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 Dasta
rdly 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 p
lants 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.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 35
