Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 04

I simply couldn't wait to see what was waiting in the other four berths of Mick's secret little storage shed – who knew what delicious delights he had in store for me, squirreled away from the world, the proceeds of a lottery win that he had deliberately and determinedly kept hidden from his wife and family. Such a naughty boy, our Mick.

But wait I did, if only for a little while, because the manager of the storage facility – a fat leering pig, dressed in stained overalls, reeking of body odour and eyes fixed on my tits from the moment I entered his office – was not overly cooperative.

"Don't you need a warrant, a court order, or some shit like that?" he sneered, following my flash-of-the-badge and request to inspect Mick's storage space.

I sighed, and cursed the TV show 'Law and Order' once again for making everybody think everything needed a judge's signature on it – which was more or less accurate, but not especially helpful in my line of work.

"Okay bud," I said. "How can we make this happen, nice and quick?"

The piggy little guy looked me in the face – just for a second, quickly figuring if I was serious and what he might get away with asking – and then his eyes fell pointedly back upon my chest. "Show us," was all he said.

I didn't treat him to a sigh, or a roll-of-the-eyes, or any form of protest. I knew his type, and I knew any reaction or show of disgust would be music to his perverse little ears.

I simply unbuttoned my blouse, undid my bra, and let my tits fall out for his appraisal; and I gave him five seconds while he grunted approvingly and rubbed his disgusting little crotch with his grubby little hand, before I gathered up the ladies and put them away again.

"Okay," he nodded, when I was done. "Let's go."

"So: have you seen this guy come through here at all?" I asked, showing him Mick's picture as he walked me down a long line of brick walls and garage doors that made for a series of separate storage spaces.

"Yeah, I think that's the 'car guy'," the manager grunted. "He'd drive into the lot every work-day morning in an old yellow Ford, then two minutes later he'd drive out again in some flashy European piece-of-shit. Usually a funny-looking orange thing."

I tried to cover up my mounting contempt for this man. Anyone who'd describe a Lamborghini Gallardo – one of the most beautiful and capable cars in all of history – as a 'funny looking European piece-of-shit', deserved a bullet in the balls.

"Here we are," the guy announced, as we stopped in front of a very long garage door with the numbers '131' on a sign above it. He fished out a remote with the corresponding numbers on it, pressed the button...

...and revealed a bevy of the most awesome cars I had ever seen.

There were four cars in the five-berth space, and as expected, the first was the yellow Ford station wagon that served as Mick's 'work car', for all intents and purposes. Of course, he only ever used it to drive from home to this storage space, where he would park it and choose from the other exotics he had available.

Alongside the Ford was a jet-black, brand-new Mercedes S65: a long, low, menacing saloon. It had a twin-turbocharged six-litre V12 sitting behind the traditional tri-starred chrome grill, the wheel wells bulging and muscular, the marvellously wide tyres filled with enormous twenty-inch rims that gleamed with undisguised purpose. Exactly the sort of car one would pick when in the mood for a large, luxurious cruiser – soft and supple, padded and luxurious, but forever with gob-smacking power in reserve.

Next to the burly Mercedes was a gaudy, brand new, eye-stingingly yellow Dodge Challenger. This car was all-American, huge and bluff, almost a comical juxtaposition alongside the restrained elegance of the Germanic uber-saloon. The Challenger was a rarity on our roads as Dodge doesn't sell them here, in fact it was the first one I had ever laid eyes on, so Mick must have had it imported and legalised at massive expense. It was a beauty, all the same: big, square and powerful, with dark-tinted windows and carbon-fibre bonnet stripes contrasting nicely against the canary-yellow bodywork, and of course it would have the six-point-two litre Hemi V8 connected to those big fat pipes running out the back.

The third car was another Germanic representative, and I was slightly disappointed: it was a Porsche, a silver Carrera coupe. Yes, fine, Porsche builds some of the most capable and liveable cars money can buy – fast like a Lambo, but a lot more accessible, easier at its considerable limits and far kinder when trundling round town than the Lambo could ever hope to be. My issue was that, in this fine company and context, it seemed something of a cliché – a rich man buys a Porsche? Whodathunkit?

But the fourth and final car really made me grin, for it was one that only a few die-hard car aficionados would be able to identify: a little red Elfin Streamliner. It was tiny, barely big enough to contain two tan-leather-lined seats, pedals and a steering wheel; it had no roof, a miniscule windscreen, and two toy-like little doors which were barely necessary as one could easily step over the cowl and sink into the seats, even clad in a skirt as short as mine. The appeal of the car lay in what hid beneath its bonnet: a tub-thumping V8, itself almost bigger than the rest of the car, and with less than a tonne of weight to motivate it gave this car the potential to be faster than any Lamborghini... though that depended on the skill of the driver, for these cars are famously nervous and spiteful, difficult to control and nearly impossible to tame. And I loved it.

I noted, of course, that the fifth car space was empty – four cars, five berths? Well there was the matter of the Lamborghini, battered and broken and currently dripping its innards all over our impound lot. And you might imagine that a guy like Mick would buy a fifth fast car to fill out the five spaces properly, but then what would he do with his clanky old Ford? Would he leave it idling, open the door, back out the Lambo, leave it idling too, park the Ford, close the door and drive away? I know I would never leave a Lambo idling, not for a precious second. So the Ford deserved its place in the garage, and I doubted Mick had any other expensive playthings to his name. Four of them would do, for sure... plus the old Ford, for the run home at night, or to park at the shops to collect trolley-dings, and so forth.

"Righto, you've seen the cars," the lot manager rumbled – typically unmoved by the breathtaking display of automobilia's finest, the philistine. "Are we done now?"

"You're done," I informed him. "You can leave the remote with me, too," I added, nodding at the little remote control required for access to the garage which he clutched in his piggy little hand.

"No no," he began. "That wasn't part of the deal. You'll have to go 'above and beyond' if that's what you want..." he added, with possibly the most disgusting leer I've ever seen on anyone anywhere.

I looked at him for only a second, before deciding: 'nup. Not gunna happen. Not in a hundred million years. No way.'

"You want me to bring you in on harassment charges?" I asked of him.

"What?" he bellowed. "But you showed me your tits, not even two minutes ago!"

"Yeah, but who's my Lieutenant going to believe: his star and favourite big-titted detective, or a big fat sleazy slob like you?" I replied, matter-of-factly. "And I'll bet a hundred bucks you've got a long list of priors, ya skeeze."

That stopped him – he tossed over the remote, and turned to go. "Friggin bitch," he muttered under his breath.

"Just remember the tits, and have a nice day," I suggested. Hmm, that phrase would go well on a t-shirt...

Back to the job at hand, I put myself back in Mick's shoes. Now he couldn't exactly walk around all day with a pocket-full of keys to a bunch of half-million-dollar cars – imagine if the missus found them on washing day? So what would I do, if I couldn't keep a bunch of car keys on me, but I wanted quick and easy access to them exactly when I needed them...?

I remembered a trick of my dear old grandad's – he liked to keep a spare key to the car in a little magnetic box, which he would hide somewhere under the chassis or a wheel-well in case he locked the keys in his precious old Kingswood...

...and sure enough, in the right rear wheel-well of each car was a little magnet box containing a key.

Oh, happy day. Now: which car to choose?

But of course I was going to choose the red one, the Elfin. A hot-headed, unruly, uncontrollable little minx of a thing – hard, fast, snap-tempered and totally unrepentant. A kindred spirit for me, if ever there was one.

So I stepped over the cowl – glad the manager was gone, lest he caught a flash of my un-knickered box when my tight little skirt rose as I did so – and I sank into the driver's seat, loving how the cool tan leather hugged and cosseted me as though the seat was tailored to fit me personally. I fired it up, and the car came to life with a full-body shimmy and a rowling growl; not much in the way of a muffler between the big bent-eight and the exhausts, which in fact exited in pairs beneath each door. Oh what a car, what a car...

...and waiting only momentarily to see that the remote-controlled garage door shut all the way on my new menagerie of play-things, it was with a whoop and a cheer that I tore out of the storage lot, tyres alight and engine roaring like a lion – just to make sure that the manager knew exactly what I thought of him.

Skeezy, grubby bastard.

***

I made it back to Mick's illicit pad in Warburton in record time, grinning from ear to ear all the way. When the Elfin was able to keep its tyres hooked up, it sprinted like a cheetah, bringing in the next corner like it was clawing down an antelope and squirming unhappily under brakes every time. Here was a car that loved to go fast and hated – absolutely hated – to slow down.

Thrilling from the rush of the drive, I parked the car brazenly and without a second thought in front of the house. I skipped up to the door, let myself back into the house and awaited the arrival of Andy the tech guy.

Hardly had I been five minutes in Mick's office, I heard a call from the front door – but it was not the voice I expected. "Mick?" called a female voice. "Hello?"

Up in Mick's office, I froze. 'Shit,' I thought.

"Mi—ick," the girl called again, rather playfully. "Come out come out. I know you're here, Mickey Mouse. You've left the Elfin out the front."

'Shit,' I thought again, cursing my carelessness. 'Shit shit shit! Hide,' was the next thing that occurred to me, so I slipped noiselessly into a nearby wardrobe, stepping between a number of tasteful and extremely expensive suits – presumably changes of clothing for when Mick went Porsche-shopping – and I left the door very slightly ajar, so I could see the intruder.

"Mick?" she called as she walked in. And she was a stunner. Shimmering platinum-blonde hair; pneumatic body; big tits and slim hips, vacu-sealed in a tight summery dress that left precious little to the imagination.

'Mick: you little tramp,' I thought, squinting with disapproval.

"He's not here," she commented to herself, in the usual vapid way of most girls-on-the-side I had come across – just like the Porsche, I was disappointed in Mick's falling into the clichéd trap of a rich prick needing the usual accessories. A full quiver of Fendi suits, check; silver Porsche, check; young vapid ultra-slut: check, mate.

Out in the office, the girl had already fetched her phone out of a tiny, expensive-looking clutch she carried with her, and I knew she was calling Mick. Perhaps she would have more luck than Mick's wife or the police had had...

"Voicemail," the girl-toy muttered, showing that Mick wouldn't – or couldn't – even answer the phone for his mistress. 'Dang,' I cursed silently from my hiding place.

"Mickey, it's Trish," she announced, presumably at the beep. "I'm at your place, and your Elfin's outside, so I dunno – maybe you've gone for a jog down on the beach? I'll grab the binoculars and I'll look for the tanned, sweaty, sexy beast jogging in the sun with his shirt off. You sexy thing. Hurry back..." she purred, and she hung up.

I could hardly believe it. While Mick's wife thought he was toiling away at his long-hours high-pressure telco-job in the city, Mick was not only hooning around in a variety of Lambos and Porsches and Mercedes, or goofing off in a million-dollar pad with million-dollar ocean views... he was also porking some fake-titted glassy-eyed bimbo?

If I ever caught up with him, I wouldn't know whether to suck his cock or slap him silly. It posed a genuine dilemma for me. 'First one, then t'other,' I decided.

But this 'Trish' wasn't going away, apparently deciding to wait for Mick to get back from his 'jog'. Apparently abandoning the plan to wander off in search of binoculars, she instead sat down at the computer, typed in a password, and to my profound joy she was into the system – and of course, she loaded up Facebook, presumably to type in some vapid update for all her friends to see.

But then she turned to the desk beside her, and passed an eye over the paperwork I had left strewn about from Mick's files – and with a comical double-take, she looked again. I chastised my sloppiness again; I didn't want this filly to know what I had been looking at, and from her interest it seemed Mick wasn't the type to share his personal dealings with his floozies.

His bank statement must have caught her eye: "Fifteen million!" she gasped. "Holy shit! I mean, obviously he was rich, but fifteen million..."

I rolled my eyes. Trust 'Trish' to lack an inner monologue.

"Wow, fifteen million..." she murmured, seeming to derive great enjoyment in spelling it out for herself. "Wow..." and, to my amused surprise, she let a hand fall between her legs.

'Well then,' I thought, with approval. 'Perhaps I'm going to get a show?'

And I did. Maybe there was something in the air – maybe a pheromone or two from an hour ago, when I had pleasured myself in the very same chair. Or perhaps the thought of all that money was an aphrodisiac for Trish. Either way, she showed herself no mercy; thinking herself alone, she let the papers fall and with no ceremony at all, she hitched her snug-fitting dress up past her hips and rolled it down below her tits, wearing it as a belt as she treated herself to some idle pleasure.

It was actually rather an intoxicating sight. A woman, beautiful and naked, touching and satisfying herself, is a beautiful thing to behold – and behold it I often have, going after the girls nearly as often as I go after the guys. Perhaps I'm greedy, to want to fuck people of both sexes... or perhaps it's just natural, perhaps I simply lack the unnecessary and unnatural restraint that most else in society place upon their feelings and desires. What's wrong with fucking? Isn't it fun? Isn't it healthy, a great release and an excellent cardio-vascular workout? So why not do it as often as possible?

And Trish was quite the sight. Without knowing I was there, she let her chair spin around, showing me the lot: one hand caressing her generous breasts, the other inserted deep and unabashed into her slot, her teeth nibbling and biting her lip as her eyes closed in utter bliss.

I wondered what she was imagining, as I myself gently caressed my hardening nipples through my light blouse. Perhaps she was thinking of Mick, his hard and strong body, his cock long and thick – perhaps she was thinking back to the last time they had got it on? Or perhaps, and far more likely, she was thinking of all the things she could buy with fifteen million dollars: shoes, clothes, shops, cars, houses, people...

It was working for her. A creamy little lather was forming about her nether-regions – she's a gusher, our Trish, something she and I actually have in common – and her breaths were coming in tiny, feminine little yips, tightening into gasps and squeals as her knees crossed and her toes cramped up and she came. Even as she kept coming, I slid the wardrobe open noiselessly, stepped out and shut it behind me, completely unnoticed as Trish kept herself on the boil, as she kept herself coming and coming and coming.

I didn't say anything. I simply watched, amused and secretly aroused with arms folded sternly, as she eventually wound down, and wound down... and opened her eyes...

And screamed.

"So you're finished, then?" I asked of her.

"Who the fuck are you?" she cried, not even thinking to fix her dress or cover up her body.

"Detective Sergeant Jennings," I told her curtly, flashing my badge as proof. "I take it from the message you left, that you haven't seen or heard from Mick today?"

"What? No," she gasped, breasts heaving distractingly from her previous exertions combined with the shock of my materialisation. "Why? Is Mick in trouble?"

"I'll ask the questions, thank you 'Trish'," I told her. "When did you last see him?"

"Umm... two days ago," she reported. "I met him here. We... umm... well, we 'made love'," she whispered, somehow managing to appear coy despite her tits hanging out and the creamy froth gleaming off her bare shaven pussy – items which I didn't mind running my eyes over, from time to time.

"Were you aware that Mick has a wife, and five children?" I quizzed her.

She was wide-eyed. "No..." she answered, truthfully.

"Were you aware that Mick has been deceiving them – keeping his wealth and his cars and houses and share portfolios secret, not sharing them with his wife?" I followed on.

Another dumb, honest shake of the head. "No."

I looked at her. "Does any of that matter to you, now that you know it?" I decided to ask.

She thought for a moment – and, still honest as day, she shrugged. "Not really," she answered, though without malice. "I love Mick, he loves me, what we have is really special."

So I had thought. "Trish: I need you to listen. Last night, Mick crashed his Lamborghini off a mountain road aways down the coast. The car was destroyed and he hurt himself pretty bad, but he's run off and we can't find him."

"Oh my God..." Trish breathed, with a genuine show of concern on her face as the news slowly sank in.

"So let me ask you again," I said, with heavy tones of import and officiousness in my voice. "Trish: have you seen or heard from Mick today, at any stage, about anything?"

"No. Honestly, I haven't," she promised me. "My poor Mickey!"

I sighed – Trish genuinely had no answers for me. But still, she was the best lead I had turned up so far; if anyone knew anything about Mick's secret dealings, Trish would be the one.

"Trish, let me tell you what I'm thinking," I began, sitting down on the table next to her with a new demeanour: friendly, warm, opening up. It was time to try a new tack with our Trish.

"You see," I went on, "Mick's got a pretty sweet set-up here. Fast cars; great house; a sexy little number like you," I added, with an appreciative flash of my brows and another big obvious perve up and down her still-exposed body, to which she automatically smiled – coy, yet flattered.

"So what I'm thinking is," I continued, "our Mick wouldn't get himself into trouble like this without a good reason. He's not the type to crash a half-million-dollar Lamborghini backwards into a tree, leave it filled with blood, and stumble off down a creek so as to make it harder for us to track his movements – not without a really good reason. He must be in trouble, Trish," I told her. "He must have fallen in with a bad crowd, got into some shady dealings..."

Trish looked wide-eyed and fearful – I had struck a chord. I was on the right track, and her pretty, honest, dumb little face was all but singing the details to me.