So maybe he was right — she was a whore. What of it? Her narrow hips moved sinuously under their taut coating of imitation leather and her high-heeled boots clacked out a forceful rhythm on the tiles.

As usual, Mindi crossed the street at the busy intersection near the station, scanning the oncoming line of traffic for a trolley-bus. The familiar crowd of students and poor people pushed forwards as the bus approached, an ungracious swirling human current funneling itself through the door of the stale-smelling vehicle. As always, Mindi swung, holding onto a leather strap and examining the ads for online courses and cash before payday. Swinging was part of the game, a golden opportunity to exhibit her leather-wrapped wares before a captive audience. She could feel their eyes upon her, lighting here and there like butterflies eager for a taste of sugar. They weren’t all men and they weren’t all young. Mindi read the ads, slowly, pleasurably, her tight little buttocks warm and slightly moist beneath their shiny second skin. It was almost time to get off.

In a trendy area near the university, the young woman stepped from the bus, leaving behind a host of unrequited lustful eyes. She liked the neighborhood with its vegetarian cafés and metaphysical bookstore. It had a groovy sixties feel to it, all joss sticks and tie-dye. She entered a second-hand clothing store, a veritable Aladdin’s cave of ethnic and retro garments, and smiled at the young guy behind the counter. He was beautiful and blonde, too utterly gorgeous to be interested in girls. He returned her greeting with a knowing look.

“Hi, Mindi. Love those fake leather pants! How’s my favorite slut?”

The young woman blew him a kiss.

“Don’t be a bitch, Kyle. I’m good, thanks. Is the Professor in?”

“But of course. Step this way…”

The store was like a little jungle, its walls draped with tiered layers of dresses, coats and hats. Long scarves hung from the ceiling, floating like silky lianas in the breeze. Mindi caught sight of her reflection in a tall oval mirror-a pretty Asian girl with perky tits and smooth black hair cut in a short angular bob. Her nipples were very prominent, pushing insistently against the fine cotton of her skimpy halter top. She felt horny, like other people felt hungry, three or four times a day. She needed sex like some people needed a fix.

“It’s Mindi, Professor. Wearing skintight imitation leather pants.”

There was a slight pause, then a disembodied voice replied.

“Christ, that sounds hot, girl. Come in and close the door.”

Kyle’s well-defined back disappeared through the racks of shirts and skirts. Mindi pulled the door shut and they were alone in the back room of “Retro Rags”-the young woman in her streetwalker clothes and an average-looking older man, mid forties with a ginger beard and tortoiseshell specs. Silently, Mindi swayed across the tiny room and slid onto his broad corduroy-clad knees. Her shaved pussy was milking sweet juice and her pierced clit ached.

“Here I am, Daddy. Just the way you like me.”

“Mmm hmmm.”

His hands moved to cup her buttocks and she shivered, throwing her head back and arching her spine. The tiny room was little more than a glorified cupboard. It smelled of ancient gas heater and boiled coffee. Mindi put her arms round the Professor’s neck and began to squirm rhythmically.

“Mindi Snake-hips.”

“That’s ‘cos I want my Daddy to eat me. I’m so wet, I can’t stand it. Feel.”

She unzipped her crotch and guided his hand inside the reptilian pants. Her cunt felt hot and slick and he pushed two fingers deep inside her molten depths, making her cry out.

“My little serpent needs to slough her scales. Get naked, girl-I want to taste you.”

Mindi eased herself off the Professor’s lap and quickly shed her sinuous second-skin. His hands briefly appraised her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin cotton. She moaned, eyes closed, scarlet lips parted in a near-hypnotic rapture.

“Get naked,” he repeated, pushing up her top to reveal her creamy little tits. Slowly, he ran the tip of his tongue around her sweet-tasting areola, then sucked hard, drawing as much of her breast into his mouth as he could. She threw her top on the floor and squatted over him, fully nude but for her stiletto boots, feeding her tit between his hungry lips. Already, her first orgasm sent electric thrills through her swollen shiny clit.

“Daddy!” she screamed, taking deep, perverse pleasure from calling him that. They weren’t blood relations but her favorite kink was to play with taboos. He let her nipple go and she felt the air rush over her inflamed wet skin. His curly head dipped to taste the smooth honey flesh of her belly.

“You smell of sex. Let me eat your cunt.”

Carefully, Mindi removed the Professor’s glasses. She pushed her crotch towards his face, almost unable to bear the tension of waiting for his searching tongue.

“Like a sweet ripe peach.”

He kissed her clit, making her jolt and cry out. Still squatting, she held his head, positioning his mouth to give her maximum pleasure.

“Oh, God, Daddy, you know how to suck pussy…”

His lips traced the delicate contours of her labia, his tongue darting and swirling into the velvety hole of her cunt. Wild with ecstasy, she pushed her hands through his thick auburn hair, twisting fat strands about her fingers as she ground her hips and began to fuck her partner’s face.

“Christ! Eat me, Daddy!”

The Professor’s lips found her clit, a fat sweet bud, ready to burst. Its little gold ring felt cool against his tongue. He flicked it gently with tiny butterfly kisses then sucked hard. Again, Mindi screamed, coming a second time, harder and deeper than before, all but tearing his hair out by the roots.

“You taste so fucking good, like a Pina Colada.”

Mindi laughed, looking down at his juice-bathed face. His eyes looked through her and her heart swelled for him. He would never be able to see his sexy little afternoon delight. But being blind was no handicap when it came to making love. He could touch and taste her with such exquisite intensity, as if she saturated his remaining senses.

“I have to go now, Daddy. Take care.”

She dressed swiftly, aware of him reaching into his pocket for cash. As always, she took what he offered, a small sheaf of bills, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“‘Til next time, Mindi Snake-hips.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

Emerging through the jungle of clothes, Mindi paused, as usual, to silently pass the money to Kyle. As always, he slipped it back into the till.

“You’ll never take a cent from the Prof., will you?”

The young guy’s expression was admiring but curious. Mindi looked out into the busy street. A trolley-bus was heading her way.

“It’d be like stealing from my Daddy.”

“See you next week, girl. You’re my favorite whore.”

“Take care, Kyle.”

In a moment, she was back on the bus, swinging from a strap, a wistful smile on her scarlet lips.

She was dressed from neck to toe in latex.

From my vantage point, behind a hawthorn tree, I couldn’t tell the exact design of her boots, but what I could see, beneath the hem of her dress, was sharp looking, pointy toed and stiletto heeled. Dangerous footwear to stamp and crush and pierce a submissive boy or girl, leaving little metallic love bites on tender, willing flesh. The dress was ankle-length and a curious hybrid of old and new. It had a demure high collar and fitted bodice, as might have been worn by a Victorian maid.

It clung to the young woman’s hips like a second skin, accentuating her high, tight buttocks. She couldn’t have been wearing panties, not even a thong. The skirt flared elegantly down, again demure, concealing every inch of leg. In any other fabric, it would have been a chaste dress, a return to the days of parasols and fans and blushing innuendo. But in shiny, shiny black latex, it was a wicked temptress of a frock. I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl and I sensed that she knew it.

She looked like a librarian.

There was a studious, serious expression about her and her spectacles were of an unglamorous design. The sharp contrast between virgin and whore delighted my sensibilities. I leaned against the tree and watched, still and silent, worshiping her with my thirsty eyes. Every fiber of my being desired her, yet she wasn’t mine to possess. I saw her clasp the cold iron curlicues of the big old gate in shiny black-gloved hands. Even her fingers were coated with the dark wet-looking cloth. It made me think of fresh paint or black ice or a slick of oil. She was poisonous as a deadly snake and completely unattainable.

That was the attraction.

It was late autumn and a handful of dead leaves blew along the churchyard path, orange-brown against gray. The girl began to walk, each sinuous step crunching softly on the humble gravel as she moved sensuously, confidently, the dull November light playing on her liquid gown. I thought of deep, thick water, of drowning ecstatically beneath the twin daggers of her stabbing heels. Her small, firm bottom moved deliciously, like a pair of perfect round peaches dipped in glossy caramel.

At the end of the path, there stood an ancient crypt, its crumbling sandstone walls almost black with age and overgrown with ivy. The young woman looked back once then entered, stooping slightly beneath the low lintel of the door. Cautiously, I crept out from my concealment. The pale November sun was low in the sky as I tiptoed softly across the damp grass of the graveyard, lingering like a ghost amongst the neglected headstones and vases of dead chrysanthemums. I held my breath when I reached the path and, spotting a small ivy-draped window on one wall of the crypt, I moved towards it instinctively and peered into the gloom.

She lay on her back on a tombstone, her long blonde hair spread over the dark, dank surface like a halo. With gloved hands, she caressed her breasts through the bodice of the shiny dress. It was as if the feel of the fabric aroused her. I imagined the beautiful body beneath the fetishistic clothes.

She was encased.

Then her gleaming black fingers strayed to her crotch, again pressing and stroking the slippery, clinging cloth, molding it to her pubic mound, pushing warm, malleable latex into the cleft between her open thighs. The heels of her boots clicked and scraped against the tombstone as she ground her hips, sliding one shiny finger up and down the plastic imprint of her pussy lips, finding her clit and rubbing hard.

I felt as if I might explode.

There was no need for nudity when the second skin was infinitely more exciting than the first. Like real flesh, it carried the heat of the blood and softened, stretched, accommodating the strong, lithe movements of the girl. I could see the definite outline of her nipples pushing at the latex dress. The bodice molded to her breasts as she writhed, taking up her fevered warmth, seemingly painting her luscious contours with wet paint or melted tar. I wanted to come.

As her ecstasy rose, my arousal grew. I pressed my body against the cold, damp stone and felt energy play between my mind and my loins, like an alternating current of pleasure. The girl on the tombstone cried out, both hands moving frantically in her liquid, pulsing cleft. White light seemed to explode in my head as I came, grinding my hips against the wall of the crypt like a creature possessed. A cascade of bright hair streamed over the edge of the stone as the young woman arched her spine and parted her lips to moan her release. Her mouth remained open as her orgasm ebbed away. She looked spent, as if every last ounce of her body was used up in the intensity of gaining relief.

“It’s getting dark.”

I jumped at the sound of her voice, a mere whisper in the gathering gloom. Embarrassed, I drew back, retreating behind the tendrils of ivy as she slowly moved to a sitting position.

“I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

My heart skipped a beat. There was no one else in the churchyard but me. Perhaps she had known I was there all along. Had I been a prop in her Gothic arousal? Silently, I backed away from the crypt, across the gravel and the grass, running away like a thief or a child, half frightened, half overjoyed, almost catching my skirt on the gate as I fled.

Wanted – Male Private Investigator with Digital Camera — (Central London)
“I need a completely confidential private investigator with a digital camera. Will pay fifty pounds upon completion of assignment. Need assignment done tomorrow. This is a one-day assignment. You must be available all day and have excellent surveillance and self-concealment skills. Please E-mail box number X836 ASAP!”

Well, I’d always fancied a stint as a private dick. Just call me Philip Marlowe. The ad specified a man, and I could borrow the eye-spy gear. As requested, I sent off an e-mail, referring to myself as “Bob.” I wondered how many responses the ad would receive and if any, other than my own, would be genuine. The scenario seemed ripe for parody. Why the last-minute rush? Was risk involved? A mere fifty quid for a largely unspecified day’s work that might involve being punched in the face by an angry boyfriend or even knifed by a drug pusher? My imagination worked overtime. The ad-poster didn’t want to involve the police — were they crooked themselves or it was it more of a civil “crime”? It had to be a jealous husband. Well, he must have been waiting online, as a reply pinged back into my inbox within five minutes.

“Bob — be at the Tate Modern north entrance at 9 am, SHARP. Stella.”

Stella, was it? Well, well, well. A jealous wife instead of a jealous husband. Why did she need a man — to infiltrate her husband’s gentleman’s club? I fired off a few inane questions but answer was there none. It was 9 am at the Tate or not. I like a woman who knows what she wants.

*****

I crossed the new Millenium bridge over the murky Thames and strode towards the rendezvous, the converted power station which now houses eclectic artwork in its vast turbine hall. It was a weekday morning and not too busy, just a gaggle of bored looking school kids and the ubiquitous squad of Japanese tourists grinning through their miniature camcorders. What did “Stella” look like? Was she young or old, or in-between? Tall or short? Blonde or brunette? My mind concocted a wish-list as the minutes passed. Five past nine and she was a buxom redhead. Ten past nine and she had morphed into a slender raven-haired femme fatale. At almost a quarter past the hour, a small figure in a long gray raincoat approached the gallery entrance, making a fine display of looking at the posters and generally acting nonchalant. Instinct told me: “Stella”. Casually, she worked her way along the row of adverts for coming attractions of the intellectual variety, her eyes flickering over the words but not taking them in.

When she reached me, she murmured, “Follow me and don’t say a word. Act as if we’re not together ’til I give you a sign.”

I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and whistled a brief air from My Fair Lady. It seemed as good a response to give as any. Off went Stella at a brisk pace, the high narrow heels of her boots clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement. She took the walkway that leads along the Thames embankment and I followed at a respectful distance, watching the pleasing wriggle of her neat little hips beneath the tightly-belted coat. She was a pretty girl — early twenties, with heavy straight dark hair, cut into a short, thick bob. She had a square-ish jaw and a wide, scarlet-painted mouth. And she was fit. I began to pant slightly as she disappeared into the distance, a diminutive, determined figure marching on towards — what?

I fingered the borrowed digital camera in my coat pocket. It was perfect for the task at hand, no bigger than a small pocket calculator. I stroked its rounded metal contours as I watched Stella’s pleasing behind vanish into the shadowy confines of an underpass. To be truthful, I felt like stroking something else. I was getting quite hard and required some relief. When I entered the passageway, I found that she stood, casually leaning against the tiled wall, her raincoat unfastened.

“Get the camera out,” she hissed, her eyes firmly fixed upon the tunnel entrance behind me. I reached in my pocket and drew out the spy-cam. I raised one eyebrow and smiled. She frowned. Espionage was a serious business. Suddenly, there were voices behind us, and footsteps, approaching the underpass. Stella fixed me with a steely, commanding gaze.

“Now! Take this!”

Quick as a wink, the young woman whipped open her coat and gave me a flash of what she had on underneath. Obediently, I pressed the button and felt my manhood press against my fly. As two girls entered the passage, Stella moved away, like a bat out of hell, swiftly wrapping the raincoat around her nubile body. She stalked off at her former brisk pace, again leaving me in her dust. Outside, near the sturdy Victorian arches of Blackfriars Bridge, a faint London drizzle was beginning to fall. I replaced the camera in my pocket and turned up the collar of my coat. So, Stella was a flasher. Well, well, well. An image of her exhibitionist’s outfit was burned into my brain as I followed the young woman, beginning to feel like a stalker and a pervert. She was wearing black leather thigh-high boots and a cherry red latex mini-dress. The dress seemed to be melted onto the surface of her firm, tight body. Its skirt was so short that it barely covered her crotch. Was she wearing panties? I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon find out. My cock throbbed as I kept the girl in sight. Her boobs were quite small and very round, like oranges. The nipples formed two little dimples in the glossy fabric of the skimpy dress.

On we trotted, past the tall red-brick faade of the Oxo building, with its upscale design galleries and restaurant in the tower, which, in a more practical age, was a meat extract factory. Stella kept her gaze firmly fixed to the front, as if she knew exactly where she was going. I wondered how many scenic miles she’d take me on her Wednesday flash and whether we would pause for refreshment. I was musing about lunchtime Guinness and shepherd’s pie, when she suddenly took a turn to the right and clip-clopped onto the wooden boards of a small pier used as a viewpoint.

This was a much more exposed venue than the underpass. My fingers closed on the camera as she commanded me with her dark-lashed eyes. I presumed she was scanning for onlookers but, funnily enough, I was ceasing to care. I pressed the button as she opened her coat. I pressed it once, twice, three times, punctuating her movements. She leaned against the iron rails of the pier, damp black hair beginning to curl a little above her ears. Closing her eyes in ecstatic abandon, she thrust her boobs forward, two perfect juicy mounds encased in tight bright latex like a second skin. They looked almost as if they had been sprayed with paint and were still wet. As she arched her back, she parted her lips, which were as glossy as her naughty outfit, revealing small, rather predatory-looking even white teeth. Her nipples looked as if they were poised to pop over the tight, elastic neckline of the outrageous dress. I snapped buoyant cleavage and several inches of tantalizing thigh. The boots were amazing. Stiletto-heeled, they were quite wide at the tops, reminding me of a pantomime boy. Dick Whittington boots but sexy, oh so sexy. My cock threatened to wear a hole in my underwear.

In the distance, someone whistled and, with little change in facial expression, Stella smartly belted her coat and trotted off again, like a fox tipped off by the baying of hounds. I heard the metal-tipped heels of her boots drum a hollow determined beat on the boards of the pier, then she turned right to continue along the Thames walkway. The rain was getting heavier and I saw her retrieve a tiny umbrella from her bag. With one deft flick of the wrist, the brolly was up, a bright red splash on a dull gray day. Of course, my own head was unprotected. I marched on in the young woman’s wake, wet about the ears and rigid in the crotch.

Eventually, we arrived at the stretch of the embankment favored by street performers. Stella paused to watch a young woman who seemed to be coated in silver paint, a living statue in a Victorian style dress. Slowly, moving jerkily as if propelled by a rusty mechanism, the street artist offered a paper flower. Stella tossed a pound coin in the “statue’s” basket and took the giant daisy with a hint of a smile. The statue blew her an arthritic kiss. I lingered amongst the onlookers until she headed off towards the enormous gleaming wheel of the London Eye. Was she hoping to flash inside one of the see-through capsules that took people up for a fairground-style ride to view the city from a pigeon’s angle? I’d heard the queues were dreadful.

The queue was lengthy, especially for a drizzly winter morning when the view from the Eye would surely be cloaked with cotton wool-like mist. I saw Stella turn to the left, into an open-air caf. I’d rather have had a beer but it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Was she really going to sit down? Like a sleepwalker, I followed her wriggling bottom through the maze of little tables. She selected one in a corner, near the concrete-clad anchor point of one of the vast Eye’s cables.

I made to join her and she muttered, “Not here. Sit at another table and watch.”

“Mind if I have a coffee?”

The young woman fixed me with a brief, withering glance. It seemed a cappuccino was out of the question. Like a good boy, I took position at a nearby table. Stella’s table wasn’t protected by the tented roof of the cafe, so she kept her umbrella up, effectively screening her from those around. I sensed a photo opportunity was nigh and fumbled for the Fuji.

With a conjurer’s sleight of hand, the young woman stood up, flipped open her coat, arched her back and, still holding the umbrella, popped out her tits. I swear they bounced out like a pair of rubber balls. They didn’t quite look real but who was caring? I snapped her as she pouted moodily, her red lips, red dress, red umbrella startling as blood against the gray London day. Her boobs were very white, the nipples full and dark by contrast. They pointed upwards, as did my cock.

Then Stella placed one kinky-booted foot on another chair, exposing an acre of strong, slender thigh. I snapped the leather-clad leg from sharp pointy heel to wide, thigh-caressing top. Her dress rode up to her crotch and I snapped a glimpse of shaven heaven, a perfect little pink pussy with just a touch of dark hair. She had a small silver ring in her labia. Slyly, she caressed her clit, running the tip of her tongue over the thick gloss of her scarlet lips. I snapped and came.

She knew what she’d done and smiled, her vixen’s face looking quite smug. Before I knew what was happening, she had tidied herself and was off again, leaving me in a damp, sticky mess. An elderly woman glared as I trotted out of the cafe, limping slightly as my trousers stuck to my swollen, sodden crotch. Now where was she?

The familiar silhouette of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament rose up in the darkening sky. Stella’s bright umbrella bobbed along the walkway towards Westminster Bridge. She seemed to be gaining speed and I suddenly remembered the fifty quid. Glancing back at me, she stopped by a tree and I watched her retrieve an envelope from her bag and tuck it into a notch in the trunk. Thinking of sudden gusts of wind and thieves, I broke into a jog. Stella reached the main road crossing the bridge as I reached the tree. I clasped the envelope in my hot little hands as I watched a big red London bus come along. Calmly, Stella walked to a nearby bus stop, got on the bus and turned to blow me a perfunctory kiss from its platform. And then she was gone, southbound to who-knows-where. I opened the envelope. As I suspected, there was no money, just a brief note in a bold, strong handwriting.

Enjoy the pictures.
S