“Your mental state is bloody dangerous. Anyway, the chances are a million to one against.”
“But there’s a chance, all the same. You should never assume anything, sir.”
“There’s one assumption I made years ago which turned out to be correct. You’re clinically insane, Blond.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, insanity must be looked upon as relative.”
“I would imagine that all your relatives are completely mad.”
19
“Relatively speaking ...”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Sighing, Spew mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Stuffing the sweat-dripping rag back into his pocket, he watched in despair as Blond began fiddling with an electronic gadget on the bench. The pink, cylindrical device suddenly buzzing loudly, Blond sniggered as a red-faced assistant dashed across the lab and grabbed the buzzing phallus.
“It’s, er ...” the white-coated man stammered sheepishly as Spew frowned at him. “It’s a two-way radio, sir.”
“Press my buzzing tip harder against your pulsating clitoris!” the thing voiced monosyllabically. “Stuff me up your wet cunt and bring yourself off!”
“A two-way radio, my fucking foot,” Spew returned, snatching the device and thrusting it into his jacket pocket. “Go and get on with whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”
“May I have one of those?” Blond asked. “It might be useful for ...”
“No, you may not. Now, listen to me. Should you be asked the time, you know what to say.”
“Yes, sir. It’s twelve-fifteen.”
“Good man. It’s unlikely that a foreign agent will mistake you for his contact, but you never know. Right, pick up your decorator’s gear from wardrobe and drive over to the Houses of Parliament. You’ll be met at the gate by a man wearing a black velvet jacket with a white carnation in the buttonhole.”
“Will he ask me the time, sir?”
“Of course he won’t ask you the fucking time. He’s not a foreign agent, for God’s sake.”
20
“Rub me over your clitoris and I’ll buzz you to orgasm!”
“Fucking thing!” Spew hissed, taking the vibrator from his pocket and smashing it against the wall. “Off you go, Blond. And good luck.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll report in as usual.”
“Right you are. And don’t touch the paintwork.”
Leaving the lab, Blond decided to drop into Honeycunny’s office before going to Westminster. Another quick blow job wouldn’t go amiss, he mused, creeping along the corridor.
Hovering outside her office, he spied through the crack in the door, making sure that she was alone before daring to dash in with the knob of his erect penis protruding from his pocketless trouser pocket. “My God,” he breathed, gazing at the woman in disbelief as she reclined in her swivel chair and parted her shapely thighs.
The hairless lips of her knickerless pussy blatantly displayed, she opened the desk drawer and pulled out a small vibrator. Watching as she switched the device on and pressed the buzzing tip against the erect nub of her protruding clitoris, Blond’s eyes widened. He’d known for some time that she was a sex-crazed nymphomaniac, but he had no idea that she had a vibro and was heavily into masturbation resulting in vibro-induced orgasms. There wasn’t a bigger turn on than watching a woman bring herself off, he reflected, his cock swelling within his trousers, his knob threatening to peer out of his pocket slit.
The trembling woman gasping as the vibrating sensations transmitted through her quivering pelvis, she licked her succulent red lips. “Yes,” she murmured, her head lolling to one side, her eyes rolling as she yanked the engorged lips of her cunt further apart. Gazing into the 21
dark, wet hole of her accommodating vaginal canal, Blond massaged his penis-head through his non-pocketed trousers as she reached beneath her twitching thigh and drove three fingers deep into her hot lust sheath. Her inner labia gripping her slender fingers as she pistoned her drenched cunt, she let out whimpers of pleasure, pressing the vibrator harder against her pulsating passion spot as her obvious arousal rose.
“Oh, my cunt,” she whispered in her ecstasy, her fingers squelching the juices of female lust within her burning sex sheath. Parting her thighs further, unwittingly displaying her open girl fissure, the distended inner wings of her vagina to Blond’s gaze, she slipped her fingers out of her fiery love hole and thrust them into her mouth. Sucking her juices, licking her fingers clean as the vibrator buzzed against her pulsating clitoris, her nostrils flared as the birth of her orgasm stirred within her rhythmically contracting womb.
Her curvaceous young body becoming rigid, she thrust her fingers deep into the fiery heat of her juice-brimming cunt again, fervently massaging her inner flesh as she tossed her head back and wailed uncontrollably. “Yes!” she sang in her sexual delirium as her orgasm exploded within her vibrating clitoris, her juices or ecstasy spewing from her finger-bloated sex cavern and splattering the smooth skin of her inner thighs. On and on her pleasure rolled, the hairless skin of her fleshy vaginal lips turning crimson as she sustained her massive climax with the buzzing vibrator.
In dire need of de-sperming his heavy balls, Blond watched through the crack in the door as Miss Honeycunny relaxed in the aftermath of her self-induced, vibrator-aided climax. She really was a horny little sex-pot, he reflected, gazing in amazement as she parted the rounded 22
orbs of her pert buttocks and pressed the tip of the vibrator hard against her tight anal ring. The pink shaft defeating her sphincter muscles, disappearing deep into the murky depths of her hot rectal tunnel, she finger-fucked the tight sheath of her drenched cunt, shuddering and whimpering in her sexual frenzy.
Ramming the buzzing phallus in and out of her tightening arse duct, her fingers pistoning her juice-spurting vagina, she placed one foot on her desk, fully opening her inviting sex orifices in her wanton self abuse. Her naked thighs twitching as her second orgasm approached, her mouth hanging open, she shook fiercely as her intense pleasure built. Her face flushing as her crude sexual stimulation inevitably erupted within her blossoming passion spot, her body contorting with the agonising pleasure, she almost fell off the chair in her near-semiconsciousness.
“Bloody hell,” Blond breathed as she vibrator-fucked her anal canal, her orgasmic juices spurting from her finger-crammed vaginal orifice and spraying her inner thighs. Never had he seen anything like it, and he wondered at Honeycunny’s wanton self abuse as she again cried out in her debased act. Her hot pussy milk bubbling from her tightening vaginal orifice, splattering the carpet between her twitching feet, she maintained her multiple orgasm until her quivering body convulsed violently. The buzzing vibrator embedded deep within the tight tube of her anal tract, her girl-creamed fingers slipping out of her fuckable pussy sheath, she lay shaking in the chair as her vaginal cavern drained.
“Whoops,” Blond murmured, hearing Spew’s voice emanating from somewhere down the corridor. “Time to disappear.” Taking one last look at Honeycunny’s rag doll-like body 23
trembling in the chair, he grinned. If Spew caught her with a vibro stuffed up her bum, her juice-streaming cuntal crack gaping, she’d be for the high jump. “Duty calls,” he muttered, dashing down the corridor. Smiling as he passed a miniskirted lab assistant, he vowed to fuck Honeycunny’s tight bottom-hole at the earliest inopportune moment. The woman needed a bloody good arse fucking, he thought happily. Well,
he
needed to give her a bloody good arse fucking!
27
earing a white boilersuit, Blond climbed into the Robin Reliant and fired up the W engine. Leaving HQ and driving to Westminster, he prayed that he’d not be recognized as he passed his local haunt, the Trotsky Club. Driving a three-wheeler finished in a fetching primrose yellow was embarrassing in the extreme, he mused, stopping at a pedestrian crossing for a hunch back of Notre Dame look-alike woman in her hundredth year.
Smiling as a blonde-haired, fresh-faced young schoolgirl dressed in a tight gymslip crossed the road, he imagined her sniffable, cunny-stained navy-blue knickers stretched tightly over the swell of her young pussy lips. A perfectly normal thought for a perfectly perverted man.
The sheath of her virginal cunt was bound to be hot and wet, he reflected, his cock stiffening as he pondered on parting the soft hillocks of her outer lips and tonguing her well-juiced sex duct.
Her young clitoris would be ripe for sucking, ready for taking to several tongue-induced multiple orgasms. Her naked buttocks yanked apart, her open bottom-hole would invite his tongue, his fingers - his massive cock!
“Want a lift, baby?” he called, leaning out of the window and eyeing her firm thighs.
“In
that
thing?” she returned sarcastically.
“Any chance of getting my hands inside your wet, navy-blue knickers and finger-fucking your tight cunt?”
“I’ve heard about sad perverts like you.”
28
“There’s no need to be like that.”
“Perverts like you should be locked up.”
“I’d like to have my mouth locked to your hot, juicy cunt hole.”
“Piss of out of here.”
“Well, that’s nice. Out of the kindness of my heart, I was simply offering you a lift. And a quick finger fucking, juice licking, pussy squelching, cunt fucking, cervix spunking ...”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Charming, I must say.”
“Go fuck your arsehole!”
“I’ll fuck yours in a minute!”
“Bollocks!”
The youth of today
, he reflected sadly as she strutted off. Still, it was her loss. Had she played her cards right, he would have parted the swollen lips of her schoolgirlie cunny and slipped his wet tongue into the oh-so-tight sheath of her virginal sex sheath and rubbed her erect clitoris to orgasm as he fucked her pretty mouth and spunked down her throat.
And that’s only
foreplay!
Shaking his head, he pondered on his disguise as he reached the Houses of Parliament. A painter and decorator wearing a boilersuit and driving a Robin Reliant finished in a not-so-fetching cyanide-yellow had no chance of pulling a horny schoolgirlie, he reflected. Had he been wearing a crisp open-neck shirt and cruising along in an Aston Martin with Pulp singing
Common People
blasting from the stereo ...
Dream on, Haynes.
29
Catching sight of a man in a velvet jacket hovering suspiciously in the car park, he pondered on visiting the Trotsky Club that evening and getting wrecked. Getting wrecked had nothing to do with the velvet-jacketed man, but sinking twenty-five pints of lager followed by a night of rampant sex with a cheap hooker dressed as a schoolgirlie sounded like a good idea. Sex, drugs and rock and roll - and alcohol. Not necessarily in that order. All at once? Now there’s a thought!
“Got the fucking time on you, mate?” the man asked, resting his hands on the roof of the car.
“Er ... Yes,” Blond smiled. “It’s twelve-fifteen.”
“Twelve bleedin’ fifteen? Fuck me, it must be at least four o’fuckin’ clock.”
“No, it’s twelve-fifteen o’fuckin’ clock. I mean, it’s twelve-fifteen.” Blond paused.
“You’ll have noticed my boilersuit,” he said, his lips furling into a grin as he winked at the man.
“Will I?”
“Of course you will. In your considered opinion, what would you say I look like?”
Holding his chin, the man looked Blond up and down and frowned. “You look like a prize fucking prat to me.”
“You cheeky cunt!” Blond returned. “I’m a fucking painter and fucking decorator. I paint and decorate, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, right. Why the fuck didn’t you say so?”
“Because you asked me what the bloody time was.”
“I asked you because ...”
“Had you not wasted time by asking the time when time is of the essence ...”
30
“Forget about the fucking time. Park over there where it says,
no parking, wheel clamps
in use
. Then go through that door over there where it says,
no unauthorized entry, intruders will
be shot on sight
.”
“Right, thanks.”
“When you get inside, ask for Dave the dyke.”
“Dave the dyke. OK.”
Parking the car, Blond locked the door and turned towards the building. Cringing as the man in the velvet jacket let out a blood curdling scream and collapsed to the ground, he scratched his head. “What the hell ...”
Ah, it’ll be cyanide poisoning
, he concluded, walking across the car park.
Life’s a bitch and then you die.
Pushing the door open, he pondered on the notice.
Intruders
will be shot on sight?
“I’ll be OK, I’m a painter and decorator,” he murmured, wandering through the door.
Following a maze of corridors, he finally found himself entering a busy bar. Besuited men drinking scotch and smoking cigars were strewn about the bar like manakins in a shop window and the place wreaked of alcohol and sex and drugs and rock and roll. Blond wondered what the hell he was doing mingling with a bunch of lying, toe rag MPs as he edged his way towards the bar. Still, the sex smelled good.
I’m hardly dressed for the fucking part
, he reflected, hoping that his white boilersuit wouldn’t rouse suspicion as he ordered a pint of lager.
“A pint of larger?” the camp poofter behind the bar echoed. “Darling, if it’s a pint of lager you want, I suggest you try the East Lambeth Working Men’s Club.”
31
“I don’t want to try a working men’s club,” Blond returned through gritted teeth. “I want a pint of fucking lager. And don’t call me darling.”
“
Fucking
lager? Mmm, I like a man with spunk. I’ve got plenty of spunk. I’ve also got the inclination, if you’ve got the time.”
“The time?” Blond said, raising his eyebrows and looking about him. “It’s twelve-fifteen,” he whispered, leaning across the bar.