Council of Quadrant Queens
- 1 year ago
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A Council Of Perfection? free porn video
Arnie Miller was an anachronism, a successful regional newspaper editor with his feet planted firmly in the middle of the 20th Century. Unreconstructed, he smoked and drank alcohol in the office despite both being illegal or against company rules. He wore a creased suit, his tie loose and his hair ruffled. He was rude and played the “nobody is as busy as me” card.
‘What’ya got, Charlie?’
He spoke like an American cliché despite being English Westcountry born and bred. It was all bluster really. Arnie, or Arnold as I liked to call him to wind him up, was a sweetheart. He was also incredibly good at his job and supportive of his staff which is why the management had never fired him.
‘I’m not sure, Arnold.’
‘Chrissake, it’s Arnie, how many more times? And if you’re not sure what the fuck are you doing here. Wanna drink?’
It was 11 am.
‘White wine?’
‘It’s scotch or gin.’
‘Gin then.’ I waited as he poured and lit a cigarette. ‘I think I’ve got Liz Prosser, the councilor.’
‘I know who she is. Get on with it.’
‘She’s sixty and plays the marriage and family values card to death but there is a chance, just a chance she was a sex worker in her twenties and may have worked for Gordon Harper.’
‘A whore?’ Arnie loved scandal as a cat loves cream but a sex scandal beat financial hands down.
‘Possibly. I heard she was arrested in the 80s around the time they closed two strip clubs owned and run by Harper for being rather less than properly run. I’m told the strippers turned tricks and Harper took the money.’
‘So why Prosser?’
'She was called Liz Masters back then. Her history is really hard to unravel and I think that it’s deliberate. I cant find any trace of her before 1995. The only reason I think Masters is her is that there’s a picture of Masters in our archives and she looks like Prosser might have back then. I have a source who says they are definitely one and the same and who also told me about the bribe.’
‘Who’s the source and don’t tell me a good journalist always protects her sources because we both know it’s bullshit.’
‘Oh, come on Arnie.’
‘Come on my arse. If I don’t know who your source is I don’t know how to deal with this.’
I smiled at Arnie. ‘It gets better.’
Marion Carswell, Chief of the City Police was definitely having a good day. She was in full dress uniform, excluding the hat, and her skirt was rucked up to her waist. A senior member of the city council was kneeling between her spread thighs and working magic with what was clearly a very experienced tongue.
As Marion pressed her hips forward so Liz Prosser worked harder, pushing her tongue as deep as she could, rubbing her nose on the cop’s clit.
‘Oh,’ muttered the policewoman, ‘you’re good, so good.’ Her fingers gripped the hair on the head between her thighs and pulled it tighter to her. Her orgasm was swift and messy, her juices copious on her lover’s face.
Liz Prosser looked up, her face glistening.
The truth was that my ‘source’ was in fact my girlfriend, Karen. Detective Inspector Karen Fleming of the city police’s drug squad and I had been in a relationship for 6 years. We didn’t live together although we often spent days at each other’s houses. My life as a reporter was as unpredictable as hers and we’d met when I’d covered a night on duty with her squad. Our attraction had been immediate and the ensuing tempestuous romance had never really calmed. We both felt that maybe not living together helped sustain that and, so far, it had worked. Neither resented cancellations and disappointments because we both understood.
One of Karen’s friends in the force was the Chief Constable’s personal assistant, Sharon, and they often shared secrets and gossip.
This particular story arose one evening. We’d met at one of our favourite bars and celebrated a rarity: a few days when neither of us was working. We’d stayed out for a few drinks and a meal. Karen was a rather androgynous woman but, when the mood took her as it had that evening, she did what she called ‘femming up.’ For her that night it meant a leather skirt that fell to her calves and somehow emphasised the athletic legs as did the 3” heels. Her top was a white silk shirt and a black leather waistcoat that was by no means manly. All that and the other rarity of seeing her hair, blonde and long, loose to her mid back was enough to turn a straight girl queer.
We went back to her house that evening and it was as the door clicked shut that she pushed me gently against a wall and kissed me, her hand delving straight away under my loose cotton blouse to cup my bare breasts beneath it. Her tongue was deep in my mouth and I lifted a leg around to ensure our two mounds met as best they could while still dressed. Lifting my leg also meant my skirt lifted and was a signal, if she needed one, that I was offering myself to her. Karen’s hand went straight up my skirt and caressed me deliciously above my stockings before easing my knickers aside and slipping a finger between my lips, not entering me but spreading my lips and stroking my clit.
I sucked her tongue and fumbled to open her waistcoat but she pushed my hand away with a little growled ‘wait!’ We stayed like that for what seemed a wonderfully long time. The kiss went on and on, her finger working down there driving me wild as well she knew it would.
Eventually we parted, a little breathlessly and she led me upstairs to her bedroom. We undressed quickly but as I went to unclip the stockings she did that growl again and said, ‘How many times do I have to tell you to leave them on?’
Grinning, I kicked my heels off and, otherwise naked, slid into the cold cotton of her bed and watched as she removed the last of her clothes and joined me. She had, it seemed, had enough of kissing my mouth and she went straight to lie between my legs, her face at breast level and while her finger, two in fact, returned to my pussy and entered its eager moistness slowly she sucked and nibbled each nipple. Her hair stroked me as she slipped further down and then her tongue found my clit and her fingers were moving ever deeper, ever faster inside me. I lifted my knees onto her shoulders and she did a little noise of approval and she licked around her fingers and down to my rear entrance and began to do that thing with her tongue there that so beautifully complemented the busy fingers that were stretching and crossing and curling inside me.
That was it. The combination of all that after her slow arousal of me downstairs was irresistible, and resist I did not. I arched my back, my hands in her hair and opened my mouth, making little ‘oh, oh, oh’ noises until she pushed a finger deep into my arse and the floodgate burst. I let out a long moan of intense pleasure which went on because she didn’t stop working her sorcery until she knew I was done. That’s Karen for you. She is a perfectly unselfish lover.
Unselfish, yes but she still knows how to take care of herself. The first time she did this to me I’d been a bit surprised but she’d explained that sometimes it was what she craved and that night was one such occasion. She crawled up my body and resumed kissing my mouth, even more hungrily now and I knew what was coming. She straddled my thigh and without breaking the kiss she humped my leg, never fast but rather a deliberate, controlled escalation of pace and pressure, her cunt wet on my thigh and stocking, then wetter still until her body became tougher, tenser in my arms and she let fly a moan of pleasure into my mouth. She was sopping and consequently so was I. We lay like that for a while, maybe even drifted to sleep but after we started to talk as often we did.
‘I had coffee with Sharon today.’ She knew that I was not remotely jealous of her friendship with Sharon, despite the latter being a stunning black-haired Asian woman who turned heads everywhere she went.
‘I hope you didn’t succumb to her charms?’
‘Oh, God, of course I did. Anyway while we were shagging she told me a little snippet which you might like to lock away.’
Even when lazily post-coital, a reporter’s ears prick at such words. I lay still in her arms and let her murmur into my ear.
The gist of it was that the Chief Constable, loathed by every member of the force had been seen, unknown to either of them, by the said Sharon with a hand up Prosser’s skirt in Carswell’s own office. I was just thinking that her sexual proclivities, provided they were legal, were no concern to press or public when the main event arrived. According to Sharon she also overheard a ‘phone conversation between the two women and Carswell had said, “How much? Christ Liz, you’re going to need help, my help, to deal with that safely. Has Harper paid it yet?” A pause. “Good, well tell him to hold off for a few days and we’ll get together and I’ll tell you how to deal with it.” That was all she heard completely but she also heard a snippet that suggested the cost of the advice would be a night on her knees between the Chief’s thighs in some exotic location.
It was apparently only a few days later that the Chief had instructed Sharon to empty her diary for a week and check visa requirements for the Seychelles.
‘I know you won't do anything to compromise me or Sharon so do what you like with it. Harper used to run brothels disguised as nightclubs or lap dancing bars and was, according to my mate the Chief Superintendent who was around in those days, took a couple of big fines but also paid off a few of the vice squad which, he said, had not been that unusual. Be careful though. If Prosser’s tight with Carswell as she clearly is then she is well protected.’
I’d done a lot of research after that evening.
I smiled at Arnie. ‘It gets better.’
He looked at me sceptically with a practiced look. Harper was an infamous property developer. He’d recently started building a huge and ugly leisure and shopping complex on one of the city’s best sites and the planning department, of which Prosser was the head, had nodded the development through with barely a word of dissent, despite public outcry.
‘My source suggested I look into Prosser’s relationship with Harper and I have. It took a lot of digging but I found a company called LM Resources in Jersey. Coincidence that Prosser was possibly Liz Masters at some time? Anyway, I also discovered that Harper’s construction company paid LM Resources, which incidentally, was created a week after the planning permission was given for the leisure complex, just under two million pounds.’
I sat back and watched Arnie’s internal struggle. One side was excitement, the other was a determination not to let it show.
‘Any proof that Prosser owns LM?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So it’s half-arsed then.’
‘I know this is a bit flimsy but the reason I have come to you is I need your guidance.’ Arnie would have you think he was impervious to flattery but that was balls. He fed on it. ‘I want advice on how to get the link between LM and Prosser. I know you had a pal in Jersey who might help?’
‘Tony Morris, ex copper on the fraud squad. He might help. I’ll call him and if he’s up for it, you can go and see him.’
Tony Morris was about 60 and looked like everyone’s Grandad. His eyebrows had grown too long and his belly was a little obviously over-fed with beer but his eyes were sharp and twinkling as was his mind.
‘When Arnie said you were called Charlie….’
‘That often happens.’
‘If I’d known you were a good-looking woman rather than some whisky-sodden hack I’d have tidied myself up a bit. Arnie gave me a bit but can you give me more?’
I’d given him more and, in the end, he’d given me the mother load.
According to papers he had ‘acquired’ (I asked no questions) the number for a ‘controller’ of LM was the same as Prosser’s own mobile. There were two controllers, one called Liz Masters the other called Robert Peel. The account had received a number of payments totaling just over 1.8 million. They’d all been paid by different entities and one of them was a trust fund, also in Jersey, and it belonged to none other than Gordon Harper.
Only one payment had been made from the account so far and that was about seven grand to a travel agent.
I had hugged Tony and taken him out for the best meal the Island had to offer.
A bit more digging and I found the travel agent and wheedled the facts from him. Prosser and Carswell had gone to the Maldives (not the Seychelles) for a week.’
I’d kept Arnie up to date and as I’d been working on Jersey he’d put a couple if investigators he often used to work. We had pictures of Prosser and Harper meeting in London, one hundred and twenty miles from home and neither of them was there for any other reason but that meeting. We had pictures of Prosser taking an envelope from him. In short, we had Prosser by the throat.
Arnie held a meeting with me, his deputy, the paper owner’s solicitor and a few others. They’d all read the brief which had been prepared and circulated in total secrecy. It was, after all, dynamite.
Karen enjoyed her celebratory fuck the night after the meeting. I’d called her and asked her to come for dinner at mine. She arrived to find me wearing the outfit she loved most: a pair of black stockings, heels and a bride’s veil. I know it’s a little kinky but it really worked for her and she deserved it. I’d also poured two flutes of champagne when I’d heard her car draw up on my driveway and I’d hung her strappy, the one she keeps at my house, on the back of a chair.
Next episode: Is the relationship between Prosser and Carswell about to be revealed? Will Harper try to suppress the story? Will Prosser? What ends will they go to, to silence the press?
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