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 feti
sh 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 spicies
t 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."
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 34
