I had turned up an unexpected result in the case of Mick and the blood-soaked Lamborghini. That result's name was 'Trish' – young, blond, soft and sexy beyond belief. She didn't know where Mick was or exactly what had happened to him, but I was sure she knew something about how he might have got into trouble... and I was prepared to use my very best interrogation skills to get it out of her.
I held her tightly in my arms, firm and unyielding. I laid a million kisses about her bared neck, shoulders, chest and tits, even as my hands poured all over her gorgeous arse and hips and thighs, and she kissed and caressed me in return. We were hot and heavy for each other, and there was no denying it – she was an awesome piece of arse, and quite frankly so was I, and we couldn't hold back our desires if we had even wanted to.
My clothes were proving a nuisance, so we worked to remove them. I took off the gun belt and skirt, letting them fall as she undid the few buttons on my blouse that I ever bothered to button up, and even as Trish reefed open my shirt and kissed and caressed my breasts I reached back and undid my bra, letting both items fall away. We struggled for a moment to free her of her only item of clothing – a tight summery dress that she had already rolled high above her hips and down below her tits – and after some wriggling and worming we had that around her ankles, leaving us both naked and ready.
There was a couch on one wall of Mick's office – where he had undoubtedly fucked this dumb slut a hundred times – and we automatically fell upon it. We crawled and writhed over each other; I straddled her leg and ground myself into her, rubbing and smearing my hot wet sex into her silky smooth skin even as I pressed my leg hard against her own hot, wet little slit, rubbing gently against and into her and sparking her moans and groans anew.
Our arms wrapped around each other as we gave ourselves over to abandonment. We kissed and kissed and kissed – her mouth was incredibly soft and sweet, and I pressed my lips against hers and lashed her tongue with my own, almost growing drunk off her kisses. My hands found her breasts – large and impossibly perky, yet soft and undoubtedly real – and I squeezed them wantonly, provoking a squeal and a giggle, so young and girl-like.
I couldn't wait any longer. I slipped backwards down her body and off the couch, landing on my knees with my face half-way down her body – and roughly, I grabbed her legs and separated them, dragging her down and about until I had her legs draped over my shoulders, my fingers spreading her soft froth-covered vaginal lips and my face buried in her hot sweet cunt.
At the first touch of my tongue, she came. She was pretty easy to rile up – though I'm sure I had a few things going for me: my smoking-hot body, of course, plus the overbearing authority of a pissed-off police officer, the fact I had appeared out of nowhere to catch her half-naked and masturbating, the shock and unexpectedness of the situation... not to mention that I am no stranger to a woman's pleasure. So of course she came straight away!
I kept her on a light boil, so to speak, keeping her high on the crest of her orgasm for a few moments before letting her fall away again by slowing my ministrations, swirling my tongue around and over her cute little clit, swirling slower and slower until her pleasure began to ebb – and then I stopped.
"Mmmmmm," I murmured, as Trish's moans and cries wound back to gasps and groans, and as she looked down at me I let her catch me licking my lips. "You're a tasty little slut, aren't you?"
Her eyes lolled with total, depraved pleasure – the denigration, being called a slut and a whore was working for her, working really well, to the extent that she had to fight to keep from swooning into debauched bliss.
"Mmm, yes you are..." I whispered, and I tasted of her again – a quick, darting little lick of her creamy, frothing juices which continued to pump and spill out of her tiny, shaved little pussy, and that one little lap of my tongue nearly brought her back to the brink.
"Let's settle down for a minute or two, shall we?" I suggested, laying off her cunt for the now and instead rubbing my hands gently, caressingly up and down her tanned, silken-smooth legs. "Why don't we think back... tell me, how did you and Mick first meet?"
"Umm..." she said, her voice still broken and faltering as she continued to gasp and heave, still coming down from her delicious orgasmic high. "Well, it was a couple months ago... I was walking down the main street in Warburton, and I see this beautiful orange sports car pull up outside a café. This guy gets out, and he's just adorable: cute, but nice, like he wasn't 'up himself', he didn't think he was king shit just coz he had a flash car. You know? So I said 'hi'."
'Yeah, I'll bet you did,' I thought to myself. I could see the scene now: Mick, totally unassuming, running some errand or possibly even pulling in for a quick brunch; he steps out of his Lambo, sees some pneumatic tart smiling at him and giving him the eye... "...and things just went from there, eh?" I finished for her.
"That's right," she nodded, with a contented sigh as my soft massage moved from her legs up to the fronts and sides of her pelvis.
"So... before you knew Mick, what did you do with your time? Where did you work, who did you hang out with?"
I saw her blink, and pause for a moment – even in her blissed-out state, she was able to realise I was slipping back into interrogation mode. "I used to do some modelling," she volunteered. "You know: catalogues, poster shoots for local businesses..."
"Lemme guess: swimwear and lingerie?" I grinned – she certainly had the body and the looks for it.
"A lot of that," Trish confessed, with a shy smile.
I knew Trish's type. Girls like Trish don't work hard or often; the occasional bout of modelling and photo-shoots are undertaken more to boost their ego than to earn their keep. Girls like Trish don't go long without a sugar daddy of some kind...
"So who was your boyfriend, before you hooked up with Mick?" I asked.
Her face was suddenly a picture of despairing panic, and I knew I had her.
"Trish: tell me..." I advised.
"He... he wasn't anybody..." she tried to lie.
I wasn't going to put up with Trish's crap. I was horny, I had a hot young bimbo with her legs over my shoulders and her snatch in my face – there was no time for mucking around, there were things to do, boxes to eat, orgasms to be had. So I reached up and with one finger, I traced a delicate little track around and over her tiny little clit which made her tits stand up as she gasped and reared back onto her shoulder blades, arching backwards on the couch in wondrous, delicious torture.
"No lies, Trish," I told her. "You're too dumb to lie to me. I see through you. I've got you. I own you. Now tell me: who was your old boyfriend?"
"Please..." she gasped, still fighting for air, still coming down from my last touch – she was close, and she wanted it. She wanted to come again and she couldn't keep herself from begging for it. "Please..."
"Not until you give me what I want," I admonished – though I did it again: I took my finger and I touched her, ever so lightly, ever so fleetingly did I dip shallowly into her glorious soft grasping depths before drawing out the hotter, thicker moisture and rubbing it over her clit, softly, just barely brushing it...
...which brought her teetering back to the edge, hanging deliciously, wanting to cum but unable, a long and ever-so-delicious moan of glorious frustration leaving her lips.
