Chapter 22

Sipping coffee in the crew lounge at Lusaka International, Pat fended off most of the questions about how her evening with the good-looking passenger and his jealous young wife had gone. She refused to give much away but when Ray, the chief steward, began to wax lyrical about his night of passion with the well-hung coffee shop manager, Pat could restrain herself no longer and she blurted out that Andrew had taken her to eat, not in the coffee shop, but at the hotel's gourmet restaurant.

"Oh, I've always wanted to try that place," grinned one of Pat's female colleagues, "but it's well out of our allowance range!"

Sniffing, Ray jumped in. "Well, just spread your legs like Pat does, honey, and you to can eat wherever you like!"

"Yes, Ray," countered Pat, "but it's food I like to eat in a restaurant, not black cock!"

"Bitch!"

"Besides, I didn't have to do much with him afterwards..."

"Why not?" questioned the other stewardess.

Shaking her head, Pat muttered something about saying too much already. Not willing to let this drop, the other crew members pressed Pat for more details and, eventually, she had to tell them something. "Well, he came far too early... so early that I'd not even got him out of his pants!"

A chorus of disbelieving comments rang out. "Seriously! I had my hand in his boxers for, like, two seconds and he suddenly shot his load all over my little fingers!"

Starting with Ray, the sniggering began and, one by one, the crew took the hilarity up until thy were all laughing at the mental picture that Pat had painted...

Walking along in her local park, Mabel turned around once again to check that Master Sam was still following her - which, she soon spotted, he was but at a very discreet distance. Mabel was wearing a nice white pleated skirt that stopped about four inches above her knees, a pale blue buttoned blouse with a pair of sandals - and nothing else. She wasn't worried by this, nor did the fact that the wind blew up her skirt and over her bare pussy give her any cause for concern and she was even used - having known Master Sam for years now - t the knowledge that her nipples clearly showed through the thin material of her blouse as her breasts jiggled around in unrestrained freedom. That all said, what was on her mind was the mixture of fish oil and salmon paste that Master Sam had smeared over her pussy lips before sending her out here to take a stroll in this grassy area full of people walking their dogs...

As she continued along the path in the pleasantly warm sunshine, Mabel spotted a middle-aged lady coming towards her with a small terrier on a lead. The little black, white and tan animal was clearly young and, being full of energy, was bounding from side to side of the path, eagerly sniffing everything of interest to it, occasionally cocking its hind leg before coating the object of its interest in a little squirt of urine. As Mabel and the woman closed in on each other, the dog lost interest in the rest of its surroundings as it caught a whiff of the fishy smelly that was emanating from Mabel. Dashing forwards towards her, the terrier yapped excitedly as it strained against its leash, its little tail wagging energetically. "Come back here!" the dog's owner called, pulling at the leash. "Heel!"

But the dog was having none of that as he continued to bark at the approaching Mabel. As the two women got ever closer and Mabel came into range of the leash, the little mutt hopped up on it back legs and placed its front paws onto Mabel's thighs before it started to jump up in a vain attempt to reach the source of the attractive smell that was drifting down the woman's skirt.

"Get down, you naughty boy!" the now embarrassed owner screamed at her animal before turning her attention to Mabel. "I'm very sorry," she apologised. "I don't know what's got into him, he's not usually like this."

"Oh, don't worry about it, no harm done," muttered Mabel as she pulled away, the terrier still struggling to get at the enticing smell as its owner remorselessly tugged the dog away...

Walking down the upswept south London street, Pats' attractive legs and bum encased as they were a pair of skin tight jeans with only a thong underneath drew many admiring glances from the young and not so young men she passed. But she was a woman with a purpose as she headed towards the small flat that was really the 'office' of the local thug who gained most of his income from the illegal and unlicensed gambling operation he ran. Pat was cursed with an unhealthy interest in horse racing and this was compounded by a lack of skill in choosing winners. The end result of all of this was that Pat now found herself banned from all the reputable bookmakers and she was forced to visit James MacGregor Esquire instead. Passing a squalid sex shop that Pat had never entered but which she knew was run by a fat woman who went by the ridiculous name of Madam Thorn, Pat stopped at the next door along the street upon which she knocked.

Almost immediately a small flap opened and a pair of eyes peered out. "Oh, it's you," mumbled a rough, deep voice from inside the flat.

"Yes, it's me," answered Pat with what she hoped would be seen as a winning smile.

"Good. The boss wants a word with you..."

Hearing these words and they menace the held made Pat's stomach turn over and she was incredibly glad that she'd brought the money that Andrew had paid her for services rendered in Zambia. As the door opened only fractionally, Pat slide in sideways though it was still a squeeze especially for her hips and well-rounded bosom. Once inside it took her eyes a moment or two to adjust to the gloom that pervaded the single room which made up the ground floor o the premises. When she could make a few details out she spotted Jimmy lolling in a black leather executives tilt and turn chair while more of this brainless thugs stood on each side. "Ah, Patricia, Patricia, ye dinna ken how happy ye arrival makes me feel," he boomed in a thick Glaswegian accent.

"Cut the crap, Jimmy - you were born half a mile from the Elephant and Castle and you've never been to Scotland in all your life. So drop the phoney accent and don't tell me how happy you are to see me..."

Raising a hand to halt the advance of his goons who'd clearly taken umbrage at Pat's manner of speaking to their boss, Jimmy smiled at Pat as he leaned back in his chair and turned gently from side to side. "That's why I like you Pat, you're so refreshingly direct and unsicophantic. And I'll respect your approach by being just as direct - where's my money?"

Opening her handbag, Pat pulled out a thin white envelope which she carefully tossed over to Jimmy who skilfully caught it. Ripping the envelope open, the thickset crook looked in before starting to laugh. "This is it, Pat? Are you trying to take the piss?"

"It's all I have at the moment, Mister MacGregor," replied Pat suddenly feeling cold. "But I get paid next week," she blustered, "and there's a horse in the three o'clock at Redcar..."

Cutting the woman off, Jimmy cruelly informed her that she could forget placing any further bets with him. "You ran out of credit some time ago, Pat."

"But I've just paid you some money!" she wailed.

"Two hundred and fifty bloody quid? Don't make me laugh! That doesn't even cover the interest for a week on what you owe me!"

"But... but I can't owe you that much..."

One of the thugs stood behind Pat laid a heavy hand onto her shoulder. "If Mister MacGregor says that's what you owe him, cunt, then that's what you owe him," the man breathed heavily into her ear as his eyebrows knotted together as he struggled to recall the lines he'd been taught. "And before you say otherwise, his interest rates are very reasonable... considering his line of work..."

"Okay, okay," an increasingly troubled Pat blustered, "I'll get some more money for you..."

"It's too late for that, Pat," Jimmy retorted as he shook his head sadly at her. "Grab her, boys!"

Pat suddenly felt each of her arms clasped in the iron grip of a pair of hands each. "I had hoped that you'd have something substantial to pay me when you came today, Pat... but, as it is, drastic remedial action will have to be taken. Boys?"

Sniggering cruelly one of the thugs approached Pat before holding what looked like the wooden leg of a dining room chair parallel to the floor, one hand at each end. "Imagine that's your leg, Pat," Jimmy informed her. A second goon then appeared, a long, thick metal bar in his hands. Swinging the bar back over his head, the goon brought it down in a powerful arc and, as the metal and wood connected, there was a sharp snapping sound as the metal bar cleaved straight through the chair leg. Watching, Pat felt her knees turn to water.

"Now, Pat, how much more have you got to give me?" hinted Jimmy.

Shaking her head, Pat looked at her tormentor with eyes that were now filling with tears. "Tomorrow... tomorrow I can get more but I don't have anything else with me right now..."

"Not good enough, Pat. Break her left leg, boys!"

"Oh, god, please!" Pat's terrified voice now rang through the disorganised office. "If you do that I'll not be able to work then I couldn't pay you!"

"Think of it as a public relations exercise - it'll persuade some of my other slow payers of the advantages inherent in finding the money..."