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Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 01

By: aussie_101



He was glorious. He was strong, tanned and smooth, naked head to toe, sweat shining off his muscles as he lay back on the bed in the morning dimness of my bedroom. His mouth was open, gasping almost in surprise, moaning, groaning; his cock was long, straight and hard, like a tool hewn from stone, the shaft thick and gorging and the head big and blunt...

...and as I straddled him, bare naked as he, tits free and kneeling up on the bed, I had his cock buried deep inside me, buried to the hilt in my hot wet cunt. And I was screaming.

My screams were motivated by two things. The first, obviously, was this man's cock: touching me deep and in all the right places, as I pumped up and down upon him, sitting back and grinding him into me all over the place to forestall and heighten my building pleasure. The second was a much more irritating source of frustration ¬– it was my phone, ringing on the bed-stand, and I knew from the caller ID that I could not ignore the call. Despite the agonising proximity of my orgasm, calls from the Lieutenant did not go to voicemail.

I wailed one last time in delicious, shuddering vexation, and stopped in my pumping to answer the call. "What, dammit??" I cried, chest still heaving from my exertions.

"And good morning to you too, Detective Sergeant Jennings," the Lieutenant replied, his sexy baritone conveying the sound of a grin down the line.

I sighed, and attempted to drop into a tone more respectful-of-rank. "It's very early, Lieutenant," I chastised him, while silently acknowledging the dismay of my bed partner with a helpless shrug.

"Am I interrupting anything of particular import, Jennings?"

"You know me, Lieutenant," I replied, with a crooked grin. "Gotta kick-start the day somehow."

The Lieutenant laughed. He knew me well, very extremely well, and the tone of his question implied he had guessed the cause of my irritation. "Sorry as I am to interrupt your morning routine," he lied, "I'm afraid I need you to get straight to the scene." 

"This better be good, man," I pouted, as I made to clamber off my lover; he tried to hold me in place, and he even jiggled his hips in a cheeky attempt to re-start the action, but I clamped my cunt-muscles down on him so hard I nearly snapped him in half – and with a look of exquisite agony, he let me go.

"'Better be good'?" the Lieutenant repeated. "Don't I always give you the choice cases, Jennings?"

"But of course," I said, humouring him as I started climbing into my clothes.

"Well, how does an abandoned, blood-soaked Lamborghini sound?"

"NOW you're talking!" I enthused, my curiosity well and truly piqued as I slipped into a skirt. "Don't suppose it's still got the keys in it? Maybe I can take it for a spin?"

"It's wrapped around a tree with its engine in the passenger seat," the Lieutenant advised. "So I guess the answer is: a big fat no."

"Why is it, that everything I get from you is big and fat?" I grinned.

"Detective Sergeant Jennings: what am I going to do with you?"

"Do as you please, boss," I purred, in my sluttiest tones.

"Just hurry up and get to the scene, will you?"

"On my way." And with that I killed the call, turning to look at the nine-inch stallion in my bed. "Duty calls," I told him, wrestling my way into a bra with a resigned sigh.

"Can't you take just one extra minute?" the guy pleaded. "I'm so close, babes..." he added, holding onto his twitching, rock-hard rod as though he was worried it would rocket off to the moon.

I rolled my eyes, and sighed again with pretend exasperation. "Fine," I said, and quick as a flash I dropped to my knees beside the bed and fell face-first onto his cock, swallowing it deep and whole. He wasn't lying: after perhaps fifteen seconds of driving my mouth up and down on his cock, licking up the always-delicious taste of my juices mixed with his pre-come, he came for real. He hollered long and hard as I grabbed the base of his cock and milked it out of him, swallowing the thick hot streamers jizzing out of him with every pump and surge.

Once he was done, I returned to my feet and regarded him with a challenging, quizzical eye. "Happy now?" I demanded of him, shrugging into my shirt at the same time.

He couldn't speak; he simply gasped and heaved, having to nod his reply.

"Good. Now, have you seen my gunbelt?"

He pointed me towards the end of the bed, where my gun and nightstick stuck out of my belt – that's right, they had served as props in the prior night's shenanigans.

"Thanks babes!" I told him cheerily. I left him to bask in his afterglow, hitching on my gunbelt and starting on the buttons of my shirt even as I slipped out the door.

'Always leave them happy', is my motto.

***

The scene was exactly as the Lieutenant had described it. Half-way along a twisting mountain road just outside of town, a guardrail was down, a trail had been smashed through the undergrowth, and at the end of the trail: one Lamborghini, a tree slicing rudely through the back half of the car – a result of having crashed backwards into the tree at high speed. The engine was indeed in the passenger's seat; the driver – wherever he was – seemed to have had an immensely lucky escape. If he had hit the tree at the mildest of different angles, the engine would have parked itself between his kidneys.

And what an engine it was. Even in a semi-smashed and seat-bound state, the engine – a V10 – was a thing of beauty, hand-crafted and gleaming with muscular purpose. The car was a Lamborghini Gallardo: low, wide and fast, fantastically angular in style, and no less menacing for the gaudy shade of orange it had been painted. Before its encounter with the tree, it had been one of the fastest, most aggressive and agile cars money can buy – exactly the car I would get for myself, just as soon as I win the lotto or score a large inheritance from a previously unknown rich dead uncle.

I was not alone on the crime scene though: uniformed police and other plain-clothed detectives were milling around, and one detective in particular had noticed my arrival. "Jennings!" he greeted, in unkind tones.

"Harvey," I replied, coolly. Detective Harvey Thompson and I did not get along.

"I hear you've just made Detective Sergeant," he went on. "So then: how many cocks did you have to suck to earn your stripes?"

"Every cock but yours, Harvey," was my reply – and there were more than a few chuckles from our colleagues as Harvey's face went red, coming off second-best yet again in another of our unfriendly encounters.

By now you will probably have figured out that I'm not exactly a girly girl, not quite prim and proper, quiet and demure – in fact, you might think me a raucous slut. Go ahead and think me a slut. Hell, I tend to think me a slut too. 

I like sex. I like it quite a lot. I'm not afraid to have sex, and I'm not afraid to have sex with the people who may have some say in when and how often I get promoted through the ranks. This is how I figure: I've got great tits, a great arse, fine curves and the long blonde hair that all the boys love, so why not make use of them while I've still got them? I won't be pretty all my life, so by the time I get ugly I may as well be Commissioner or something.

Anyways, back to the scene. One of my favourite forensic boys – what was his name, the cute guy with the curvy dick, umm, Justin maybe? – was taking photos of the car's interior, so I went over to join him.

"Hey there," I greeted, warmly.

He looked away from his view-finder, and as recognition dawned he grinned at me too – and I'm sure we were both thinking back to our last encounter, where I may possibly have mounted the bench of his crime lab in return for quick and favourable processing of evidence in a case of mine. Well, we all have to grease the wheels somehow... "Well hello, Detective," he grinned in reply.

"So: what have we got?" I quizzed, straight down to business.

"Got a tonne of blood in and around the driver's seat," he reported. "From the quantity, I'd say it was an arterial bleed. Real gusher."

"So... is our driver dead, do you think?"

"Well, unless he had a good knowledge of first aid, he won't be happy. That's for sure," my forensic man grinned – and as he turned to address me properly, I saw he had a name tag on his chest. 'James', it read. That's right! 'James', not 'Justin'. No, Justin was that other guy...

"Sounds like he fled the scene," I summarised, from what the Lieutenant had told me and the chatter on the radio I had heard while driving up the mountain. "If he was bleeding so heavily, he must have left a trail...?"

"Few blood spots heading off in that direction," James reported, pointing off into the trees. "Uniform did a quick walk, didn't find anything. The canine squad is on their way up from town, they ought to sniff him out nice and quick."

"Okay then: one missing, blood-gushing driver," I said to myself. "Have we turned up any possessions in the car?"

"Haven't searched it yet – I needed to take some photos first," said James. "I only just got here myself."

"Do hurry up, James," I admonished, with a cheeky wink.

"Now now – perfection can't be rushed," James returned, wielding his camera as though it was Leonardo's brush.

After a few more minutes with the camera, James rooted around under the seats and came up with a wallet. The driver's licence was within, giving us a name and a face: Mick Worhurst, aged thirty, quite good-looking with sandy hair, blue eyes and a square jawline. Quite good-looking, indeed; even if he hadn't been the proud owner of a Lamborghini, I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed.

His name and description went out on the airwaves, and as the morning wore on I was left with the mundane duties: call in the description to all local doctors and hospitals, leave a query with the ambulance drivers, all of which turned up nothing. Nobody had seen our 'Mick', he hadn't turned up anywhere... which probably meant he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere nearby. Pity, that. Such a waste of a pretty face.

As we continued to wait for the canine squad, who had been delayed in heavy traffic back in town, I decided to hop in my squad car and visit the address on the licence – on the off chance he had made it all the way home. It was a possibility, however slim, and it was worth checking, so off I went.

On arriving at the house, I was surprised – it was not the sort of place I had expected a Lamborghini owner to live. Don't get me wrong, it was very nice: a cosy cottage-sized place, neat and charming, very suburban, but at a guess I'd say it was hardly worth half as much as a shiny new Gallardo. Quite surprising, indeed.

A knock on the door brought some dismay, as it was answered by a youngish woman with a pair of babies braced against each hip, and there were sounds of more children running amok further inside the house. 'Damn,' I thought, as she looked me up and down; 'the guy's got family...'

The woman could tell straight away that I was with the police. "Is this about Mick?" she asked, visibly suppressing her dread.

"Good morning," I greeted her, solemnly. "I'm Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings, from the local station. Are you Mick Worhurst's partner?"

"I'm his wife. Prue Worhurst," she introduced herself. "Please, just tell me: is Mick okay?"

"I'm sorry, Missus Worhurst, but we're not sure," I said, apologetic but business-like. "We found his car crashed into a tree off the mountain, but he was not with the car."

"Oh God..." she breathed. "He didn't come home last night and he wasn't answering his phone... I've been so worried..." She seemed unsteady for a moment, and I was ready to gather up the babies if she wobbled any worse, but to her credit she seemed to tap an inner reserve of strength and she pulled herself together. "So: you can't find him?"

"We searched the surrounding bush but we couldn't locate him," I reported. "The 'dog squad' are on their way to the scene now. They should turn him up pretty quickly."

"Where did you say he crashed?" Prue asked, with a frown.

"Up on Mount Kenebo, at the hairpin half-way to the top. His car went through a guardrail and collided rear-first with a tree at speed. He was very lucky to be well enough to get out of the car," I informed her, subtly stressing the point that he had been at least well enough to get up and walk.

"I don't know what he was doing up there," Prue continued to frown. "He works up in the city, the mountain is well out of the way of his commute. God, he's crashed his company car..." she breathed. "I'm gunna have to call his boss and let him know."

That had taken me by surprise. "Really?" I asked. "His company car was a Lamborghini?"

Prue looked at me as though I was a crazy person. "What?"

"Missus Worhurst: the car that your husband crashed was a bright orange, near-new Lamborghini Gallardo, with a retail value of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars," I said, spelling it out for her very carefully. "What car did you think he crashed?"

"What? No..." said Prue, at a total loss. "He drives an old Ford wagon for work. It's his boss's car, a company car. Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mick was driving a Lamborghini?"

"That's correct," I confirmed.

"Mick's never driven a Lamborghini in his life!" she stated, as a firm and flat fact. "I mean, he'd love to drive one, he's a total car nut and he has a real soft spot for Lamborghinis... but, well, he certainly doesn't own one," she told me, almost laughing at the idea of her husband owning or driving such an exotic automobile. "Are you sure Mick was driving it?"

"We found a wallet under the driver's seat, with his driver's licence and bank cards in it," I told her.

"Let me see it," said Prue.

I hesitated: the wallet wasn't in much a state to be seen by a family member.

"Detective: let me see your credentials," Prue said again, in a very firm no-nonsense tone – she evidently suspected me as a scammer, "and let me see my husband's wallet."

"Missus Worhurst..." I began, as I got my badge out and let her inspect it closely. "I have the wallet in an evidence bag in my car. I'd rather not let you see it, because it's... well, it's a bit damaged," I lied – the thing had been soaked for hours in her husband's congealing blood, and it was not fit for her to see. "But if you insist, I have his licence with me..."

The look on her face made it clear she did insist. With a sigh, I removed the plastic-wrapped licence from my pocket; the chain of evidence regulations meant I was not permitted to clean it before bagging it, so unfortunately, the licence and the bag were both smeared with blood.

This was enough to sap Prue's final reserves of strength, and she tottered somewhat. Having anticipated as much, I quickly reached out and wrapped my arms around her and her babies, helping her into a chair near the door. I spent the next ten minutes helping her calm down, and arranging for her friends and family to come and help her out; while I waited for them to arrive, I called in to the Lieutenant.

"Boss: Mick Worhurst, our Lambo driver. His missus had no idea that he owned or had access to a Lamborghini. Have we done a registration check on the car?"

"We certainly have – Worhurst is the vehicle's owner," came the reply. "No doubt about it."

"Shit," I breathed, amazed at the turn of events. "Umm, well... any word from the canine squad?"

"They tracked him down a slope into a creek, where they lost him. He's walked along the creek to hide his trail, quite deliberately too."

"So: our secret Lambo driver is hurt, but doesn't want to be found?"

"Seems that way."

I couldn't help but grin. "Wow boss – you really do save the best cases for me!"

"Yeah yeah. Get back to his missus, will you? I want to get to the bottom of this, double-quick."

Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 02



I was back at the station, locked in an archival room in the basement with Ian, the records boy. I was bent forward over a desk that had been cleared in a hurried fashion with my skirt pushed up my back and my panties around my ankles, my brow furrowed in deep thought while Ian's cock pumped, slowly and rhythmically, in and out of my lightly-grasping box.

I often went to Ian when I needed to think. Ian had stamina. If I required it of him, he could go for hours at the same steady pace, pumping in and out like a metronome for as long as I needed.

I put all conscious thoughts about the sex out of my mind, thinking back to the facts of the case. The slow and steady pleasure provided by Ian settled into the background, the electricity of his ministrations serving to power and amplify my thought process. Funny, that I do my best thinking while being rogered...

I thought back to Prue Worhurst, wife of the man who had crashed his expensive supercar and fled the scene. I thought back to our conversation after she had finally recovered from the shock of discovering that her husband had been hiding his Lamborghini ownership – and as I spoke to her, the possibility that he was hiding a great deal more was definitely playing on my mind.

"So Prue," I had said, back at their modest little suburban cottage. "You honestly had no idea that Mick, your husband, owned a Lamborghini?"

"No idea," Prue told me, with utmost honesty and befuddlement. "I don't know how he could afford it. He's a civil servant! He works with an administration company, subcontracting to the government – he doesn't even earn six figures. And I'm a stay-at-home mum," she added, waving her hand at the back yard of their modest house to indicate their five children; they were being minded by their grandparents while Prue spoke to me. "We're not rich, in fact we struggle sometimes. Where could he have got a Lamborghini?"

"I'm going to try my level best to find out," I promised her – not only for her sake, but to sate my own intense curiosity, too. A white-collar male, thirty years old, wife and five kids, a modest little house and a beaten-up minivan in the carport... who, during the night, had crashed his Lamborghini off a mountain, fled the scene, and was still whereabouts-unknown? This was the juiciest case I'd ever been assigned!

But I kept my gleeful thoughts internal, maintaining a professional façade. It wasn't just a whole bunch of cock-sucking that had earned me my Detective Sergeant's rank – I was also pretty good at my job, too. 

"Let's start with what you know, Prue," I suggested. "Tell me about Mick's work-day routine, or at least what you know of it."

"Well, he leaves for work around seven o'clock every morning," Prue began. "He has done for three years, since he got the job with his company. He sets off in his company car, the old Ford wagon—" which was not currently on the property, so I made a mental note to put out an alert for Mick's 'company car' "—and he gets to work in the city at eight, works out of the company office til five, then gets home in the Ford around six. Every day, Monday through Friday, for three years," she repeated.

"Prue, this may sound like a silly question," I warned her, "but: how sure are you that what you just told me, is what Mick actually does? Do you know for sure, for absolute sure, that he is going where he says he's going? What's the name of his company?" 

"Project Management Services," said Prue, baffled at my first question so choosing to address the last. "They specialise in telecommunications maintenance, big transmission tower upgrades, stuff like that. But what do you mean, 'how sure am I'?"

"Have you ever visited Mick at his office, where he works?"

"Well of course I have," frowned Prue.

"When was the last time you visited him at work?"

"Well, only a couple months ago," Prue reported. "He was on an outing by himself, checking out a new jobsite in the hills half-way to the city, so he invited us up to have a picnic lunch with him. It was really nice, a bright sunny day, we had sandwiches and fruit salad, we watched the kids play in the grass and looked out to the ocean..."

"That sounds lovely," I assured her – but my suspicious little detective's brain was whirring and churning, seeking holes and flaws in Mick's story. Even so, I was determined to treat Prue as gently as possible. There was no reason at all to suspect her of any complicity in Mick's dealings, whatever they were that saw him the owner of a crashed, abandoned, blood-soaked Lamborghini.

"But Prue, what I meant to ask you," I went on, "was: when was the last time you actually visited him at his office, at the offices of 'Project Management Services' up in the city?"

"Oh," said Prue. "Well," she added, as she thought back into the past, "it's actually been a long time... eighteen months, maybe two years? A little bit before we learned I was expecting the triplets," she added. "I don't get up to the city as much as I used to, now that I have five kids to buckle up and make provisions for. Three poohing bubs and two hungry toddlers turn most excursions into a royal pain," she assured me.

I nodded with sympathy and understanding, while simultaneously noting that the last time Mick's place of work was verified was up to two years ago. Prue was a canny one, though: I dare say she saw the wheels and cogs turning behind my eyes.

"You think Mick may be lying to me about his work, don't you?" she observed, with surprising level-headedness and calm – again, I got the impression that Prue was a woman of immense inner strength. She would have to be, to deal with five kids on her own, five days a week.

"I'm sorry Prue, but I can't help but be suspicious – it's kind of my job description," I told her. "However high his 'five-figure-salary' might be, no man can afford to own or maintain a Lamborghini on top of a mortgage and a family of seven. There has to be another explanation. There must be something else that Mick isn't telling you."

"Are you sure the car is his?" Prue asked of me – with a slight edge of pleading in her voice, as though she needed me to somehow tell her that in fact all of this was wrong, to tell her that her husband wasn't hiding a super-expensive exotic car from her, that he hadn't crashed the thing and his disappearance could possibly be explained some other way.

"I'm sorry, Prue, but we are sure. The Lamborghini is registered in the name of Michael Allan Worhurst, and his wallet and driver's licence were in the vehicle. If we don't find him soon, we will use DNA and fingerprinting to confirm he has driven the vehicle, too."

"Oh God..." Prue whispered, as the astonishing, bewildering reality of the situation loomed over her again. "I hope he's alright," she told me, mournfully. "I don't care if he's been lying to me, I don't care about the Lambo – I just want him back. I love him. He's a good man," she promised me, as though the facts of the case may have had me thinking otherwise – and, in fact, I had been thinking otherwise.

'What an arsehole,' I had been thinking. Fancy lying to his wife – to the mother of his five children? Hiding the resources necessary to own and maintain a Lamborghini? Prue seemed to be a really nice lady, and quite attractive too: commendably slender given her non-stop mother-of-five routine, with nicely-sized breasts, a pretty face and distractingly deep, soulful eyes. Quite a pretty lady, indeed...

"He's such a wonderful man," she was saying, still talking up her husband, so I didn't stare at her too long. "Mick has been nothing but loyal and loving, he's always been so good to me and the kids... he's such a hard worker, he's always provided for us, we've never wanted for anything... when times are tight he often goes without, he doesn't buy himself any flash tools or fancy stuff or anything, the kids always come first... well," she corrected herself. "That was until I found out about this bloody Lamborghini. Oh, Detective," she added, flipping from a suspicious squint back into concern and sorrow, "just find him. Do everything and anything you can. Just find him."

"I will," I nodded, with all sincerity, and I reached out to take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, Prue – we will get to the bottom of this." 

"Thank you," she murmured. The moisture was starting to pool in her eyes, so I gave her one last pat on the hand and an encouraging smile, and I made my leave.

I got back in my squad car and made some calls, even as I drove back to the station. My trusty junior detectives had tracked down Mick's employer, and they put me through to his boss – who was surprised, informing me that Mick had resigned nearly two years ago. "To pursue a new opportunity" was all he knew. 

So: our Mick was indeed keeping more from his missus than just a Lamborghini. "I knew the guy was an arsehole," I muttered to myself.

Back at the station, I found myself with too much information to process all at once. So I tracked down Ian, found some privacy, and presented my willing pussy to his ever-reliable ministrations. And after nearly half an hour of slow, steady rogering from behind, and the same amount of time mulling and chewing my lip and turning the facts over in my mind, I felt I was close to a revelation.

'Okay: let's recap,' I thought to myself, even as Ian slipped gently in-and-out of me, his hands lightly about my hips, gently pulling me against-and-away from him: he knew what I needed and he knew how to keep me on a low simmer, pleasured but not overwhelmed, his gentle penetrations steady and constant like the tides. I asked him once what else he did during our lengthy times together, and I laughed when he told me he liked to mentally balance his finances for the coming month. We were both off in our own little worlds, sorting out life's little complexities, with our pleasure almost an afterthought.

'Okay,' I thought again. 'So: Mick Worhurst is a liar. He kisses the missus and drives off every morning in a beat-up old Ford wagon.' 

When I had asked about the Ford wagon that Mick was presenting as a 'work car', his former boss had been stumped: "His last work car was a Toyota, he handed it back when he resigned. I've got no idea where he's got the Ford from." I was unable to check the registration details of Mick's Ford, as Prue could not recall the number plate, but I was prepared to bet that Mick had started driving the wagon around the same time as his secret resignation, probably buying it for himself. Hell, if he could suddenly afford a four-hundred-thousand dollar supercar, he could definitely afford to obtain a four-thousand-dollar bomb to pass off as a work car.

'So... if he's not going to work every day, he must be going somewhere and doing something,' I thought, shifting in my position bent over the table to help Ian hit my spot just a little sweeter. 'Now then: how can I find where he's been going? That's my priority. Wherever he's been hiding out during work-days, he's probably gone there now.'

"How you doing, Detective?" Ian asked, softly from behind me.

"I'm getting there," I replied, referring more to my thought process than my orgasm – the former was my current concern. Ian would take care of the latter when I told him I was ready.

"Okay. Let me know, will you?"

"Got your cheque-book balanced already, Ian?"

"Cheque book, credit cards and two mortgages, all mentally balanced," I heard Ian grin. "I'm ready when you are."

"Just a couple more minutes," I promised him, with an encouraging grind-of-the-hips back into him to convey that his patience was appreciated.

'Where was I?' I thought, slipping back into mental case mode. 'Ah yes: tracking down his hideout. Hmm...' Mick's driver's licence had only provided his home address. I had requisitioned his mobile phone records, which may give some indication of his past movements via transmitter-tower reports, but not enough to pin him down to specific addresses.

I had brought in the case file with me, and I flicked through its meagre contents, seeking inspiration. The junior detectives had already obtained a copy of the Lamborghini's registration papers...

"Aha!" I said aloud, with a triumphant grin. The registration papers had a mailing address on them, and it was not his home address: it was a place in Warburton, a couple towns up the coast from his home, half-way to the city where he claimed to work.

"Had a breakthrough?" asked Ian, with optimism.

"I think so," I nodded. "I reckon I've tracked down the sucker's hideout. He's probably there right now."

"Oh," said Ian. "Well: do you want to finish this, or do you have to run off?"

"Oh, we're gunna finish it," I told him. "Do your thing, baby."

"Oh yeah..." Ian grinned, and he did his thing: there was a complete change of pace, and now Ian's girth was parting me with a harder, faster, far more satisfying rhythm. His size, shape and angle was exquisite, hitting me exactly where I loved to be hit, and I pushed aside the case file to grip the desk and brace against the new force of Ian's ministrations.

Once Ian hits his stride, he never fails to get me off, nice and quick. I felt my heat and wetness ramping up with its usual speed, and my pelvic muscles squeezed and convulsed of their own accord; I tipped my head back and moaned, groaned, gasped and sighed, the urgency of my cries mounting quickly as my orgasm approached clear and obvious, like a freight train coming along a long straight track.

"Ohhh..." I groaned, then "yeah..." and "ugh... ugh... ahh!... AHH!! AAAAURGH!!!" and I was coming, I was coming hard, I was coming so sweetly, the waves of my orgasm matching Ian's perfect and exquisite pace, and it was not long until he joined me: he came with a hard and unmissable jolt, he gripped my hips and he slammed it home, slamming and slamming in time with the spurts and squirts of his cock as he shot his hot, thick load deep inside me.

We rode our orgasms for a few precious moments more, and then we started to settle, and settle, until my cries fell back into moans and sighs of contentment and his grunts wound back into heavy breathing, and we were spent.

"Oh yeah..." I finally said. "Ian: you're the best."

"Anytime, Detective," he replied, with a friendly pat on my arse as he slipped out of me.

"Now if you'll excuse me," I added, fixing my skirt and not bothering with my knickers – kicking them up and slipping them into my pocket, "I've got to go catch a naughty boy."

"Ooh," said Ian. "Show no mercy when you catch him."

I grinned at the thought of reprimanding my mysterious Lambo-driver, like a strict school-marm. "I'll be sure he gets his just-deserves," I promised Ian, on my way out the door.



Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 03



The address on Mick's registration papers was more like I had imagined a Lamborghini would be parked.

Warburton was a chic coastal village built upon and between a series of hills running perpendicular to the coastline, giving a tightly rolling look to the town. It had many beaches stretching long and golden before a deep blue sea; one run of hills extended high out into the ocean as a headland, but before the hillside left the confines of the coast, a run of houses had been built along its crest – each of the houses with million-dollar views, and consequently of million-dollar construction.

Mick's secret address was no different. It was a townhouse, new and modern with a slim frontage, a singular garage (where I assumed the Lambo formerly resided, and possibly home to the old Ford he pretended to drive to 'work'), and a glassy façade all the better to avail of the ocean-and-beach view.

I was feeling less and less sorry for our Mick, I must admit. Secret Lamborghinis... leaving his wife-and-mother-of-five every day to go to a job he didn't actually do... and now, a secret million-dollar townhouse with spectacular ocean views? "Never mind 'arsehole'. This guy is a total prick," I commented to myself.

There was no evidence of anyone home: all doors shut, no lights on, nothing to be seen through the windows. A cursory knock on the door brought no answer, and an ear to the door heard no noise from within, so I took a look around and – satisfied there would be no witnesses – I smashed a small glass panel in the ornate front door and let myself in.

At times like this, I'm not the kind of girl to worry about warrants or search orders. Smash first, ask questions later. That's another of my mottos.

An alarm panel beeped warningly near the door, so once I let myself in I poked at some numbers, hoping desperately that this particular model made use of the Universal Police Override Code – and it did, the warning beeps cutting off. "Thank you, U.P.O.C.," I smirked.

The house was no less impressive inside than out. My smart-casual heeled shoes clip-clopped across the marble-tiled alcove before sinking into the gloriously soft, luxuriant and expensive carpet beyond. The entrance opened into a large space, a bit of a living-room with lounges arrayed before an enormous flat-screen plasma panel, which itself was surrounded by the speakers, subwoofers and satellites of a marvellously complex-looking audio unit. It would have to have some power behind it, to properly fill the enormous room with its two-storey-high vaulted ceilings.

I couldn't help but whistle in appreciation. Prick or not, our Mick definitely had fine taste.

There was another door to the side, just past the kitchen, leading into the garage – which was empty. The whereabouts of Mick's 'work car' was still unknown, which rankled me. It was clear that part of his 'real' morning routine was to leave home in the Ford, stop somewhere and swap it for the Lamborghini – the question was, where? If he didn't leave the Lambo parked here overnight, where did he leave it? 

"Shit," I muttered as I shut the door on the garage. I hate unanswered questions.

A staircase at the back of the living room led up to a landing, from which a couple of bedrooms could be accessed. The first, naturally enough, held a very large and comfortable-looking bed – though my detective's mind was asking, 'if he goes home to sleep every night, why exactly does he need a bed here...?' – and the second was exactly what I was looking for: a home office, with book-lined shelves, a desk and computer, and a large filing cabinet.

"Paydirt," I grinned.

I started with the computer, but didn't get far: it was logged in and locked up, with a password required for access. I tried a couple of possible passwords – 'lambo', 'gallardo', 'lying¬¬_bastard' were all that occurred to me – and with no success, I retrieved my phone and put a call through to my favourite tech-support officer back at the station.

"PC Barker," came the answer.

"Hi Andy..." I cooed down the line, with a deliciously dirty grin as I loaded my words with the utmost in slutty sultriness.

I was treated to a sigh in response. "Detective Jennings," he greeted, warily. "Sorry: it's Detective Sergeant, isn't it?"

"Yes, thank you," I confirmed, primly. "I didn't suck all those cocks for nothing, you know."

"Uh huh," he returned, unimpressed. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"I need another computer cracked."

"Got a warrant for this one?"

"Warr...rant?" I replied, as if I was sounding out the word for the first time in my life.

Another sigh. "Jennings..." he chastised.

"Come on, Andy: just crack one more computer for me. Just one little-widdle itty-bitty lil computer," I added, putting on a cutesy girly-girl's voice because I knew he found it immensely irritating. "Please?"

"Dammit Jennings, I got in so much trouble for the last one I cracked for you..."

"Did you?"

"It belonged to the son of a judge! You didn't mention that before I did it," he told me, reproachfully.

"That judge's son was a bad, bad boy," I reminded him. "I would never have busted him without your help, Andy."

"Yeah, and I got busted back to Probation for my efforts," Andy added. 

I rolled my eyes – he was still sulking about that? I let him fuck me daily for a bloody month in apology for his silly little demotion. 'Build a bridge and get the fuck over it,' I thought to myself.

"Come on, Andy!" I said instead, goading and beguiling. "Just come and crack one last computer for me. I'll make it worth your while... again..."

"That's what you always say."

"Well? Don't I always make it worth your while?"

Andy sighed, and I could tell he was giving in. Again. "You are such a slut, Jennings," he accused.

"Guilty as charged," I grinned. "Can you come over right now? I'm up in Warburton."

"No, I've got a conference in fifteen minutes. Won't be able to get up there until, well, probably just before clock-off."

"Oh come on, Andy!" I scolded. "You really gunna put off a piece of me, for some useless bloody conference?"

"It's a lecture on 'ethics in the force'."

I laughed at that. "Wonder why they didn't invite me?" I pondered. "I'd make a hell of a guest speaker."

"Wouldn't mind seeing that 'presentation'," said Andy, and despite all his prior reproachfulness I could hear him grinning at the idea.

"Well, hurry on over and I'll give you a private presentation. Hands-on, and all," I added – and despite having been serviced by Ian barely an hour before, I felt myself getting hot and wet at the thought of another rogering. I have mentioned how I like sex, right?

"I'll be there in a couple hours. Okay?"

I snorted with frustration. "But I'm horny now!"

"You're horny all the time, Detective Sergeant."

"True. Well, be as quick as you can, will you?"

"That's not what you usually say..." he teased.

"Yeah yeah, very funny." And with that, I hung up on him. "Cheeky bastard," I mumbled, with a pout.

I'm terrible at waiting for things. Even worse at waiting for sex. When the mood hits me, I have to deal with it, one way or the other – so I stripped off my skirt, stepped out of my heels, and even as I started checking through Mick's filing cabinet I had two fingers rubbing and massaging at my moistening mound with a firm purpose.

I was glad to discover that Mick kept his records in straight and proper order, as it made it exceedingly easy for an outsider to come up-to-speed with his affairs. He had notes, dockets, diaries and titles aplenty, and as I kept stroking away at my hardening, tightening little clit I found a pen and a spare piece of paper to outline everything I found.

A check of his bank statements showed that, nearly two years ago, our Mick had won the lottery – at the top of a new account, singular in his name and kept secret from his wife, was an opening deposit of 'fifteen million dollars and zero cents' from the State Lotteries and Gaming Commission. I had suspected as much; the whole thing reeked of a sudden lottery win, and a sneaky little decision to keep it all to himself was very much part of Mick's MO. "Lucky lotto-winning prick," I muttered.

He hadn't been shy in spending and investing his winnings – two years later, our Mick owned a fair bit of property. His place back in town, where he 'kept' the wife and kids, was still under mortgage – probably only to maintain the white-collar façade for the sake of his missus – but he owned several other properties outright, including the townhouse in Warburton, a couple of acreages out in the valley, and a few commercial properties in the city and back in town which seemed very lucrative, spinning him quite a sum of money in rental income.

He had an extensive shares portfolio too, which he seemed adept at self-managing – even in these financially-trying times it seems he had been doing quite well, with a neat tabulation of monthly trades and earnings showing that overall, he had been coming out a bit richer with each day that went by.

As I went through the details of Mick's wealth, and as I kept touching myself deeply, pleasuring myself with naked and rampant abandon, I found my feelings towards him changing. Sure, he was a bastard for hiding all of this from his wife... but then, I also found myself grinning a little at the sheer gall of it.

When it comes to men, I admit to having a weakness for the brash, cheeky ones. And there was something in the cheekiness of Mick's deception that, slowly but most definitely, was endearing him to my own wicked side. I could imagine myself doing something very similar – if ever I found myself in a relationship, and I was lucky enough to pick up such a large windfall, I am sure I would at least be tempted to squirrel it all away for myself and my sole personal use.

And as my pleasure mounted and ramped up, as I left off examining Mick's paper files to treat and caress myself with both hands, slipping two fingers of one hand deep into my grasping, quivering cunt with one hand while toying with my clit with the tips of two fingers of the other, I thought back to the image of Mick. I thought back to his picture from his driver's licence, and I remembered I had an enlarged version in my case file so I pulled it out and drank it in: his face strong and handsome, square of chin, fair of hair and blue of eyes, and I imagined there was a certain cheeky little glint in his eye, the look of a rogue or a larrikin evident even as he posed for his driver's licence renewal...

...and as I stared at his picture, I imagined him there with me, there in the room; I imagined him swanning into his office, finding me rifling through his records, and I imagined him pausing to share with me a look – a mutual look, in that not only had he been busted in a lie to his wife about his wealth, I too had been busted in an illegal search of his premises...

...and as I sat back and spread my legs wide, plunging my fingers into myself deeper and faster, rubbing at my gorging clitoris harder and with ever-more determination as my breath grew coarse and started to turn into moans and sighs, I imagined Mick standing over me: strong and purposeful, dashing and handsome, rich and successful, and I imagined him taking me... taking me into his arms, pulling my body close to his, pulling my hips hard against his to make his long, hard, bulging cock known against me...

...and as my orgasm approached fast, I imagined him acting fast, tearing my clothes from me and freeing himself of his own, pressing his naked skin against mine, his lips hard against me in a kiss – his embrace wanton, challenging, demanding – and with precious little ado he'd lay his fingers upon my hot wetness, earning no complaint from me...

...and as my moans and groans took on a new pitch, building higher and flightier as I realised this orgasm was going to be a good one, I imagined Mick treating me roughly: turning me about, throwing me down over the desk, spreading my legs and probing at my hot wet tenderness with the tip of his cock, which of course I imagined to be large and hard, very hard... and I imagined him entering me roughly, pushing into me without warning, and I cried out as I felt it, as my mind served me with the imagined feeling of his cock breaching me so deeply and personally...

...and I wanted it. Oh how I wanted it, how I wanted him to fuck me, to do me rough and hard and harshly, to treat me like the naughty, wicked, errant little slut that I was, to thrust into me hard and fast, to fuck me, fuck me like a bitch, fuck me like the dirty whorey slut that I was...

"Yes..." I heard myself moan, as I imagined his merciless dealings and I brought myself to the brink, writhing and moaning and groaning as I sat spread-eagled in Mick's expensive leather office chair, my juices running thick and creamy and sticky down my legs. "Yes... yes Mick... do me Mick, fuck me, fuck me... fuck me hard Mick, fuck me...! Fuck me...! Fuck me like a slut, oh yes FUCK MEEEEE!!!"

And I came, I came with a hard and sudden jolt, I arched backwards on the balls of my feet and the tips of my shoulders, pushing the chair back hard against the desk and arching backwards with a cry as I came, and I came, and I came, coming long and hard as I trapped my own fingers deep in my constricting cunt and I kept my other fingers mashed hard into my clit, pressing down hard and making my little nubbin burn and tingle under my rough treatment, my cunt muscles quivered and spasmed and I felt them shoot little jets of my juices all over my hands and the chair below me, and I came, and I came, and I kept coming until I was spent.

Once I settled down, cleaned up and redressed, I revisited Mick's files and finally found something I could pursue while waiting for tech-boy Andy to arrive. It was a monthly bill from a storage facility back in town: thirty-one days' rental of a 'five berth private storage space'.

Right away, I had a fairly good idea what I would find there. If I was a secret lotto winner, where would I park my 'work car' during the day and my bright orange Lamborghini at night? Exactly.

And I couldn't wait to see what I would find in the other four berths.



Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 04



I simply couldn't wait to see what was waiting in the other four berths of Mick's secret little storage shed – who knew what delicious delights he had in store for me, squirreled away from the world, the proceeds of a lottery win that he had deliberately and determinedly kept hidden from his wife and family. Such a naughty boy, our Mick.

But wait I did, if only for a little while, because the manager of the storage facility – a fat leering pig, dressed in stained overalls, reeking of body odour and eyes fixed on my tits from the moment I entered his office – was not overly cooperative.

"Don't you need a warrant, a court order, or some shit like that?" he sneered, following my flash-of-the-badge and request to inspect Mick's storage space.

I sighed, and cursed the TV show 'Law and Order' once again for making everybody think everything needed a judge's signature on it – which was more or less accurate, but not especially helpful in my line of work. 

"Okay bud," I said. "How can we make this happen, nice and quick?"

The piggy little guy looked me in the face – just for a second, quickly figuring if I was serious and what he might get away with asking – and then his eyes fell pointedly back upon my chest. "Show us," was all he said.

I didn't treat him to a sigh, or a roll-of-the-eyes, or any form of protest. I knew his type, and I knew any reaction or show of disgust would be music to his perverse little ears.

I simply unbuttoned my blouse, undid my bra, and let my tits fall out for his appraisal; and I gave him five seconds while he grunted approvingly and rubbed his disgusting little crotch with his grubby little hand, before I gathered up the ladies and put them away again.

"Okay," he nodded, when I was done. "Let's go."

"So: have you seen this guy come through here at all?" I asked, showing him Mick's picture as he walked me down a long line of brick walls and garage doors that made for a series of separate storage spaces.

"Yeah, I think that's the 'car guy'," the manager grunted. "He'd drive into the lot every work-day morning in an old yellow Ford, then two minutes later he'd drive out again in some flashy European piece-of-shit. Usually a funny-looking orange thing."

I tried to cover up my mounting contempt for this man. Anyone who'd describe a Lamborghini Gallardo – one of the most beautiful and capable cars in all of history – as a 'funny looking European piece-of-shit', deserved a bullet in the balls.

"Here we are," the guy announced, as we stopped in front of a very long garage door with the numbers '131' on a sign above it. He fished out a remote with the corresponding numbers on it, pressed the button...

...and revealed a bevy of the most awesome cars I had ever seen.

There were four cars in the five-berth space, and as expected, the first was the yellow Ford station wagon that served as Mick's 'work car', for all intents and purposes. Of course, he only ever used it to drive from home to this storage space, where he would park it and choose from the other exotics he had available.

Alongside the Ford was a jet-black, brand-new Mercedes S65: a long, low, menacing saloon. It had a twin-turbocharged six-litre V12 sitting behind the traditional tri-starred chrome grill, the wheel wells bulging and muscular, the marvellously wide tyres filled with enormous twenty-inch rims that gleamed with undisguised purpose. Exactly the sort of car one would pick when in the mood for a large, luxurious cruiser – soft and supple, padded and luxurious, but forever with gob-smacking power in reserve.

Next to the burly Mercedes was a gaudy, brand new, eye-stingingly yellow Dodge Challenger. This car was all-American, huge and bluff, almost a comical juxtaposition alongside the restrained elegance of the Germanic uber-saloon. The Challenger was a rarity on our roads as Dodge doesn't sell them here, in fact it was the first one I had ever laid eyes on, so Mick must have had it imported and legalised at massive expense. It was a beauty, all the same: big, square and powerful, with dark-tinted windows and carbon-fibre bonnet stripes contrasting nicely against the canary-yellow bodywork, and of course it would have the six-point-two litre Hemi V8 connected to those big fat pipes running out the back.

The third car was another Germanic representative, and I was slightly disappointed: it was a Porsche, a silver Carrera coupe. Yes, fine, Porsche builds some of the most capable and liveable cars money can buy – fast like a Lambo, but a lot more accessible, easier at its considerable limits and far kinder when trundling round town than the Lambo could ever hope to be. My issue was that, in this fine company and context, it seemed something of a cliché – a rich man buys a Porsche? Whodathunkit?

But the fourth and final car really made me grin, for it was one that only a few die-hard car aficionados would be able to identify: a little red Elfin Streamliner. It was tiny, barely big enough to contain two tan-leather-lined seats, pedals and a steering wheel; it had no roof, a miniscule windscreen, and two toy-like little doors which were barely necessary as one could easily step over the cowl and sink into the seats, even clad in a skirt as short as mine. The appeal of the car lay in what hid beneath its bonnet: a tub-thumping V8, itself almost bigger than the rest of the car, and with less than a tonne of weight to motivate it gave this car the potential to be faster than any Lamborghini... though that depended on the skill of the driver, for these cars are famously nervous and spiteful, difficult to control and nearly impossible to tame. And I loved it.

I noted, of course, that the fifth car space was empty – four cars, five berths? Well there was the matter of the Lamborghini, battered and broken and currently dripping its innards all over our impound lot. And you might imagine that a guy like Mick would buy a fifth fast car to fill out the five spaces properly, but then what would he do with his clanky old Ford? Would he leave it idling, open the door, back out the Lambo, leave it idling too, park the Ford, close the door and drive away? I know I would never leave a Lambo idling, not for a precious second. So the Ford deserved its place in the garage, and I doubted Mick had any other expensive playthings to his name. Four of them would do, for sure... plus the old Ford, for the run home at night, or to park at the shops to collect trolley-dings, and so forth.

"Righto, you've seen the cars," the lot manager rumbled – typically unmoved by the breathtaking display of automobilia's finest, the philistine. "Are we done now?"

"You're done," I informed him. "You can leave the remote with me, too," I added, nodding at the little remote control required for access to the garage which he clutched in his piggy little hand.

"No no," he began. "That wasn't part of the deal. You'll have to go 'above and beyond' if that's what you want..." he added, with possibly the most disgusting leer I've ever seen on anyone anywhere.

I looked at him for only a second, before deciding: 'nup. Not gunna happen. Not in a hundred million years. No way.'

"You want me to bring you in on harassment charges?" I asked of him.

"What?" he bellowed. "But you showed me your tits, not even two minutes ago!"

"Yeah, but who's my Lieutenant going to believe: his star and favourite big-titted detective, or a big fat sleazy slob like you?" I replied, matter-of-factly. "And I'll bet a hundred bucks you've got a long list of priors, ya skeeze."

That stopped him – he tossed over the remote, and turned to go. "Friggin bitch," he muttered under his breath.

"Just remember the tits, and have a nice day," I suggested. Hmm, that phrase would go well on a t-shirt...

Back to the job at hand, I put myself back in Mick's shoes. Now he couldn't exactly walk around all day with a pocket-full of keys to a bunch of half-million-dollar cars – imagine if the missus found them on washing day? So what would I do, if I couldn't keep a bunch of car keys on me, but I wanted quick and easy access to them exactly when I needed them...?

I remembered a trick of my dear old grandad's – he liked to keep a spare key to the car in a little magnetic box, which he would hide somewhere under the chassis or a wheel-well in case he locked the keys in his precious old Kingswood...

...and sure enough, in the right rear wheel-well of each car was a little magnet box containing a key.

Oh, happy day. Now: which car to choose?

But of course I was going to choose the red one, the Elfin. A hot-headed, unruly, uncontrollable little minx of a thing – hard, fast, snap-tempered and totally unrepentant. A kindred spirit for me, if ever there was one.

So I stepped over the cowl – glad the manager was gone, lest he caught a flash of my un-knickered box when my tight little skirt rose as I did so – and I sank into the driver's seat, loving how the cool tan leather hugged and cosseted me as though the seat was tailored to fit me personally. I fired it up, and the car came to life with a full-body shimmy and a rowling growl; not much in the way of a muffler between the big bent-eight and the exhausts, which in fact exited in pairs beneath each door. Oh what a car, what a car...

...and waiting only momentarily to see that the remote-controlled garage door shut all the way on my new menagerie of play-things, it was with a whoop and a cheer that I tore out of the storage lot, tyres alight and engine roaring like a lion – just to make sure that the manager knew exactly what I thought of him.

Skeezy, grubby bastard.

***

I made it back to Mick's illicit pad in Warburton in record time, grinning from ear to ear all the way. When the Elfin was able to keep its tyres hooked up, it sprinted like a cheetah, bringing in the next corner like it was clawing down an antelope and squirming unhappily under brakes every time. Here was a car that loved to go fast and hated – absolutely hated – to slow down.

Thrilling from the rush of the drive, I parked the car brazenly and without a second thought in front of the house. I skipped up to the door, let myself back into the house and awaited the arrival of Andy the tech guy.

Hardly had I been five minutes in Mick's office, I heard a call from the front door – but it was not the voice I expected. "Mick?" called a female voice. "Hello?"

Up in Mick's office, I froze. 'Shit,' I thought.

"Mi—ick," the girl called again, rather playfully. "Come out come out. I know you're here, Mickey Mouse. You've left the Elfin out the front."

'Shit,' I thought again, cursing my carelessness. 'Shit shit shit! Hide,' was the next thing that occurred to me, so I slipped noiselessly into a nearby wardrobe, stepping between a number of tasteful and extremely expensive suits – presumably changes of clothing for when Mick went Porsche-shopping – and I left the door very slightly ajar, so I could see the intruder.

"Mick?" she called as she walked in. And she was a stunner. Shimmering platinum-blonde hair; pneumatic body; big tits and slim hips, vacu-sealed in a tight summery dress that left precious little to the imagination.

'Mick: you little tramp,' I thought, squinting with disapproval.

"He's not here," she commented to herself, in the usual vapid way of most girls-on-the-side I had come across – just like the Porsche, I was disappointed in Mick's falling into the clichéd trap of a rich prick needing the usual accessories. A full quiver of Fendi suits, check; silver Porsche, check; young vapid ultra-slut: check, mate.

Out in the office, the girl had already fetched her phone out of a tiny, expensive-looking clutch she carried with her, and I knew she was calling Mick. Perhaps she would have more luck than Mick's wife or the police had had...

"Voicemail," the girl-toy muttered, showing that Mick wouldn't – or couldn't – even answer the phone for his mistress. 'Dang,' I cursed silently from my hiding place.

"Mickey, it's Trish," she announced, presumably at the beep. "I'm at your place, and your Elfin's outside, so I dunno – maybe you've gone for a jog down on the beach? I'll grab the binoculars and I'll look for the tanned, sweaty, sexy beast jogging in the sun with his shirt off. You sexy thing. Hurry back..." she purred, and she hung up.

I could hardly believe it. While Mick's wife thought he was toiling away at his long-hours high-pressure telco-job in the city, Mick was not only hooning around in a variety of Lambos and Porsches and Mercedes, or goofing off in a million-dollar pad with million-dollar ocean views... he was also porking some fake-titted glassy-eyed bimbo? 

If I ever caught up with him, I wouldn't know whether to suck his cock or slap him silly. It posed a genuine dilemma for me. 'First one, then t'other,' I decided.

But this 'Trish' wasn't going away, apparently deciding to wait for Mick to get back from his 'jog'. Apparently abandoning the plan to wander off in search of binoculars, she instead sat down at the computer, typed in a password, and to my profound joy she was into the system – and of course, she loaded up Facebook, presumably to type in some vapid update for all her friends to see.

But then she turned to the desk beside her, and passed an eye over the paperwork I had left strewn about from Mick's files – and with a comical double-take, she looked again. I chastised my sloppiness again; I didn't want this filly to know what I had been looking at, and from her interest it seemed Mick wasn't the type to share his personal dealings with his floozies.

His bank statement must have caught her eye: "Fifteen million!" she gasped. "Holy shit! I mean, obviously he was rich, but fifteen million..."

I rolled my eyes. Trust 'Trish' to lack an inner monologue.

"Wow, fifteen million..." she murmured, seeming to derive great enjoyment in spelling it out for herself. "Wow..." and, to my amused surprise, she let a hand fall between her legs.

'Well then,' I thought, with approval. 'Perhaps I'm going to get a show?'

And I did. Maybe there was something in the air – maybe a pheromone or two from an hour ago, when I had pleasured myself in the very same chair. Or perhaps the thought of all that money was an aphrodisiac for Trish. Either way, she showed herself no mercy; thinking herself alone, she let the papers fall and with no ceremony at all, she hitched her snug-fitting dress up past her hips and rolled it down below her tits, wearing it as a belt as she treated herself to some idle pleasure.

It was actually rather an intoxicating sight. A woman, beautiful and naked, touching and satisfying herself, is a beautiful thing to behold – and behold it I often have, going after the girls nearly as often as I go after the guys. Perhaps I'm greedy, to want to fuck people of both sexes... or perhaps it's just natural, perhaps I simply lack the unnecessary and unnatural restraint that most else in society place upon their feelings and desires. What's wrong with fucking? Isn't it fun? Isn't it healthy, a great release and an excellent cardio-vascular workout? So why not do it as often as possible?

And Trish was quite the sight. Without knowing I was there, she let her chair spin around, showing me the lot: one hand caressing her generous breasts, the other inserted deep and unabashed into her slot, her teeth nibbling and biting her lip as her eyes closed in utter bliss.

I wondered what she was imagining, as I myself gently caressed my hardening nipples through my light blouse. Perhaps she was thinking of Mick, his hard and strong body, his cock long and thick – perhaps she was thinking back to the last time they had got it on? Or perhaps, and far more likely, she was thinking of all the things she could buy with fifteen million dollars: shoes, clothes, shops, cars, houses, people...

It was working for her. A creamy little lather was forming about her nether-regions – she's a gusher, our Trish, something she and I actually have in common – and her breaths were coming in tiny, feminine little yips, tightening into gasps and squeals as her knees crossed and her toes cramped up and she came. Even as she kept coming, I slid the wardrobe open noiselessly, stepped out and shut it behind me, completely unnoticed as Trish kept herself on the boil, as she kept herself coming and coming and coming.

I didn't say anything. I simply watched, amused and secretly aroused with arms folded sternly, as she eventually wound down, and wound down... and opened her eyes... 

And screamed.

"So you're finished, then?" I asked of her.

"Who the fuck are you?" she cried, not even thinking to fix her dress or cover up her body.

"Detective Sergeant Jennings," I told her curtly, flashing my badge as proof. "I take it from the message you left, that you haven't seen or heard from Mick today?"

"What? No," she gasped, breasts heaving distractingly from her previous exertions combined with the shock of my materialisation. "Why? Is Mick in trouble?"

"I'll ask the questions, thank you 'Trish'," I told her. "When did you last see him?"

"Umm... two days ago," she reported. "I met him here. We... umm... well, we 'made love'," she whispered, somehow managing to appear coy despite her tits hanging out and the creamy froth gleaming off her bare shaven pussy – items which I didn't mind running my eyes over, from time to time.

"Were you aware that Mick has a wife, and five children?" I quizzed her.

She was wide-eyed. "No..." she answered, truthfully.

"Were you aware that Mick has been deceiving them – keeping his wealth and his cars and houses and share portfolios secret, not sharing them with his wife?" I followed on.

Another dumb, honest shake of the head. "No."

I looked at her. "Does any of that matter to you, now that you know it?" I decided to ask.

She thought for a moment – and, still honest as day, she shrugged. "Not really," she answered, though without malice. "I love Mick, he loves me, what we have is really special."

So I had thought. "Trish: I need you to listen. Last night, Mick crashed his Lamborghini off a mountain road aways down the coast. The car was destroyed and he hurt himself pretty bad, but he's run off and we can't find him."

"Oh my God..." Trish breathed, with a genuine show of concern on her face as the news slowly sank in.

"So let me ask you again," I said, with heavy tones of import and officiousness in my voice. "Trish: have you seen or heard from Mick today, at any stage, about anything?"

"No. Honestly, I haven't," she promised me. "My poor Mickey!"

I sighed – Trish genuinely had no answers for me. But still, she was the best lead I had turned up so far; if anyone knew anything about Mick's secret dealings, Trish would be the one.

"Trish, let me tell you what I'm thinking," I began, sitting down on the table next to her with a new demeanour: friendly, warm, opening up. It was time to try a new tack with our Trish.

"You see," I went on, "Mick's got a pretty sweet set-up here. Fast cars; great house; a sexy little number like you," I added, with an appreciative flash of my brows and another big obvious perve up and down her still-exposed body, to which she automatically smiled – coy, yet flattered.

"So what I'm thinking is," I continued, "our Mick wouldn't get himself into trouble like this without a good reason. He's not the type to crash a half-million-dollar Lamborghini backwards into a tree, leave it filled with blood, and stumble off down a creek so as to make it harder for us to track his movements – not without a really good reason. He must be in trouble, Trish," I told her. "He must have fallen in with a bad crowd, got into some shady dealings..."

Trish looked wide-eyed and fearful – I had struck a chord. I was on the right track, and her pretty, honest, dumb little face was all but singing the details to me.




Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 04



"What do you know, Trish?" I cajoled, gently, warmly, encouragingly – the good, sisterly, she-cop. For now. "Tell me: what do you know?"

"No..." she said, slowly and very carefully formulating a lie. "No, I don't think I know anything..."

"I think you do, Trish," I told her, less kindly. "I really think you do."

"No..."

"It's written all over your face there, Trish," I said, even less kindly now. "You've got 'LIAR' written all over your face, in big, pretty, blue-eyed dumb letters, right across your flawless little forehead."

Trish looked reproachful now. "Please," she said, softly. "I don't know, really I don't. Not for sure, anyway..."

I was ready to throw the 'good cop' routine out the window. I was never good at playing 'good cop' for long, anyhow. Now it was time for my most natural role: the 'bad, angry and horny slut-cop ready to cop a handful'.

I slid suddenly off the table and grabbed hold of Trish's chair, shaking it once in a manner designed not to hurt her, but to definitely grab her attention. "Tell me what's going on, Trish!" I yelled. "What has he done? Or what have YOU done?"

A bucket-load of guilt splashed across her face, and I knew that I had her. "Please, don't yell..." she tried.

"What have you done, Trish?" I bellowed at her. "What have you done? You've got your pretty, stupid little arse into some kind of trouble, and our big-hero big-bucks Mick has tried to step in on your behalf, and he's got himself neck-deep into the shit. Hasn't he, Trish? Hasn't he??"

"I don't know!" Trish cried, tears of guilt and shame spilling down her face. "Just leave me alone! Go away, go find Mick! He's not here, I don't know where he could be – just go find him!"

I tipped my head back and roared – I actually filled my lungs and let loose with an animalistic bellow, like some enraged creature of the jungle. I reached down, hooked my fingers beneath the top of her rolled-down dress, my hands having to sneak under her young perky oversized breasts to do so – they were warm and soft, fuck it all they must have been real, the lucky bitch – and with a hold on her just so, I pulled her to her feet, sudden and without restraint.

"You dumb slut," I hissed at her, frothing over with vitriol. "I know your type. I can't stand your type. You latch onto a rich guy like a tick on a dog, you suck and you suck and you suck at his big old cock and you don't give a shit if he's married or he has five kids or if he's hiding millions of dollars from his exhausted wife. You dumb fucking slut!" And I kissed her – I don't know what shocked her worse, my words or my kiss, for she stood there like a statue, frozen with utter astonishment.

"You dumb fucking slut," I murmured as I nibbled at her ear, as my rock-hard nipples drilled into her soft yielding bosom, as my hot, slickened cunt – bare and unfettered as my skirt lifted up – ground and rode upon her leg. "You stupid whore. You're nothing. You're a toy, a tool, nothing better than the cars he drives or the houses he owns. You're a symbol, a 'thing' that guys like Mick 'buy' to show the world how stupidly rich they are."

I stopped, and bent backwards to look her in the eye. "And now..." I murmured. "And now, you're mine."

As my words sunk in through her pretty little skull, I saw her eyelids flutter as she yielded to pure, undeniable, deprived and unabashed bliss – and she fell into my arms, returning my embrace with a fire to match my own.



Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 05



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.



Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 06



I sat agape. There I was, searching for Mick Worhurst, the disappearing owner of a secret Lamborghini; I was in the middle of an illegal search of the townhouse he kept secret from his wife, hidden away along with all of the other proceeds of the lottery he won two years ago... staring alternately between the phone in Mick's office on which Mick was talking to me, and the webcam on the shelf above his computer through which he was watching me. And had been watching me as I ransacked his office, poured through his files, pleasured myself (thinking myself alone and unwatched, of course), and later pinning down Mick's little floozy and having hot lesbian sex with her.

All in front of the webcam. All while he had been watching.

"Hello?" he called from the phone, his smooth and sexy voice sparkling with amusement. "I know you're there, I can see you breathing."

I pulled a face and reached for the phone, punching the hands-free button. "Mick Worhurst," I greeted. "You lying cheating son of a bitch."

"And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" he returned, not missing a beat.

"Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings," I told him as I tried to surreptitiously reach for my mobile, hoping to order up a trace on Mick's call. "I was put on your case when we found your Lamborghini – you know, the one filled with blood and wrapped around a tree half-way down a mountainside?"

"My poor Lambo," Mick lamented, as though mourning a dear friend. "If I ever catch up with the sons-of-bitches that ran me off the road..."

"So you had some help, crashing the Lambo?"

"My fucking oath I did!" Mick vociferated. "Have you found the bullet-holes?"

I blinked. "No..." I frowned. "Forensics went over the car, and there was no mention of bullets."

"Well I promise you, there were bullets. I was on my way to meet Pagani when a truck-load of his goons overtook me and shot me all up."

"Any shots they fired must have gone window-to-window," I frowned. "Our forensic boys don't usually miss bullet-holes..."

"Well, if we ever catch up, I'll show you the bullet hole in my arm. That might convince you."

"They said you must have copped an arterial wound, to bleed out like that," I nodded, wincing at the thought of it – I hadn't yet been shot in the line of duty, and it was something I hoped to avoid through to retirement. Bullet wounds do terrible things to a lady's skin tone.

"Yeah, I caught one high in the arm. A real gusher."

"Where did you go, Mick? How did you survive a bleed that bad?"

"I know enough to keep pressure on a wound like that," Mick explained. "And I've got a couple horses on a stud farm down in the foothills – I pretty much followed the creek all the way in, and had a helping hand from their live-in vet. He's a nice guy," Mick added, with perhaps a touch of understatement.

"All that for a girl, Mick?" I quizzed him, not hiding the disappointment in my voice.

"Don't say it like that, Detective," Mick chastised. "Remember: I can see the disapproving look on your face, too."

"Well now, you've seen plenty of me through this damn camera, haven't you?" I teased, settling back to regard the webcam with perhaps a touch of sultriness in my eye; even as I did so, I fired off a text message to the police switchboard requesting a trace on the landline call with Mick. "How's about you and I meet up, so I can at least get a glimpse of you?"

"Sounds tempting," Mick replied, and I could hear his cute, disarming grin even over the phone. "Maybe we can catch up for a chat sometime, after everything blows over?"

"No chance in hell of that happening, matie," I promised him. "You've got to come forward so we can sort this out. You, Trish and Roberto Pagani – sounds like he's got a few charges of blackmail and attempted murder to answer."

"It would really be better if you stayed out of everything," Mick informed me. "I know all about Pagani – I've got enough on him to shut him up. Just by surviving the crash, I've got all I need to stand over him."

"Roberto Pagani is a dumb thug," I told Mick, frowning at the webcam and at his uncooperative attitude. "Dumb thugs don't play ball. Dumb thugs just keep swinging at you until one of you is dead. It would be far better if you'd come on in so we can get statements off you and Trish, and use them to lock Pagani away for the rest of his dumb thuggish life."

"I'm sure you appreciate, Detective, that I have my own reasons for wanting to stay below the radar."

I rolled my eyes – he was referring to his wife, who until today had no idea that he was the owner of a bright orange Lamborghini, and was currently waiting anxiously at home with their five children for any news on her cheating, lying, lottery-hiding husband.

"I saw that little roll-of-the-eyes," Mick reminded me.

"I meant you to see it," I told him. "You really are a prick, Mick. You know that? What kind of man keeps a fifteen-million-dollar windfall hidden from his wife – from the mother of his five children?"

"Sounds like you've visited the missus," Mick observed. "Detective: can you imagine what my life would have been like if I'd brought that money home? I'd be locked up with that screaming shitting little brood twenty-four-seven!"

"That's exactly what your missus does!" I rejoined. "Five screaming little monsters, day-in-day-out, without a break, Monday-through-Sunday, week in week out all the year long, Mick! All so her 'beloved, kindly, providing' husband can go off and hoon around in Lamborghinis and Porsches, flake out in a million-dollar prime-ocean-view pad, and have his cock sucked all-day-long by some teenaged ultra-slut with big tits and blond hair??"

"You're a great one to question my morals, 'Detective'," Mick returned. "Where does 'masturbating in the line of duty' fall under your Code of Conduct? I saw every second of what you did to and with our dear young Trish; and those keys I see on the desk there – they're for my little red Elfin. Right?"

Crap – he'd seen the car keys, which I had dropped on the desk before the phone rang and had forgotten about them.

"So don't you get on your high horse and judge me, 'Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings'," he told me – which impressed me greatly, I must admit; I'm sure most men I meet forget my name immediately, referring to me mentally as 'the cop chick with the great guns'. I was already kind of hot for this guy, with his manly chin and cheeky grin and wicked little deception; the fact that he had consideration, character and respect enough to remember a lady's name did nothing to stop the mounting wetness in my unpantied crotch, my excitement building even as I spoke to the elusive and enigmatic Mick Worhurst.

"Don't you judge me," he said again. "I may have hidden my wealth and had some fun on the side, but never have I neglected my family; never have I held back on what they needed, never have I let them go wanting. I go back there every evening, and I spend every weekend in that tiny little house with them, and I love each and every one of them to pieces and I give of myself, everything I am, to them. I hold nothing back, except that which they can do without."

"Well aren't you a saint," I mocked him, using acrimony to disguise my building heat for him. "You don't think your poor wife could maybe do with a slightly newer car, or a slightly larger house? Maybe a bit of help when you're off doing your Playboy thing, maybe a maid or a cleaner or a nanny? You don't think you could maybe spare a bit of cream off the top of your high-yield returns to give Prue a helping hand?"

"Now—"

"How long did you think you could keep it all secret anyway, Mick?" I went on, in the middle of a rant and not willing to give him a break. "How long were you planning to keep it all under your hat? Ten years? Twenty? Forever? Or were you just gunna 'up-stumps' and vanish, book a one-way flight into the mist with your big-titted little tart and leave Prue penniless with your progeny? Was that the plan, Mick?" I asked of him, nostrils flaring. "Was that it??"

"Screw you, Detective," he replied. "You think you know me? You think I'm another one of 'those guys'? Is my case sparking up on some kind of ill-repressed 'daddy issue' of yours, perchance?"

I stopped, eyebrows flashing with fury, unable to help myself though I knew he was watching me closely via the webcam.

"Aha," he crowed. "I thought so. Well, Detective, not that it's any of your fucking concern, but why don't you go into the computer and open the 'Prue30' file?"

I swallowed my rage, and did as instructed; within I found a few pictures showing floorplans, artist's impressions and architectural sketches of a large, stately, modern-looking manor in a rural setting. "What's this?" I asked, hollowly.

"It's Prue's thirtieth birthday present," he informed me. "She turns thirty next year, and this is my surprise for her."

"What?" I frowned.

"This is how I spend most of my days, this is what I've been working on – I've been designing a house for her. A mansion. Eight bloody bedrooms – one for each of the kids, one for us, one for visitors-slash-grandparents and one for 'the help'; four bathrooms; three living areas; a six-car garage," he added, and I could hear his smug little lottery-winner's grin over the phone, "and a partridge in a pear tree. All for Prue, as a huge surprise for her thirtieth birthday. I'm going to come clean and tell her all about it."

I boggled slightly at this new turn of events, flicking through the pictures. It was a beautiful home: it had a 19th-century 'Colonial Australian' style about it, writ large and mansion-sized with painted white timber veneer and high-peaked roofs, yet at the same time made more modern, open and glassy. The interior, meanwhile, was just as opulent as the townhouse I had broken into, if not more so with quality materials and top-end furnishing abundant. It was huge, sprawling over a lush green plot of land nestled like a glen in the middle of a tall old-wood forest, presumably somewhere up in the mountains. The garage sat off to one side, a beautiful garden with big trees – alternately flowering purple and red – surrounding the drive and the front of the house, and to the rear was a large and beautiful landscaped patio-and-pool, its waters gleaming crystal-cyan in the summer sun and situated to take full advantage of a breathtaking view over the valley and river.

"Wow," was all I could say.

"I designed it myself," Mick reminded me, most proud of his architectural abilities and justly so. "They made a start last week, they've turned the first sod and began the earthworks and services. It should be ready just before her birthday, and on the day: I'll pick her up in a shiny new top-of-the-line Mercedes seven-seater, I'll drive her up to the mountains, I'll show her the house and give her the keys. And I'm gunna tell her: 'Happy birthday, baby!'"

He'd obviously thought it all out. "But why wait, Mick?" I asked of him. "Why hide it from her – why leave her to suffer day-to-day with the kids, all this time? Won't she be shitty with you for hiding it from her for so long?"

"I'm guessing she'll be happy enough with a brand new four-million-dollar home and thirty-million-dollar bank balance to care about those little details," Mick replied. "Anyways, I kept it all to myself with only the very best intentions in mind."

I snorted mirthlessly at that. "This should be good," I smirked. "Go on: explain yourself."

"Detective: the win came as such a shock. When I got the news I just sat there for hours, not knowing what to do or say or think. But at the forefront of my mind, I knew, I simply knew: I couldn't rush home and give Prue the news. I couldn't do it."

"Why not?"

"I wasn't ready!" Mick told me. "I wasn't ready – and neither would she be ready! I mean: fifteen million? Who could sit down and come up with a plan to manage all of that money – responsibly – in just a couple of hours? I knew, I just knew that if I ran home and said 'Prue... honey... we've won the lotto!' then that would be the end of it. She and I have been a bit silly with money in the past – we went and bought the house before we had finished building our family, we'd filled up a couple of credit cards with silly and unnecessary purchases, most of my former income was burning away on large high-interest debts... And I knew, with sudden and unconsidered access to millions of dollars, Prue and I would go nuts, we'd buy a tonne of useless crap, we'd blow it all on houses and holidays and shopping sprees, she'd go and give half of it to her stupid bloody relatives..."

"The inconsiderate bitch," I commiserated, with perhaps a touch of sarcasm.

"I needed time," Mick went on, the tone of his voice letting me know my little contributions were not welcome. "I needed time to sit and think. To chew on it for a while, and properly consider our future direction, to come to grips with the enormity of our new wealth."

"Let me guess: the townhouse, the Lambo... they were purchased as 'essential tools', designed only to sharpen your concentration?"

"Well, a man's entitled to just a wee bit of indulgence, Detective," Mick admonished, cheekily.

"Uh huh," I returned, aiming an unimpressed squint down the webcam. "And tell me: do the girls like Trish fall in the 'wee bit of indulgence' category? Were you planning to wrap her up with a big silver bow as another birthday surprise for Prue?"

"Well..." I heard Mick grinning, and his total lack of compunction at once vexed me massively... and endeared him to me all the more. He was such a cheeky, wicked, unapologetic little bastard – just my kind of guy, though I hated it and hated myself for it... 

"Trish was just a bit of fun on the side," Mick dismissed. "Girls like her don't stick round for long. I was pretty sure she'd be distracted by something shiny long before it was time to bring Prue in on the big picture."

"Oh, now aren't you a sweetie, Mick?" I teased. "Not every guy will cop a bullet in the arm for 'just a bit of fun on the side'."

"Hey: just because I'm not planning to marry the girl, doesn't mean I like to see a prick like Pagani standing over her. She's nice, she deserves better."

"Well, I don't know if she'll be so 'easily distracted' when you've had your fill of her," I warned him. "She saw your bank balance. I think she might be planning on sinking her claws, holding onto you for a bit longer."

"Yeah, I saw you left my papers out for her to see – thanks for that," he quipped. "Really appreciated it."

I just had to shake my head at this guy. "I can't believe you, Mick," I confessed. "I just can't believe you. You act like you love your wife – you won't leave her, you go home to her every night and spend every weekend with your family – yet you've gone two years hiding a multi-million-dollar windfall from her, lying about where you go and what you do during the working week, you fuck around behind her back..."

"You seem so disappointed in me, Detective," Mick observed.

I frowned. "Disappointed isn't the right word. 'Confused', I think, sums it up better. Why do it? If you don't love Prue enough to share all of this with her now, right now, or even two years ago – then why do it? Why not just leave her and have your own fun?"

"I do love my wife," Mick returned. "I do. I love her, and I love my kids, all five of the little bastards. I can't imagine my life without them. But... well, it's so complicated," he tried to explain. "I could just see my life if I had shared my winnings with them. I wouldn't be able to get out. I wouldn't be able to have 'my time'. You know? I'd be stuck there, helping out, doing chores, changing nappies, feeding and burping and running around after everybody and going absolutely insane... I need to get out of there five days a week, Detective. I need it."

I nodded; even despite my disdain for the man, I knew him, I knew what he meant. I would be the same, exactly the same in his position.

"Two days a week at home is almost too much," he went on. "And it's the same for Prue, she feels exactly the same about me being there – she's much happier that I get out and about, I'm sure of it! When I am home I'm always 'in her hair', I'm not doing it right, I'm putting things away where they're not supposed to go, I'm feeding this kid at the wrong time, I'm giving that kid the other kid's medication, I'm going out and buying the wrong size of nappy or the baby powder that four-out-of-five of them are allergic to – and it drives her bonkers! She honestly can barely stand to have me at home, I just get right up her nose and without even trying! And if I were to have stayed home every day... it would have destroyed us. It would have destroyed our marriage. We love each other, Detective – we just can't stand each other."

"So why not keep getting out, Mick?" I rejoined. "Why not have shared the winnings with her, and during work-days just get out and go to an office, do your own thing, maintain the sanity?"

"It wouldn't have happened," Mick knew. "That would never have happened. Prue would hate me for leaving her at home when I didn't really need to, she'd ask me every other day 'could you just stay home today please?' and I'd have felt guilty for skipping out on her... it was a lose-lose situation."

"So instead of having to feel guilty, you decided to hide everything and lie through your teeth and leave her to suffer in near-poverty while you toured the countryside in a bright orange Lamborghini?" I asked, innocently.

"In a nutshell: yes," Mick answered, and I could hear the cheeky, teasing twinkle in his eye even as he said it. 

"You're a shit, Mick," I returned, with amused scorn – even as my phone buzzed silently in my hand. "An absolute shit," I reiterated, glancing surreptitiously at the phone, reading a message from the station's switchboard instructing me to keep Mick on the phone for as long as possible, to enable a full trace of his location.

I needed to maintain a man's interest, did I? Well now: there's one thing I've always been good at...

"But never mind that, Mickey-boy," I went on, taking on a new set to my body: open and approachable, leaning towards the camera, my button-down blouse undone at the top and showing plenty of cleavage, my tits drawn tight against the thin white cotton and my dark nipples clearly visible via the absence of bra. "See, I've been thinking..."

"You've been thinking?" Mick's disembodied voice echoed, via the phone.

"I've been thinking... it's not fair that you can see me, but I can't see you," I said, with a slight pout. "Any chance you might have a computer and a webcam on your end?"

"I might do, I might do," Mick allowed, which was as good as a confession – but of course he had a computer, he was using it to watch the feed from my webcam. And as if million-dollar-Mick didn't have another webcam with him at the moment, wherever he was...

"Well then, why don't you switch on your webcam and tell me how to find the feed," I cajoled. "It would be nice to put a face with the voice. And fair's fair, after all..."

"Hmm..." he mulled, considering my request with a great deal of amusement. "...mmm no. I can see you, and that's fine by me. No need for you to see me."

"Aww now – what if I made it worth your while?" I asked; and with one hand, I grabbed the lapel of my half-unbuttoned shirt and I pulled it ever so slightly outwards, revealing some more of my shapely braless breast and perhaps, just perhaps exposing the edge of my nipple, providing just a glimpse... before I pulled it closed again, shutting the door.

"Mmmmmm..." he nearly growled down the line, voicing his approval with a deliciously animalistic noise. "But then, I've already seen you naked... twice... and in orgasm, twice... once with another lady, too."

I stopped, and fixed the webcam with my very best 'you are in trouble now' expression. "Are you really gunna turn me down, Michael Allan Worhurst?" I demanded of him.




Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 06



He relented instantly, instructing me on how to access a chat program and establish a video link with him... and there he was. Darkening blond hair; that square chin, framing an impish grin; and something of a bashful, unsupposing, dispossessing manner about him, as though he didn't really think of himself as a total hottie – he was a total hottie, but no big deal.

I had to bite my lip a moment, before regathering my composure. "Hello you," I greeted his tasty image.

"Hello yourself," Mick returned – and as he spoke, my heart flew into my mouth. 

Oh, I could have eaten that cute little bastard for breakfast.

But he would not let me bask in his glow for long – "So go on then," he said. "You said you'd make it 'worth my while'?"

"Indeed I did," I purred, playing at my lapels again in a fashion most teasing. "I thought I might share with you, some of the things I've been thinking about... some of the things I plan to do to you, when I finally track you down."

The hot-and-heavy tones with which I delivered my line definitely snagged his attention. "I'm all ears, Detective Sergeant," he invited, his grin (and his dimples!) cranking up a delicious little notch.

"See now..." I began; and though he couldn't necessarily have seen it or known it, below the desk and out of sight my fingers were creeping and snaking their way up my skirt, seeking out my dripping pantiless crotch that was simply begging for attention, my flirtations with my quarry having driven me half-batty with horniness.

"See now: when I catch you, I'm gunna drag you off somewhere where I can get you alone. Somewhere where there's no witnesses, no colleagues or superiors to get in my way."

"Yeah?" he asked, all dimples and eye-teeth as he grinned enormously. "What have you got in mind for me, then?"

"Mmm, terrible terrible things," I cooed, as my fingertips found and played with the outer folds of my hot, utterly saturated sex.

"Such as?"

"Might be a bit of 'cruelty while under imprisonment' going on," I warned him. "Might have to knock you around a bit – you're too cocky for my liking."

"You reckon I'm 'cocky', eh?" he asked, loading the word most wickedly.

"Something tells me you're very, very 'cocky'," I purred in reply, repressing a shiver as my probing fingers landed upon my gorging clit.

"So then – how do you propose to knock some sense into me?" Mick probed, his eyes thoroughly a-twinkle.

"Mmmmmm..." I said, as I took a moment to lose myself in my slow-rising pleasure. "Mmm, I will most certainly get violent."

"Violent, you say?"

"Uh huh," I breathed, as I laid a second finger directly upon my sopping clit, biting my lower lip against the flowering explosion of pleasure that it brought.

"Dare I ask: will handcuffs be involved?"

"Most definitely," I nodded, sitting back a little in my chair as I began to work at myself in earnest; I saw Mick look a little lower at his monitor, and I knew he was aware of what I was doing – my crotch was still out of sight, but my arm was definitely leading down to my zone, and the way my arm worked and jiggled probably did little to suggest I was doing anything otherwise.

"My my..." Mick breathed, and the fascination and appreciation on his face shone brighter than any compliment possibly could.

"Mmm..." I moaned slightly, before I continued: "I think I'll definitely have to restrain you. I'm definitely going to want to work without interruption."

"Yeah?" he asked, as he looked right at me – right into the camera, his enormous blue eyes looking right at me, as though staring into the bottom of my very soul...

...and I couldn't help it, I let out a little gasp and a whimper as I was very nearly overcome, merely by the look in his eye. The look that wanted me. The look that wanted to take me, and have me. This guy was something else...

"Tell me more," he urged, bringing me back from the brink of mindless oblivion. "Tell me: you've got me handcuffed..."

"I've got you handcuffed..." I breathed raggedly, chest heaving, breasts threatening to break through my loosely-buttoned blouse and spill in front of him. "And bound to a chair..."

"Uh huh," he urged, hungrily, wantonly. "Bound to a chair, yeah...?"

"And... and... and I'll take your trousers..."

"Yeah..." he urged me on, all eyes, chiselled and beautiful...

"I'll take your trousers, and..." I was ready to cum. My orgasm was building and spiralling quicker and higher than anything I could remember – there was something about this guy, about the piping-hot look in his eye, the unabashed cheekiness of his dealings, the vibe between us – a feeling, a bond as though between kindred spirits...

"I'll take your trousers, and unleash your cock," I told him, with almost a snarl – I was ready. I was building up to the brink, I was ready to go over the edge, and I was desperate to bring him with me. "I'll unleash your cock, and I'll climb aboard... and I'll fuck you, Mick," I told him, and I surprised the hell out of him and myself: I kicked the chair back and threw my feet up on the desk, my skirt riding high up my legs like a belt, my spare hand tearing my blouse open and spilling my breasts before him, my panties long gone and my cunt exposed, exposed and hot, exposed and so very very wet as I plied it with my fingers, as I treated and played with myself, as I played for him, played three-quarts naked in front of him...

"And I'll fuck you," I was chanting, "and I'll fuck you, and I'll fuck you, and I'll fuck you..." I kept chanting even as his eyes boggled on the screen, as he sat slack-jawed and took me in – my legs spread wide, my tits out and heaving, my fingers deep inside myself, plunging and squelching and fucking myself as my head fell back and my eyes lolled and I was ready, beyond ready, I was ready to cum...

"Oh yeah..." I heard him groan over the phone, and on the screen he was standing: he was standing, he had unleashed the very cock I had been dreaming about all day – and it was just as huge and wide and veiny and beautiful as I had imagined, a rod of immense promise and beauty, and he was wanking it, he was wanking before his camera as he watched me wank for him...

...and I came at the sight of it, I fell suddenly over the edge and I came, I quivered and melted and came and came, hollering and screaming and howling unabashed and uncontrollable as I watch him pump, and pump, and pump...

...and with a grunt and a huge sigh he came, his cock which had still been growing even as he watched me and worked at himself, his cock erupted with huge thick white streamers of cum, jizzing hot and creamy and delicious as the streamers died down into thick wadded waves of cum, and he bucked and he bent and he nearly buckled as his self-ministrations drove him over the edge, and he came even as I kept coming, as I came anew to watch him cum, as I drank in the beautiful and glorious sight of this man coming with me, coming for me, just for me and because of me, as he came and I came and we came together and forever.

Hardly had we even started settling down, I heard my phone buzzing mutedly on the floor where it had fallen. I hardly bothered to look at it, expecting it to be the station with a result on the trace – not like I could get up and go get Mick now, I hardly had strength enough to stay upright in the chair let alone pick up and chase the guy down – but I looked again as I saw it was a text message from Trish, whose number I had put in my phone not even an hour ago:

"This is Pagani. I've got Trish. Come and meet me now, and come alone, or she's dead."

My heart froze for a second, before an involuntary "fuck" slipped out of my mouth.

"What's wrong?" Mick asked, suddenly concerned on the computer screen – still with his cock in his hand, breathing hard from his exertions.

"Pagani. He's got Trish," I muttered, regretting it immediately – that was the last thing I wanted Mick to know.

"Fucking hell!" Mick roared, in a sudden mad scramble to clean up. "I'm gunna kill him!"

"Stay away from him Mick," I ordered, no-nonsense and authoritative even as I pushed my skirt back down over my still-twitching twat and worked to refix my few remaining buttons. "This has become a police matter."

"Like fuck it has," Mick retorted. "This is between me and him. Just leave it be."

"That's not gunna happen Mick," I promised him, as I regathered my gunbelt and the keys to Mick's Elfin. "Trish's safety is my responsibility now. Leave it to me."

"No – you leave it to me."

"Don't argue with me, Mick!"

"Fuck's sake," Mick spat. "You sound just like my wife."

"She's a good woman Mick – better than you deserve. Stay the fuck away from Pagani, or so help me God I will shoot you my fucking self." And with that I yanked the webcam off its cord, threw it against the wall and headed out, ignoring Mick as he spat and swore over our phone connection.

"Fucking dirty lotto-winners and fucking dirty Euro-thugs," I sneered as I ran through the house and jumped into the Elfin. "And I was gunna go swap this for the Mercedes. Shit," I pouted as I fired up the massive V8, making the tiny little car shiver like it had been stung.

Life just isn't fair, sometimes.

TO BE CONTINUED...