Lust on the Loose (11 page)

'Yes sir,'
said Placido subserviently. But his coal-black eyes were not on his
employer, they were focused on the still undulating thighs of his
mistress and on the thick white slick of spunk that was oozing from
between the cheeks of her rosy bottom.

Candy
Kensington lived in a mansion in St John's Wood. It was
extravagantly furnished with high quality antiques: Hepplewhite
chairs and Chippendale tables, chiffonniers and armoires and bijoux
writing desks and ornate gilt mirrors, lush brocaded curtains
swagged and rouched, exquisite little watercolours and vast
lowering oils of stormy seas and Venetian canals and shepherdesses.
Cabinets bulged with crystal glasses and Chinese porcelain;
bouquets of flowers, exquisitely arranged in oriental vases, filled
the vast drawing-room with the fragrance of high summer. It
occurred to Billy that, outside of a museum, he had never been in
the presence of so much ostentatious wealth.

Candida
Kensington herself was no less extravagantly turned out. Her cream
summer suit was by Chanel, her snakeskin high heels were by
Jourdain, her wristwatch was by Cartier - and Billy longed to
discover who had designed her underwear.

Her features
were animated. She smiled and laughed a lot, flashing small white
teeth from long curling lips and her oval face frequently dimpling
into a grin. Her big brown eyes never left his face, indicating
some kind of urgent interest in him. Candy was not the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen yet there was something about her
which made him positively drool with desire.

Billy
shamelessly ogled her slim tanned legs, which crossed and uncrossed
in a faint fleshy whisper as she sat by his side on the vast
chesterfield. He shifted uncomfortably, a plate of sandwiches
concealing the kind of erection that had made last night's sojourn
beneath Tracy's bed seem such agony. How could this be after an
energetic night spent tussling with a voracious sexpot? It was a
mystery to him why his sex urge had returned so conclusively. But
the moment he had set eyes on the elegant society queen his carnal
impulses had come flooding back, threatening to overwhelm him. He
hoped he would not come in his pants.

He found it
hard to take in what Candy was saying.

He gazed with
longing at her slender, finely manicured fingers as they raised a
thin sandwich to her mouth and marvelled at her as she ate: the way
her perfect glistening teeth crunched neatly into the bread, the
exquisite manner in which her lips moved as she masticated and the
sweet bob of her Adam's apple as she swallowed. He pictured those
delicate fingers paddling through his chest hair, walking down his
body to take a firm grip on his painful shaft. He couldn't help but
imagine her bending that slender neck and taking the ripe red plum
of his glans between those wickedly curling lips and nibbling it,
grazing it with those tiny teeth - this was crazy! He had come here
to undertake some cunning diplomacy and all he could think of was
this rich bitch chewing on his cock!

He forced
himself to make some kind of conversation. 'Do you have cats
yourself?' he asked. There was certainly no sign of them if she
did.

'Oh no,' she
said. 'Unfortunately my home, as you can see, has far too many
unsuitable objects in it and so it wouldn't be fair to keep any
pets. It's a terrible shame but living with valuable things is such
a burden and cramps one's life in so many ways.'

Billy really
did not know what to say to that. He sat mesmerised as she crossed
her legs once more. They were bare. He imagined kneeling at her
feet and running his hands from her slender ankles, up her firm
calves and then beneath the hem of her skirt - was she wearing
panties? he wondered. Would the hair of her bush match the deep
chestnut of her head? Perhaps she would have no hair down there at
all, just a naked sex-mouth, as moist and succulent as a slice of
ripe honeydew melon. And he could bury his head between her thighs,
close his hungry lips over hers and suck the sweet juice that
flowed from her very core...

He tried to
concentrate on Candy and what she was now saying. It seemed she ran
charity organisations for all sorts of species. Abandoned gerbils
apparently were in need of special care and she was trying to
reintroduce red squirrels into NW8. Billy decided that, whatever
her other attractions, this woman was literally crazy about small
furry mammals.

'Let's talk
about your pussy,' he heard himself say.

'I'm
sorry?'

'I mean, Poor
Pussy,' he corrected himself, 'the Gala concert.'

'Of course,
but do you mind if we do it upstairs while we're working?'

'No—' Billy
was puzzled, but he'd go upstairs with this woman any time, in fact
the sooner the better.

She preceded
him up flights of stairs with fine mahogany banisters and
glistening brass carpet rails and along hallways hung with more
paintings, which became less conventional and more contemporary in
execution the higher they climbed. Billy hardly noticed a thing,
his eyes glued to the graceful form ahead of him and in particular
at the purposeful swivel of her buttocks as she ascended.

She lead him
into a room that was obviously used as a studio. Sunlight flooded
in from the high windows. Drawings and paintings littered the room,
from large canvases to small pencil sketches pinned haphazardly to
the wall. All the artwork contained the same subject matter - the
male nude.

In a flash of
insight Billy knew what Candy was going to say before she said it.
For the second time that day a desirable woman was going to ask him
to undress. She did have the grace, however, to be rather more
diplomatic than Katie Crisp.

'Billy, I hope
you won't mind just slipping out of your things and standing over
there.'

Billy stared
at her boggle-eyed, his cock so huge in his trousers that it seemed
it might almost leap out of its own accord. This was going to be
horribly embarrassing.

'You see,
Billy, I've been searching and searching for just the right model
to complete my programme design and I have a hunch that, with you,
my search is over.'

Somehow he
found himself removing his jacket. 'What programme?'

'For the Poor
Pussy Gala. I'm designing the programme myself. It has a centre
piece of an adorable kitten lying on a cushion and below are the
twin muses of comedy and tragedy, male and female figures, bearing
the theatrical masks. Look, you can see it here.'

Billy studied
the sheets of paper on her slanted drawing table and could indeed
see many workings of the design she was describing. The kitten was
of a chocolate-box nature with a cute little bandage over one ear
indicating, doubtless, that it had been rescued. A slim female
figure reclined on the right-hand side of the drawing, arms held
aloft towards the cat, offering up the mask of tragedy. The figure
was nude, with long slender flanks, narrow loins and pouting
pear-shaped breasts. The face had almond eyes and curling lips.
Billy recognised it at once.

'A
self-portrait? It's the lips and the eyes, they are very
distinctive.'

'Naughty boy,' she replied, batting her eyelashes at him.
'There's no other way you
could
spot me, is there? At least, not on such a brief
acquaintance.'

By now Billy
was down to just his trousers. He hopped up onto the small dais.
Maybe he could get away with exposing himself just this far. But
no.

'Oh, Billy,'
she said at once, 'I think you'll have to take your trousers off.
I'm awfully sorry but I couldn't get the proper lines of your body
otherwise. You can, of course, leave your underpants on.'

Billy knew
that such a fig leaf would hardly be adequate. Nevertheless he
stepped out of his trousers and turned to face her.

He could swear
she gulped. Certainly her eyes seemed to pop as she took in the
extraordinary bulge in his skintight bikini briefs. His cock was
lodged sideways and so its length was barely contained within the
thin white cotton. He knew very well he might just as well have
been naked. Every bulge and ridge of his magnificent tumescence was
revealed to her thirsty gaze.

'My,' she
said, 'you're just what I'm looking for. If you could place your
left hand on your hip and hold your other arm up - yes, that's
lovely.' And she began to draw.

The atmosphere
in the room was pregnant with possibilities. The silence grew
heavy, broken only by the scratch of her pen on paper and, to
Billy's ears, the beat of his own heart which pounded in his chest
like a drum. He could swear that his cock was twitching in tempo
inside the tight confines of his briefs.

'About the
Gala,' he said hesitantly, 'Imogen was telling me who was on the
bill.'

She didn't
reply but continued to sketch, staring at him intently.

'I must say,'
Billy blundered on, 'it's a most impressive gathering, though I'm a
little surprised at one or two omissions.'

'Oh yes,' she
said.

'I mean for
such a popular cause I thought you might be aiming at a rather
broader audience. You know, have someone younger, just to keep up
with the trends.'

'Like who?'
she asked. Her attention now well and truly caught.

'Well, I know
that Imogen has an exciting new singer on her books...'

'Who's
that?'

'She's called
Tracy Pert. She's just made her first record.'

'I don't think
I've heard of her. Of course I'm not really up on who's in and
who's out on the pop scene.'

'Tracy's very
popular. Imogen has high hopes for her.'

'Have you seen
her perform?'

'Yes, I have.
Sort of. She's a friend of mine.'

'Tracy Pert,'
Candy repeated to herself. 'Wait a minute. She's that pin-up girl,
isn't she?'

'Yes, she's
really very talented.'

'Good God.'
The lead in Candy's pencil broke with a loud crack. 'And she's a
friend of yours, is she?'

'Er, yes.'

'And I suppose
she's the reason you're standing there with that silly look on your
face and your penis half out of your pants.' Suddenly Candy was
spitting blood. She was out of her chair and throwing Billy's
clothes in his direction, her eyes blazing and the red flush of
anger in her cheeks.

'You can cover
up your equipment right now, Mr Dazzle, and then you can clear off.
I tell you categorically that no lowlife slum child with
elephantiasis of the mammaries is going to ruin my evening of
classical entertainment. Got that?'

In the
dining-room of Emmeline's, Pandora Britches' club, Pandy and Sophie
shared a secluded corner banquette. It was an elegant room full of
light though not of people. Which suited both parties.

The two women
sized one another up. Pandora wore a crisp blue shirt and designer
jeans, her hair pinned back in a wooden barrette and she observed
Sophie through scarlet-framed spectacles that obscured half her
face. She appeared purposeful and efficient, in contrast to Sophie
who looked as if she had dressed in a hurry. Her auburn curls
billowed untidily around her shoulders and the black lycra
mini-dress, which showed off every sumptuous curve of her
voluptuous body, was distinctly inappropriate in the asexual
surroundings of the most aggressive women's club in London. Sophie
oozed sex. The effect was entirely intentional.

'You're not
exactly how I pictured you,' said Pandora, 'I expected someone
rather more... well, rather less attractive.'

'Same here,' said Sophie. 'I thought you'd be dressed in
tweeds. I've read some of your revues in
The Rag
you come over as a hardline
feminist dyke.'

'Well, I've got to trim my copy to the readership. I also
write for the
Blizzard
, don't forget.'

'How could I?
That's why we're here. Where's Mrs Fretwork?'

'Patsy won't
be joining us. I'm sure you understand.'

'Not exactly.
It's her I want to talk to.'

'She can't go
out while this big serial is going on. We can't have any of our
rivals getting wind of her. They're beasts. They'd spoil anything,
given the chance.'

'So where is
she?'

'Somewhere
secret.'

'Safe from her
husband?'

'He's no
problem, he's in Spain.'

'He can hardly be unaware of what she's saying about him every
day in the
Blizzard
. He won't be happy.'

'So you think
he might come after her? And that's why you're so interested.'

'Exactly. Of
course, Danny also has many associates still active here. Apart
from keeping Mrs Fretwork out of sight, I hope you are taking steps
to ensure her safety.'

Pandora took a
long sip of her mineral water and said, 'You're not offering police
protection, by any chance?'

'Well, if you
could put up with me for a bit...'

'You?'

'You thought I
meant a couple of strapping male detectives, I suppose. No chance.
It's me or nothing. I can assure you I can be very effective if it
comes to the rough stuff. I've been trained. I also have other
methods of enforcement.'

'I'm sure you
do.'

'I'd keep out
of the way, if that's what's bothering you.'

'I'm not sure
that I'd want you to, you're far too attractive.' And she put her
hand on Sophie's thigh beneath the tablecloth. Sophie did not
attempt to remove it.

A waitress
appeared and set a plate of crudités in front of them.

'Bring us a
bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal,' ordered Pandora.

Sophie's
eyebrows rose a notch.