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.
I sighed softly as my heroine wandered off into the shady recesses of the courtyard, the aptly named Chihuahua trotting along behind her. Once upon a time, I too had been a big boob model, dancer and porn star, plying my trade under various aliases including Betsi Bouncee and Titty Boomboom.
'Are you all right, Colonel Shagfast?'
It looked as if the randy old goat had finally met his match in Sadie Brown. He still slumped against the impassive frontage of Tut, a glazed look in his eyes and a small damp patch on his baggy shorts. I was just about to suggest that perhaps we should give up the game and go find a nice reviving rum punch, when there was the crunching of gravel and a vehicle could be overhead, approaching up the rough track to the house.
'Quick! We'd better hide!'
Briskly, I maneuvered the Colonel and the moped into the deep shade of the surrounding trees. In just a matter of seconds a large white mini-van came to a halt in front of the ornate gates, which slowly swung open. At that moment, I made a reckless decision. I knew what was happening at Casa Melvin. It was not unusual for the owners of large and ostentatious houses in exotic locations to rent their property out to adult movie producers. A quick appraisal of the van's passengers only added fuel to my fire. I would just have to bluff it and mingle with the bounteously boobed. I gave the Colonel a swift peck on the cheek and slipped between the gates, shielded from the courtyard by the van.
'Lotta Dumplinz! Haven't seen you since Hamburg!'
'Sadie, you vixen. You keep a low profile for someone in this business. How heff you been, darlinck?'
I lurked behind a fake Corinthian column, watching, with growing amazement, an incredible scene unfolding before my eyes. It was like a Who's Who of the cream of the adult movie business. Lotta Dumplinz was a legend, a tall, sharp-featured impresario from Berlin, whose arty black and white BDSM films had won many awards. She was wearing her trademark Louise Brooks style wig, a thick, heavy coal black bob. Her lips and talons were a glossy blood red and she was obviously tightly laced into a stringent corset, despite the heat. I wondered just what kind of movie was in the pipeline. Lotta was no lightweight. The subsequent appearance of a grinning Dirk Dastardly confirmed my suspicions. Sadie was moving into the darker side of adult films. Dirk was a master with the flogger, whip and cane.
'Come along – get yourself naked, girl. We haven't got all day.'
I was startled by the harsh voice immediately behind me. A tiny, rather disgruntled looking man sporting a camp sun visor and carrying a clipboard, prodded me in the ribs. Without pausing to draw breath, he continued:
'You must be Iota, the whipping girl. Lose your clothes and stand by the column with the rope.'
'Yes, sir.'
I wondered where the real Iota was and how severe a whipping she was scheduled to take. Well, I'd come that far… I slipped out of my skimpy top and wraparound skirt, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my naked body. Maybe this was my last chance to make a comeback, and what a comeback, with a cameo part in a Lotta D. production. The dwarfish little man stomped off to harass a bevy of buxom beauties, who were switching their beachwear for mini-togas. Casa Melvin was to be the backdrop for a cruel Roman orgy. But no thigh-length toga for the whipping girl. Respectfully, I approached the column with the rope. Fortunately, it was shaded from the intense heat of the mid day sun. A lengthy flogging session followed by a bad case of sunburn would be just a bit much.
'Iota! There you are, darlink. Give Auntie Lottie a nice big kiss!'
Damn. It was too much to expect my ruse to work so easily. I surreptitiously stepped behind the column as a small, dark, rather wiry girl rushed up to embrace Lotta Dumplinz. I would just have to switch to Plan B. Behind me, a maid was preparing a buffet lunch in a large, well-appointed kitchen. Scanning the room for a makeshift toga, I spotted an apron hanging on a hook by what appeared to be a door onto a terrace. The maid opened an enormous stainless steel refrigerator, almost disappearing into its cavernous depths. I seized the moment and scuttled across the kitchen. The apron was mainly white but for a heart motif on the pocket which bore the legend 'Kiss the Cook'. I snatched it from the hook and was just about to repeat my silent sprint across the room when the maid emerged from the 'fridge with an armful of salad stuff. Quick as a flash, I slipped through the door and out onto the terrace.
'Hel-lo!'
A woman in a tiny white bikini was artfully arranged on a sun-bed just outside the kitchen door. Every detail of her presentation appeared to have been contrived by a stylist, as if she was posing for a photo spread in a glossy
