RETURN OF THE GOLDEN GOOSE

by Some Sort of Dog
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter 11:-Lovers And Mistresses


 
 
  "Bloody Nora, George, what’s this little lot?"
The red and white Senator swerved off the road into the lay-by and locked its wheels momentarily in the gravel. As it backed up at speed, the reversing lights illuminated a bizarre scene. A silver Mercedes coupé, with the roof down, was pulled in at an angle to the road. It had obviously been parked in a hurry. The driver's seat was empty. The passenger seat, by way of contrast, was extremely crowded.
"Will you look at that!"
"Shee-ite!"
A blonde ponytail was bouncing enthusiastically in what the two police traffic patrolmen could only assume was sexual intercourse. They might have had another word for it, but that was what it was.
The ponytail ceased bouncing for a moment, and an anxious face gleamed whitely in the pulsing gleam of the flashing blue lights. Coitus was interruptus.
"HQ, Tango Mike Seven."
"Tango Mike Seven, HQ."
"On Blackadder Boulevard, investigating a suspicious incident. Can you give me a check on a silver Mercedes, registration, One Nine, Charlie Fox Delta..."
"Hang on, Jock, she's off! Let's borrow your jacket." Without waiting for a reply, George flung open the passenger door of the Senator, grabbed the driver's fluorescent jacket from the back seat, and set off in ponderous pursuit of the fugitive, who was unmistakeably — even from this angle — a girl.
The girl had a head start, and had gained several more yards when George had to go back for his cap. She was making an excellent pace, her ponytail flouncing from side to side, her little bare bottom twitching, legs a-blur under the strobing sodium street lights. She weaved slightly from side to side, as if considering darting off the footpath into the nearby fields.
The pace was beginning to tell on George, who spent most of his day in the car and the rest of the time in the bosom of his family. Nevertheless, his legs were longer than those of the girl, who was clearly less than five feet tall in her bare feet, and bare everything else.
Trucks blared past with flashing lights, cars slowed down to watch the chase. Catcalls and whistles sounded from hastily wound- down car windows.
Even above his own laboured breathing, George was close enough to the girl to hear her gasping. She seemed to be giggling. They had come a hundred yards from the lay-by, and she was almost within reach. George flung out an arm and caught the girl by her ponytail, reining her in like a skittish filly.
The girl giggled again as George tossed the yellow fluorescent jacket over her slender shoulders and wrapped her in it, safe from the eyes of passers-by.
"Oooh, thanks, officer!" The girl made no attempt to escape. She wrapped the jacket around her shoulders like a cloak and stood placidly while George got his breath back. She was hardly panting at all.
"Right, back to the car!" George took the girl by the arm and began to lead her back to the scene, where the girl's partner had been apprehended by the police traffic driver. Assistance was already arriving: blue lights were flashing and sirens yelping as cars rocketed to the aid of their beleaguered colleagues.
"Gosh," the girl gasped happily. "Haven't you got lots of friends!"
A police van screeched to a halt, and a man leapt out with an eager-looking Alsatian dog.
"What gives, George?"
"It's all right, mate, I've caught her."
The dog had decided to conduct his own investigation.
"Oooh, naughty doggie! Your nose is cold!"
"Leave her alone, Saddam, leave!" The dog left her, unwillingly, but with a broad grin on its face. George was getting his breath back now. The girl looked almost no age at all. No older than his own little girl. "What's your name, love?"
"Lucy," she said brightly. "Are we going for a ride in your police car?"
"I think we'd better, Lucy. Have you ever been in one before?"
"No, this will be my first time!"
 
 
  In a small interview room just off the main office at the police station, Lucy huddled in her fluorescent jacket. She liked it so much she had slipped her arms into the sleeves and closed the velcro fastening. The sleeves hung past the tips of her fingers, the bottom of the jacket came down to her knees. It smelled of rubber, and sweat, and men. Policemen, presumably.
"She seems happy enough," said the sergeant, doubtfully, looking at her through the open door.
"She's been raped, Sarge," insisted the police woman. Her moustache bristled. "She's bound to be still in shock. She's only a kid. Look at her! She's been traumatised." She pronounced the word in the German manner, currently fashionable in the media.
A small crowd had indeed gathered to look at the naked fugitive, disappointed to see her securely wrapped in a policeman's fluorescent jacket.
"How old do you reckon she is, sarge?"
"Fifteen?"
"Twelve?"
"'Bout ten, I reckon."
"Who brought her in?"
"One of the Tangos. George. She ran off, left all her kit in the car."
"You mean she's starkers under that coat?"
"Yeah!"
"Bloody hell."
 
 
  "What's yer name, pal?"
"Maxwell."
"What sort of a name's Maxwell?"
"It's my name, constable."
"Don't get lippy with me, my son! Is that your first name or your second?"
"Second."
"Right! Ri-ight. We're getting there, slowly. So what's your first name, Mister Maxwell?"
"Shorthouse," Maxwell mumbled.
The policeman seemed upset. He had been one of the shorter policemen in his intake at training college. "Who the fuck do you fucking think you're fucking calling fucking Shorthou...!"
"It's my name. Shorthouse Maxwell. I can't help it, can I?"
"Shorthouse Maxwell!" The policeman made it sound even more ridiculous than it really was. Not easy, but he'd undergone a year's training in that sort of thing.
"So, Shorty," Maxwell bristled, which pleased the policeman somewhat. "So, Shorty, let's talk about this car. Very smart. You don't look much like the typical Mercedes driver to me."
"You mean I'm not fat, arrogant and German?"
"I didn't say that, Shorthouse. Is it yours?"
"No."
"So you admit it isn't your car. This gets better all the time. Do you happen to know whose it is?"
"It belongs to my mistress."
The policeman found this amusing. "Oh, har, har, har, Shorthouse! Very funny."
"It does!"
"We've already checked the registered owner of the vehicle. Perhaps I ought to tell you the name of your 'mistress', Shorthouse."
"Charlotte fforbes-Davenport," sighed Maxwell.
"How did you know that?" The policeman sounded genuinely disappointed.
"I told you, she's my mistress."
"And the young lady you were raping in your mistress's car ...?"
Maxwell sighed heavily. "I wasn't raping her. She's my fiancée."
"Oh, your fiancée! Of course. And I'm Mickey Mouse!"
"You don't look much like your pictures. You're supposed to have big round ears that look the same from any angle..."
"Shut up! You were raping her."
"How could I be raping her? She was on top of me, for Chrissakes!"
"How could she have been on top? She's only a tiny little thing!"
"She prefers it on top."
"How can she prefer being raped one way more than another? She's only a child. She's no bloody age at all!"
"She's twenty. She's nearly as old as you."
"Oh, yeah? And I'm Julius Caesar."
"You don't look much like him, either."
Julius Caesar, alias Mickey Mouse, stood up, scraping his chair back on the tiled floor. "Right, Shorthouse, as soon as the Inspector arrives, we're going to throw the book at you. You'll be inside before your feet can touch the ground. We'll lock you up and throw away the key. If I had my way, I'd line you up against a wall and shoot you. You're dead meat, matey-boy. Taking and driving away a vehicle without consent or an attempt thereat. Larceny. Indecent exposure. Indecent assault. Intercourse with a minor. Rape. Statutory rape. Date rape..."
"I'm innocent. Ask my mistress."
"Oh, we will, Shorthouse. We will."
The door slammed behind him.
 
 
  "Twelve and a half, sarge."
"Twelve years and six months." The sergeant laboriously wrote the figures down on his list. "That's a pound, please, Jock."
"Eeeeeeeee. What does the wenner get?"
"Depends how many we sell. If the whole station buys a ticket, we're looking at about forty quid."
"You could use some of it to buy her some clothes. Then I could have my jacket back. Ah've signed for that bluidy jacket." Jock's Scottish accent became more impenetrable as it dawned upon him that he might have to pay for one jacket, fluorescent, medium.
"You'll get it back. Not yet, though. We can't let her have her own gear. It's evidence. It's down in the lab, being tested for bodily fluids."
"Can'nae Rossiter give her some of her stuff?"
"WPC Rossiter is rather a large size, Jock, me lad. I doubt if it would fit."
"My jacket don't fit either, but she's still wearing it." George came in. "Bloody hell, Jock, you still bitching about that bloody jacket? What's this then, sarge? Sweep on the Derby?"
The sergeant indicated Lucy, who was perched on the chair in the interview room, swinging her legs. "Sweep on her age. Pound a ticket, George."
"I'll have some of that." George studied her critically. "I reckon she's ten. Ten years and one month. She's exactly the same size as my daughter."
"Hey, ah'm no' having that!" George's buddy complained. "He's got a daughter the same size. That's cheatin'. He's bound to win. He cannae lose."
"Tough shit."
"I want to change my estimate, then. Make it ten and two months."
The sergeant wrote the figures down, then held out his hand for another pound. The traffic cop grumbled, but paid up. The sergeant pocketed the coin. "Hey, George. That's an idea. Your mate wants his jacket back, and her clothes are down in the lab being tested for bodily fluids. You could let her borrow some of your daughter's stuff. Skirt and sweater or something. Enough to make her decent."
George looked across at the girl again. She recognised him and waved her fingers. "I'll have a word with her." He sauntered over to the interview room, followed by Jock.
"Hello, Lucy!"
"Hello, George. Hello, Mister Driver."
"How about some proper clothes instead of this smelly old jacket?" George squatted down and tugged at the jacket's sleeve.
"It smells nice." She hugged it round her. "I like it. Can't I keep it and take it home?"
Jock spluttered. "Ah've signed for that."
"Surely you'd like some proper little girl's clothes? I've got a little girl at home the same size as you, Lucy."
Lucy said, "Ahhhhh!"
"I could nip home and bring something for you. What would you like? How about a nice little skirt and a sweater?"
Lucy wrinkled her nose and considered the offer. "No, it's okay. I'll keep the jacket, thanks."
"How about a nice sweet pair of shorts and a pretty little blouse?"
"Nah!"
"Jeans and a T-shirt, then?" George was getting desperate.
"What sort of jeans? Not Marks and Spencer?"
"No, real designer jeans."
"You sure they're my size? Twenty six hips? They're always miles too big round the waist, but they're a lovely fit round my arse."
George gulped, but continued doggedly. "Yes, she's exactly the same size as you. I chased you down the road, remember?"
"Oooh, yeah. I remember!" Lucy slipped her bottom off the chair and hugged George. A strange look came over his face. His buddy snickered. Lucy kept her arms around George's waist and leaned back to look up into his eyes. "Now then," she purred, "what about my T- shirt?" Quickly, Lucy opened the front of the jacket and shrugged it off, dropping it on the floor. "Has your little girlie got one big enough to cover these puppies?"
"Bloody hellfire!" George blundered backwards into the table.
Jock had bent to pick up his jacket from the floor. He hugged it to him, then looked up, his eyes on a level with Lucy's bosom. It appeared to be getting bigger even as he stared at it, but he decided it was probably only her nipples growing.
"Oh, my Christ!" he blasphemed, wholly inadequately. "You mean your daughter's exactly the same size as her, George?"
George was speechless. His buddy, meanwhile, was retreating across the office, clutching his still-warm and Lucy-scented jacket, looking back over his shoulder all the way, in case the child and her phenomenally over-developed breasts disappeared in a puff of green smoke. "Sarge! Ah wanna change my estimate again."
George was also backing away from the disturbing scene.
"Don't go, George!" Lucy squeaked in alarm. "What about my clothes?" Then as if realising for the first time that she was more or less as Nature had intended, she tried to cover herself with her hands. As many a girl has discovered in the past, Lucy realised that two hands were not quite enough to ensure decency. While her left hand did a reasonably good job of concealing some part of her girlhood, she couldn't even begin to cover both those mighty breasts with her right. She tried; in fact, she made a valiant effort. She covered her left nipple with her right hand, trying to cover as much of her right breast as she could with her arm. Unfortunately, her right breast had plans of its own. It sprang upwards and thrust itself proudly forward, resting on her forearm. She looked down at it. "Oh, shit!"
George could see the errant nipple aimed squarely between his eyes. He ran around in little circles, then fled, slamming the door of the interview room behind him.
Lucy blinked after him, then considered her position. She was stark naked, but this was a nice quiet little room, and she was ragingly horny. She was, in fact, busting for a shag. It had been exciting, doing it with Maxwell in the car, then getting chased by the nice policeman, but that had been ages ago and she badly wanted to bring herself off.
She toyed with the idea of going out into the office without a stitch of clothing on and demanding to see Maxwell, but decided that there were more urgent matters to attend to. Already, her pussy was slick with juices. Her nipples, nicely aroused from her encounter with George and Jock, were becoming fearsomely engorged. She studied them with pride, pushed one down against the resilient pebbled surface of her areola, then watched it spring up to attention again.
That felt so good! She pressed herself against the corner of the table and rubbed slowly up and down. "Ooooh! Oooh, yes! Yessss!"
 
 
  The room was little bigger than a broom cupboard. When the police station had been originally built, it had in fact been a broom cupboard. Now, in addition to the bank of five video monitors and their associated hardware, the room was heaving with humanity. Correction, it was heaving with police. Seven men and two women — one of each sex — were crammed shoulder to shoulder and hip to thigh, sweating and drooling and staring intently at the display before them.
What held their attention was not the view of the station yard, not the car park, not even the front office, with its desk and its nightly drunks throwing up their Chicken Tikka Masala on the tiled floor. All eyes were on the monitor on the extreme left, identified by a small sticky Dymo label as 'Interview Room 2'.
"Zoom it in a bit more, Raj," croaked a hoarse voice, barely recognisable as female.
The picture wobbled and went out of focus.
"Come on, Raj, get it sorted!"
The picture got slightly worse, then suddenly sprang into crisp sharpness.
"Bloody shit!" said a police spokesman.
"Look at the tits on her!"
It was an unnecessary remark. The screen was filled with Lucy's tits, which were bouncing in every imaginable direction and quite a few unimaginable ones. Enormous nipples jiggled and flailed as her mountainous boobs wobbled in time to the frantic movements of her aching body.
"Not too close," gasped the hoarse female again. "Let's see her cunny!"
A chorus of voices was raised in protest and acclaim.
"What do we want?" said Raj. "In or out?"
"Pull back a bit. Let's see her puss. It looks fuckin' huge! You can tilt it down a bit. We don't need her face in the picture." That popular compromise met with murmurs of approval. Lucy had become even more frenzied. Her wetness glistened in the light as she humped the corner of the table. Her breasts were leaping fully a foot up and down.
"She must be fit, she ain't stopped for ages!"
"Fucking hell, look at her go!"
"I think she's coming again!"
"So am I!"
"Have you flooded your panties again, WPC Frobisher?"
"Not quite," panted a tiny feminine voice. "Oooh! Whose is that finger in my bum?"
"Mine!"
"That's ... ooh ... ah ... sexual harrassment, Rossiter!"
"No it's not. I'm a woman, too!"
"Shut up and watch the picture."
"She's stopped."
Everyone remembered to start breathing again.
"Christ, it stinks in here!"
It did. The video broom cupboard was practically oozing with the combined scents of sexual arousal and spent fluids.
"Has she finished yet?"
"I certainly have," sighed the excessively feminine Ms Frobisher. "And so has young Lucy, by the look of her."
Lucy had finished; for the time being, at least. She wiped the corner of the table with her hand, transferred her sticky fingers to her mouth, then teetered on wobbly legs to the chair. She sat down, her glistening thighs wide apart, touching her strangely well-developed girlhood in an absent-minded kind of way. Then looking up at the video camera, she gave it a little finger wave and a hugely contented smile.
"Right, then," announced Raj. "I recorded all that. You all up for copies at a tenner each?"
"Raj, you are a fucking marvel!"
 
 
  "Phone, Charlotte. It's for you this time!"
"Pass it over, love. I'll never get these things through that space." Donna found it difficult enough, and her bust was only eight feet. She squeezed between the lighting stand and the workbench and handed the phone to Charlotte, then retired, panting and adjusting her bra.
"Probably Maxwell, got himself arrested for screwing Lucy in a farm gateway! Hello? Charlotte fforbes-Davenport."
Charlotte absently scratched herself between her breasts as she listened. Suddenly, she stopped scratching.
"Maxwell! What's the matter? The police station? What have you done, crashed the car?"
She picked her nose, inspected her fingers, then tried to flick something away. It stuck, she tried again.
"You did what? Where? On a main road, with bloody great sodium street lights? Oh, she did, did she?"
Charlotte found whatever it was still clinging to her finger, and shook vigorously. It flew off and stuck itself to one of the lights. A trail of smoke or possibly steam rose up from it.
"So what do you expect me to do about it? I don't carry a pocket full of bail money around with me. No, you can bloody well wait until I'm finished down here. At this rate that will be six tomorrow morning. Well, you should have thought of that when you did it, shouldn't you!"
She slammed the phone down. "Bloody Maxwell's been arrested on suspicion of having unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor. Who ever saw a minor with tits that size? Present company excepted, of course, Lynda. They got as far as the main road and she wanted it again. Bloody half-wit stopped in a layby with trucks and cars streaming by and had her away in the front seat."
"In your Mercedes?" Donna asked, horrified.
"Of course."
"That's terrible. That lovely car. I hope they haven't made a mess on the seats."
"It will be nothing like the mess I make of that bastard's features when I get hold of him. I'll have his balls off."
"That poor little girl!" said Mrs Danby. "She looks no age at all."
"She's older than me, the slut. At least, she says she is. You can never tell with these peasant families. She could easily be nine or ten, if it wasn't for those sodding great lollopers of hers."
"Mine were a lot bigger than hers when I was nine," Mrs Danby reminded her. "You'll be going down the station to get them set free, then?"
"Not until we've finished here. They can make themselves comfortable for the night. In separate cells, preferably. Right, young Geoffrey, put that girl down and pay attention. What's the next shot?"
Geoff and Debbie separated instantly and stood three feet apart, going bright red.
"It's all right. You can still stand next to each other. But we've had two young couples arrested so far tonight. I wouldn't like to lose any more of you. Get your arse up that ladder, boy. What's next, Debs?"
"Probably the shot where you take the bra off. Then after that, there's a token nudie, and that's about it."
"Don't forget the Super Bertha. Mags wanted that one done last."
Everyone groaned. They had forgetten the Super Bertha shots. They would take another hour at least.
"Let's do these two first, then think about what we're going to do." Debbie was all efficiency again. She finished reloading the last of the stack of camera magazines and handed one up to Geoff. "Right, kids," she shouted, "Let's go!"
 
 
  end Chapter 11