He rang the apartment bell, waited, knocked, waited, knocked harder and waited some more. Just as he’d thought, nobody home.
The third golden key slid with almost lubricated ease into the last lock between Beckett and the loot. All that easily transported, untraceable, antique loot.
As he passed through the apartment door, he patted at the front of his Saville Row (Peckham) shirt and felt the reassuring nylon kit bag, folded against his chest. He'd even thought to stick a few foreign tourist patches onto the bag, so that later he’d just look like a straggler, headed back to Lancaster Gate.
Once in through the front door, he decided not to use any of the lights. You never knew who knew the apartment was supposed to be empty. As he stood just inside the front door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, his first impression of how she had finally decided have the place decorated was of Italian furniture scattered across the virgin white expanses of oceans of deep pile carpeting. There was a lot of glass this, that and the other everywhere, and a fair wack of chrome. The whole place stank of money. After a few minutes, he found he could see clearly enough to more or less find his way around without risking barking his shins.
He’d just unbuttoned his shirt and started to pull out the nylon grip when a second pair of hands joined his. He felt the side of someone’s head press into just above the small of his back. He couldn’t be positive, but hadn’t Mlle. DuPont been a bit on the short side? Petite, but loaded.
And then she twisted round in front of him and shimmied up his body like he was a drainpipe until her mouth found his. He felt like a bloody chimney, a chimney that was getting majorly snogged, and then the only chimney he was aware of was the one that had suddenly sprouted in his trousers. Her mouth, tongue and hands moved over him so quickly he felt he was being raped by at least three women. This drove him out of what little was left of his mind and he returned her fervor blow for blow.
Then, she had him spread-eagled, naked (where had his clothes gone and how?) in the downy depths of the snow white carpet. The virgin lambs wool glowed watery white against his pallid cheek. His dick slid velvet smooth into the final stretch of the River of Forgetfulness. She began to move with the determined fluidity of a trained acrobat, at one point flipping and jack-knifing her body in such a blur of speed that he couldn’t quite tell whether it was her mouth or her cunt that sucked and pulled at his dick.
She rode him like the Grand National Winner he would never be. With all the detachment of insect sex she brought herself to a short series of shuddering climaxes, screamed “Kurt” twice, and then twisted him out of her and slithered across him, like a sweat-slicked serpent. Her mouth slid down over his quivering dick for the five seconds it took him to come.
As he lay there, sweat slimed and panting, she leaned over him and with a degree of precision that only comes with practice, spat his cum into a brass cuspidor. He dragged himself up onto his elbows and watched her tightly-rounded arse move away from him.
“This is a bit of a turn up for the books then,” he croaked.
He hadn’t quite finished picking up his clothes when she returned. He stood in the middle of the floor, his clothes gathered in a bundle against his stomach. She held a silver goblet in each hand. She handed him a goblet and then crossed the room to sit, legs crossed primly for all her lack of clothes, on a white leather couch. She stared at him with almost scientific precision. The ghost of a smile played across her lips. At length she nodded, as if coming to a decision. Beckett sat there grinning, the canary-filled cat, and waited for her to tell him how wonderful he was.
“I’d get going if I was you.” she said, “I just called the police.”
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders