Sex Lies and Lamborghinis

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.

"I can keep you here all day, Trish," I promised her. "Tell me."

"Please..." she gasped again, almost sobbing with the unbearable desire, the yearning for my expert touch.

"Tell me, Trish."

"Please..."

"Tell me who he is, Trish! Tell me who's after Mick!!"

"His name is Roberto Pagani!" she cried out, relenting and submitting to my will. "Roberto Pagani! He owns a few surf shops and fashion stores in town, I used to model for his catalogues, I used to be his girl – until I met Mick! Then I left him, I left Roberto, but he had pictures of me... dirty pictures..." and her face was falling, becoming crestfallen as her sorry story unfolded.

"...He had pictures of me doing lines of coke," she told me. "He had pictures of me naked, pictures of me sucking his dick, pictures of me getting fucked by a line-up of his guys, pictures, these awful awful pictures of me stoned out of my mind and getting gang-banged by all these guys... and he said he would ruin me, he would send the pictures to my parents, he would sell them to porno magazines, he would give them to the police because I left him, because I dared to leave Roberto Pagani...

"Please," she added, leaning up on her elbows to look at me, to beseech me, to beg me for all she wanted and needed from me. "Please, do something. Please find Mick... please, please stop Roberto... please, make me cum," she added, with a wild spark of demand flaring in her eye. "Make me cum. Make me forget... make me forget it all... just take your delicious little tongue and lick me up and eat me out, call me a slut, call me a dirty fucking whore – I don't care, I want it! I want to be a slut, I want to be a whore, your whore! I want you to take me, make me cum, make me cum, make ME CUMMM!!!"

I already was. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't stand against her desperate, self-effacing pleas and I had buried my face in her beautiful little snatch again, I had my tongue probing deep and hard, seeking out the thickest and sweetest of her gushing juices as I tongue-fucked her deep and hard and I fingered her with one hand, toying with her clitoris and stoking her, building her fire even as she came, and she came, and she came hard, coming and coming without pause or relent as I drove her wild, I fanned her fire, I ate her out and rubbed her mercilessly and she cried out, she cried out for more, for more, so I took my free hand and I moistened a finger by slipping it deep into her ever-so-soft, ever-so-gorgeous little box, then I pulled it out and pushed it deep into her other hole, I pushed it deep into her tight little arse and she came anew, she came with a new, wild abandon, she gnashed and thrashed and went absolutely wild as I probed at her tight puckering little arse and I kept eating her box and pressing down on her nubbin, and she came and she came and she came.

I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't hold off anymore. It was my turn. I pulled everything out of her and I climbed aboard the couch and kneeled over her, I hovered over her as she lay back on the couch and I simply sat on her face, I thrust my spread and tingling lips harshly down over her mouth and I rubbed myself, ground my sex into her face.

It took her a moment to recover but soon she was eating me, hesitant and inexpertly at first but she gained in confidence, and I moaned and groaned as my orgasm swelled and mounted and I reared back, I reached up and pinched my own nipples and bit my lip against the exquisite self-inflicted pain to help me build faster; I pinned Trish's ears back with my knees as she ate me, as she licked and slurped at my flowing juices and traced her tongue roughly over my clit and she lapped me up, she drank me up, and I moaned and I groaned and I cried out and I screamed as my orgasm hit me and I came, I finally came, and I rode my orgasm as I rode Trish's face and as she ate me out, as she tongued and lashed at my cunt, as she slurped and spluttered and mumphed and nearly suffocated as I smothered her with my sex and half-drowned her with my juices, until finally I had had my fill and I fell off her, I fell back and rolled off the couch and lay on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling with my breasts heaving and my knees up and spread as I simply lay back and attempted to recover.

Eventually we regained our breath and our sanity, and I realised Trish was looking at me – staring at me through my spread-open knees, taking in my exposed pussy and my naked body. I didn't care that she saw me like that – shit, there must be a thousand people, men and women alike who have seen me from that angle – but I sat up a little to catch her eye and hold her gaze.

"That... was... awesome..." she opined, still breathless and stunned from our exertions.

"Your first time with another woman?" I asked.

She nodded. "Could you tell?"

"Yeah. But hell, you did well for a first-timer."

She giggled, low and deep and throaty, and I could instantly see why the guys were so fond of her as her breasts jiggled with her giggle, as her blond hair fell partially over her face, and a gloriously dirty little glint lit up in her eye. "Well, I hope it won't be the last time..." she purred.

I couldn't help but grin. "You wicked little slut," I admonished. "Have you no loyalty – to Mick, or to anyone?"

"I like being a slut," she declared, utterly unabashed. "I love sex. I'd fuck all the time, if I could."

I shrugged: it was a sentiment I oftentimes found myself sharing, so I wasn't going to begrudge her for it. "Well, come on: get dressed and make yourself useful," I ordered, picking up her flimsy summer dress and flinging it at her.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as I got up and started to put my clothes on again... for, what, the fourth time that day? Fifth?

"You're going to show me who, and where, this 'Roberto Pagani' is."

***

We were dressed – well, mostly dressed; I was still missing my knickers and hadn't bothered this time with my bra, not caring that my nipples showed darkly through my thin white blouse, while Trish's skimpy little dress may as well have been painted on for all the support it gave or all it left to the imagination – and we were heading down the driveway, when I saw a station car pull up in front of my 'appropriated' red Elfin...

...and I remembered: "Shit. Andy."

So it was: Andy the tech guy, already frowning as he stepped out of the car and beheld the two of us. "Going somewhere?" he challenged.

"We sure are!" I confirmed, unapologetic as ever. "Following a hot lead. No time for dilly-dallying."

"What about that computer you needed me to crack?"

"It's okay," I told him. "Trish here knows the password. It's all good."

"It's all good, is it?" Andy echoed, starting to get cranky. "Well, what about our little 'arrangement'?"

He was probably referring to the sex I had promised him, for driving forty-five minutes up the coast to illegally crack a computer I had found during an illegal search of a thus-far innocent man's house. "I'll have to get you later, mate," I shrugged in apology.

That did nothing to help his crankiness. "I thought you said you were horny!"

"No no – I took care of that," I informed him. "This is Trish, by the way. Trish: Andy; Andy: Trish..."

Andy didn't miss the implication, and with growing baffled bemusement he watched us as we each stepped over the cowl of the Elfin, paused to push our skirts back down below our bared panty-free pussies, and wriggled down into the snug-fitting seats.

"You are such a slut, Jennings!" he shouted, having to yell as I fired up the Elfin's unmuffled V8.

"What??" I mimed, cupping a hand over my ear.

"I SAID: YOU ARE SUCH A SLUT!"

"That's, 'you are such a slut, Detective Sergeant'!" I corrected him; and amid a wail of the engine and billowing clouds of tyre smoke, I pulled out into the street and we were gone, with Andy's wild and unkind gesticulations only partially obscured by the smoke in the rear view mirror.

"Who was that?" Trish finally asked.

"A tech guy from the station," I explained. "He was gunna crack Mick's computer for me, in return for certain 'favours'."

"Mick's password is 'biggwinna79'," Trish told me, and she spelled it out. "Will that 'tech guy' be angry with you for long?"

"Nah. I always keep my promises – I'll sort him out later. I'll let him fuck me for a week, or something."

"And you called me a slut," Trish grinned.

"Well..." I said, and I laid a hand possessively on her inner thigh, which was quite close in the tight confines of the squeezy little Elfin. "You are a little slut, aren't you? Makes us quite the pair."

She smiled at that, and we drove on into town until Trish directed me to pull over opposite a boutique clothing store on the main street.

"That's him..." she murmured, nodding into the store front.

I looked across the street, and saw exactly what I expected: Roberto Pagani, a total mook. A gentleman of middle-age, say late forties, early fifties; swarthy, of Italian descent given his name; dark hair, hard face, a powerful body not fit or athletic, but not overly heavy, dressed smartly in an expensive dark grey suit; all of it summing up to absolutely scream 'petty hardman made it big in little town'.

"I see," I nodded. "And you told Mick he's been giving you trouble?"

"Yeah. I asked if we should go to the police – Mick said no, he didn't want my drug use to get me into trouble, and he didn't want me to be embarrassed by the sex photos," Trish explained, as we watched Roberto schmoozing a couple of older ladies at the door to his store. "Mick thought he could sort it out; he didn't know Roberto, but he was sure he could get him off my back. Mick's got this really cool, confident, 'leave it to me' sort of way about him..."

"You said you last saw Mick, about two nights ago?" I prompted her.

"Yeah, that's when I told him about Roberto and his pictures," Trish admitted, unhappily. "Mick told me not to worry about it, he promised he'd make it all right... and next thing I knew, you were standing in Mick's office, telling me he was missing, he'd crashed his Lamborghini off a mountain and was hurt..."

Trish's face was screwing up in preparation for a bout of tears, but I didn't have time to comfort her – Roberto's customers were heading off, and he was just starting to look our way. I pulled back into traffic and drove off; I couldn't be sure if he had scored a good look at our faces, but he'd definitely had a decent eyeful of the red Elfin, so I resolved to park it back in Mick's lock-up that night and choose a different plaything to drive over the coming days. Probably the Mercedes, I reckoned...

Back on the move, I asked Trish if she had somewhere she could stay that Roberto didn't know about – she said her parents lived a couple towns over, so I dropped her back at her place and made her promise she'd head over there as soon as she'd packed her bags, leaving her my card so she could call me if anything came up.

I drove back to Mick's pad, parking the Elfin in the garage this time – discretion always being the key, a maxim I oftentimes forgot in my daily dealings – and I went back to the office to have my own turn on Mick's computer.

Even as I was typing in the Trish-supplied password, a nearby landline rang. I paused, but didn't answer it. I was still in the middle of an illegal search, after all, so instead of incriminating myself I decided to let it go to the answering machine, which played a robotised factory-installed instruction to "Leave a message after the beep" – apparently Mick didn't feel the need to personalise the answering message at his illicit goof-off sex-pad – and then someone spoke:

"This is Mick Worhurst," began a cheerful male voice. "And if I may, I would like to speak to the devastatingly beautiful young woman with the gun on her belt, who broke into my home, went through my files, had sex with my girlfriend, and is currently trying to break into my computer... all in front of my webcam."

I was frozen. I couldn't move; I couldn't think; all I could do was look dumbly to the little spherical webcam on the shelf above the computer, which I had seen before and stupidly assumed had not been running.

"Fuck," I simply said.