Outside, the path was wet from an earlier squall and I picked my way carefully, having come to an impromptu slithery halt the previous night, when returning from an outing to a local tapas bar. Harry was most disappointed when he realized that the waitresses were fully clothed from the waist up and the spiciest thing on the evening's agenda was the Shrimp Salsa. I still had the grass stain on my sarong from being dragged across the hotel lawn by a disgruntled rhinoceros doing a passable impersonation of my dearly beloved.
"Good morning, Mrs. Neptune."
I jumped, guiltily. There was no sign of the two Latinos and my path was blocked by the Colonel, on the way back from his constitutional leer at the beach. His sharp blue eyes immediately focused on my cleavage and I realized I was both bra-less and wearing one of my more transparent and skimpy tops, a salmon silk halter-neck. My nipples stood proud and erect through the slippery pink fabric and I waited for the Colonel to take the salute, idly thinking that it probably looked as if I was half-naked from a distance. Hmm, maybe it was time to ascertain whether military intelligence really was an oxymoron.
"Good morning, Colonel Shagfast."
I pointedly looked about me and then, seeing that the coast was clear, dropped my voice to a confidential whisper.
"Tell me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a couple of men, would you? Only I think that they might be up to no good."
The old man's bushy silver eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and he rattled his dentures excitedly.
"Hah! Up to no good you say? Been rum running? Contraband? Slave trade?"
I paused for dramatic effect, then pushed my silk clad nipples under the old reprobate's aquiline nose. The tip of his tongue protruded and I prayed that he wouldn't let his false teeth drop into my decolletage. I panted slightly, as if quite overcome with the thrill of it all.
"I think, Colonel, that there may have been a murder."
The old man straightened up, his eyes flashing fire.
"Murder! Seen a body, have you?"
I nibbled my lower lip pensively.
"Well, not exactly…"
Just at that moment I spied the two Latinos climbing into a whorehouse red convertible sports car. There was no time to lose. I grasped the Colonel's arm and propelled him towards the hotel parking lot.
"We can't let them get away! Follow that Mustang!"
The keys to our hire car were in the hotel room. A mere detail. I scanned the parking lot, looking for inspiration, which swiftly arrived in the form of a canary yellow moped, cheerfully ridden by Michael the hotel porter. There was no time to exchange pleasantries. He sat dazed in the dust as we putt-putted off in a cloud of blue smoke, only just squeezing under the entrance barrier as it came down in the wake of the speeding Mustang. I caught a brief glimpse of the attendant's startled face as we throbbed off up the steep and twisting coastal road.
"Mind that pothole!"
The Colonel had taken it upon himself to drive, with yours truly riding pillion. I suspected it had been some time since he was in charge of anything other than a golf cart. The Mustang picked up speed and disappeared around a corner. We would simply have to make up time on the downhill stretches. I tossed my head back, nonchalantly allowing the brisk ocean breeze to blow through my hair, only to make a frantic grab for the Colonel's waist as he swerved around another sizable hole in the road.
"Hah! Bloody minefield. Hold on tight, girlie, they don't call me Shagfast for nothing, y'know!"
We reached the brow of a hill and immediately began to gain momentum. I prayed the brakes weren't faulty. The road was quite tortuous and swiftly left the affluent residential area in which the hotel was located for more basic locales. Ramshackle wooden buildings advertised cold drinks, ice cream treats and juicy fruits, frequently in creative West Indian spelling. I barely had time to read the signs as we zoomed past, a rather worrying burning smell beginning to emit from Michael's bike. A gang of laughing children cheered and waved as we passed through a tiny village, closely followed by the frenzied gesticulations of the proprietor of Jules' Garadge. The acrid smell had swelled to a plume of choking smoke but we were gaining on the Mustang. Suddenly, the sports car made a sharp left turn onto a rough track, which disappeared into the lush interior of the island, away from the sea. A battered wooden sign read:
Casa Melvin
We just made the turn, narrowly avoiding a Land Rover with "Praise The Lord" emblazoned on the hood. Slowly, wary of revealing our presence to our prey, we chugged up the stony track, our progress artfully concealed by a thick pall of exhaust fumes. It wasn't long before the road opened out into a large clearing and a huge and ostentatious house came into view. Tall wrought iron gates slowly swung shut on the retreating end of the Mustang. The Colonel dismounted, staggered slightly on his bowed legs, then fumbled in the pocket of his shorts for a hip flask. He took a strengthening gulp of the contents then glared at the Mediterranean style edifice.
"Now that's what I call a den of iniquity! More security than bloody Fort Knox."
So far, the biggest crime I'd witnessed was the life-sized fiberglass replica of King Tut that guarded the entrance. Curiously, I tiptoed up to the gates. Voices echoed from a tiled courtyard and I caught a glimpse of bright blue water. A swimming pool.
"Spanky! Spanky!"
"Not a bad idea," I murmured, swiftly ducking behind Tut as the smaller of the two Latinos hove into view, still talking volubly on his cell 'phone. Somewhere in the vicinity of the courtyard a disembodied female voice called out.
"Here, baby!"
"Hah! They're not all Dagos then."
The Colonel had joined me behind the Pharaoh and had procured a tiny pair of binoculars from his other pocket, through which he squinted fiercely. A Chihuahua trotted into the courtyard, jingling softly from the bells on its collar.
"Ah, Spanky, baby! There you are, darling!"
The owner of the voice appeared and the Colonel gasped and almost dropped his spyglasses. My lower jaw did a close approximation.
"Bloody hell! I've never seen anything like it in my life!"
"I have."
The young woman tottered into a dazzling patch of sunlight and crouched down to pet the little dog. She wasn't especially beautiful; in fact, her features could almost be described as homely. Her mousy brown hair was brushed straight back from her forehead and braided into a thick plait, the tail of which skimmed the top of her sturdy buttocks. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose, giving her an absent-minded look. Few would give the girl a second glance but for one unmistakable fact. She had the biggest pair of natural boobs I'd ever seen and they weren't unfamiliar.
"It's Sadie Brown, the girl next door!"
The Colonel leaned against King Tut's gilded chest, hyperventilating, as Sadie straightened up and turned to one side, giving us a perfect silhouette of her bumptious attributes. I couldn't begin to imagine her bra cup size but her vast tits resembled ripe golden melons, each boob crowned with a dusky, almost velvety looking aureole. She wore nothing but a pair of semi-translucent white cotton panties and flat, demure looking leather sandals.
"I'd love to say hello."
I was actually quite a big fan of Sadie Brown, whose outsize assets regularly appeared in the glossy pages of such mammary obsessed publications as Bazookas! and Tit-anic. So far, she had eschewed a feature tour on the nude dancing circuit but had made Over His Knee, a rather interesting little blue movie that was rapidly becoming a hard-to-find collector's item. Sadie Brown was not just your average porn star. Sadie Brown was decidedly kinky. Her chosen niche was that of the chastised schoolgirl but her body type was far from typical for that genre. Most naughty schoolgirls were A- cup adolescents.