Chapter One.
Enter Agatha.
London, 1923.
"Sex, as a word, had not been mentioned out loud in my young days, but there had been plenty of it. Maybe not talked about so much, but enjoyed far more than nowadays. Though usually labelled 'Sin,' I can't help feeling that that was preferable to what it seems nowadays. A taboo subject."
Agatha Crowley lit a cigarette and put it into the end of her black holder. She bent her left leg at the knee and laid back on the bed, naked as the day she was born. She leered at Thompson as he stood with his back to her as he dressed. He was a fine specimen of masculinity and rather well-hung. He was twenty-six and at the peak of his physical prowess. A rugged type an inch under six foot, with a broad chest. He had a thick head of dark hair, and deep, chocolate-brown eyes to match. Not only did he have a superb upper body, but he also had strong legs, a narrow waist, and tight buttocks, which Agatha now ogled unashamedly. His athletic form resulted from two hard years serving in the British Indian Army.
"Sex was constantly on my mind back in India. Didn't see much skirt in Lahore," answered Agatha's very own Don Juan and chauffeur/manservant.
He turned to face her in the rather small bedroom of her Smithfield flat. Bare from the waist down. with only his shirt on over his upper body, the amorous author stared directly at his crotch, the virile source of his unquestionable masculinity. Even in its dormant state, his dick was phenomenal. All eight inches of smooth man meat could rise to the occasion at concise notice. A fact that the grateful Agatha could attest to. Seeing as he had just ravished her moments earlier resulting in her achieving not one, but two sublime orgasms. They had made love head to cunt, and head to cock. Face-to-face, and dog fashion.
"I can well imagine. I shall do my very best to rehabilitate you every chance I get."
The tall female rose from her bed and stretched. Born on December 21, 1890, the slender creature was now thirty-three years of age. Standing at five feet seven inches tall, the long-legged vamp had outstanding 32D breasts, with wide hips separated by a thin waist. With a set of pins that seemed to go on forever, she always looked elegant in all kinds of outfits. Her big eyes were hazel and her short-cut hair was a reddish-blonde. Because of her colouring, her skin was pale but unblemished. She was not necessarily beautiful in the classical sense, but extremely sexy looking.
"Looks like it will be a nice day."
The redhead crossed to the large window and gazed at the tree-lined square outside. She exhaled blue smoke into the warm air of the room as Thompson came up behind her. She sighed, still dreamily half asleep as he hugged her. She backed into his groin, relishing the feel of his member, all pushy and manly in her bum crack.
"Was that the doorbell?"
Agatha tilted her head to try to catch the sound.
"Yes. I do hear it. I'll go."
Left alone to her ablutions, she reflected on her unique past. Crowley had been born into a wealthy upper-middle-class family in Torquay, Devon, and was largely home-schooled. Being an avid reader of fiction, she tried her hand at writing. She was initially unsuccessful, with six consecutive rejections. But this changed in 1920 when her first story was published. Her first husband was Archibald, and they married in 1914, divorcing just two years later.
When her Grandfather died in 1869, he left Agatha's Mother £2,000, which she used to buy the leasehold of a villa in Torquay named Ashfield. It was here that her third and last child, Agatha, was born. By 1901, her Father Fred had died from pneumonia and chronic kidney disease. Thus leaving Crowley with a handsome legacy that she used to travel the world and later marry. After the collapse of her marriage, she found solace in the new decade.
"Such fun."
The Roaring Twenties. The new decade was now in a period of economic prosperity with a distinctive cultural edge in the United States and Europe. With an emphasis on social, artistic, and cultural dynamism. Jazz blossomed, and the 'Flapper' redefined the modern look for British and American women.The term Flapper originated in Great Britain, where there was a short fad among young women to wear rubber galoshes (an overshoe worn in the rain or snow) left open to flap when they walked. The name stuck, and throughout the United States and Europe Flapper was the name given to liberated young women.
Crowley loved it. She enjoyed drinking and smoking, went out unaccompanied, and threw away her corsets in favour of the looser, shorter underwear and dresses that allowed ladies the movement needed to dance to the new music of the Jazz Age. Her writing of pulp crime fiction had brought in welcome monies, and with it, a curious influx of desperate people requiring her help.
x
That same evening, Agatha and her chaperone attended a performance of Carmen by Georges Bizet at Her Majesty's Theatre in Haymarket. She had spent the best part of the afternoon deciding what to wear before settling on a Veronique green dress with intricately beaded black mesh, black iridescent sequins, and small black beads wrought in flourishing swirls and spirals. The emerald green knit lining of this green and black dress created a very radiant effect. The sleeveless, V-neck design showed her off with a modest touch, while the curve-hugging fit and jagged edge dripping with fringe were designed to turn every head, She wore a tight-fitting headpiece with jewellery and long-sleeved black gloves.
"Darling, you look divine."
Looking immaculate in his formal evening wear of top hat and tailcoat was the Honourable Edward Gathorne-Hardy. The youngest son of Gathorne Gathorne-Hardy, the 3rd Earl of Cranbrook, the wealthy traveller, and socialite, had carved a successful career as an antique and art dealer. Still a youthful and fit twenty-four-year-old, he was one of the country's most eligible bachelors. The well-dressed gentleman wore a starched white shirt with pleated yokes, with bow tie, and white wing collars. He wore his trousers high at the waist and his shoes were highly polished.
"You too, my dear."
As they made their way inside, they were ushered down a special hallway to the patron's boxes. The excited redhead was delighted to discover they had perhaps the best box in the theatre. Agatha put her arm in his as they followed the ushers to their prime seats. They were at the right end of the box, further from the stage, but with the best viewing angle. The opera started just as they were seated. They visited the Patron's bar after the second act, and George ordered two glasses of champagne.
"George, you devil. You know that bubbly goes straight to my head."
"I'm well aware, you ravishing beauty. I plan to have my wicked way with you one way or another."
She looked at him with seductive eyes and took a generous gulp of champers.
"Well, you shan't get any argument from me, I can assure you."
The lights dimmed, indicating the third act was about to begin. They returned to their private box and George deliberately moved his chair closer to Agatha's.
He put a hand on her knee, sliding it up slowly but assuredly up her left thigh. Agatha looked at her amorous escort and grabbed his hand in her glove. But rather than brush him off, the wanton vixen placed it further inside her thigh, closer to her sex beneath the dress. She pressed on his hand hard and moaned as together they massaged her mons. In the dark interior of the theatre, nobody saw George daringly draw her dress up her legs, baring her silk stockings inch by inch. Agatha sighed as the brazen fellow used just his fingertips to brush back and forth inside her upper thighs.
"George, behave yourself!"
Ignoring her, the aroused gentleman stroked the bare flesh of her leg just where her garter ended and before her bloomers stretched out over her mons. He shifted in his seat and cupped her mound, feeling and lusting after her heated muff therein. He did not let up as the successful author sighed and squirmed in her seat. He withdrew his hand then took hers and moved it to his rampant erection.
"Not here, my sweet. There will be plenty of time for you when we get you back to my flat."
A member of the audience suddenly had a coughing fit and both would-be lovers sat up in their chairs. The end of the opera could not come soon enough and the audience stood to applaud.
"Well darling," she said as he kept fondling her bottom as she lifted an arm to hail her chauffeur. "We'd best get you home toot suite. Lest you intend to have me in the street."
Agatha and George hurried out to her automobile, a brand new Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.
"Madam?"
"Home, Thompson. And don't spare the horses."
"Very well."
As the car sped off in the direction of Smithfield, the couple got cozy in the plush back seats. George immediately leaned in and locked lips and tongue with Agatha who reacted in kind and reached out to place a hand in his lap. She moaned in pleasure as his hand slid her knee and up her thigh. Her breathing started to quicken as they felt the car stop in traffic. George had now slid between her thighs and pulled the hem of her dress up to her midriff. Agatha slid down along the back seat as busy fingers found the waistband of her bloomers. They were dragged down to her shoes and then discarded as if he were throwing away a used napkin.
"Oh, my word!" she sighed as her lover stroked her mons and probed the entrance of her cunny.
When they took off again, Agatha kicked and moaned as Thompson rode fast and hard, weaving between cars in a way that excited the novelist. The speed of the motor, plus the amorous foreplay of the frustrated George, made for the most thrilling adventure. The vibrations of the car motoring up through the streets meant her lover held her in his firm grip. As he rested on his haunches, he raised her lower body from the seat so that her sopping muff met his animated lips. She lifted her left leg up and onto the back of the seat, putting the other leg on the floor so she was spread wide for him. With her legs anchored against, George constantly manipulated her soft labia and rubbed over her clit firmly which sent delicious vibrations of pleasure through her. She squealed loudly, oblivious to the driver who remained aloof and uninterested.
"There he is!"
Agatha grabbed his erection from the confines of his pants and busily rubbed the rigid stalk rapidly. As he massaged her cunt, they both masturbated each other with guttural moans and sighs.
They eventually came to a halt in the little square lined with trees. The writer cum socialite lived in the comfortable two-bedroom flat of a converted Regency house fifteen minutes from the West End. The lust-crazed couple quickly rearranged their clothing as Thompson opened the rear door. Agatha stepped out and breathlessly took the steps up to her front door, closely followed by George. As they left the chauffeur to park the Rolls, George pressed Agatha to the nearest wall, his legs widening hers as he dry-humped her. She grinned as she realised that her knickers were still in the car as busy fingers lifted her dress to delve inside her vulva. Their mouths met in a desperate hunger for contact and Agatha delighted in their raw passion for each other. She pushed against his hand and ground you down his middle digit that was up to the second knuckle in her quim.
"My bedroom is this way."
They both stumbled down the hallway and tumbled into her boudoir.
It was a fairly smallish room with white and gold wallpaper and a red curtain over the big window. The modest bed was a double with a dark blue bedspread.
Once they were through the door Agatha was all over George. They kissed and forced each other's tongues between their parted lips. They tore their clothing off with trembling hands, staring into each other's eyes as they did so. Agatha was down to stockings and garters, her dress in a crumpled heap on the carpet.
"My word, Agatha. You're quite ravishing in the nuddy."
She smiled demurely as she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. He drank in her slender form with the pliant tits and alabaster flesh. Her left hand wandered across her slightly rounded belly which made his eyes lower to look at the reddish-brown curls of pubic hair that covered her cunt. She fluttered her lashes and he bit, unceremoniously pushing her onto the bed and she yelped aloud as she ended up on her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, with her legs open in an attitude of lewd abandon.
"In everyday life, I am a refined lady. But get me into bed and I am a lust-crazed sexual animal. Now, love me."
Her slender fingers traced inwards from her upper thighs to the softness of her mons. He slid his hands under her legs so that he could drag her down the bed.
He stood at the foot of the bed with his right hand jerking his erect cock as he focused on her welcoming muff. In kind, her eyes fell on his organ, standing stiffly to attention in his damp fist. He moved forward, crawling up the bed to settle on top of her. His dick pushed up her mons and brushed her inner thighs as he lined himself up with her entrance.
"George, darling. Love me."
With a grunt, he pressed her into the mattress, lifting her legs into the crook of his elbows as he entered her slowly. Agatha hissed as his solid length drove inexorably into the hilt. She pulled his head to hers and she kissed him hard on the mouth.
"Mmmm! Give me that cunt splitter."
Satisfied that he was lubricated enough inside her wet channel, he began to move back and forth, flexing the muscles on his buttocks and calves as she melted in his arms. Once his cock was adequately coated in her love juices, George doubled the rate of his thrusting and the bed creaked noisily beneath the rutting couple.
"Oh, harder than that if you don't mind."
"Urgh!"
The wealthy art dealer felt sweat prickle his brow as he shifted his weight and balanced himself on his hands. He dug his toes into the bed behind him and hammered home. The woman oozed sexual confidence and had an uninhibited sensuality that intrigued him. Besides prostitutes, he had never met such an open creature as she.
He pulled the panting female into a sitting position and settled her into his greasy lap. They came nose to nose as she gyrated on his log. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as they fucked in a passionate shuffle. He used all of his strength to cradle her slim form in his arms. With a shift in her hips, Agatha fell up and across his bulk as he tipped back.
She then sat up higher in his lap, pulled his head forward into a deep kiss, and clamped her thighs to the outside of his. Gradually she slid up against his upright dick. He spread her labia wide and thrust up as she sank. They began moving against each other in a languid fuck that saw her drive down onto his entire length. A smug grin curled her red lips up at each corner of her mouth as she ground slowly onto his cock. Her breasts swayed as she rode him and he loved the surprising force and power she had in her hips and thighs. The wanton redhead leaned forward and placed the palms of her hands on his chest as she picked up the pace of her strokes.
"Oh! You devil!"
Agatha shrieked as George poked a finger into the crack between her two ripe buttocks to seek out her anus. She crashed on top of him and use her hips to fuck him in rapid motions that saw their bodies slip and slide together. She pressed her thighs tight to his she smashed into him, riding up and down with hard and faster thrusts Her tits crushed into his chest as she grunted loudly from her efforts. Agatha felt her whole body heat up as her cunt contracted on his length. With his finger deep inside her nether hole, she pumped and pumped until she came with a scream.
"What a cock hungry whore you are!"
Agatha whimpered in agreement as George tipped her into her back once more, his cock still embedded inside her sipping muff. Her stockings had fallen to her calves as George reared up, his entire body slick with perspiration and his immaculate hair dampened with sweat. He dripped onto the slim figure of the vixen beneath him and he noted the glistening droplets between her breasts.
He quickly found a rhythm, and he hammered into her with swift pelvic thrusts. Her hands gripped his taut buttocks as he pounded into her like there was no tomorrow. His cock throbbed and he groaned as he ejaculated, sending his semen inside her molten hot cunt. Agatha threw her head back and cried out as she hugged him with arms and legs.
"I say, old thing. I didn't mean to cum inside you. Do forgive me."
"Oh, Tish. I have a Dutch cap. I'm a free woman, able to love whom I want and when I want."
She rolled over onto his chest and lifted a leg across his left hip.
"That was awesome. So you enjoyed it"
"Very much so. And I intend to love you again. In the morning."
They both drifted off into a post-coital sleep.
xxx
Chapter Two.
Smooth Operator Enters Agatha.
A week later Agatha was driven down to Weybridge in Surrey. She had been invited by another of her would-be suitors, Major Timothy Trent, who had seen active service in the Great War with the East Surrey Regiment. Born in 1883, he was a widower and retired. The crime writer had never had any love for the rustic scene finding the greenery rather unagreeable.
The Major had first discovered Agatha at a garden party in London about a year before and had been immediately fascinated by the author. Both intellectually and romantically. He had wined and dined her for a month before she had allowed him into her bed. The drink had flowed, the earth had moved, and the bed had heaved. The first night she had been passionate and unhurried. He had taken her in the heat of a Summer night and the grateful minx had cum in minutes as his seed trickled down her thighs and upturned bottom. They had been a couple for a glorious week until she realised there was no romantic involvement, just a carnal lust for pleasures of the flesh.
"Agatha, my dear. How radiant you look."
"Hello, Major. Lovely to see you again."
They hugged warmly and then he kissed the back of her hand.
"It's such a nice day."
Agatha wrinkled her nose at the smell of petrol and burnt rubber in the air. She pulled her cloche hat tighter over her boyish bob haircut. The sun was shining however as they strolled toward the clubhouse. The Major took her by the elbow as they walked. He occasionally glanced at her as her knee-high green dress graced the subtle curves of her firm buttocks and proud breasts that thrust out of the daringly low neckline.
"Still writing penny dreadfuls then?"
"Yes. I'm still basking in the success of the first book. I have written a number of short stories which keeps me in shoes."
Agatha took in all the sights of the track. The grandstand was empty at this time of spectators. And the circuit, around which the drivers would race.
"I must say, I find all this speed and noise terribly exciting. I can't wait to meet your young chap, Bonneville."
Trent was a keen lover of all sports and had been captivated by the fairly new pastime of auto racing for competition. Brooklands Race Track in 1923 was a 2.75-mile circuit and aerodrome and was the world's first purpose-built motor racing facility. The motor circuit was the brainchild of Hugh Fortescue Locke-King, formerly of the Royal Artillery, and work had begun in 1906.
The track had opened on 17 June 1907 with a luncheon attended by most of Britain's motor manufacturers. This was followed by an informal inauguration of the track by a procession of 43 cars, one of which was driven by Charles Rolls. The first competitive event was held on 28--29 June, with three cars competing to break the world record for distance covered in 24 hours, and the first race meeting was held on 6 July, attracting over 10,000 spectators.
After the war had ended, motor racing resumed in 1920 after extensive track repairs. Major Trent had followed the progress of British drivers with keen interest, going as far as to sponsor the young up-and-coming racer, Hugh Bonneville. He drove a Leyland Eight four-seater tourer with a 6.9-litre engine capable of reaching a speed of 100 mph.
"He is keen as mustard to try to emulate the French and Italian drivers. We all hope to hold our own British Grand Prix one of these days."
"How thrilling!"
They made a pit stop at the clubhouse where they enjoyed a pink gin.
"He must be in the garage. He's always tinkering with the engine."
It was a quick stroll to the garage where they found the main door closed. Trent opened a side door and they both entered. Agatha yelped when she nearly put her brand new T-strap pump in a puddle of black motor oil. When she looked up she saw that her cry had turned four heads her way. These men looked to be between twenty and thirty and were all standing in just their undershorts.
"I say chaps," said Trent. "Lady on the premises."
Agatha lifted her chin and let her gaze linger on all four near-naked fellows. They all looked fit and healthy as they looked back at the redhead in the daring knee-high dress.
"Ah. There you both are."
"Hugh, old sport. How the devil are you? Meet Mrs. Crowley."
"Do call me Agatha."
They shook hands and she studied the tall racing driver. At just over six feet tall he had a huge stature with slicked-back brown hair and a thin moustache. He had an engaging smile that showed off his dimpled cheeks. Rather a handsome sort she thought, and well worth getting to know better.
"I see that you've met my crew of mechanics. From the left, that's Grimshaw, Simpkins, Morris, and Smith. Splendid chaps all."
As they dressed in a white button-down jacket and matching trousers, Agatha unashamedly noted their wedding tackle. All shapes and sizes. Grimshaw had the biggest package and poor Smith seemed to possess a very tiny todger. Poor lamb.
"Well. Here she is. My pride and joy."
Morris dragged a sheet of tarpaulin from the sleek-looking open-topped vehicle and Agatha and the Major looked it over.
"What a remarkable automobile," she said in awe.
"Isn't it? The engine has a cylinder block and upper crankcase cast in one piece and a single centrally-mounted overhead camshaft. The crankshaft runs in five bearings. Ignition is by coil and distributor rather than magneto, which is the more usual British practice at the moment."
Agatha smiled weakly as he twittered on in a language she did not comprehend.
"Transmission is through a single plate clutch to a separately mounted four-speed gearbox. The spiral bevel crown wheel and pinion arrangement have two crown wheels each attached to a half shaft allowing them to be arranged at an angle to each other to give the rear wheels a positive camber."
"Heavens! Aren't you the brainbox? Well done."
"Would you like to for a spin?"
"Ra-ther!"
"That's the spirit. Morris? Fetch a spare helmet and goggles."
Agatha took the soft brown leather headpiece and tied it under her chin. Next, she tied off a pair of safety goggles around her head and blinked hard at the restricting protective shields. Hugh was already good to go in his moleskin cloth shirt and khaki corduroy breeches.
"I've only the one seat so you'll have to sit in my lap as I drive."
"I'm game if you are."
They squeezed into the car and Hugh gunned the engine. He took off and joined the circuit, leaving thick swirls of dust and dirt in his wake.
"I'll take the first lap at a reasonable speed so that you get used to the width of the track and curves."
"Right you are," she shouted back over the noise of the engine.
Hugh was obviously an expert driver, using the mirrors, changing gears, and applying heel-to-toe change downs. His right foot lifted and fell on the brakes as he wrenched the steering wheel in his firm grip.
"Here we go!"
On the second lap, he increased the speed, taking her up to 50 mph. For the young redhead, this was utterly thrilling, indulging in such a male-like activity. She clutched her helmet as she squirmed in Hugh's lap and yelled out in excitement. She got the most enjoyment out of the curves rather than the long straight bits, especially when Hugh shifted gear. In her unladylike position, the horny beauty could not conceal her delight in having the stick shaft ride up between her legs.
"I say!"
As the car reached a speed of 70 mph, Agatha put her hand on Hugh's and jammed the stick against her sex under her dress. She could feel the sweat on her palms and her thighs trembled as her muff leaked due to the sublime vibrations which were sufficient enough to reward the accomplished writer with an exquisite orgasm. She felt herself squirt in her bloomers as Hugh temporarily fought for control of the racing car. He slowed up enough to steer the auto off of the circuit and onto a strip road by a line of hedgerows.
"I say, old thing. That was dashed risky."
Agatha caught her breath and ripped the goggles and hat off of her mussed bob.
She turned in the driver's lap and flung her arms around his neck.
"Nonsense! That was one of the singularly most riveting things I've ever done in my life."
As she got to get out, Hugh glanced at her dress which had ridden up to show the ridging of her stocking top. He lifted off the cowling over the engine to double-check everything, and as he leaned over Agatha could see the muscular shape of his buttocks through his corduroys. A man's backside always had an appeal for the ever-horny redhead. The thrilling sight of a nicely shaped rear on a man never ceased to excite the thirty-year-old. As he tinkered with some kind of a tool, she noted his trousers were just as well-filled at the front as they were at the back. Her cunt ached with anticipation as the modern female made the first move. She suddenly took his hand in hers and led him to the hedgerows.
"Come. I fancy you something rotten. I have a notion to make love with you in the open air."
Hugh looked around and saw nobody else about as the free and abandoned vixen removed her dress and laid it on the grass. Beneath it she wore but an ivory chemise with white drawers. Her silk stockings were kept in place by two garters.
The erotic sight of her in this state of undress quickly turned his mind to one of a carnal inclination. He took off his shirt and displayed his hairy chest to the excited writer. As he dropped his corduroys, Agatha discovered why he favoured a baggy type of clothing. He was very well equipped down there and sported a rather fine specimen of manhood. She was pleasantly surprised by how erect he was already and smiled up at him as he pulled his undergarments down to expose his seven inches of thick, knobbly flesh. As his foreskin peeled back. Agatha took inventory again. Make that EIGHT inches of rock-hard cock that poked out of his greasy groin.
"You're a brazen one, aren't you?" she said as he posed and strutted before her.
"Ever seen a dick such as this? Does it not arouse you? You'll find none bigger in a hundred-mile radius."
This one was fully aware he was blessed by nature and that his massive organ would be highly sought after by many a lecherous female. Agatha Crowley.
"Agreed. Do you desire this frail creature?"
"We do."
"We?"
"Say hello to Percy."
Good lord, she thought. He even has a name for his prick! How sickeningly vain.
"Most amusing."
Returning out to him, she leaned forward and deftly swallowed half of his stiff cock. Her wet mouth managed to consume the top of his throbbing shaft, and as she closed her eyes, she swallowed, creating a tight seal with her lips. Hugh gasped as she immediately began sucking him as fast and as hard as she could. With her hand at the root of his stalk, Agatha let her tongue slither around his bloated glans, thereby creating a copious amount of saliva that dribbled down the underside of his upright pole. The cock hungry redhead showed off her prowess as she drove down his length and then rose back up to slobber on his bell end.
"Lall, lall, loll, loll, lool, lool, lool, lool!"
The racing driver was fascinated by her technique of deep downward bobs of her head, combined with an odd tongue lashing of his flared knob. The vibrations and friction were completely new to the man. And he had seduced quite a few ladies in his time.
"This is out of this world! Percy likes that!"
Agatha hummed a thank you as she repeatedly swallowed his stiff rod. She made almost obscene gagging noises mixed with the odd cough. They fell back into the soft carpet of grass and leaves as his hands danced over her thighs. His caress left smudges of motor oil on her pale skin as she lay on her back. Every fibre in her body was vibrant and alive with the pure pleasure of the man's touch. She licked her fingers and brought them down to her pussy. She slowly rubbed herself as she moaned quietly and pouted her lips at him.
"I'm counting on you to give me what I need. Your nice hard cock deep inside my cunny."
"Percy agrees."
Hugh pinned her back to the cool grass and aligned himself with her sopping entrance. He thrust all the way into the hilt, causing her to cry out as he filled her with hard cock. As he began to fuck her, Agatha gave as good as she got, pushing up as he rocked her world. He was so much more than average in width, meaning that her quim was stretched to the maximum. Already, the renowned author could feel her first orgasm approaching, thanks to how horny she had been all day combined with Hugh's generously sized shaft.
"Oh, my God!" she moaned as she looked into his eyes.
"You like that? You like Percy ripping you up?"
"Oh my word, yes! He's so big."
This was no romance however, and the pair of them bucked and writhed in each other's arms in the broad daylight, engaged as they were in a purely lust-fueled act of animalistic sexual intercourse.
"Fuck me harder, Percy! I said harder!"
Agatha gripped his taut biceps as her climax built and built. Hugh was damned impressive as he effortlessly reared back to the point where he was almost out of her, before slamming back inside her weeping muff. Her cunt tightened around his cock as she came with a scream, but her orgasm did not deter him from continuing to stroke her with lightning speed. Her steamy cunt bubbled around his length as he doubled his efforts.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"
As the grateful thirty-year-old embraced her release, Hugh also erupted, shooting spurt after spurt of white cum into her saturated quim. He fell on top of her and they both enjoyed the moment. After a couple of minutes, Agatha propped herself up on her elbows.
"My god, Hugh. That was the BEST! Oh, and thank you Percy for a most enjoyable engagement."
They returned to the racing car where Hugh offered Agatha a rag with which to clean up the grease and smudges on her panting body. He revved up the engine and they drove back to the garage in post-coital bliss. Without admitting her spur-of-the-moment love tryst to the Major, she told her escort of the thrill of the fast car.
"Blood and sand!"
All heads turned to Bonneville as he gazed angrily into his now empty personal locker.
"Some blackguard has stolen my diamond-encrusted, 18K gold watch and chain. A family heirloom worth 10,000 pounds. I distinctly remembered locking it up in here. Gentlemen. We have a thief in our midst."
"Right. Stand still, everybody," barked Major Trent authoritatively. "Hugh? Lock the door. Nobody leaves until I notify the Police."
Agatha perceived all those present. Hugh, Timothy, and the four mechanics in their white overalls.
"Look no further. There is the culprit! Smith. The game is up."
"Not I!" protested the mechanic.
"Perceive," continued Bonneville. "We all know the man is hung like a baby carrot, and yet his trouser pocket is bulging."
"Hold there, Smith."
Simpkins and Morris held him fast as Major Trent rifled his pocket and retrieved the said watch.
"Poor show, Smith."
"I never even knew it was there. You must believe me."
Trent handed over the purloined item to Bonneville who examined it closely.
"The six diamonds have been removed. Smith must have them stashed. Get the Police."
"Begging your pardon, chaps," piped the amateur sleuth. "This is a ruse. And the ruse very nearly succeeded. I have great pleasure in returning this!"
With a dramatic gesture, Agatha produced the polished gold watch that Bonneville had announced stolen. Complete with diamonds.
"I don't understand," Major Trent confessed with spread hands.
"No?" said she. "It matters not."
"But how did you come by the watch?"
"From Mr. Bonneville."
"Hugh?"
"Precisely. I discovered it quite by accident secreted under the seat of the Leyland Eight."
"But why should he steal his own watch?"
"Ah, there's the rub. THIS is the real 18K watch. And that is an inferior 10K copy. He was ordered by Hug himself to falsely accuse young Smith. He made sure the substitute was discovered. Without any diamonds, I might add, to dupe his Insurance company into paying out the money. And he will still have the diamond-encrusted watch! Smith will be unable to conjure up the non-existent diamonds and be made to carry the can."
Bonneville turned to run but was tackled expertly by Grimshaw and Morris.
"Well. This IS a rum do and no mistake. But why?"
"The chap is no doubt consumed by greed for money. It's an age-old story. In a short time, I've noted an intense and selfish air about the fellow. He also has an exceptional interest in and admiration for himself. I find that kind of vanity to be most abhorrent."
"My dear. You are a clever brainbox."
"It was a trifling matter. Come. We shall return to London where I shall allow you to buy me dinner."
END
