Monday, June 20, 2011
The Fiendish Miss Blow
The blonde glanced over her shoulder as she left the underground station, her small, slender body melting into the milling crowds on Wardour Street. ‘It’d be a crime to lose her in more ways than one’ thought Dixon Frost, as he followed her, his presence as unremarkable as the steady rain that issued from the gray London sky. He was a nondescript forty-something man in a brown suit and tortoiseshell glasses, interchangeable with a million others. His plainness suited his task. A mere hour before, he had been assigned a monumental mission. Catch a dangerous informant, a woman whose careless talk was costing lives and nourishing deadly Nazi plans.
Why are spies so alluring?
The thought caught him off guard. Veronica Blow. At five foot two, she was positively short, but what she lacked in stature, she made up for with a reputation for sex that could rival Moll Flanders. Carter of MI5 had warned Frost about Miss Blow’s sultry charms. ‘She’s like a snake, old man. Let her wrap her glittering coils about you and you’ve had it. You’ll depart with the business end of a Luger nestled under your ribs.’
But she’s only a woman.
Frost moved through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the sensuous, dangerous back of Miss Blow. They were in Chinatown. Some of the buildings were brightly painted, embellished with gold and red and green. Signs in indecipherable Cantonese advertised restaurants and shops and clubs. The hordes thinned, became largely oriental, rapidly exposing the young white woman in the tight gray suit. Miss Blow was as fearless as her record suggested. Tipping her little veiled hat with a neatly gloved hand, she smiled at Frost and swiftly disappeared into a basement guarded by a gilded dragon.
Very nicely done, my dear. What’s your encore?
The gleaming reptile defended a stout green door. A menu in a glass case showed the establishment was the Golden Dragon Restaurant. Original. Every fiber of his being primed for action, Frost pushed open the heavy door. Inside, an elderly Chinese man in an elaborate costume stood behind a desk in a small, dimly lit foyer.
“For one, sir?”
The detective nodded. His horn-rimmed spectacles began to mist up in the moist heat of the noodle house. A sullen-looking girl in a pink cheongsam appeared at the imperious wave of the old man’s wizened hand.
“May will show you to a booth. Might I suggest the Peking Duck.”
Frost followed the waitress, through a clicking bead curtain and into a narrow windowless room. The place had the feel of a cheap bordello, with garish wallpaper and an atmosphere that was warm and thick with the smell of cooking oil and tobacco smoke. The girl gestured to a corner booth, furthest away from the door to the street, then retreated, her lithe hips squirming beneath the tight satin dress. As he’d expected, a small figure waited on the crimson banquette. A pair of amused blue eyes looked up at him from behind a fine cloud of net.
“Nice arse on that girl. I’m Veronica Blow.”
Her voice was sibilant and soft, like the gentle rush of water over smooth, cool stones. Frost caught his breath. He’d expected a harsh, mocking harpy. Cautiously, he slid onto the opposite seat. Veronica Blow wore two long feathers in her natty hat. Mandarin duck.
“I’m afraid you are under arrest, Miss Blow. For crimes against this country and His Majesty -”
“Yes, yes,” the young woman murmured impatiently, glancing towards the waitress, who returned bearing the menus. “I do quite understand. I’ve been a naughty girl again. It seems to happen on a regular basis. I’ll have the Peking Duck, by the way. And a gin and lime.”
The waitress nodded and waited expectantly for Frost to order, her black slanting eyes enigmatic slits in her pretty oriental face. Something stirred beneath the scarlet-draped table, a slender knee brushed against his own. Miss Blow winked.
“Why don’t we make that Peking Duck for two? And a whisky and soda for Mr. Frost.”
Frost stared. He’d been warned about the vixen’s ruthless, evil traits; that she’d sell what was left of her damned soul to betray the land that had adopted her. Her real name was Russian and unpronounceable. He sharply retracted his knee from contact with the girl’s and watched her pout theatrically.
“If you’re taking me straight to Holloway, I’m having a decent meal before we go.”
“Prison’s too good for the likes of you. You’ll hang, you know.”
He couldn’t help himself. There was something intensely infuriating about Veronica Blow, her audacious cool when literally cornered and faced with his authority. He wasn’t used to being treated like an equal by his prey and he didn’t like it one bit. The spy retrieved a flat silver box from her purse and slid it across the scarlet tablecloth.
“Light me a cigarette, darling.”
“Light one yourself. And don’t call me darling.”
“My, don’t we just sound like an old married couple?”
Shrugging, Miss Blow extracted a cigarette and lit it with a matching lighter. With a deep sensual sigh, she took a lengthy draw, then blew a trail of smoke into Frost’s eyes.
“Did you ever wonder why they call me Blow?”
“I can’t imagine.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. The spy raised her glass in a mocking toast.
“Well, here’s to His Majesty. God save the King.”
White hot fury seethed through every particle of Frost’s body. The arrogant little bitch! Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “You’d better come quietly…”
“Au contraire, I tend to be a rather noisy minx. When I come, that is. Do you come quietly, Mr. Frost?”
Miss Blow moistened her crimson painted lips with the tip of her tongue. Despite his anger, Frost’s member stirred in his trousers. With one swift movement, he slipped his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and onto her dainty wrist. To his extreme annoyance, the young woman’s eyes didn’t register a flicker of dismay. Indeed, she shivered and wriggled gently, as if the experience had aroused her. Frost stared at the gorgeous blonde whom he now held captive. Her eyes were a soft violet blue, long-lashed and expressionless.
“Well, now that we are, shall we say, attached, we might as well get acquainted. Do you like to eat pussy, Mr. Frost? Do you like to fuck a girl from behind? Do you like to spank a helpless, squirming bare bottom? What’s your taste in the pleasures of the flesh?”
Frost held his breath. The Chinese girl was approaching with their lunch, so he tossed a napkin over the cuffs to avert a riot. Miss Blow smiled, revealing two rows of small and perfect teeth. The expression did not reach her eyes. When Tiger Lily had retreated again, leaving several steaming bowls and pots, the spy laughed quietly.
“I think you’re a disciplinarian. Wouldn’t you love to have that little girl’s delicious arse across your knees? Her buttocks must be like a fresh ripe peach.”
How did she know? He’d never told anyone his secret fantasy. Miss Blow’s wrist felt cool and smooth and somehow electric against his own. A subtle yet potent frisson was making the hairs on his arm stand up. And that wasn’t all. His cock was like an iron rod.
The spy downed her gin and lime juice in one thirsty gulp. Frost watched her throat pulse as she swallowed, imagined her sucking his swollen member dry.
“Would you spank me, Mr Frost? If I asked very nicely?”
Miss Blow picked up her chopsticks left-handed and deftly scooped a succulent morsel of duck. Frost watched her eat, his own mouth as dry as dust. It felt as if every available drop of moisture in his body had rushed to his crotch, which throbbed as steadily as if his penis had a heart. His brain told him to remain silent, cold and unresponsive, not to allow the over-sexed fiend a gateway into his mind. He would not taste the duck, he would not touch the drink. He would be an unyielding rock face for Miss Blow to slide impotently off of and away into the gutter where she belonged.
“My panties are soaking, Mr. Frost. It’s the thought of lying across your sturdy knees, my bottom twitching and frisking under the hard palm of your hand. Scarlet buttocks. Hot and stingy. Oh…”
Miss Blow closed her eyes and gasped, as if experiencing ecstasy. Her wrist grew warmer, the current of sexual chemistry between them surged. Frost ground his teeth and stared at the bowl of steaming savory duck. It smelled divine. Adam could not have been more tempted in the Garden of Eden.
The spy continued to eat the fragrant meat and tease Frost mercilessly between mouthfuls. He found himself recalling teenage fantasies of tugging down nubile girls’ knickers and tanning their lily white wobbling backsides. He remembered Miss Vetch, his history teacher, whose marvelous round plump arse was tightly encased in a prim tweed skirt. He’d had fantasies of bending her bare-bummed over her desk and taking a ruler to those blissful orbs, as she teetered on high-heels, one randy hand straying to her luscious crotch …
“I’ll bet you’re going to come quietly now, Mr. Frost.”
The sinuous serpent-like voice barely broke through his consciousness as his straining cock erupted into his underpants, a seemingly impossible quantity of creamy hot semen swiftly soaking his trouser fly. He groaned, hunched-over as if she’d punched him in the gut.
“You bitch. You utter bitch!”
He gasped for breath. His heart pounded in his chest. A queer blend of emotions coursed through his inflamed body. Intractable, self-righteous hatred for the woman and all she represented, and something else – God help him – pure, rampant, unadulterated desire. So, it was round one to Miss Blow. As he regained his equilibrium, he had a clear mental image of chaining the spy to a cold blank wall and torturing her in a way MI5 hadn’t trained him. After all, there was plenty of time. She wasn’t going anywhere, her lily white wrist neatly cuffed to his. His heartbeat subsided, regulated itself. He smiled, wryly.
“Now, doesn’t that feel better, Mr. Frost?”
Veronica Blow’s lips were coated with a glistening layer of duck fat. Again, she ran the tip of her tongue over the plump red rim of flesh. Frost had an image of her kissing the shiny round head of his cock, sucking on the glans as if it were a lollipop. He knew by instinct she could deep-throat, take the length of him into her velvet wet heat and swallow, swallow, swallow…
I have to take control.
“Much better. Thank you. It beats paying a tart to suck my prick.”
The spy raised one perfect painted eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to consort with whores, Mr. Frost.”
Frost adjusted his trousers. He was horribly damp. Miss Blow had finished the duck and looked pointedly at her cigarette case. The detective shook his head.
“Nope. No more ciggies for you, my dear. If it’s heat you desire, I’m sure I can oblige.”
Frost fished for his wallet and counted some notes onto the scarlet tablecloth. It was time to go. He knew a nice cheap hotel around the corner, the type that rented rooms by the hour. One hour would do the trick. As he stood up, Miss Blow made a token show of resistance but soon realized that being dragged along the carpet was not an elegant way for a lady to make an exit. Frost tucked her cuffed wrist into his jacket pocket as they briskly left the restaurant and marched out into the cold damp street, seemingly two young lovers with but one thought.
The Wing Shing Hotel
The sign was lopsided, the paint faded. Perfect. Whatever had got into Frost, he didn’t much care. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Miss Blow remained strangely silent as the detective rented a room from another inscrutable oriental who had doubtless witnessed the process a thousand times before. The ‘honeymoon suite’ overlooked a warehouse and a yard full of scrap metal. Frost hoped his girl was beginning to feel cheap. He locked the door behind them and then took off the cuffs.
“Are you going to rape me?”
Her eyes were devoid of emotion, calmly awaiting whatever news Frost chose to impart.
The spy sat in a hard chair and crossed her legs, disinterestedly expectant as a jaded schoolmarm waiting for a rather slow pupil to perform a reading.
“I’m going to tie you up and spank you. Very hard. On your bare bottom.”
At that, Miss Blow threw her head back and laughed.
“Mais quel surprise…”
Frost looked at the expanse of silky stocking-clad thigh that crossing her legs had revealed. He took in her tiny high-heeled shoes. His cock stirred in its damp tweed lair. Poor Veronica. What she didn’t realize was that he had omitted to mention that he held the trump card. Not in his trousers but in the reinforced concealed top left pocket of his stout wool jacket.
“I suppose you’re armed, aren’t you?”
The girl was a mind reader.
“In more ways than one, my dear.”
It was quite a lark. Just for an hour, he would be the kind of detective one reads about in cheap paperbound thrillers. American style. So, it was against all the rules. Miss Blow was a one-off and Frost would make it a singularly individual coup.
“So, what are you waiting for? Strip.”
He wondered if she would make him pull out his service revolver and force her to remove her clothes at gun-point. She didn’t. Slowly, sensuously, she unbuttoned her jacket and laid it daintily on the floor beside her chair. She wore a short-sleeved lambswool sweater, pale pink and so close fitting that she barely seemed to be wearing anything at all. The twin peaks of her breasts pushed against the soft yielding fabric. Frost realized that she must possess a stunning figure. His heart was thumping again and his voice shook ever so slightly as he bade her stand up and continue undressing.
Was she also enjoying the little charade? His cock hardened as he watched her unzip and wriggle out of her skirt. She had a slinky, practiced way of performing the act, as if she might have done it on stage. When she took off the sweater it was like peeling some luscious fully ripe fruit. She wore no underwear but a garter belt and stood before him on the threadbare rug in stockings, high-heels and the natty little hat with the feathers on top.
“Turn around to face the wall.”
Frost watched a hint of emotion play across her lovely painted face. Did she really imagine he might execute her from behind? Slowly, unwillingly, she did as he instructed.
“Raise your arms above your head and spread your legs.”
There was nothing to bind her to, so he decided to do an even more sadistic routine. Let the bitch hold her own position and be punished twice as hard for moving out of line. Every cell of his body was filled to bursting with the potent thrill of conquest as he approached the naked, vulnerable young woman and whispered into the nape of her neck.
She was tense, every muscle on her trim back clearly defined. Her buttocks were scrunched up tight and he placed the palm of his right hand upon their glorious silky orbs. Almost instantly, she relaxed against the warmth of his flesh. She was beautiful. He traced a circular pattern over the satiny curves of her firm little buttocks and watched her shiver quite violently. Now, it was her turn to lose her edge through lust.
“Just do it, will you?”
The spy’s voice was diminished, a little brittle. Frost grinned.
“Madam, I shall do this as and how I please.”
Calmly, he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Miss Blow remained very still, like a knife-thrower’s assistant at a circus. What to spank her with? His mother had always used an old carpet slipper but there wasn’t such an item to hand. Ah well, it would have to be – his hand. He had always been a traditionalist. Carefully, he stood sideways on to his prey and braced his left hand against the shabby peeling wall. He almost imagined her buttocks were quivering. Then he raised his right hand high and brought it down sharply on the sweet lily white flesh with a most satisfying smack.
Veronica Blow moaned deeply and clutched at the ancient wallpaper with her lacquered talons. Frost aimed a second hard swat at her vulnerable bottom. The second time, she gasped and seemed to convulse, her hips grinding against the cold hard wall as if to fuck some phantom lover. He sensed she was very wet between the legs. He could smell the sweet heavy musk of her arousal. The third spank began to elicit a delicious flush of scarlet in the trembling cheeks. The fourth caused the spy to call upon the Lord in vain. Helplessly, she writhed and squirmed against the bedroom wall, as lush and sinuous as the most exotic Eastern dancer Frost could imagine. God help him, he wanted to come inside her. Blind with desire, he unfastened his trousers and pulled her to the bed. In less than ten seconds, he had entered her incredible melting heat and pierced her hard as she raked her fingernails down his shirt-clad back.
Round two – to whom? Dixon Frost stared down at the lovely, wicked creature who lolled disheveled on the bed, suspecting that his victory was not as complete as he had hoped. There would be time for a third and final round before he led the fiendish Miss Blow to meet her Waterloo. Smiling broadly, he remembered the handcuffs…