Lust at Large Read online

  LUST AT LARGE

  by

  NOEL AMOS

  Lust at Large first published in 1994 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.

  ISBN 9781780800295

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  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.

  This work 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 author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations 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.

  Cover image by Barbara Jensen.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Contents

  One - Storm in a D-Cup

  Two - Strike Me Pink

  Three - The Carnal Quest

  Four - Shafted

  Five - Lust by Lightening

  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...

  One - Storm in a D-Cup

  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 n
ight 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.