A Domestic Incident

* * *

"You shagged your landlady? You never did. I don't fucking believe you!" Jo had wheedled that out of me as well. If ever she got selected for CID the government would need to build more prisons.

"Well, it was more tongue than anything."

"I don't care if you gave her intestines the full Feng Shui treatment, pushed her cervix up between her lungs. You had sexual relations with that woman."

I shrugged, "She showed me her Schnauzer, what was I supposed to do? Leave it un-petted?"

* * *

One day there was a bang. A loud one that shook the whole place. A real live explosion had happened in a chemical factory on the other side of town a couple of miles away. A couple of guys died, several were hospitalised. We finally made it onto the national news, with all the major TV stations making appearances.

A cloud of orange smoke drifted gently across the countryside, then all hell broke loose on the radio. I and all the other available car drivers were directed over to the scene, with an assembly point predictably in the down-wind area.

Typical really, I shouldn't have been at all surprised that the emergency plan had it all written down that our task in the event of a disaster was to go to the wrong end of the factory. We were supposed to escort ambulances through the inevitable spectator crush to the local hospital, however not only did the ambulances go to the entrance closest to the hospital but we could have all been contaminated with all the dust and fumes still spewing up into the sky.

After a few hours someone asked where the hell all those ambulances were; the answer came back that everyone who needed to go to hospital was already there. So the whole thing was worse than a waste of time from our point of view. Never mind, we had the best view in town of the twisted wreckage.

At the end of the day we were all called back to the local station for refreshments. A cup of tea was provided and someone announced that if anybody got a rash within a week, go to the hospital for a check-up. There were a few ribald whispers.

I started talking to a colleague who worked in that station who shall remain nameless, except that he was always known as 'Fuckwit'. That was on account of when he joined the job he noticed that most of the shift had a nickname and he announced that he hoped that he would be called something with wit.

So he was, immediately and forever after known as 'Fuckwit'. A typical job nickname. He worked with a colleague called 'Slinky' who thought it was because she looked hot, but really it was on account of her being absolutely bloody useless and someone once mentioned that they felt an irresistible urge to push her down the stairs.

Fuckwit asked me "Are you lodging with Smooth and Willing Loins?"

I was confused. "Huh?"

"Suzy Williams-Lyons." He had a big shit-eating grin across his face as he slurred her name.

"Oh, yeah" I replied.

"I thought that's where you were. I used to live there." He sniggered foolishly and returned to his work. I noticed that he was making a noise to himself, "Um, um, um".

Fuckwit by name, fuckwit by nature...

Two days later I saw the very overweight Head of Emergency Events Planning on television. He was telling everyone with a straight face what a success the police operation had been, how the situation had all been brought under control and how thorough the investigation would be with the assistance of the civilian Health and Safety Executive. What a load of bollocks. No-one who had actually been there had ever been asked for their opinion.

He was standing next to the Chief Constable, so at least I now knew what he looked like.

* * *

One evening not long after that, I slipped up. It was my own fault, my spirit was weak after the shitshow of the explosion. My landlady had invited me to put my slippers under her bed several times, but it had been a long day and a few of us went for a pint. Nowhere posh, just the boozer around the corner from the nick. It was always full of officers and a place where no self-respecting criminal would ever be seen.

I was on the last couple of inches of my second pint when I happened to look across the room and saw the back of a head that I recognised. I'd screwed Carol enough times from the rear to know what she looked like from that angle.

I turned around and pretended not to notice, quietly making my way towards the door for a silent exit. I thought I'd got away with it, but suddenly she was next to me in a haze of whisky and lemonade. "Can I have a word with you for a moment?"

"What about?"

"Just a word in private, outside." Carol turned and like a fool I followed her. As I watched her hips swing I was reminded of a rock concert we had attended, when she had spent an entire summer weekend wearing just a tight leather bomber jacket and training shoes. With long white socks. Oh yes. Knee-high socks and bare thighs all the way up.

Oh my word, that exposed bottom will stay in my memory for ever. Everywhere we went there were double-takes from men and women alike. Nothing below the waist and nothing underneath either. The jacket was kept unzipped just an inch too far, barely enough to contain the enticing swells of her bosom whilst maintaining a sense of imminent danger of spillage. A good stiff zip, that stayed where it was put. A bit like something else not too far away, staying stiff all weekend.

Then the funniest moment was when some idiot smacked her bare backside.

She whirled around and grabbed hold of him, like a ninja. Gave him the evil eye and shouted so everyone close by could hear, "Did you ask if you could slap my ass?"

The fool stammered like a simpleton as she stood facing him with her legs apart and said, "Get down on your knees. Get down and kiss it better. Do it, now" So he knelt down with his dumb face level with her pussy and stared at her slit, then just as he leaned forwards with his tongue out she took a quick step back and kicked him straight in the throat. He fell back clutching his neck as everybody watching fell about.

"Next time, ask. It's very rude otherwise." Carol smiled with exaggerated sweetness, turned and marched off with that ass swaying from side to side just to taunt him (and me).

I caught up with her, "You didn't ever kick me in the face when I gave you a smack on the butt."

"You asked first. If he had tried asking, perhaps I would have let him." She gave me the smile. Damn her.

But back to that night. She turned into a narrow access lane at the side of the pub, the sort of lane that is used to store garbage bins and where people go when they are caught short with no public toilets available. Quite salubrious. On the corner she stooped and then, within full view of anyone who might have been passing, she pulled down her knickers. With a tiny black scrap of lace in her hand and a tiny lift of an eyebrow, she had me. Cold.

I slid my hands under her clothes and found her breasts, just as I remembered them. So, just as I had practised with my landlady I lifted and stroked each one tenderly. Her arms wrapped around my neck and her tongue snaked into my mouth, it was like old times once more.

Then I followed her into the shadows and found her, crouched down . Without further ado my trousers were unzipped and her mouth was open to welcome me. She hadn't lost her touch and soon I was releasing my full load straight down her throat.

She stood, licking her lips. A dribble escaped for a second but she was onto it; her tongue flicked out to retrieve the errant liquid and then it was all gone, swallowed. I thought that she would be contented, but I was wrong. The was a blaze of fury in her eyes, "You shithead. I can taste her on you. The tart you've been screwing."

She leapt to her feet and I ran. Like the coward that I am.

I finally found my motivation. A raging psychotic woman after my blood gave me the incentive to take to my heels. I sprinted out of the lane and along the main road. Behind me I could hear chasing footsteps so I didn't slow down to look around. I found a pathway that led up a hill into a housing estate and followed it. Here's a quick tip. If you ever find yourself being chased, go uphill. It's hard when chasing someone up a steep slope and your lungs and legs are dying.

There was a flight of steps and I had the advantage, bounding up two or three at a time. A couple of quick zigzags gave me the opportunity to glance down, she was still hard behind me, with teeth bared. I didn't slow and give her the chance to do anything.

Carol couldn't keep up for long and I knew all the back streets and passageways. Soon the sound of heels on pavement behind me became quieter and at last silenced. I was safe for the time being, and I was at last able to tuck myself back into my pants.

* * *

A shift function loomed. Someone was being promoted so we gathered in a town centre bar and the boss turned up to give a little speech before people became too pissed to care. Not many cared about the speech either way but there were free sandwiches as an incentive to turn up. Even the officer known as Flame turned up. That name was short for 'Olympic Flame' on account of the fact that he always stayed at his desk doing paperwork for as long as possible and was almost never known to go out.

Jo had got herself spruced up in a party outfit. She did scrub up well, this time she wore a bright red Ra-Ra dress that looked glued to her buttocks. Do you remember those? Fitted around the ass and a series of loose flouncy hems that flared out emphasising any body movement. In this case the dress was off the shoulder, elastic holding it up over the boobs and showing a hint of cleavage.

I noticed a couple of guys giving admiring glances from the rear and had a strange sensation of feeling protective of her. After the presentation and sandwiches -- which turned out to be vacuum-packed plastic ham in cheap bread rubbish, Jo led the way out. She knew where we were going; a nightclub with all the bright lights on the outside and all the dim ones on the inside.

The music was loud, the dance floor was packed and the bar was expensive. I bought the first round of drinks and we found a spot by a pillar to stand next to while my wallet recovered from the shock. Before long though a guy was talking to Jo. Well I say 'talking', but obviously yelling in her ear would be more accurate.

The man was chatting her up as if I didn't exist, but as he was a least a foot taller than me and built like a brick shit-house I used my discretion and kept quiet. Then Jo turned to me and indicated that I was to stay still, then stepped onto the dance floor with the man mountain. The red dress swished as her hips swayed, her arms effortlessly in time with the beat. Why wasn't I designed to move like that?

After several records I was feeling like a spare part and wandered over to a group of other unattached guys watching like wolves from the side of the floor. I saw Jo abandon Mister Rushmore and walk across the room.

I hadn't noticed her arrive but there was the boss, Inspector Ladysmith in the same tailored black suit that she had been wearing when she was giving her speech. Jo had a short conversation with the boss, then they were off, out of the club. I don't really know why but I started following like a duckling. It wasn't a hardship; the sight as I climbed the steps to the street could hardly have been improved.

The view of the boss's ass was as easy on the eye as Jo's. The heels were high and the butt was tight. It seemed wrong somehow, ogling the boss.

Then I noticed something. The boss and Jo were holding hands. Their fingers were without doubt linked.

I stopped still, baffled. That was what it was all about, Jo's mysterious encounters with unnamed sports stars. Why lots of things, all explained in a flash.

We reached the bright lights and sudden silence of the street. Then as I stood blinking and rubbing the nightclub-tinnitus away, there was a flurry of movement and a screaming noise.

Something with blonde hair and a short black halter-neck was flying across the footpath at Jo. She instinctively raised her arms and before I even had time to react, had grappled with her assailant. Within seconds she had applied a restraint hold on the wrist of a very angry Carol.

"You bitch, find your own fucking man!" Carol was fighting mad, "Don't you dare steal my boyfriend!"

Jo was being accused of something that had her perplexed, "I know you, you're the stalker. Why has that got anything to do with me?"

"I know what you've been doing in that cop-car, giving him blow jobs all night. Him stroking your tits, let's see what you got that I haven't!" Then with a sudden lunge with her free hand, Carol reached around and caught hold of Jo's top. As Jo recoiled, the top was tugged down together with a handful of red strapless bra.

The rippling muscles in her back were on view, her slim waist for the first time without a covering of Lycra. And breasts.

Real live boobs, complete with nipples. Little dark brown bullets.

The two were immediately wrestling but Carol was swiftly thrown to the ground with Jo bending her arm gently out of its socket. When Jo managed to pull away I saw that her bra had been completely pulled down to her waist. Her breasts were there on view to entertain the crowd that had gathered around, cheering them both on. That's not both breasts, I mean both ladies. Or maybe both breasts, I don't know.

Suddenly the sad lives of the populace were enlivened with a genuine spectacle. Open mouthed, they drank in the sight.

Jo had small firm boobs that stood up for themselves on her muscular frame. Pointed with dark areolae and tanned the same shade as her body, it occurred to me later that she had been sunbathing without the benefit of the upper part of a swimsuit. Getting them out for the boys on holiday whilst being Miss Modesty back home.

Carol wasn't finished yet and with her legs thrashing around managed to force Jo onto her back. Jo must have released her hold, far too early. Carol had her fingers entangled in Jo's hair as the pair rolled on the pavement together, Carol's black dress was now rucked up to her waist showing white panties that were tucked deeply between the cheeks of her bottom.

As they wrestled, rolling together on the flagstones, the breasts appeared and disappeared. Sometimes a single, sometimes the pair.

Then Carol broke free and stood. She looked at me, "Call that a pair of tits? You've been short-changed. Remember these?" With that she pulled her dress right up and over her head so that she stood just wearing her heels and panties. Her fantastic chest was bared to the crowd. "This is what you call tits."

She turned and ran away as everyone stood, open mouthed. A cheer rang out and even a smattering of applause from the watchers. By the time anyone thought of chasing her, she was gone, carrying her dress with her breasts bouncing wildly.

Jo quickly pulled her clothing back up to restore her modesty. The disgruntled crowd turned away, boobs now vanished for ever.

When her chest had been patted firmly into its correct position, she turned round and saw me. "Do you remember when she said to you, 'If you switch off the light you can put it in her ass?'"

I didn't remember such a thing.

She continued, "You should have let the bulb cool first."

* * *

One day inevitably, Jo and I happened across Not-Bob again.

Jo recognised him first, she always did. She was not only fast, fit and good looking; she was alert. Sometimes I felt like hating her except she was easy to like as well. Not-Bob was just walking along the street, minding his own business when Jo pulled over, "Hey, how's things going?"

He was guarded, then recognised us "Fine, thanks."

"How's the case?"

"That's all sorted, a binding-over order." A standard court order to keep the peace and not get into more trouble for a few months, after which period it's open house once more. Then he looked closely at me, "Are you the copper that Carol took up with?" He paused, then apologised for calling me a copper. That was OK, I never took that as a particular insult anyway.

He continued, "Was I ever glad to get out of that. She's inexhaustible. Never slept, hardly ever drew breath as far as I could tell. I'd been trying for ages to break it off with her, but she could be shall we say, very persuasive. It's great to start with, but sooner or later you need to have a rest. Are you still with her?"

"Not any more, but she's still stalking me. Waiting outside the station, it's getting to be a nuisance."

"I know the feeling. Eventually you have to sleep, it's great at first but fuck it's exhausting. Did she take a photo of your dick? She has an album of every one she's ever had. Eventually I tried fighting her off with a knife, that's why she called you. Afterwards I gave in and went back to her, what a stupid thing to do. But as they say, when you get a hard-on, the blood drains from your brain. In the end of course I fell asleep at the wheel and bent the car. I never said that of course, I'm not that daft. Luckily she already had her eyes on you, so I ducked out of sight until she had you snared."

I needed advice, "Tell me, what do you reckon I should do?"

"Do what I did. Wait until she sees someone else she fancies, keep on mentioning him and hope that she sees the guy again. She'll do all the running then, don't worry about that. And when you come across him, you can shout 'April Fool'. Good luck!"

With that, Not-Bob shouted "April Fool!" and walked off with a merry whistle on his lips and a spring in his step.

* * *

I was back in the office, my shift was finishing. I had plans to make -- find someone to take me home hidden in the back of their car and this was indeed becoming a bit of a nuisance. The next shift was starting to appear and the officer known as Fuckwit walked through the door.

I hailed him, "Hi Fuckwit, what are you doing here?"

"I just transferred across, this is my first shift".

I had a flash of inspiration. "How do you fancy going out for a pint sometime?"

He was suspicious, "What's the deal?"

"Nothing particular, just thought I would welcome you to the station. Will tomorrow do you? I'll pick you up."

And it was a simple as that. I phoned Carol and the deed was done. Not-Bob's tune came to my mind, I hummed it to myself all night and I was happy.

Now, whenever I hear someone singing 'Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina In the Morning', I'm reminded of the lady who I like to remember as my psycho girlfriend.

Poor Fuckwit. What a fool.

* * *