Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Nudist Colony

‘I don’t like force either,’ I say. ‘There’s too much of it. People talk about sex and violence like they are the same thing but I only see the–’

‘I mean the Police Force,’ she says. ‘Frankly I don’t think I’m cut out to be a copper. That probably sounds terrible to you. How long have you been a flat foot?’

‘Well, I’ve always had a bit of trouble with my arches,’ I say. ‘Mum made me wear my sister’s old sandals when I was a kid and–’

‘A policeman,’ she says. ‘How long have you been with the CID?’

This time I twig what she says: the CID, not the SID. She has obviously mistaken me for a plain clothes copper. I wonder if it would be wise to disillusion her? Especially in our present situation. ‘Not very long,’ I say. I give a light laugh and wait for her to ask me why.

‘What are you laughing at?’ she says.

‘I was just thinking,’ I say. ‘If I wanted to make a pass at you I’d have a problem, wouldn’t I?’ I hold out my wrists and give her the famous Lea slow burn. It is all good clean fun and she smiles gamely.

‘I sometimes wonder if that’s why I joined,’ she says sadly.

‘What do you mean?’ I say.

‘I used to be very free and easy,’ she says. ‘I remember how worried my mother was. I think I thought that if I joined the police force it would be the next best thing to becoming a nun. I’d be protected from myself. The sanctity of the uniform would keep me on the straight and narrow.’

You could nip on my straight and narrow any day of the week, I think to myself. I nod understandingly and take one of her hands in both of mine – I don’t have any alternative with the handcuffs on. ‘You don’t want to go against your true nature,’ I say. ‘Any luck with that key?’

She retrieves her hand and runs it along the hem of her skirt. ‘Nope. It must have dropped out.’

‘Couldn’t have slipped inside your shirt?’ I drop my tethered mitts on her Ned Kelly and have a little feel. It is even more sexy with the bracelets on. Percy certainly thinks so anyway. He bounces up like a rubber pigeon shit. ‘No. There’s nothing there – except you.’ The minute I lay hands on her she stiffens like something else I have just mentioned and it is clear that the pressure of my sensitive looks and fingers is not altogether repugnant.

‘This is awful,’ she says. ‘What would anyone say if they could see?’

‘There’s nobody around to see,’ I say. ‘They’ve all gone off with your mate. Let’s make sure you’re not concealing anything.’

I lower my nut in time with my voice and gently brush my mouth against hers. I wouldn’t exactly say that she abandons herself to my lips but she does not bust the back window jerking her head away.

‘Are you married?’ she says. ‘All the worst ones at the station are married.’

‘I’m not surprised you have problems,’ I say. ‘No, I’m not married.’

‘You shouldn’t be doing that,’ she says.

‘I’m just trying to keep the circulation running through my wrists,’ I say. ‘These handcuffs are blooming tight.’

‘Isn’t there anything else you can feel?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to find out.’ Before she can say anything, I drop my mitts to her knee and twist my body round so that I can slide them underneath her skirt.

‘Ooh!’ she says.

‘The steel’s a bit cold, is it?’ I say – consideration for birds’ feelings has always been one of my strong points.

‘Not only that,’ she says. ‘Your cheek’s pretty cool too! I’ve never worked with any one like you.’

‘We could become famous in the anals of crime,’ I say.

‘I think you mean annals,’ she says. ‘Though when you do that with your hands I’m not sure.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘These seats slope down a bit steep.’ I give her another chance to taste the nectar of my lips and this time our cakeholes melt together and I feel her long lashes brushing against my cheek like imprisoned butterflies – poetry, isn’t it? Oh, all right, please yourself. Only trying to extend my range. And, talking about extensions – yes, Percy is rearing roofwards like he is bent on turning my lap into an imitation of a tent being erected. She has gorgeous lips, this bird. They are sort of soft and tacky so that they form themselves to the shape of your cakehole and then cling on like clams. What a bleeding shame that my mitts are manacled. I really feel the urge to mould this bird-sized bule to the stressed steel that is the Lea rib cage.

‘Stop! You must–’ she squawks.

‘Careful,’ I say. ‘Anything you say will be taken down and used to wipe the condensation off the inside of the windows.’ I have already managed to check that her grumble is no stranger to the velvet gong-belter and without further ado I give her knicks a sponsored trip to kneesville.

‘Stop!’ she squeaks. ‘This is terribly naughty. Supposing we have to make a sprint for it?’

‘Make a splint for it?’ I say. ‘There’s no danger of that I can assure you. Clock this.’

‘No!’ she squeals as I seize my opportunity to reveal Britain’s latest space probe financed entirely by pubic subscriptions. ‘I was referring to our raid on the vice ring. We may be called into action at any moment.’ She gazes into my lap and I see her mind grappling with the problem of what use I can be with my hands manacled and an enormous hard on. I suppose I could always try to batter down the door of a caravan if the worst came to the worst.

‘Get on my lap,’ I say. ‘Go on. You know you want to.’ If she doesn’t, I want it enough for both of us. By the cringe! You could paint my nob tartan and call it Throb Roy.

‘Oh, you’re terrible!’ To my relief she bends forward and helps her knicks over her ankles. ‘Are they all like you in the CID?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You want to ask for a transfer.’ I raise my arms above my head and she takes a quick shufti out of the window and scrambles across my knees. They are steaming up fast – I mean, the windows not my knees – and it is probably just as well that a discreet veil should be drawn over the proceedings.

‘I could be discharged for this,’ she pants.

‘Likewise,’ I say working my khyber forward to the edge of the seat. ‘Mind how you – ah!’

She tucks my hampton away like your mum bunging a pair of freshly washed socks into a bottom drawer and it is clear that she is no stranger to parking inside the car.

‘I had a boyfriend with a midget,’ she says.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Still, they say that size isn’t everything.’

‘An MG Midget,’ she says. ‘It was very cramped.’

‘Of course,’ I say, getting her drift. ‘This is spacious, isn’t it?’ I slip my wrists over her head and shoulders and hug her to me so that the handcuffs press into the small of her back. Honestly, if you want to get into the police this is the only way. The experience could only be improved if she took her hat off but you don’t like to say anything, do you? Not at a moment like this. It might spoil the magic.

‘Ooooh!’ she gasps. ‘I never realised that pounding the beat could be such fun.’

‘It’s not bad, is it?’ I say. ‘Oooh!’ One of the problems of not being able to use my hands is that I have no control over any of my safety valves. Millie the Fuzz is strictly in the driving seat and with her dishing out the pelvic aggro the time to blast off can be measured in seconds. I try to think of Ted Heath’s organ to take my mind off what the copper bottom is doing to me but it is no good. Wisps of hair are hanging down in front of her boat race and she is biting her lip. I hate to see a woman doing a man’s work so I tilt my head forward and bite her lip for her. Not only bite it but suck it and send my tongue in to check that there has been no serious damage. This clearly goes down a treat and Millie joggles around so much that she hops off my hampton. ‘Damn!’ Boy! If all escaped prisoners were recaptured so quickly you would never hear that they had got out in the first place. WPC Marjoribanks gets my dick back on duty in a vulgar fraction of a second and I drive my feet down against the floor of the car. God knows what is happening outside. All the windows are totally steamed up.