Author's note: All usual disclaimers apply.

Just thought I would drop by with a little Christmas present for you all. This came from two ideas that I have strung together in a two-chapter story. But before you ask, no, it is not an M-rated story.

Hope your 2021 has been the best it could be. Merry Christmas!


December 21: The Met Christmas Party

Barbara Havers had an itch.

The constrictive feel of nylon against her skin was bad enough, but tonight was a special torment. She swayed back and forth and pressed her thighs together hoping she looked as if she was dancing. Left. Right. Up. Down. Again. Faster. Slower. Slowly, she released the pressure but the nagging desire to scratch like a flea-ridden hound returned. Then the inevitable happened. A hair got caught in her pantyhose pulling like a demented beautician with oversized tweezers every time she moved. Barbara closed her eyes and suppressed a cry.

She cracked one eye open, then the second. The sharp pains were tolerable so long as she stood perfectly still. It had to be several hairs. One little follicle could not cause such carnage. Now she understood why some women shaved their legs all the way to the groin. With a practised detective's eye, Barbara scrutinised the room in an attempt to forget the itch which had refused to subside. The hall was festooned in red and green. Bells and wreaths were strung along the walls, and a limp fir tree covered in gaudy lights and baubles sat languidly in the corner.

Barbara hated Christmas parties, especially with all the enforced jolliness and hollow good wishes. She hated Met Christmas parties even more. Worst of all, the Detective Sergeant hated Met Christmas parties where she had made a fool of herself by dressing up to impress someone who was flirting with Sandra, the new, long-legged, blonde constable from Vice. Vice indeed. The woman didn't have to dress like her suspects in an oh-so-tight leather mini-skirt and Santa-red top that looked like a second skin. Jingle bells alright. That woman was jingling all the way, and Barbara's boss, Detective Inspector Tommy Lynley was salivating like a teenager. "Don't trip over yer tongue, Sir," she mumbled into her drink.

Approaching forty, she regretted her stupidity in falling for the advertisement on the side of the bus that had convinced her she would feel sexy and attractive in a ridiculously skimpy piece of string that the manufacturer falsely labelled as knickers. "Why do I need to feel sexy?" She cursed her hopes and dreams. At the back, the string had disappeared, god knows where, and the flimsy triangle at the front was at war with her sheer tights. More like shears. Can nylon rubbing on nylon create a fire? Great. I can see the headlines now - unloved Detective Sergeant spontaneously combusts at Met Christmas Party.

She looked over at Sandra. Tommy had gone and now Stuart Lafferty was nipping at her heels. "Men!"

Barbara knew that if had she paid two pounds extra for a decent brand of stocking instead of being too lousy to spend more than 99p, her warring underwear might have signed an armistice. As it was, hostilities were ramping up to Armageddon, and she was paying the price. A nervous glance around the room confirmed what she suspected. No one was looking at her standing by the wall pretending to sip her Buck's Fizz, the only cocktail she could name when the pimply-faced waiter had taken her order. She turned to the wall and moved one hand slowly towards her groin in anticipation of relief.

"Good evening, Barbara."

As she closed her eyes, her face screwed into a grimace. The itch intensified a thousandfold at the sound of his voice. Her hand swung up to join the other on her champagne flute which she gripped so hard she feared the stem might snap. "Evening, Sir."

"Is everything alright? You look…" Tommy frowned. "If I didn't know better, I would say you are in pain."

"No," she squeaked. "Just enjoying the party."

Tommy arched an eyebrow. "By standing alone facing the wall?"

"I was just… ahhh."

Tommy's amusement faded. "What's wrong?"

Barbara smiled tightly and put her flute on the wide rim of the dado. Even breathing made the itch unbearable. "All good," she said, her eyes darting around the room. The nearest exit was 25 metres to her left.

"Barbara?"

"Night, Sir." She took a sharp breath then walked as fast as she could towards the door, praying that he would not follow. Each step was agony but she made it. Once through the door, she kicked off her shoes and ran to the line of bushes across the car park.


Winston Nkata nudged Stuart in the ribs. "What the hell did he say to make her rush off like that?"

Stuart shook his head. "No idea. Perhaps he finally admitted that he loves her."

Winston, who had been sipping his beer, began to choke. "He'd… never… have the…"

Lafferty patted his friend on the back. "Calm down. Breathe in through your nose. Balls? No, he wouldn't. Too scared she'd laugh at him. Better?"

Winston nodded. "Ta. You can stop hitting me now. Yeah, both of them are too stubborn to admit they care."

"No," Stuart said shaking his head, "they're too scared of rejection to risk it."

"Yeah, true." Winston sighed as if told he had been assigned to work over New Year's Eve. "It's getting unbearable in the office. They moon after each other, but behind the other's back. The looks are getting worse. When they don't think anyone's watching they just stare. Sometimes it's pure lust, and I have to look away. Mostly it's just adoration. I want to bang their heads together. Or lock them in a room until they work it out."

"We'd be going back for their skeletons."

Winston took a tentative sip of beer, watching Stuart closely for any more bombshells. "There must be some way to help them. Maybe if we kidnap Barbara, the boss will realise how much he cares?"

"Bad idea, mate. You know how protective he gets. He'd string you from the Tower of London. He knows he loves her, he just needs to tell her."

"I'm not sure I can put up with them until February, but what about a Valentine's Day card?"

Stuart leant back as if trying to get Winston into focus. Then he smiled and moved closer. "What about a Christmas valentine?"

"Do they have those?" Winston asked.

"No, but we have access to modern technology. We can make one."

"Yeah… but… what if they get mad?"

"What if they get together?" Stuart countered.

Winston slapped his friend on the back, far harder than was necessary. "Let's do it. What's the worst that can happen?"

"You get sent to Northumbria on exchange?"

Nkata rolled his eyes. "Don't even joke about it. Hey, look, we mightn't need to. The boss is going after Barbara."


Barbara scratched… and scratched… and groaned with relief skating along the razor's edge between pleasure and pain. She knew she was rubbing her skin raw, but she didn't care. She had to stop the prickly tingling.

When the itch gave way to ouchiness, Barbara slowed her hand and rubbed her thighs as well, pulling at the nylon stocking to release imprisoned hairs. "To hell with it."

Barbara found the band of her pantyhose and pulled them down. Wriggling them over her bum, she started to push them down her legs. She leant on a tree and pulled them off one leg then the other. She groaned with relief.

As she stepped away, the itch began to return. There was a noise. Wind? It stopped. The expensive piece of string was twisting deeper into parts she didn't want anything twisting in. "Bloody hell."

Barbara glanced around. She was 10 metres inside the tree line and in the dark, she was invisible to anyone inside the well-lit hall. Even so, she turned away from it before she hitched up her dress and reached up for the waistband of her unsuccessful purchase.


Tommy almost tripped over her left shoe. He stooped to retrieve it and saw its partner a few yards away. Retrieving that too, he frowned and scanned the car park. Barbara was gone. A young officer whom Tommy recognised from the front desk was smoking by a pillar. "Hey," Tommy said, "did you see my sergeant out here a minute ago?"

"Sergeant Havers?" the young man said, "yeah, she ran into the bushes over there near your Bristol. Looked a bit distressed. Did someone say something to upset her?"

Tommy bristled at the implication. "No. Well, I don't know. I certainly didn't." He hoped he was right. "Thanks."

He hurried over to his car and left the shoes on his bonnet before stepping carefully into the dark forest. He gave his eye a minute to adjust to the light. The hall threw shadows, but he could make out movement about 20 yards ahead and to his left. Tommy moved slowly. The last thing he wanted was to scare Barbara. She was upset enough.

"Oh, god, yes."

Tommy froze. Through the leaves, he could see Barbara furiously rubbing her crotch. Was she? No. Not Barbara. She wouldn't do that. Well, at least not in public. Is this public? He wanted to go back to the party and give her privacy, but his feet were rivetted to the spot. I want to be that hand. Lust gripped his body sending a shiver through it. It was best if he did not go back to the party until evidence of his desire subsided. He closed his eyes.

"To hell with it."

Her moans lured him like a siren. he opened his eyes to see her removing her pantyhose. Tommy let out a low sigh.

"Bloody hell." Barbara turned. She was looking straight at him.

He didn't dare breathe. She turned back and lifted her dress. Tommy was looking at her naked backside, round and adorable in the pale yellow light. He swallowed hard. What the hell is happening? Barbara began to stroke her waist. No, wait. She was... she was taking off her underwear. Tommy's heart thumped in his chest and as she stepped out of them and held up a postage stamp-sized piece of cloth, blood coursed through him at a rate he had not felt in years.

*** TBC