Confessions from a Nudist Colony. Timothy Lea
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don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to find out.’ Before she can say anything, I drop my mitts to her knee and twist my body round so that I can slide them underneath her skirt.
‘Ooh!’ she says.
‘The steel’s a bit cold, is it?’ I say – consideration for birds’ feelings has always been one of my strong points.
‘Not only that,’ she says. ‘Your cheek’s pretty cool too! I’ve never worked with any one like you.’
‘We could become famous in the anals of crime,’ I say.
‘I think you mean annals,’ she says. ‘Though when you do that with your hands I’m not sure.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘These seats slope down a bit steep.’ I give her another chance to taste the nectar of my lips and this time our cakeholes melt together and I feel her long lashes brushing against my cheek like imprisoned butterflies – poetry, isn’t it? Oh, all right, please yourself. Only trying to extend my range. And, talking about extensions – yes, Percy is rearing roofwards like he is bent on turning my lap into an imitation of a tent being erected. She has gorgeous lips, this bird. They are sort of soft and tacky so that they form themselves to the shape of your cakehole and then cling on like clams. What a bleeding shame that my mitts are manacled. I really feel the urge to mould this bird-sized bule to the stressed steel that is the Lea rib cage.
‘Stop! You must–’ she squawks.
‘Careful,’ I say. ‘Anything you say will be taken down and used to wipe the condensation off the inside of the windows.’ I have already managed to check that her grumble is no stranger to the velvet gong-belter and without further ado I give her knicks a sponsored trip to kneesville.
‘Stop!’ she squeaks. ‘This is terribly naughty. Supposing we have to make a sprint for it?’
‘Make a splint for it?’ I say. ‘There’s no danger of that I can assure you. Clock this.’
‘No!’ she squeals as I seize my opportunity to reveal Britain’s latest space probe financed entirely by pubic subscriptions. ‘I was referring to our raid on the vice ring. We may be called into action at any moment.’ She gazes into my lap and I see her mind grappling with the problem of what use I can be with my hands manacled and an enormous hard on. I suppose I could always try to batter down the door of a caravan if the worst came to the worst.
‘Get on my lap,’ I say. ‘Go on. You know you want to.’ If she doesn’t, I want it enough for both of us. By the cringe! You could paint my nob tartan and call it Throb Roy.
‘Oh, you’re terrible!’ To my relief she bends forward and helps her knicks over her ankles. ‘Are they all like you in the CID?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You want to ask for a transfer.’ I raise my arms above my head and she takes a quick shufti out of the window and scrambles across my knees. They are steaming up fast – I mean, the windows not my knees – and it is probably just as well that a discreet veil should be drawn over the proceedings.
‘I could be discharged for this,’ she pants.
‘Likewise,’ I say working my khyber forward to the edge of the seat. ‘Mind how you – ah!’
She tucks my hampton away like your mum bunging a pair of freshly washed socks into a bottom drawer and it is clear that she is no stranger to parking inside the car.
‘I had a boyfriend with a midget,’ she says.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Still, they say that size isn’t everything.’
‘An MG Midget,’ she says. ‘It was very cramped.’
‘Of course,’ I say, getting her drift. ‘This is spacious, isn’t it?’ I slip my wrists over her head and shoulders and hug her to me so that the handcuffs press into the small of her back. Honestly, if you want to get into the police this is the only way. The experience could only be improved if she took her hat off but you don’t like to say anything, do you? Not at a moment like this. It might spoil the magic.
‘Ooooh!’ she gasps. ‘I never realised that pounding the beat could be such fun.’
‘It’s not bad, is it?’ I say. ‘Oooh!’ One of the problems of not being able to use my hands is that I have no control over any of my safety valves. Millie the Fuzz is strictly in the driving seat and with her dishing out the pelvic aggro the time to blast off can be measured in seconds. I try to think of Ted Heath’s organ to take my mind off what the copper bottom is doing to me but it is no good. Wisps of hair are hanging down in front of her boat race and she is biting her lip. I hate to see a woman doing a man’s work so I tilt my head forward and bite her lip for her. Not only bite it but suck it and send my tongue in to check that there has been no serious damage. This clearly goes down a treat and Millie joggles around so much that she hops off my hampton. ‘Damn!’ Boy! If all escaped prisoners were recaptured so quickly you would never hear that they had got out in the first place. WPC Marjoribanks gets my dick back on duty in a vulgar fraction of a second and I drive my feet down against the floor of the car. God knows what is happening outside. All the windows are totally steamed up.
‘Awwwwwweeeeee!’ Millie lets out a squeak and then cements herself to my cakehole. Her body has stopped juddering up and down but a long tremor ripples through it and her toes press against the carpet. I can feel myself teetering on the brink and I jerk my fife upwards until the chava lava runs wild through my quivering thighs and I feel like an electric blanket having it off with a cake mixer. It is a very affecting experience.
‘Right, let’s have you – blimey!’ The speaker is Millie’s mate who has just wrenched open the back door. He looks harassed and surprised, in that order. ‘Millie! You’re supposed to be on the job.’
‘Would you like to rephrase that statement?’ I say.
‘It was bad enough with that bloke in the charge room,’ says the male fuzz. ‘You were only supposed to be taking him a cup of tea.’
‘I was only trying to soften him up,’ protests Millie. ‘Why must you keep bringing up my past?’
‘Time to move on is it, chief?’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about leaving me. I’ll be all right.’ It has occurred to my shrewd brain that the sooner the two coppers slope off the better. What I had with Millie was very beautiful but it could not last. It was just a flash in the pants really. If I arrived home with a female fuzz Dad would have a heart attack – on second thoughts –
‘You’re a disgrace to the uniform,’ says the male copper. ‘Come, Marjoribanks. Button your tunic and shove your knickers down the back of the seat with the rest of them. There’s work to be done.’ He turns back to me. ‘You’d better wait here.’
‘Have no fear, squire,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
I am blooming nearly right, too. Have you ever tried pulling up a pair of trousers with handcuffs on? – no! not on the trousers. Why would anyone want to handcuff a pair of trousers? Wake up! This isn’t exactly highbrow reading but you are supposed to have a certain amount of nous. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Standing beside this police car with my bum hanging out of my jeans. I can’t make any progress inside the vehicle and it is only when I straighten up that I begin to get somewhere – like nearly arrested again. I feel such a berk giving little jumps in the air and trying to pull my trousers up at the same moment. A couple of old ladies give me a very nasty look and though I can’t lip read I reckon they are looking around for a keeper. Ungrateful old bags! You’d think they would be glad of a bit of excitement at their age, wouldn’t you?
In the end I manage to tuck my fife away and I am ready to scarper. My shirt is hanging out at the back but I can’t do anything about that with the handcuffs on and nobody is going to draw any conclusions. I mean, it is often like that when you come out of the karsi, isn’t it?
I take a few steps along the road