Lust on the Loose (25 page)

A hand tugged
at Billy's elbow and he turned to face a tall brunette with a
crimson mouth. Her simple summer frock successfully showed off a
body comprised of tempting curves.

'Excuse me,
young man,' she said, 'are you associated with our guest of
honour?'

'I'm with his
management team,' Billy replied, trying not to look down the
fascinating crevasse of her cleavage, 'I suppose you could call me
his minder.'

'So you know
all his movements?'

'Yes. It's my
job to make sure he turns up.'

'I see. My
name is Joanna Knickerbocker and this is my daughter, Nicole.'

Billy turned
his attention to the intriguing figure by her side. Amidst this
well-groomed throng Nicole Knickerbocker stuck out like a sore
thumb. Her hair was a wild hennaed tangle and around her slender
neck she wore a leather choker with silver studs. The lower half of
her spectacular form was encased in black tights over which she
wore a tiny pair of skin-tight blue shorts. On her top was a loose
white vest with the legend 'Poll the F**k Tax' which did nothing to
distract from the elastic thrust of the pert boobs that billowed
unrestrained beneath. Billy found himself gazing into a sulky face
whose milky blue eyes and swollen pouting lips were drawn into an
expression of utter distaste.

'Pleased to
meet you, Nicole,' he said, his cock rearing in his underpants at
this vision of teenage lust.

'Nicky
insisted on accompanying me when she heard Brick was going to be
here. We are both such fans,' said the elder Knickerbocker. 'It's
about the only thing we have in common these days,' she muttered as
an afterthought.

'I can think
of something else,' chipped in her daughter in a squeaky voice
loaded with venom. 'She can't keep her hands off men,' she said to
Billy, 'randy old tart!'

'Youth is so
embarrassing,' said Joanna, her hand on Billy's arm. 'The thing is,
we would both so love to meet Brick properly, away from this
crush.'

'Yes,' said
Nicole, her face suddenly perky and pretty, 'I want to ask him what
it was like to play with Bob Dylan.'

'And I'm dying
to hear first-hand how he managed to escape from the plane crash on
Woodsmoke Mountain.'

'Well...' said
Billy, a multitude of lascivious opportunities racing through his
brain.

'
Please
,'
implored Joanna, 'it would be so good for Nicky to meet someone
from an older generation whom she admires. 'And,' she added,
squeezing Billy's forearm meaningfully, 'I'd be most
grateful.'

Billy finally
managed to separate Candy from the throng. 'Oh Billy,' she gushed,
'isn't he cute? I could just eat him up.'

'You're not
the only one. Just about every woman here is dying to kiss his
feet.'

They looked
across the crowded room to the knot of women surrounding Brick. He
was smiling and answering questions and shaking hands but Billy
thought he could detect a look of sheer panic in his eyes. And
Billy knew what was causing it.

'May I confide
in you, Candy?'

'Of course.
We're old friends now, aren't we, Billy?' And she rubbed her hip
surreptitiously against his thigh.

'Brick Tempo
hasn't made love to a woman for five years. He can't. He's had a
mechanical breakdown and nobody has been able to fix it.'

'Oh my God.'
Candy looked genuinely shocked and Billy could guess why. 'That's
terrible.'

'Indeed it is.
But I think I've mended it.'

'The
breakdown?'

'Yes. With a
little help, of course.'

Candy's big
brown eyes narrowed as she gave him a significant look. 'You mean
he's like you were last week...?'

'Quite.'

They both
looked back at Brick who now had his arm round a willowy blonde
with a long toothy face. As they watched he appeared to place his
other hand into the neck of her blouse and paddle with the pale
white flesh at the top of her bust.

'My God!'
exclaimed Candy. 'That's the Honourable Vanessa Crumble - he's
fondling her breasts in public!'

'He'll ravish
your entire guest list on the floor if we don't do something. Think
of it, no sweeties for five years and suddenly he's loose in the
candy store. That's a man with a mighty appetite.'

'What are we
going to do, Billy? There are reporters here. Scandal would ruin my
Gala!'

'Well, Candy,
as it happens I've got a plan...'

Betsy Toast
was becoming suspicious. Amongst her usual clientele had been a
crop of new punters who had been surprisingly reluctant to avail
themselves of her services. She was used to men turning up at her
door full of unlikely excuses as to how they came to be there. She
wasn't fooled, however, because she knew what they really wanted -
her high creamy breasts, long tanned legs and the pink treasure
concealed in her golden fork. Though their desires may be masked by
furtive grins and embarrassed smiles, she prided herself on cutting
through the usual anal bullshit of the Brits.

These new
visitors, however, were not like that. First there had been a
paunchy fellow in a fake-leather car coat who had exhausted himself
by climbing three flights of stairs to her door.

'I'm looking
for the geezer downstairs. Don't know where he is, do you,
love?'

'What?'

'Billy Dazzle.
Don't know where he is, do you?'

This kind of
British double-speak always got on Betsy's nerves. She was an
English major, after all. 'I know where he isn't, if that's what
you mean,' she replied.

'Where's
that?'

'Here.'

'He's
here?'

'No, he's not
here.'

'But I thought
you just said he was.'

Betsy could
see this obtuse exchange going on for ever. She decided to cut it
short.

'Look, mister,
pardon the cliche but my time is money and I'm wasting it talking
to you. Do you want to party?'

'Eh?'

'You know -
boogie, fool around, get your rocks off. Christ, man, we have a
real communications problem. Do you want to fuck me - yes or
no?'

Car Coat
shuffled his feet and squinted shiftily at Betsy's protruding
nipples before declining her offer. Then he produced a card and a
£10 note.

'Look, love,
do us a favour - when Dazzle shows up give us a bell on this
number.'

'A bell?'

'A tinkle. On
the dog and bone.'

'What!'

They'd sorted
it out in the end to their mutual satisfaction. Betsy had relieved
him of another nine notes, promised to undertake the telephonic
service and jerked him off in the hall while he groped her breasts
and tongued her big brown nipples. She'd not given it another
thought until the second man turned up.

He was big,
tanned and barrel-chested; he wore dark glasses and a baseball cap.
Fortunately, he was easier to understand.

'Excuse me,
young lady, I am looking for Mr Billy Dazzle.'

'One flight
down.'

'He's not
there at present - do you know where I can contact him?'

'Sorry, I
don't.'

'Is he likely
to be back soon?'

'Look, buster,
he's nothing to do with me. We're in a separate line of business.
His is closed.'

'I see.'

'But mine is
open. Why don't you step into my showroom for a demonstration? I'm
the model. All parts are movable if you get my drift.'

If he did he
didn't want to; he disappeared downstairs without one curious
glance in her direction, leaving Betsy snarling. She didn't often
let a fish off the hook.

In the
afternoon Barrel Chest was back. He'd changed his appearance and
now sported a blazer, a tie and a beard but there was no disguising
the tan or the torso. Betsy opened the exchange, she was getting
fed up.

'Look, buddy,
he ain't back yet.'

'I'm
sorry?'

'You're
looking for Dazzle, right? You were here this morning and, my God,
that's some five o'clock shadow.'

'It's true I
am trying to get in touch with Mr Dazzle but I've never been here
before.'

'Oh, OK, so I
can ask you for the first time today if you'd care to step next
door with me and have what you Brits refer to as a nice time.'

For the first
time she thought she detected a flicker of interest in his icy blue
eyes. On reflection he was rather an attractive man.

On impulse she
stepped right up to him and bumped her pelvis suggestively into his
as she growled, 'Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just
pleased to see me?'

But he was
gone, off down the stairs like a startled rabbit.

'Damn,' she
muttered to herself, 'too corny.'

She returned
to her parlour quite put out. Something else was worrying her apart
from this last failure. She had felt something with her bumping
pelvis and it wasn't an erection. Funnily enough, it might just
have been a pistol...

So far Billy's
plan was succeeding. While Candy addressed her guests in the
dining-room Billy had ushered Brick to a first floor sitting-room
equipped with easy chairs, occasional tables and, more
significantly, a large and comfortable sofa. It had been difficult
to tear Brick away from the women. He was almost frothing at the
mouth with excitement.

'Christ,
Billy, it worked - it WORKED! I've got a hard-on like a steel rail!
Look!'

'No thanks,
Brick, I'll take your word for it.'

'And all that
hungry pussy downstairs - I feel like I could shish-kebab the lot
of them!'

'Well, you're
going to get the chance. Sit down and listen.'

Brick obeyed
but he could barely sit still as Billy outlined future events; the
somnolent sloth had been turned into a jumping jack rabbit.

'Candy is
downstairs making an appeal on behalf of Poor Pussy Rescue. Then
she's going to announce that those who are prepared to make
exceptional donations to the fund can buy an interview with you. A
personal interview. Alone. In here. On this sofa.'

'Oh boy!'

'Will you do
it?'

'You're asking me to be a
whore?
'

'I'm asking you to sell kisses for the Milk Fund - like Monroe
in
Some Like It Hot
.'

'Who's going
first?'

'Minty Hush,
the TV presenter.'

'Which one's
that?'

'The doe-eyed
brunette in scarlet and cream. The one with the cocksucker's
mouth.'

'I'll do
it.'

Things had got
off to a slow start because Candy had insisted on 'a private word'
with Brick before proceedings began - an interview which lasted a
good ten minutes. Billy had dashed upstairs to investigate the
hold-up and discovered Candy breathlessly quitting Brick's
room.

'Hurry up!' he
hissed. 'Minty's going spare.'

Candy smiled
weakly at him as she hurriedly tucked her blouse into her skirt.
'Do I look OK?'

'Christ,
Candy, you didn't fuck him, did you?'

'I couldn't
resist, not after you'd told me he hadn't had a woman for five
years.'

'You horny
cow.'

'Don't be
crude, darling.'

'You owe the
fund a thousand quid.'

'Worth every
penny, believe me.'

As it turned
out Candy had used her time to excellent advantage. After she had
ushered Minty Hush into Brick's presence she grabbed Billy's hand
and dragged him to the next door along the corridor. This room
backed onto Brick's sitting-room and was connected by a serving
hatch with a sliding door which Candy had already opened a tiny
crack. The crack, however, was sufficient for a pair of observers
to view the goings-on in Brick's room. Thus, with Candy in front
and Billy behind, his chin resting on the top of her head, the two
of them settled down to watch events unfold.

Araminta Hush
was one of the acknowledged beauties of the television age. Her
face, with its enormous liquid brown eyes and full Cupid's-bow
mouth, was made for the small screen. For the past twenty years she
had been seen in various guises, as anchor-woman and field
correspondent, as contentious interviewer and special investigator.
It was not known whether she had a sense of humour, certainly she
was never glimpsed on any programme that had a hint of frivolity.
Come Christmas, when other reporters were tap-dancing with the
professional comics, Minty was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless it
was guaranteed she would re-emerge in early January reporting on
some foreign war, the mud and sweat on her brow only serving to
accentuate her angelic good looks. But - to her everlasting chagrin
- all her serious reports on the ills of the world passed over the
heads of the heterosexual males in her audience. When it came to
the gorgeous Minty Hush, masculine interest was purely carnal.

So Billy
watched closely as she shook hands with Brick and sat beside him on
the sofa directly opposite their vantage point. He was intrigued
that a rock musician should be of interest to her.

'Araminta
Hush,' Brick was saying in his deepest, most mellow tones. 'Don't I
know you?'

Her porcelain
cheeks blushed daintily as she said, 'Well, I am on television
rather a lot.'

'No. I don't mean
that
- though I've seen you a bunch of times and, my
God, you're a shit-hot reporter, if you'll pardon my free speech -
I mean haven't we
met
before. Years back. In the sixties.'

'Oh no. I've
never met you before.'

'Whoa, Minty.
Don't you be so sure. I used to tour England a whole lot back then.
I went all over. Met a hell of a lot of girls but not many as
beautiful as you. I couldn't forget a face like yours.'