Further to this (rather more serious) thread. http://www.arrse.co.uk/intelligence-cell/179927-insurance-fraud.html Which hopefully will remain factual, and be of some assistance to you all, I did get a request from a less than subtle perv, for some 'Jeffery Archer' type musings with a somewhat erotic twist. So with (or without) your permission I'll make a start. If it falls at the first hurdle so be it. The case of the two dusky lezzers and the steely eyed Investigator. Chapter One. It was late evening; the mercury in the cheap thermometer indicated quite clearly the falling temperature outside my window. Somewhere an owl hooted. From the comfortable womb of my drawing room, I closed my book, a heavy tome beloved of Fraud Investigators, and treated somewhat reverently. 'The Hounds of Southwell' by Arthur Conan Khalid, was our bible, if you will. I rubbed my eyes. "Christ I was tired." I mumbled to nobody in particular, and forced my aching body towards the small kitchen where the kettle was bubbling away. A loud banging at the front door startled me, the heavy oak timber literally rattling on its faux verdigris hinges. I wasn't expecting visitors, and my nearest neighbour was nearly a mile away. Who could it possibly be? I opened the door and was confronted with two rather cute, but somewhat disheveled young ladies, both of dusky hue. "Good evening ladies. Blessings unto thee." I simpered, adding. "And what pray brings you to my door on such a winters night?" I cursed myself, that bloody Conan Khalid and his use of the English vernacular was getting far too ingrained in my psyche. "Sorry to have intruded." Purred the taller of the two. "Yes, we are really sorry." Whispered the smaller one through red glossed lipstick. "We have had an accident and need to use a phone." I was unsure as to who had spoken, my eyes transfixed on a set of finely sculptured breasts that quivered slightly underneath what was obviously a totally inappropriate silk blouse, given the weather conditions. "Of course, of course, come in. Please." I stood to one side and gestured grandly with my right arm. "El Casa de mi Casa," They slipped past me, a faint whiff of Christian Dior gently assaulted my nostrils, and they glided past the securely locked cellar door and on towards the warmth of the kitchen. The front door shut with a heavy 'snick' (sorry) and I followed them in. My tailored Michael Bastian dressing gown inadvertently slipped to one side as I observed the taller of the two, her crafted derriere seemed to swing along, encased in the dark blue cotton of a designer boiler suit. My investigative eyes swept towards the floor, both young dusky maidens were wearing comfortable shoes Chapter Two. The girls were explaining their predicament to me, over a freshly brewed cafetiere of Jamaican Blue coffee beans. I listened sympathetically as first Mia, the taller of the two, and then Saffron, the ruby red lipped goddess with the short, somewhat boyish head of short blonde tussled hair, gushed out their extraordinary tale of woe. After I had introduced myself properly, I left the room and slipped on a pair of Comme des Garçon Homme Plus strides. Well, it was bad form to let the old chap start hanging out before coffee. I had neglected to don my colour matched Maison Martin Margiela tailored shirt, preferring to let my pectoral muscles gleam in the soft glow of the coal fire in the corner of the kitchen. The dusky duo had set off from Slough some six hours earlier, hoping to reach Manchester before the sun went down, as they had an appointment with a shady sounding character called Mustafa Queeky. They were a little coy in explaining this further; however the bottom line appeared to be that their little Ford Fiestas engine had decided to play up, so they decided on leaving the Motorway in order to find a garage. The small motor had finally given up, leaving them stranded. The glimmering lights of my recently built barn conversion had caught their attention, and after a chilly ten minute walk, they had arrived at my door. Arte, the Good Samaritan. Arte, with a securely locked cellar. It would appear that the phone lines are down ladies. I tentatively explained. Often happens out here in the sticks. Nothing to worry about, its usually fixed before breakfast. The girls looked at each other, the chemistry between them sending a shock of chilled pleasure down to my Commando based chap. Well Mia stalled. Her deep hazel eyes meeting mine for fleeting moment before turning to Saffron. Well, what do you reckon babe? Although my pulse was racing, I managed to slide in with a cool. Ladies, Ill leave it entirely up to you. No pressure. I then rather slyly added. But there are no public call boxes left in the county, I dont have a mobile phone, and as you know yourselves, there is no signal coverage here anyway. In fact there is nothing before the village, some ten miles away. The girls remained silent, so I ploughed on. I have plenty of food, hot drinks, a spare room and you are welcome to stay. I have a good friend called Joe who lives in the village, he has a tow truck and is an absolute whizz when it comes to things mechanical. Saffron parted her soft lips. Couldnt you give us a lift up to Joes now? I could. I replied. But hell be in the pub now. Disturbing him when hes supping a pint of Old Peculiar, is cruising for a bruising. I laughed. Not at the fact that my 1960s whimsical Americanism was particularly amusing, but with the secret knowledge that Joe was not only crap at anything mechanical, hed died of liver failure some three years ago. Haha! Well Mia repeated. I suppose were stuck with you for now, what do reckon babe? Soft, soft red lips. Did I spot a touch of moistness on her upper lip? Fear perhaps? Or maybe, just maybe Excitement. The old chap was exercising his right to freedom; his swollen, purple, gland like head was pressed painfully against my muscular thigh. Fuck it. Stated Saffron, a determined glint in her eye. Fuck it: fuck Mustapha: Fuck the poxy car: Fuck the weather. Lets crash here. Its only a couple of hours. She looked directly at me, a challenge. Got any Jackie D? I sure as hell fucking do. I replied, letting it be known that I was more than happy to allow a bit of jocular profanity to enter the conversation. Its in the cellar.