since Melvin had his heart trouble last year and this island is so quiet, I just don't know what to do with myself. Bless you, darling."
Poor old Baba. All dressed up and nowhere to go. I wondered if I could steal a large strap-on dildo from the production crew and give Mrs. Melvin the damn good seeing-to she so richly deserved. I reluctantly eased myself up from the bed and collected the Spandex mini-dress and the apron, both of which lay recklessly discarded on a thick sheepskin rug. My partner looked as if she might drop off for an afternoon nap. Probably more excitement than she had seen for a long, long time, poor dear. I tiptoed out of the bedroom and along the lovely terrace, which was bright with splashes of sunshine and deep pink bougainvillea plants in terracotta pots. As I passed what seemed to be a formal dining room, I glanced in to see the two hombres seated at a long table, on which sat a laptop computer and various open files and sheets of paper. A third man had joined them, older, taller and heavier, his corpulent stomach bulging over the waistband of his linen pants. He paced up and down, looking angry and impatient. Beyond the trio, I could glimpse the sunny courtyard and the turquoise water of the pool, in which a selection of topless girls in soaking wet mini-togas were kissing and fondling one another's glistening breasts as the camera rolled.
"I want my full cut, Melvin. Or else."
My gaze returned to the outsize pacer in the tight white pants. He stopped wearing a track in the marble flooring and addressed the man in black. So, Melvin was the quieter hombre. His accomplice still chattered frantically into the mouthpiece of his high-tech phone as if his life depended on it. Hmm, maybe it did… Melvin stared impassively at Mr. Grumpy, then replied in perfect English.
"Or else what, Crapper? You'll play one of your unpleasant little back stabbing tricks? Face it, Crapper, your name is dirt in these islands."
Beyond the scowling Crapper, a parasol wielding Lotta Dumplinz directed a whip brandishing Dirk Dastardly. My eyes slid from one exciting scene to the other. The real Iota was naked, bound and wriggling against the tall stone column, her pert little buttocks veritably dancing at the prospect of the lash. I watched Dirk deliver his trademark sneer for the camera then there was a loud crack and a piercing squeal.
"The deal stinks, Crapper. Musical toilets indeed! 'Lift the lid and listen to a melody of your choice!' My ass! Five hundred dollars for a john that plays hits from the Seventies. A jukebox john! I must have been drunk when I let you talk me into that scam. Or worse. What was I smoking? Anyway, the deal is off. You can take your tinkling toilets and stick 'em."
My eyes slid from the snaking whip and rhythmically jolting buns back to Mr. Grumpy aka Crapper. He had bared his (rather unpleasant) teeth at Melvin and now strongly resembled a hippo with gas. A menacing undertone entered his voice as he meaningfully patted the breast pocket of his shirt.
"You're going to regret this, Melvin. I have photographic evidence of the little XXX sideshow currently playing in your back yard. I'm sure the local newspaper would be most interested in the colorful domestic life of the island's favorite son. Not to mention your priest and your dear old mother."
At that, Melvin lunged across the table to grasp Crapper by the shirt collar but the large man only smiled malevolently.
"Too late, Mel-boy. I've already downloaded and e-mailed a set to a secret address. My personal favorite is the one of you helping Busti Noutalova to apply her sunscreen. Very nice."
Busti Noutalova! The Russian porn star was reputed to sleep with her seriously enhanced, gravity defying assets in a patented sling. I squinted into the dazzling sunlight of the courtyard. Yes, there she was. I had mistaken her pneumatic chest for a set of pink water wings. Meanwhile, Dirk was doggedly thrashing a shrieking Iota up to a shrill soprano climax, his powerful suntanned arms effortlessly wielding a fearsome bullwhip. Her dark hair cascaded in a wild tangle over her shoulders, her slim hips ground against the stone column as if it was an enormous phallus. My fingers strayed to my pussy.
"Blackmail, Crapper, is a serious offense."
Melvin appeared to be standing his ground. Good for him. I wrenched my gaze from Dirk and Iota to judge the state of play in the dining room. Would it be Sir Dastardly in the courtyard with the bullwhip or Colonel Crapper in the dining room with the digital camera? The tension was palpable.
Meanwhile, it was Melvin's turn to smile a sinister Godfather-ish smirk.
"And you are forgetting one simple little fact, Crapola. You are my guest here at Casa Melvin. As the popular song goes – 'you can sign in any time you want but you can never leave'. Or at least, not without my assistance. This house is very secure. Maria – will you come here, please?"
The Hispanic maid left her lunch preparing duties in the kitchen and approached the long polished table expectantly. Melvin nodded at Crapper and murmured something in Spanish. The maid grinned and cracked her knuckles.
"So sorry, Senor."
I watched in amazement as Maria circled Crapper, who looked to be about a foot taller and a good one hundred pounds heavier than his dainty assailant. Crapper threw his head back and laughed heartily.
"You've got to be joking! What's this? 'Attack of the Killer Munchkin'?!"
Just at that moment, all hell broke out in the courtyard.
"Aaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Iota had reached the point of no return.
"Aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!"
The diminutive Spanish maid launched herself into the air, Jackie Chan style.
"Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!"
Crapper hit the marble floor of the dining room.
Melvin smiled indulgently.
"She's from Caracas."
"It's a wrap, guys and gals!"
Damn! I had missed my chance to appear in "Empire of Sin". Idly, I wondered what Melvin planned to do with Crapper when he came round. Softly, I tiptoed back along the terrace. There was another door near the kitchen entrance and I pushed it open a crack, to see if there was an alternative route to the courtyard and my discarded clothes. Alas, it seemed to be nothing more than a storeroom. I was just about to shut the door when my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I made out the lettering on the side of a large crate.
El Muerto
50 count
Made in China
Hmm, muerto. The very reason I was snooping naked about a palatial residence on a tropical isle. My curiosity well and truly piqued, I lifted the sackcloth that covered the top of the container and examined the contents…
*
"Don't I know you?"
Sadie Brown paused in the middle of applying soothing balm to her well-reddened buttocks. I smiled modestly as I swiftly exchanged the apron for my skirt and top. The girl obviously recognized a porno legend when she saw one. How nice. I preened slightly.
"Why, yes dear. Does Betsi Bouncee ring a bell?"
I wriggled, hoping she would not notice the suspicious swelling in my crotch. Sadie shook her head. Hmm, Betsi wasn't around all that long, just a season or two. I persisted.
"Titty Boomboom?"
The young woman frowned, perplexed.
"I've heard of Titty Little and Titty Galore but not Titty Boomboom. What is that, by the way? It's looking at me."
Damn. It looked as if my secret weapon had broken cover. I had a small power pack in my pocket and I flipped the switch.
"It's my Muerto, Sadie. Guaranteed to set you on fire. Come for a ride?"
"Not bloody likely! It's enormous!"
"Yes it is, isn't it?"
I looked down at the huge vibrating dildo between my thighs. I can't say I've ever been afflicted with penis envy but whoever came up with that gadget certainly possessed the cure.
"It's telescopic. Look."
Turning a tiny dial on the waistband control panel produced a fascinating in and out motion. One didn't even have to thrust. El Muerto thrust for you. And boy did it ever thrust. Fascinated, I turned the dial to Max and watched the rocket roll. Sadie finished massaging her buns and pulled up her panties with a satisfying snap.
"I don't do vanilla. And you're not fucking me with a Scud missile. That's final!"
"Vanilla! Vanilla. You're just chicken!"
"Vot iz dat man doingk?"
Busti Noutalova interrupted our cozy tete a tete. She towered over us, her balloon-like boobs almost blocking out the sun, like a double eclipse. I peered around them to see a rather dazed looking Crapper stagger across the courtyard, clutching protectively at his dangling gonads. It looked as if someone had confiscated his clothes. He glared balefully at me across the glittering blue expanse of swimming pool, then pointed at the whirring gadgetry that protruded from the folds of my sarong.
"Where did you find that? They're not on the market yet!"
The guy obviously had a very short fuse. His temper wasn't much better, ho ho. I stood my ground, hands on hips, legs spread for maximum effect. El Muerto wasn't just a supercharged dildo, it was also a very effective vibrator. I tried to act nonchalant but my voice rose an octave or two.
"Just lying around. Ooh, I say! It's rather good, you know!"
Crapper scowled.
"Bloody Melvin. Switch it off and give it to me. That's a potentially dangerous prototype you have there. It could explode at any moment."
Busti Noutalova shrieked and clasped her super-sized bosoms.
"Nyet! Remember Chernobyl!"
I fixed Crapper with an icy stare; El Muerto relentlessly pointed at his flaccid dick.
"You're bluffing, Crumpet. There's a whole crate of these gizmos out back. This is no prototype. Finders, keepers."
The large man looked as if he might implode with fury.
"I'm warning you…"
"Hang on, girlie! I've got you covered!"
A familiar voice called out, somewhere above and behind me. I glanced over one shoulder to spot the Colonel crouching commando style amidst the branches of a nearby tree. He appeared to be aiming some kind of weapon at Crapper. How on earth he got up there was anyone's guess but I hoped he could get down again without doing himself a mischief.
The remaining members of the cast and crew drifted back into the courtyard, holding brimming plates of pasta and salad. Dirk Dastardly smirked at the naked and paunchy figure by the pool.
"Hey mister – if you're hoping for a bit part, I'd say don't give up your day job!"
A muffled titter ran through the gathering group. Crapper turned a deep and unbecoming shade of crimson and sucked his stomach in as hard as he could. I suddenly became aware of a rather warm sensation between my thighs.
"Fire! Fire!!"
Busti Noutalova screamed at the top of her considerable set of lungs. Everyone jumped then stared at my purloined apparatus. Flames were licking at the business end of El Muerto and an acrid burning plastic smell began to fill the air. For one moment the courtyard was deathly quiet then all hell broke loose. Someone (I suspect Sadie Brown) pushed me into the water and there was a great hissing and spitting as El Muerto proved true to its name and expired. There was a rousing cry of "Take that, you bounder!" and a pellet from the Colonel's popgun hit Crapper squarely on the nose. He staggered forwards, promptly fell in the pool and the resulting tidal wave drenched the movie crew.
"Hey, let's do a wet 'n wild short! Get that camera rolling!"
In no time at all, Melvin's swimming pool was a mass of wriggling, splashing bodies. Skimpy fabric molded to big wet breasts and I found myself sandwiched between Busti Noutalova and a gorgeous East Indian girl with luscious real tits. Smiling, they divested me of the blackened remains of El Muerto, peeled back my soaking top and took a nipple each. I placed a hand on each of their busily suckling heads and gave myself up to sheer pleasure. In a shady corner of the courtyard, I spotted Melvin, a naked and squealing Baba bouncing up and down on his knee. I hoped he hadn't forgotten to take his heart medication. Suddenly, I realized that the camera was upon me. I smiled wantonly into the lens and the cameraman exclaimed.
"I know you – you're Titty Boomboom!"
"Yes! Ohhh, yesss!!"
Teasing fingers eased inside my sodden panties and found my swollen clit. Busti's incredible assets pressed against my own ample chest, threatening to suffocate me. But what a way to go.
"You were in "Nympho Vixen Sluts Do Miami"."
"Mmmm, ohh, yeahh!"
Someone had propped Crapper up on the shallow steps of the pool, where he slumped, Nero-esque with a garland of flowers upon his head. Baba had abandoned her husband and jumped into the frenzied melee with a gleeful war cry. I took the Indian girl's nipple into my mouth and sampled her juicy pulchritude. Titty Boomboom had made a comeback. The villains weren't villains at all. The real bad guy had got his just desserts and as for El Muerto… Well, a little modification here and there and I might just ask Melvin for a few shares in his company. I waved at the Colonel who replied with a smart salute. We'd think of a way to get the old man down. And Harry… Fond as I was of the insufferable clot, my days at the laundromat were well and truly done. Miss Lawrence was joining the circus. Pornywood was in my blood. I'd miss the buffoon but it was time to suck on the fuzz-free side of the lollipop. A bleached blonde head popped up from beneath the glittering waves. I planted a playful kiss on a pair of bright pink lips. Baba laughed.
"Life's too short not to have fun!"
I looked about me at the seething throng of smiling, naked forms.
"You're right, Baba. I might even get myself a boob job…"