The William S Club

  She twirled around, showing off the black leather corset, proud of her pert, round bottom and long, lean legs.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Fiona said. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Sof?’

  ‘Now you know why I chose such lovely lingerie for you to wear. Did you really think it would stay hidden?’

  ‘I’m not going out there in my underwear,’ Nancy said, clutching her strapless black dress to her body as if it was a nun’s habit.

  ‘But you have a great body,’ Sofie said, unbuttoning Nancy’s top with slow deliberation, trailing her fingers across the American’s pale skin as she kissed the back of her neck. ‘It would be a greater sin not to show it off.’

  ‘I... don’t ah...’ Nancy’s whole body trembled but her green eyes danced with lustful desire as clothing fell to the ground, the drug already working its miraculous power.

  ‘You have such wonderful breasts,’ Sofie said, tracing the voluptuous curve of cleavage that spilled over the top of the tight bustier.

  Penny needed no such encouragement. ‘Do I keep the shoes on?’ she said as she swivelled around, allowing the cloakroom assistant to unzip her hot pink bandage dress, not even pretending to be shy as she stood in front of him in matching Agent Provocateur bra and panties.

  ‘If you wish,’ the assistant said, his eyes alternating between Penny’s nipples, visible through the sheer fabric, and her smooth, hairless pussy.

  His grin told her he approved.

  ‘It’s only underwear,’ said Charlotte, stripping down to her baby doll pink corset with its black satin ribbons and bows. ‘I’ve worn bikinis that show more flesh.’

  ‘And it’s not as if we know anyone here,’ Miranda said, surrendering her clothes too.

  With more than half the group already in their underwear, it didn’t take long for Fiona, Veronica and Courtney to capitulate.

  ‘I am so fucking horny,’ Penny said, grabbing the bottle out of Miranda’s hand and performing fellatio on it. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever wanted sex so bad.’

  ‘Then you are going to enjoy the Garden of Love.’

  A police car crawled passed the news shop where Baker had taken refuge.

  He wore dark sunglasses and a baseball cap; a side-effect of the sudden increase in media attention.

  Keep your head down. Let the cap’s peak distort your features.

  It was easier said than done when his face peered back at him from the front pages of a hundred newspapers, throwing the sanity of his current hiding place into question.

  Baker grabbed the paper on top, pushing the exact money across the counter at the clerk.

  Thank Christ the guy wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy watching the television screen, listening to the newsreader talk about the hunt for convicted felon Paul Baker.

  Jesus, they make it sound like I escaped from prison.

  Paul had spent twenty years in jail for a crime he didn’t even commit.

  Being the prime suspect in a murder case didn’t exactly leave him with warm, fuzzy tingles.

  He quickened his pace, Kings Cross his destination.

  By day, the infamous suburb was a respectable business district but when the sun went down and the red lights turned on, the clientele got more sordid.

  At least down here, people didn’t ask too many questions.

  An A-frame sign caught his interest, advertising rooms by the hour.

  Just the kind of establishment he wanted.

  He entered the grimy reception area.

  The young girl behind the glass partition would be lucky to be eighteen. She kept her eyes glued to a television showing a cheesy daytime soap opera.

  ‘Can I have a room,’ he said, passing $50 under the partition.

  ‘By the hour or overnight?’

  ‘Overnight thanks.’

  She handed him a single key with a paper number hanging from a rubber band, her attention never leaving the television.

  ‘Thanks.’

  A bell over the front door rang and another patron entered, this one lucky enough to have a buxom blonde hanging off his arm.

  The guy had a military buzz cut and looked to be in his early fifties while the girl seemed younger than the receptionist.

  The Cross.

  It attracted all kinds.

  Baker found his room, closing the front door as Buzz Cut and Lolita took the one next door.

  The old dude was right. Zac loved this place.

  It beat all the clubs he had ever been to hands down.

  Fuck. It beat them pants down.

  Which was the exact state he was in at that precise moment.

  Boxer shorts around his knees and the most beautiful French bird with her lips around his shaft.

  He’d had hundreds of blowjobs in his lifetime – hell, probably thousands.

  None made him feel like he’d died and gone to heaven.

  She had taken him to the point of ejaculation more times than he could possibly count, stopping only long enough for the cum to recede and his hunger to grow.

  She bore the lips of an angel and the tongue of a devil.

  Half way through, Zac stopped her, asking how much she charged, certain that someone with her skills cost a king’s ransom.

  He would pay it too.

  Gladly.

  But she didn’t want money.

  ‘I am not a prostitute.’

  ‘Then why are you blowing me?’

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yeah. What of it?’ After last night’s episode in the bar, where the sluts all turned on him, he half expected her to act all insulted and leave him high and dry.

  ‘I like English tongues. I want your English tongue to fuck my French cunt,’ she said, her accented voice a soft purr.

  Zac had never quite heard it put that way but he wasn’t about to complain. Not if she was going to blow him for free.

  Fuck. If she wanted, he’d tongue her hole all night.

  Satisfied, that they had come to an agreement, she returned her attention to his groin, the desire reaching its apex when she paused again.

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  She reached behind her back, unhooking her bra. Two glorious tits broke free, the dark stain of her nipples jutting out like twin peaks begging to be conquered.

  Zac pulled her close, nuzzling first one breast then the other.

  He bit her nipple, rolling it between his teeth and tongue, sliding his body between her parted legs, pulling her down until she straddled his hips.

  The hardness of his cock battered against her lace panties, knocking on the door to heaven.

  How could something so thin and inconsequential keep him from reaching Nirvana?

  ‘I’m going to fuck you,’ he said, moving the thin fabric aside, his cock searching for the quickest entry route.

  The tip slid into the darkness of her hole, pushing past the first barrier.

  He grabbed hold of her narrow hips, pushing down hard, impaling her on the lethal end of his shaft.

  His cock swelled and throbbed, a bucket load of cum ready to spurt inside.

  She stood up, disengaging from his cock, waving a rebuking finger in his face.

  ‘I told you, I want your tongue, not your cock.’

  Everything spoke of a woman in complete control of her sexuality; a woman used to getting her own way.

  She stepped out of her panties, kicking them aside, leaving only her high heels in place.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed her nakedness.

  Nobody cared.

  The patrons were too busy indulging their own sexual desires to take any notice of what others were doing.

  Fuck, there was a full-blown gang bang on the next sofa – one girl, five guys all taking it in turns to fuck her senseless, Hank being one of the lucky five.

  She pushed him back against the cushions, kneeling backwards over his face, the pink wetness of her bare pussy just inches from his
lips, her ass level with his eyes.

  ‘Now put your filthy English tongue in my cunt,’ she said, pressing her swollen clit against his mouth.

  Obedient, his tongue probed deep inside her, sliding up and down the sweet tasting gash.

  Her toned thighs gripped the side of his face, her body shuddering as his tongue whipped back and forth against her clit.

  ‘Oui. Oh oui. Yes. My cunt has been very bad. You must punish it,’ she said, her hand snaking out to stroke his cock, rubbing the smooth end between her thumb and forefinger, guiding it back between her angel lips.

  Her mouth moved up and down his shaft, making it impossible for him to concentrate on his task.

  He slowed, savouring the erotic pleasure of her devil tongue lashing his cock.

  His whole body tensed.

  He was about to cum.

  She released his cock.

  ‘No. You must not slow down. If you stop, I stop. You must punish my cunt. When I cum, you can cum.’

  Punish it?

  If that’s what she wanted, that’s what he’d fucking give her.

  Zac buried his face between her legs, searching out her clitoral erection.

  Once he found it, he bit down hard, rolling it between his teeth and tongue as he had her nipple.

  She moaned something.

  It could have been yes. It could have been no.

  The sound was muffled by his cock, which she was now deep throating.

  He delved inside her, first with one finger, then two, pushing in all the way to the knuckle, biting and sucking on her rock hard clit as he explored her hidden depths.

  She moaned again, rocking against his face, her whole body convulsing as she rode the start of an orgasmic wave, cupping and squeezing his testicles as she took in his entire length.

  Hot, wet juice shone on his face, squelching between fingers that were still deep inside her pussy.

  He licked and slurped at the juices, the salty wetness tingling his tongue.

  Zac had eaten pussy before, but always reluctantly.

  This was the first time he had ever enjoyed it.

  She was wild, insatiable, grinding her cunt against the stubble on his chin, fucking his face like a woman possessed.

  The more he pleased her, the better her skills became.

  He ran his tongue from clit to ass, licking the puckered skin, one finger still inside her cunt, the other pushing deep inside her ass, the tightness of her hole gripping his fingers, the muscles contracting in tiny spasms as both anal and vaginal orgasms rocked her entire body.

  A low guttural cry escaped her lips, a river of cunt juice filling his mouth.

  Having fulfilled his end of the bargain, Zac pushed her head, cum erupting out the end of his cock with the force of Krakatoa.

  And just as he’d hoped she would, she swallowed every last drop.

  ‘What’s your phone number?’ he asked as he zipped his pants back up.

  ‘Why do you want my number?’

  He might be leaving Paris in the morning but that was the best sex he’d ever had, even if it was ninety-nine percent non-penetrative.

  If she was that good without fucking, she was bound to be dynamite in the sack.

  ‘I thought we could hook up when I come back to Paris.’

  He didn’t add an if.

  Girls always preferred to think there was something concrete to look forward to.

  ‘That is not necessary.’

  ‘So you didn’t like it?’

  ‘Oui. It was wonderful.’

  ‘Then why won’t you give me your number?’

  She shook her head. ‘You English. You never understand Parisian ways. Le Jardin is for sexual pleasure. Nothing more.’

  ‘Will you at least give me a name?’

  She shrugged. ‘Je suis Laurine.’

  He reached out, fondling her breast, trying to entice her back on to his lap. ‘My name’s Zac and I’m keen for more if you are, Laurine.’

  She slapped his hand away, her smile kind but firm. ‘Thank you, Zac, but no. I have already chosen my next partner.’

  Curiosity made him ask whom?

  ‘Do you see those women over there, by the bar?’

  Zac looked where she was pointing, noticing a cluster of women standing around drinking cocktails in their underwear.

  He had been a little too preoccupied to notice them arrive.

  Wait a second. A couple of the women looked familiar…

  Laurine smiled and Zac recognised the look. It was lust, pure and simple. The same lustful smile she’d given him seconds before she’d taken his cock in hand.

  ‘The tall blonde. She is beautiful, non? A goddess. Tonight I will show her how pleasurable a French woman’s tongue can be.’

  Zac’s eyes zeroed in on the woman in question, sucking in his breath as he recognised Harlot Charlotte.

  Ms Charlotte Bloody No Lays herself.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  ‘So we gonna do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know. Fuck.’

  Campagni peered at the teenage girl, allowing himself to imagine the pleasure he could derive from such a young, nubile body.

  She reminded him of the girls that had flogged their wares in Saigon; the girls passed around military bases in the jungles of South East Asia.

  Some not even old enough to have hair down there.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ she said, snapping the chewing gum in what she thought was a seductive way.

  ‘How old are you really?’

  ‘How old do you want me…’ She saw the dangerous look in his eyes, frightened into telling the truth. ‘I’m fifteen.’

  You dirty old man. You were fighting wars before she was a spark in her daddy’s eye. Christ, before her daddy was a spark in his father’s eye.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He was useless at small talk but it was better than the alternative – actually sleeping with the child.

  Had she been over eighteen, he may have contemplated getting his money’s worth but sleeping with children…

  He didn’t roll that way.

  Besides, he had only employed her services as cover.

  His real purpose was to keep a close eye on Baker, in the room next door.

  For a second, she contemplated lying, giving him one of the numerous hooker names she’d dreamed up.

  Campagni had heard them all.

  Crystal. Candy. Misty. Trixie.

  But he could tell from her downcast eyes that Kylie was her real name. Telling it to a client was like baring her soul.

  He felt sorry for the kid, wondering what had driven her into this profession.

  Compassion was not a feeling he experienced often.

  The last time had been in a dank, dingy motel room.

  Twenty years later, he had come full circle.

  How alike the two situations were.

  Then too, he had taken a room next door, taken a girl as cover.

  But then he had got his full money’s worth.

  At thirty, he had not had the same qualms about corrupting youth.

  He closed his eyes, his mind drifting back…

  She had kept herself and the child seconded in the room for three days straight, not even leaving for meals but having the dodgy food delivered to her door.

  Her self-imposed isolation gave Frank no opportunity to work his magic, forcing him to remain a virtual prisoner of the rat-infested motel as well.

  At least he had company that relieved the boredom of his stakeout.

  On the fourth day, Helen Baker left her room, taking her daughter with her.

  Peering out the frayed curtains, Frank wondered if she was leaving for good.

  No, she carried only her handbag.

  She would return but Frank didn’t know for how long.

  From the snippets of conversation he had overheard, she was planning her next move, enacting the next phase of a plan to free her
husband.

  She could not succeed.

  Frank paid the hooker, sending her on her way.

  Once he completed his task, he wanted no ties to this place.

  Packing his things, he checked out, going through the motions of leaving the dinghy motel behind, establishing an alibi if ever the question was asked.

  Ducking around the side, he jimmied open the window.

  Security in these places was not as high a priority as anonymity.

  He squeezed through the window, dropping down into a bathroom identical to the one he had showered in that morning.

  The bedroom, too, was identical, right down to the laminate table with peeling vinyl chair and the twin beds with stained puffy quilts and scratchy blankets.

  Only the wardrobe was different. This one bone where Frank’s had been brown.

  Frank got to work, searching the bedroom.

  The file was not there.

  The file her husband stole.

  Frank had to recover the file. It was imperative.

  Stashed at the bottom of her suitcase was a pile of cash. Not a couple of hundred dollars or even a few thousand.

  Tens of thousands. Maybe even more.

  Frank bundled it up, cramming it into his sports bag.

  It wouldn’t do for her to be found with that kind of money.

  Having completed his search, Frank returned to the bathroom, picking up a grimy glass.

  He knew from his recon that she drank water out of it every night before she went to sleep.

  Snapping on surgeon’s gloves, he removed an identical glass from his bag, lifting off the protective covering.

  Just as he placed it on the counter, the front door handle rattled.

  Someone was coming.

  He heard Helen Baker’s voice and the child’s cry.

  They were early. He had not expected them back so soon.

  Frank’s first instinct was to flee back out the window but he still had tasks to complete.

  Besides, she was bound to see a grown man squeezing out the tiny bathroom window.

  He needed to hide but there were only two places big enough to conceal his bulky frame.

  The wardrobe and the shower.

  The former was out of the question.

  He just made it into the shower, pulling the mouldy, tattered curtain across when she hurried into the bathroom, carrying the child in her arms.