Chapter 32: A Transport of Delight

Baz Butcher rang me the day after my visit to Mortimer Crippen.
"Dave, I want you to drive the Shagging Waggon at weekends, and a couple of times in the week. It will mean giving up driving for Jonjo, but I will see you won't be any worse off, money wise."
"Shagging waggon?"
Baz laughed. "It's what we call the people carrier used by Butcher's Corporate Hospitality Company to transport eye candy to trade fairs, and to corporate piss ups for clients. The cargo consists of long haired blondes, with long legs and short skirts, tits to die for, and cock sucking mouths. Sometimes the event ends up as a well-paid shag fest for the girls."

I took to the job like a duck to water, ferrying around a bunch of sexy, attractive girls with their scent and laughter and giggles filling the vehicle.What's not to like? They were all available and approachable, and I had more sex during the time I drove the bus than I could really handle. I went through the complete rota of the eye candy working for Baz, but never managed to deliver more than one shot per session, and it often took me a day to recover even then.
Despite those limitations the girls were more than happy to provide access to their private parts, and I ensured they received a fulsome eating out if I couldn't finish them off with my prick.
Generally, the Corporate Hospitality events I took the girl to were as decorous as a vicar's tea party, although occasionally one of the girls might disappear for an hour or so, and return much heavier in pounds sterling but lighter in pounds avoirdupois, due to a vigorous work out in a hotel bedroom.
The people carrier capacity was ten passengers, but the most I drove were eight. The seats let down and could be used as an impromptu shag pad—but not while I was sat at the wheel, although I would sometimes take one of the girls back to the car park and indulge in some horizontal physical training, a freebie for an employee of Butcher's Corporate Hospitality Company.

It was nearly a fortnight since my consultation with Mortimer Crippen, and I was still musing over what he had said. I didn't feel anger at being rejected by any of the women in my life; disappointed and regretful maybe, but not anger. Suzannah was a nymphomaniac and couldn't help herself — Harry Ledbetter was the male equivelent. They had no self control, and were driven by their genitals not their brains; I pitied them more than hated them. Both Philippa Goddard and Dawn on Still Waters, and possibly Ffion Probert, had good enough reasons not to continue their relationship with me, and anyway they had been a long time ago in the past, and I had been free from ED for years after their so called 'rejection'. And I had no feelings of guilt, other than a twinge at how I misread the situation with Miriam, and certainly none concerning the Argie, the Serb, and the Shiftateens, or at least not enough to worry about, regardless of their appearance at times in my dreams.

However, Dawn on Still Waters had been on my mind over the past weeks. When the frightening wraith had first appeared in my dreams I was petrified, but gradually the shapeless, formless being, whatever it was, had lost some of the power to terrify me because images of Mirror Lake, and the soft loving voice of Dawn on Still Waters, would then come to me. Her whispered, 'Do not be afraid, Des Flying Horse, I am watching over you, ' calmed my nerves, and I would then fall into a dreamless, trouble free sleep.
I had wondered why she had never got in touch with me until I learned of Eddy Two Bears tragic death, which had taken place shortly after Dawn and I parted in 1994, although I didn't hear about it until much later. Dawn only knew me through Eddy, and his death would have severed any prospect of her contacting me, if indeed she could tear herself away from her research, to feed the world's starving millions, long enough to bother. She had a goal in life, and until achieved Dawn had no time for relationships, not even with someone I knew she loved. Memories of the time spent at Mirror Lake flooded back, and I thought about Eddy Two Bear's wife Jade, who had been left pregnant at Eddy's death, and sighed. 'Poor Jade, a widow, whose child would never know its father'.

"Come on, Des!" one of the girls in the Shagging Wagon shouted at me as I sat at the wheel of the Merc people carrier, lost in my day dream. "We've got an orgy to attend."
It wasn't an orgy, only an afternoon of drinks and things on sticks for a visiting bunch of city planners, from Cincinnati or somewhere. The girls circulated with trays of drinks and nibbles, and there might have been some swift nibbling, or rumpty pumpty of the knee trembler variety, in the upper corridors of the hotel, but none that I observed. There were six girls in the vehicle and I, in the words of Mortimer Crippen, had enjoyed carnal knowledge of five of them.
In fact I was looking forward to another bout of rumpty pumpty later that evening with Natalie, a dark haired, blue eyed young woman with a pout and a sultry air about her. She was of a similar age to Hannah the Ecstasy addict, a younger version of Gwen Birtles, and a Jenny Walsh look alike.

I wondered if it was my non-carnal knowledge of Jenny Walsh which had acted as a trigger to my incipient ED? A lustful desire had been kindled on first sight of Jenny at the White Swan, which was reinforced when she was a witness at my trial, where every male in the courtroom fantasied over her, although it was the judge who actually nailed her — the lucky, randy, old sod. Had it not been for her minder Philomena Quinn I'm sure Jenny and I would have exchanged bodily fluids the afternoon we met in her suite at the Dorchester. Could it be the unfulfilled desire for Jenny which had triggered my 'problem'? If Natalie were a surrogate Jenny then my desire for the original should have been slaked, as Natalie had been writhing in ecstasy —possibly feigned—underneath me several times during the last two weeks as I gave her my best shot. Only one shot, as I couldn't give her, or any of the other girls I'd shagged, more than one at any one sex session.

The one girl on the bus still unplumbed by yours truly was a West Indian girl named Isabella, or Izzy. She reminded me so much of Celeste Desmond, Franklin's wife, that the thought of shagging her never came into my mind —well, of course it did, but I quickly kicked the notion into touch. It would be tantamount to using Izzy as a Celeste substitute, and to my mind that would be betraying my friend Franklin. It seems I have a twisted concept of honour and loyalty.
After the function I dropped the girls off at their various flats around west London, and by chance Izzy, who lived in Hammersmith, was the last one to leave. She stopped by me as she made her way to the exit door. "Why haven't you hit on me yet, Des? Don't you like black girls?"
I swung around in the driver's seat and faced her. "I love black girls, Izzy, but you remind me too much of my best mate's wife, and it would be like I was shagging her if I shagged you."
She lifted her full luscious lips in a sardonic sneer. "I didn't take you for a racist, who thinks all blacks look alike, Des. " And she made to leave.
I caught hold of her sleeve. "It's not like that. You and Celeste have a similar smile; you wear the same perfume, your hair styles are the same, and you have the same accent. She was born in Hammersmith, of Jamaican parents."
"Well, I'm originally from Notting Hill, and my folks came from Trinidad. My smile may be the same as your friend's wife, but everything else can be altered." She kissed me on the cheek. "I'm going to have you, Des, so lay back and enjoy it, thinking of England and not your friend's wife, when I do."

She made good her promise a few days later.
There were six girls on board the Shagging Waggon that evening. Natalie and Izzy from the week before, and four others of the tall, blonde, long legged variety, all of whom I 'knew' in the biblical sense.
I hardly recognised Izzy; she wore a different fragrance of perfume, and an Afro hairstyle which completely changed her appearance. I recalled many African and West Indian females wear wigs and, as I found out later, Izzy's natural hair was curly, wiry and short, as was the hair on her head. This evening we were bound for a real orgy, in a Surrey mansion, which had been booked as a team building exercise(!). I let the on board GPS navigate the route, and as we drove through the darkening April evening Izzy came and sat beside me. She had been to orgies at the mansion before, which she said were often themed; Roman, Medieval, Western, St Trinian's, etc. but this evening's romp was just bog standard debauchery.
A bevy of accommodating females, and some males, were bussed in by several 'special events firms' like Baz's, and then given over to the great and the good for them to carry out whatever pervertion(s) they had paid for. I knew the bus load of fuck fodder I was driving had set back the orgy organiser £5000, which implied the girls were ready to do anything and everything asked of them.
There was no BDSM scheduled at this function, those were specialised events to which Baz didn't usually supply females. Neither did Baz employ underage girls, although some special events firms were not so particular, or legal, and I noted later at least half a dozen jail bait age looking girls actively participating at the orgy.

Each of Butcher's Babes, as they styled themselves, had a 'persona' for the evening. Natalie was the slutty young school girl, and was dressed to look the part. Izzy was the flamboyant, ready for anything, black girl, which I think was her true persona. Maureen and Megan, who were not natural blondes — trust me on this — were acting the role of a pair of lesbians who had never experienced a male, but became gagging for cock straights only moments after the application of a throbbing hard dick up their Sapphic-loving love tunnels. Once again the two, Mo and Meg as they were known, were acting near to their real characters. They lived together as a pair, but I wouldn't label them with any particularly designated gender preference as they shagged males and females with equal brio and enjoyment. They always performed together, and as I could only satisfy one of the pair with my prick the other one would ride my tongue during our encounters, and on our next tryst they would reverse positions. Megan took it upon herself to keep the rota up to date, and I never complained if the rota seem skewed towards her. The two remaining girls, Elizabeth and Sylvia, were both natural blondes — trust me on that. They were slightly older than the others, both well into their thirties, with Elizabeth the elder of the two. The pair were dressed as society ladies, and both could sneer for England. Their 'act' was to play arrogant upper class ladies of the manor, who were roughly taken by the village blacksmith, or such like, and then well rogered to become submissive. They were in fact both actresses — resting, as the term is — occasionally seen on TV in bit parts.
I was a bit concerned they might get treated too roughly by some over enthusiastic lecher, and determined to keep a close eye on who ever played the rough handed son of the soil shagging and debasing them.