LUST UNDER LICENCE
by
NOEL AMOS
Lust Under Licence first published in 1995 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Avid eBooks.
Smashwords Edition
New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.
Cover image by Barbara Jensen
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Noel Amos. The right of Noel Amos to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
One - A La Recherche Des Bonks Perdus
The women meet in a sunny conservatory. They sit round a glass table on padded cane chairs and drink iced mineral water from tall glasses. Some make notes on leather-backed pads, one takes minutes on a laptop portable. A female observer would approve of their style, in particular the elegant cut of their summer suits and dresses. A male observer might be tempted to look further than the packaging and imagine exploring the delectable flesh within.
But there are no observers to this meeting. Its concerns are secret and only the palms and ferns swaying in the cool down draught from the ceiling fans are witness to its deliberations. The Corrections Committee of The Primrose Court is going about its weekly business. That business is the regulation of sex. And the prosecution of men.
'What are we going to do about this,' says a willowy brunette as she pushes a thick folder into the middle of the table, 'in the light of recent events?'
'I thought that gentleman might get a mention,' says the chairwoman, a well-preserved blonde of indeterminate years.
'Nail the bastard now,' says a woman in a thin skinny-ribbed top.
'I agree,' says another, her short black hair as stylishly cropped as a French mannequin. 'Let's get him while public opinion's on our side.'
The chairwoman sighs, the mood of the gathering is plain. Very well,' she says. 'Pass the file to Prosecutor Hawk.'
One - A La Recherche Des Bonks Perdus
Chapter 1
The patient woke on the third day. A woman was bending over him and his first impression was of the view down the neck of her candy-striped blouse as she adjusted his pillows. A shaft of sunlight shone from a window onto the pale skin of her cleavage which gaped, milky and warm, inches from his face. The aroma of chocolate and perfume rose from her dimpled flesh. On the sumptuous cupola of her right breast was a name tag.
'Nurse Biscuit,' he said.
The woman leapt backwards as if she'd been stung. A shilling-sized circle of scarlet blazed on each cheek and her blue eyes were wide with alarm.
'Golly!' she cried. 'You're awake!' She giggled and put a band to her mouth. 'I'll just fetch - oh!'
She gave up the struggle to finish the sentence and ran from the room with a squeak of laughter. As she did so the patient couldn't help noticing that, for a nurse, her skirt was distractingly short.
He looked around the room. There were swagged floral curtains on the high windows and Matisse prints on the wall. The carpet was thick. Opposite his bed was a large television set and on top of it a card offering a choice of movies. Next to a writing desk stood a small teak cabinet labelled 'Minibar'. Only the bed on which he lay and the bank of instruments that surrounded it, some with tubes which snaked beneath the sheets, indicated that he was in some kind of medical establishment. From behind his head, in the room next door, came the thump of rock music and raised, cheerful voices.
'Where am I?' he said to the woman in a white coat and granny glasses who now entered the room accompanied by a more composed Nurse Biscuit.
'Partridge Place,' she replied, taking a clipboard of notes from the end of the bed.
The patient thought for a second. The catch phrase from an advert came into his head: 'The Exclusive Care Facility for Exclusive People,' he said.
'You won't get better care elsewhere,' said the woman, failing to add 'or more expensive' - it went without saying.
Her fingers were cool and firm as she took his pulse. Like Nurse Biscuit, she too wore a name tag. She saw the direction of his gaze.
'I'm Madeleine Flint,' she said, 'the consultant in charge of your case.'
'But who am I?' said the patient. 'And what am I doing here?'
This time Nurse Biscuit could not control her laughter.
They brought him the papers to read and left him alone, though he heard plenty of stifled whispering at the door. He had the impression he was being observed. He soon forgot about it as he turned to the front page of the Daily Dog.
CITY PLONKER TAKES THE PLUNGE
Mystery of nude tycoon
Millionaire businessman Tom Glass, the City's Mr Cool, fell off his pedestal yesterday when he survived an embarrassing freak accident that landed him in hospital. Theatre-goers emerging from The Gryphon Theatre discovered Glass half naked in a builder's skip in the road outside his office at 10.30 last night. It is assumed that Glass fell from the balcony of his penthouse on the tenth floor.
No trousers
'When I left the theatre I saw a man lying in a pile of rubbish,' said Randolph Sutcliffe, 43. 'At first I thought he was drunk. He was wearing stockings and suspenders but no trousers and he had a pair of ladies' knickers on his head. He looked like he'd been having a high old time. What's more, he was still up for it, if you know what I mean. My wife's in shock.'
On the job
Last night Glass was recovering in a luxury hospital reserved for the nobs. Staff at his company, Glass Mountain, were tight-lipped about the activities of their owner and Chief Executive. 'As far as I know, Tom was working late,' said a company spokesperson. 'We're all praying he'll soon be back on the job.' Mr Glass's fiancée, Marianne Matthews, Badger TV's weather girl, was not available for comment.
The other papers, in their various styles, were no less gleeful. The Daily Blizzard made the incident the subject of a centre-page comment:
The Blizzard finds it shameful that one of our best and brightest young entrepreneurs should be guilty of gross impropriety in public on the same day that the business community launches its New Leaf campaign to reinforce moral values in the office environment. Such conduct undermines all the good work put in by right-thinking male executives and is a calculated insult to the increasingly powerful female voice in the business world. Tom Glass has been dead lucky this time but we suggest that he cleans up his act fast - even fat cats can run out of lives.
The patient stared at the pile of newspapers. There were three days' worth and the story even rumbled on in the most recent. It didn't make a lot of sense to him. He couldn't remember any of it. He jabbed his finger onto the red alarm button by his bed. Nurse Biscuit appeared at the door instantly.
'Get me a mirror,' he demanded before she had set foot in the room. His voice was deep and authoritative. The sound comforted him. 'What are you waiting for?' he yelled and the rosy-cheeked nurse vanished, returning with a hand mirror a moment later.
He studied the photographs in the papers and compared them with his reflection: straight nose, cleft chin, a shock of dark hair falling over the brow. It was the same man.
Nurse Biscuit was looking at him closely, fear and curiosity written on her pretty face.
'What's your first name?' he said.
'Eve.'
He held out his hand and took her small one in his grasp. 'It seems mine is Tom. Sit down, Eve, and tell me all you know about me because, believe me, I haven't got a clue.'
She hesitated, her hand still in his. He wouldn't let go.
'It's all right, Eve,' said the voice of Dr Flint as she advanced on the bed holding a hypodermic needle. 'You can stay and chat to Mr Glass after he's had his injection.'
'What's that for?' said Tom, suspicion in his voice, as his sleeve was raised and Madeleine Flint aimed her weapon.
'Relax, Mr Glass, you're not lording it over your business empire now.' And she slid the needle into a vein.
'What business empire?' Tom shouted. 'Don't you understand - I can't remember who I am!'
'Trust me,' said Madeleine, emptying the syringe into his arm. 'I promise you'll soon remember things you never knew you knew.'
Chapter 2
Gossamer Hawk rose at six every day to take a leisurely bath. As she luxuriated in the warm soapy water she sometimes heard the screams and bellows of her two toddling offspring as they rampaged on the floor below. If they were too noisy she would reprimand her husband, Peregrine, over breakfast. Gossamer needed tranquillity first thing in the morning to prepare her mind and body for the rigours of the day ahead.
After milkless tea, wholemeal toast and a quick skim of the newspapers she watched Perry herd Annabel and Pasco into the family Volvo to ferry them off to nursery school. Then she made a list of house-husbandly tasks for Perry to accomplish during the day: 'Iron my turquoise blouse, fetch the dryclean, return P's library books, do Sainsbury's and don't forget Blenkinsops are coming for dinner - asparagus soufflé rack of lamb would be nice. I'll try to be back by eight.' At last, with the satisfaction that comes from unselfish delegation, she whisked her scarlet Honda Prelude out of the garage and plunged into the traffic heading for central London. Prosecutor Hawk was ready for business.
Gossamer's appointment to The Primrose Court had taken newspapers by surprise. What was a little-known barrister, a mother-of-two with an inane giggle and a schoolgirl vocabulary, doing at the cutting edge of sexual correction? To outsiders, this rangy English rose with unruly fair hair and disarming milky-blue eyes seemed lightweight. But those who had seen her operate - such as her former colleagues in chambers and her opponents in court - knew that the rose had thorns.
Gossamer was a great believer in the clear-desk policy. First thing in the morning her in-tray groaned with paper; by the end of the day not a scrap would be visible. The rapid assimilation and processing of material was one of her strengths. She had once been the school swot - it was the foundation of her success.
Today she beavered at her in-coming paper pile with customary zeal. She had an interview with a journalist scheduled for eleven and she aimed to clear her desk by then. Soon she was down to just one item, a thick yellow file bulked out with newspaper cuttings. She read the name scrawled in black felt-tip on the cover and settled down to read with glee. For once she was going to take her time.
An hour later Gossamer was interrupted by the arrival of Kelvin Priest of Nouveau, a modish magazine for thinking men - or so it claimed. Giving interviews to the press was not Gossamer's favourite task, particularly to such a small-beer publication. But selling the business of The Primrose Court to the thinking man was part of her job.
She had no objection to Kelvin, however. She had a soft spot for broody English types - they never gave her any trouble.
'Speaking as a male,' he was saying, 'how do I know when my thoughts need correcting? I mean, if I see an attractive woman in the street and I think to myself, well, something overtly sexist like—'
'"Cor, get a load of the arse on that"?' Gossamer's tinkling tones enunciated every syllable and brought a blush to Kelvin's cheeks.
'Yes, that kind of thing.'
Gossamer beamed at him and pushed a lock of thick honey-hued hair from off her forehead. 'Well, Kelvin, that is an obvious misdemeanour and you should be ashamed of yourself.'
Kelvin looked suitably ashamed but persisted.
'But suppose I'm walking behind this woman, thinking about something else, and I can't help staring at her, um, figure even though my mind is elsewhere.'
'You mean the way you're staring now.'
'I'm sorry?'
'I have no doubt, Mr Priest, that you are a conscientious journalist and that your sole concern in interviewing me is to faithfully interpret my remarks for your readers, however...'
'However?'
'You haven't taken your eyes off my breasts since you sat down.'
Kelvin's face was crimson. It was true that his glance had strayed once or twice to the divide of Gossamer's cleavage, prettily exposed in the vee of her open-necked blouse. He opened his mouth to deny it but no sound emerged. There was a degree of intensity in her big blue eyes that prevented him. They bored into his like a searchlight on a black night. Not many men, in or out of the dock, found it easy to lie to Prosecutor Hawk.
'Don't worry, Mr Priest, I know you are just doing your job as best you can,' she said with a deprecating smile. 'After all, the male of the species is a rudimentary organism at best and it would be unreasonable of me to expect a lusty young man like you to be able to rise above the imperatives of his genitalia. Just so long as you understand that when you contemplate stripping off my blouse and manhandling my breasts then you are simply rising to the siren song of lust that men have answered down the ages. Inside every man in a suit and tie is a shaggy-haired barbarian longing to rape and defile and thrust his hard brutal flesh into a woman's soft and yielding femininity. Believe me, Mr Priest, in my line of work I know. Would you like some coffee?'
Kelvin nodded. He couldn't speak, he didn't trust himself to be coherent through the tangle of emotions that currently overwhelmed him. He was intimidated by Gossamer's eloquence and ashamed of his masculine inheritance. Yet the urge to manhandle her, now it had been openly acknowledged, had not diminished. Far from it. Somewhere in his mind, he was speculating on the size, the shape, the weight, the actual feel of her tits. He couldn't help it.
'Alberto, sweetie,' said Gossamer to a slim Latin fellow who had appeared in the doorway, 'pop out and get us a couple of cappuccinos, there's a love.'
Alberto flashed a toothy smile and swivelled on his Cuban heels. His black trousers were cinched at the waist and pulled as tight as cellophane across the hard round peach of his bum.
'My new assistant,' explained Gossamer. 'He'll run to the Italian cafe over the road. The coffee in this place tastes like pee.'
'He looks like a waiter,' ventured Kelvin.
'He used to be one - his father owns the cafe. Now he's a computer whizz. Can't spell for toffee but can boot up and download all night long, if you get my drift.'
Kelvin didn't think he did but he smiled all the same. Seconds later Alberto was arranging cups on the desk, a gold necklace dangling from the open neck of his sparkling white shirt.
'What kept you, sweetheart?' said Gossamer. 'I suppose you were drooling over Maria's melanzane again?'
Alberto's face froze in a pantomime of horror.
'Miss Gossamer, how could you say that? You know there is only one woman in my life,' he paused, his handsome face inches from Gossamer's, 'my mother.'
The pair of them laughed fit to bust and Alberto turned to go. As he did so he looked at Kelvin and rolled his eyes to heaven.
'Alberto, you're a wicked boy,' said Gossamer to his twinkling buttocks as he glided from the room.
Kelvin sipped foam from his cup, quite bemused.
'Lovely man,' said Gossamer. 'A complete pussy-hound, of course. He'll be off as soon as he's piddled on all the lampposts round here, worse luck.'
'But, Prosecutor Hawk—'
'Kelvin, please. Any man who admires my breasts as much as you obviously do, must call me Gossamer.'
'Gossamer, the man's a classic macho male, a gigolo, a pimp - surely he represents everything you wish to change in the male sex?'
Gossamer laughed, a long-drawn-out peal of high-pitched merriment that set her substantial titties atremble.
'Poor Kelvin,' she said at last, 'you really don't understand, do you? Perhaps you'd like to take me to dinner some time and I'll raise your awareness.'
The moment the confused Kelvin had picked up his notes and gone, Gossamer summoned Alberto with an urgency born of pent-up desperation.
'Quick, take them down.'
'But, Miss Gossamer—'
'Shut up. I want your thick dick in my hand in thirty seconds or you're back on the dole queue.'
Alberto shrugged and dropped his pants, he knew there was no point in arguing.
His long curving Latin prong did not share its owner's reluctance. As he stood beside her desk it waved in the Prosecutor's face like a truncheon. She plunged her mouth over the broad brown tip like a starving woman.
'OH!' he groaned in pleasure and pain as sharp fingernails dragged his scrotum downwards.
She took her mouth away and replaced it with her other hand, staring greedily at the tumescent genitals in her grasp.
'You're hung like a horse,' she muttered. 'Put me over the desk and fuck me silly or I'll have you gelded.' She grinned to herself at the prospect.
Alberto took no notice of her last remark, he was already pulling her to her feet and hauling her skirt upwards. Thin peach panties descended over matching suspenders and stockings and pooled around her ankles. Bent across her desk the twin globes of her bottom cheeks jutted like great white moons. Alberto peeled apart the flesh to gaze on the winking star of her arsehole. Below it, the gaping pink purse of her pussy bubbled with juice.
He ran the glans of his cock up and down the bum crevice and fingered the wet lips of her overflowing honeypot. He gave her left buttock a soft enquiring slap.
'Yes!' she snapped. 'Smack me. Oh! Smack me hard!'
Broad strong hands descended in measured blows. Left, right, then left again, turning the creamy globes into quivering spheres of crimson.
'YES, YES!' she yelled. 'Now put it in.'
Alberto obeyed. It was more than his job was worth to do otherwise.
Gossamer thrust her big beautiful buttocks backwards into his crotch, spearing herself on his stiff tool. Oh, it was heaven. The interview with dishy Kelvin had turned her on. It was a pity he was such a wimp. She'd bet he'd only have half the stamina of Alberto.
She came once and slowed her thrusting, content to pace herself now the first tide of desire had washed over her. Alberto could stay hard for as long as she wanted, he wouldn't dare come till she said so. She thanked the day she had landed this job, if only for the perks. 'Perks spelt P-R-I-C-K-S,' she told herself, jamming back onto his rearing organ and laughing out loud.
Alberto muttered, 'Mamma,' and began to gently diddle her clit, the agitation of his fingers in her cleft pushing her into the path of her next wave of pleasure.
'Oh gosh, oh gosh,' she cried, jerking her head from side to side, the flailing locks of her hair lashing down onto the yellow folder which had occupied her attention that morning.
The file marked 'Glass'.
Chapter 3
In his head, Tom Glass was sitting in the kitchen of his parents' house in Manchester marvelling at the slim white legs of his brother's fiancée as her babydoll nightie rode up her thighs.
'There you are, Tommy,' said Rosemary as she set a cup of tea on the table in front of him. She ruffled his uncombed mop of black hair affectionately, as if she were petting a dog. 'Rosie—'
'Yes, Tommy?'
'Do you know how old I am?'
She stopped in the act of cracking eggs into a bowl. 'Of course - you're seventeen.'
'I'm two months away from having the vote. Three months off going to university. Old enough to get married and have kids.'
'Yes?' There was confusion in her large brown eyes.
'Old enough not to be called Tommy. Call me Tom, call me Thomas, but please don't call me Tommy. OK?'
'I'm sorry, Tommy - Tom! I didn't know you felt like that. It's just that everyone—'
'Quite. Everyone around here wants me to stay in short pants and be cute little Tommy. It reinforces their own sense of worth - I've read about it. Mum even wanted me to be a pageboy at your wedding—'
'That was a joke. She didn't mean it.'
'It was indicative of her underlying feelings, Rosie. No one round here wants me to grow up.'
'Tommy, that's unfair.' Rosemary had abandoned the eggs and taken a seat at the table beside Tom. This was important. 'Oops, I said it again, I'm sorry. But look, Jack's on your side.'
'Jack's the worst. He wants me to be a little brother for ever. Someone he can impress, someone he can beat.'
'What do you mean?' Rosemary was agitated now.
'I mean he's got everything round here. He's got a job, he's got a car, he's got money. He's got you.'
'Me?'
'Absolutely. He's got a girl with great legs sleeping in his bed every other night at his parents' home and they aren't even married yet.'
'I didn't know you were such a puritan.'
'I'm no puritan, Rosie, but I don't appreciate you two hammering the mattress all night long in the room next door when I'm not even allowed out till closing time.'
'You're jealous, Tommy.'
'You bet I'm jealous. Two years past the age of consent and no luck and there's my brother making love to the most gorgeous woman in the city night after night about three feet away.'
'Oh God, Tommy, I'm sorry. I never thought. I mean, we - can you really hear?'
'Yes.'
'I'm embarrassed. We try and keep the noise down.'
There was a pause in the conversation. The boy's dark brooding eyes were boring into hers and she had to look away. 'Do you really think I'm gorgeous?'
'Utterly.'
'And you think I've got great legs?'
'I love the way you move. You're like a dancer.'
'You're a bit of a smooth-talker, Tom Glass.'
'That's better. I like it when you call me Tom.'
He was smiling now and it was as if the sun had come out.
'I don't believe you're as shy with the girls as you make out.'
'I've hardly ever kissed one.'
'Oh, come on!'
'It's true.'
'You must have.'
'Not properly. It's been a fiasco so far.'
'Well, for God's sake, we can soon fix that.'
Rosie leaned forward and placed a hand on the back of Tom's neck. The nightie rode higher. Her lips were soft as satin and her breath was sweet. He let her hold her mouth to his, resisting the urge to devour her. A small pointed tongue suddenly slipped between his lips.
'Oh,' he murmured as she explored his mouth. Still he did not respond.
'You can kiss me back, Tom,' she said, 'it's all right. I won't bite. Oh, that's nice.'
And it was. His tongue was in her mouth and she was sucking on it, eager to teach her pupil some of the skills she practised at night in the room next to his.
'You mustn't sit there like a block of wood, you know. Put your arms around me.'
She was on the bench beside him now and the nightie was almost up to her groin. Her body heat flowed into him through two thin layers of clothing.
'Wow,' she said, disengaging her lips. 'You see, Tom, you can kiss very well.' Her face was flushed and her eyes were dancing. The soft pressure of her left breast on his chest was burning a hole through his pyjamas.
'I'm not sure, Rosie.' Bashful, he looked down - to the creamy flesh of her thighs exposed nearly to her hips. A wisp of fair brown hair nosed into view beneath the embroidered pink hem. He lowered his mouth to hers.
Without thinking she leaned into him, mouth wide, breasts thrusting, her hands beneath his pyjama jacket to grasp his muscular torso. His hands too began to wander, pulling the pink babydoll confection up to her waist and closing over the hot smooth flesh of her buttocks.
'Oh Tom!' she squealed as he pulled her onto his lap and her legs automatically scissored around his waist, pressing her most intimate folds against a column of flesh that rose vertically from his crotch.
As she realised what she was doing she tried to pull away but it was too late. Somehow her wriggling and squirming only managed to lodge the head of the biggest, smoothest, firmest penis she had ever encountered into the wet and hungry mouth between her thighs.
'Oh God!' she yelled as this irresistible cock invaded her, miraculously unaided it seemed, and Tom's strong hands on her hips drove her down its whole length. She rose and fell on the delicious spike, her tongue down his throat, her fingers twined in his hair. The word 'damn' echoed somewhere in her head even as her first climax bubbled in her loins.
Tom did little. There was no need. The woman was like a wind-up toy - turn the key and watch her go. The beauty of it was that she had turned the key all by herself...
Tom opened his eyes with a start. A Matisse goldfish swam on the wall in front of him and by the side of his bed sat a plump nurse with an anxious look on her pretty face. As for Rosemary...
'By God, Eve, I can remember.'
'Oh, Mr Glass, how wonderful.' She squeezed his hand.
'I dreamt I was in my parents' house in Manchester. I can see them all - mum and dad and my brother Jack.'
And the girl who was nearly my sister-in-law, he added silently. He could remember every moment of the day he'd fucked her. Fucked her all over the house. In the kitchen, in his bedroom, in all the bedrooms, in the living-room on the rug by the fire - which was where Jack found them on his return from work. He'd had her every way by then, from the front, from the back, between her tits and down her throat. She'd swallowed his spunk like a parched pilgrim, he recalled.
That's what she'd been doing when Jack walked in - licking come juice from the swollen head of his penis as she lay between his spread thighs. Not that he'd seen Jack make his famous entrance because he'd had his face buried in the slippery folds of Rosie's crotch, returning the favour she'd just done him. By that point he'd dropped the pretence that he didn't know a thing about girls and he'd been giving her his special cunt-suck: a whistle of hot breath on the clit, alternating with gentle tongue flicks and accompanied by two fingers pistoning deep into the vagina. She was coming even as she screamed out Jack's name.
'Poor Rosie,' he said out loud. 'I wonder what ever happened to her?'
Chapter 4
'Congratulations, Petra,' said Cassie Crow, as she downed a glass of red wine. 'It's good to see another woman get a grip on the reins of power.'
'It's only while Tom's out of commission,' said Petra Rosewater, Deputy Executive Officer of Glass Mountain.
They were sitting on the roof terrace of Cassie's apartment, the remains of an alfresco dinner on the table between them. The late summer sun was setting over the river in spectacular fashion. It was a fabulous view, expensively acquired. But while Fragrant remained the topselling women's monthly its editor could afford the best.
'Of course, you're the exception that proves the rule,' said Cassie. 'You're much too attractive to be the boss.'
'Come off it, Cassie, times have changed.'
'Says who? We're running another article next month on boardroom discrimination. If you're a woman you still only stand a chance if you look like a wet weekend. And have no tits.'
'What?'
'It's true. Thirty-eight double D spells typing pool, thirty A and buck teeth means you might make upper-echelon workhorse. Apart from me, you're the only woman I know of with a cleavage and a seat on the board.'
'Not that big a cleavage.'
Cassie laughed and speared a chunk of smelly goat's cheese.
'No one's going to overlook it, sweety-pie. The way you shake those pretty little apples I'd say you were a major distraction at any big boys' meeting.'
Petra did not dispute the point, there was no arguing with Cassie when she'd put away two gins and a bottle of wine.
'Anyway,' she said, 'I thought all this discrimination was changing. That's the point of The Primrose Court, isn't it?'
'Aha.' Cassie grinned. 'My lips are sealed.'
'Rubbish. You know something, don't you?'
Cassie busied herself pulling the ribbon off a large box of Belgian chocolates and did not reply.
Petra curbed her impatience. Cassie was a good friend but her work on the Corrections Committee of The Primrose Court was a bone of contention between the two of them. Cassie was sworn to secrecy, of course, but she enjoyed leaking snippets of information. First, though, Petra had to jump through hoops.
'Cassie, please.'
'Have a chocolate.'
'I don't want a chocolate. And you shouldn't eat them either. What happened to your diet?'
'I've got a new one. Haven't you noticed?'
'I've noticed you hoovering up cholesterol all evening, if that's what you mean.'
'And how do you think I look?'
Cassie stood up and turned around so Petra could admire her shape.
There was a lot of shape to admire. Cassie Crow was not a small woman. She was tall and eye-catching, with long shiny red hair and laughing green eyes. Her tight white slacks clung to her hips and bottom as if sprayed on and her curves, though ample, were supple and seductive. She lifted the hem of her thin blue sweater and displayed an area of tanned brown midriff.
'See?' she said, pinching the flesh between finger and thumb. 'No spare tyre.'
Petra was impressed. 'You look great,' she admitted, 'you really do. What's the secret?'
'This.' Cassie plonked a book on the table. 'It's the latest thing from the States and Fragrant dropped a bundle on it for serial. When it came in I insisted on guinea-pigging it myself.' Petra picked up the slim volume. The blush-pink front cover typography read: The Come-Again Lifestyle - Discovering Your POT. The sensational multi-million-copy bestseller by Chastity Honeydew. Filling the entire back page of the jacket was a portrait of a doll-faced young woman whose elaborate blonde coiffure was spread across a pillow. Her lips were full, luscious and parted and her eyes were closed, long eyelashes resting on a cheek as flawless as a baby's bottom. She appeared to be in the throes of ecstasy.
'Interesting,' said Petra, attempting to keep the scepticism out of her voice. She knew she had to humour Cassie if she were ever to find out who was next on the hit list of The Primrose Court.
She ran her eye over the copy on the front flap of the book. There were lots of separate lines in a big bold face preceded by asterisks:
* Discovering the way to Honeydew Heaven!
* How to calculate your revolutionary POT
* Understanding your POT chart
* Locating your POG
* Techniques and positions explained
* Satisfaction guaranteed - and how!
'It looks a bit technical,' she said.
'That's just crap,' said Cassie. 'It's like all these books. It's got one idea and the rest is window-dressing. I mean, you can't sell a one-page book, can you?'
'So what's the idea? Save me ploughing through a hundred and ninety pages.'
'OK. First you have to find your POT. Mine's eighty-one. That's the number of letters in your first name, times the month of your birth. Nine letters in Cassandra times September, the ninth month, equals eighty-one.'
'OK. I was born in August so I'd be five times eight - forty.'
Cassie frowned. 'That's not enough. If it's under fifty you have to add in the letters in your surname. In your case that's fourteen times eight, that makes one hundred and twelve. Wow, you lucky girl.'
'So?' Petra was at a loss.
'You still don't get it, do you? Let me explain in words of one syllable.'
'Please do.' Petra helped herself to more wine, Cassie was irritating the hell out of her.
'POT stands for Personal Orgasm Target. Mine is eighty-one. That means I must achieve eighty-one orgasms a calendar month.'
'Good God.' The blood drained from Petra's face.
'That's the whole thing. No diets, no aerobics, no workouts, no funny pills. Just doing it, lots. And it works, as you can see. In the office we call this "Fucking for Fitness".'
'But, eighty-one times a month. That's...'
'Two point six one comes a day in a month of thirty-one days, or two point six six averaged across a year. That's a minimum. You can do more if you want to.'
'But how? I mean, Luke left six months ago...'
'Petra, there's no need to be embarrassed. We are not talking sex here. This is not about messy relationships and faking it and finding some slut's knickers in his briefcase. This is health and fitness and personal growth.'
'You're not kidding!' Petra's voice rose an octave. 'I'll have to grow another clit to make a hundred and twelve orgasms a month!' And she reached for her wineglass.
'According to the book, there are some women who are so highly tuned they can do that in an hour. But that's a bit freakish, if you ask me.'
Cassie took her calculator out. 'In your case, I make it three point six eight a day. We're never going to get the smile off your face.'
'But I'm not doing this!'
'Come on, Petra. I need more guinea pigs. We're going to profile the first month's progress of half a dozen different women and Chastity Honeydew is going to provide a commentary. She's coming over from California to promote and part of our deal is that she writes some extra stuff for Fragrant readers. I've spent hours with her on the phone already, working out the details. We paid a fortune for the book. It's dynamite.'
'I don't need this, Cassie.'
'Yes, you do. You're a stressed-out female executive who can't enjoy life any more. Businesswoman X, actually - we reserve your anonymity. You're perfect for us and it's perfect for you. Trust me.'
'What will Kelvin say?'
'He'll love it. He'll be on cloud nine or wherever when you start demanding his body every night.'
'But he can't do it a hundred and twelve times a month! Besides, he's not around half the time.'
'Honey, you are so naive. He doesn't have to come, you do and his being away could be a big advantage.'
'Oh God.' Petra realised that somewhere along the line she had agreed and she felt an involuntary twitch between her legs. She was soaking, she realised. 'You're a terrible influence on me, Cassie Crow.'
'Darling, you certainly won't regret it. Especially when you see Philippe.'
'Who?'
'Philippe. He's my POG - Personal Orgasm Guide. He studied the method with Chastity in the States and Fragrant assigned him to me. He's French. You'll adore him.'
Petra gazed at Cassie in shock though, come to think of it, the existence of a 'Personal Orgasm Guide' wasn't much of a surprise. Only a hot new lover could work the kind of transformation she saw in Cassie.
'Is this Philippe due here this evening?' she said.
'At any second.'
'I'm leaving,' said Petra and stood up.
'You can't go. You need to observe the techniques. It's much better than looking at the book. Besides I need you to take the video.'
'Video.' Petra's voice was flat, she could not react to any more surprises.
'Yes. Chastity says I need to analyse my orgasms so that I can enumerate them properly. I mean, sometimes I'm not sure when one ends and another begins. So I need a video I can look at in the cold light of day. You're the only person I can trust.'
'What about this Philippe?'
Cassie laughed. 'Don't be stupid, darling, he'll have his hands full.'
Petra picked up her handbag. 'I won't take pictures of you and some toyboy having it off. I mean it, Cassie.'
'Yes, you will.'
'No.'
Cassie's jaw set firm and for a moment Petra glimpsed the resolute face that doubtless presided over Fragrant's editorial conferences.
'You will if you want to find out about today's meeting of the Corrections Committee,' she said.
'I've changed my mind about that. It's not important to me.'
'Forgive me, Petra, but I've always thought that anything concerning Tom Glass was very important to you. So why don't you sit down and I'll explain how my video camera works.'
Petra sat.
Chapter 5
'Who's Rosie?' said a low-pitched female voice, intruding on Tom's reverie of long-lost seduction. 'Tom, darling, don't tell me you've returned to the land of the living off your rocker.'
The silver-blonde vision at the door was tall and slender with an oval face and a long nose. The eyes were cool and grey and her lips and pencil-thin eyebrows arched upwards inquisitively. She was at once familiar and mysterious and she was looking at Tom much as a collector of coins regards a prized possession. Her face was bright with expectation.
'Hi there,' said Tom as emphatically as he could. He didn't know who the hell she was but she looked fabulous and at the back of his mind a small voice asked: I wonder if I'm fucking her?
Nurse Biscuit came to his aid. She dropped Tom's hand like a hot coal and scrambled to her feet.
'Oh, Miss Matthews,' she cried, 'it's such a thrill to see you again. Isn't it wonderful that Mr Glass has come out of his coma?'
'I dashed here straight from the studio,' said the newcomer. 'As you can see, I didn't even have time to change.'
Tom's mind was racing. He took in the fuchsia-pink summer jacket that Silver-blonde was slipping off her shoulders and noted the insignia on the breast pocket. The report of his accident in the Dog came back to him. This must be the Badger TV weather girl. His fiancée.
'Marianne,' he said, holding out his arms. I must be fucking her! he thought with glee.
'Darling,' she cried and fell into his embrace.
Nurse Biscuit edged out of the door.
'Thank God, you're all right,' murmured Marianne into Tom's neck as she gave him small perfumed kisses. 'I mean, you are all right, aren't you? You still have lots of wires and tubes and things sticking into you.'
She disentangled herself from him gently as if suddenly aware he was fragile.
'Well, I did fall ten storeys,' he said. 'I can't say I'm back to normal. I'm having trouble remembering things. I don't know how I fell, for example, or anything that led up to it.'
'How convenient.' The smile had slipped from Marianne's face.
'I know the papers are still stirring things but that's their business. Those bastards are out to shaft everybody.'
'Quite.' Her penetrating grey eyes had moved from his face and were now focused elsewhere on his body. He had the feeling that she was making her own assessment of the damage he had sustained.
'Why,' she asked at length, 'have you got a hard-on?'
It was a good question. The tower between his legs was plain as a pike-staff beneath the cotton sheet.
A dream bubble burst in Tom's head, bringing with it a vivid impression of Rosie's silky thighs muffling his ears and the coral pink folds of her fig in his face. But he said the only thing that was acceptable in the circumstances.
'I'm just pleased to see you, Marianne.'
'Are you really? I was beginning to think you weren't. You haven't asked one thing about me.'
It was at this point, Tom realised later, that he could have come clean. He could have told her the reason for his distracted manner. But how do you tell your fiancée that you don't recall ever seeing her before in your life? Especially when she's sitting on the side of your bed running her fingers over your thunderously erect tool.
'God, it's enormous,' said Marianne, pushing the sheet down his thighs to bring his cock and balls fully into the light. 'I don't remember ever seeing it quite so big.'
'Really?' Tom wanted to ask her precisely when she had last seen it and what they had done together. Were they a long-standing partnership joined by a well-established intimacy? Or a hot new liaison who fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance? It was an intriguing situation.
Marianne had both hands on him now, rolling his balls in her palm and slicking his foreskin back and forth across the purple helmet of his glans. She lowered her long and graceful neck and slipped her cool lips over the burning head of his prick.
'Mmm yes,' breathed Tom and thrust his pelvis upwards into her face.
She raised her lips from his straining tool and licked him. 'Have you,' she said between licks, 'thought any more about the Black Raven arts slot?'
Tom stared at her. Her long pink tongue trailed cunningly across his knob, teasing him, promising more.
'Well?'
'I'm sorry, Marianne, I told you I was having a little trouble remembering things.'
'I don't see how you can have forgotten something so important to me, Tom. You know I've had it up to here with being a weather girl. I've got much more to give the TV world than my sunny smile and perky manner. It's like being a fucking Barbie doll. And I'm pissed off with wearing pink.'
She was getting worked up, Tom noted with alarm. Her long red fingernails were digging into the tender skin of his scrotum just this side of pain.
'What's Black Raven?'
'Black Raven, Mr Mogul, is a television company that you happen to own. They need a presenter for their new arts programme and, apart from being your wife-to-be, I'm bright, I'm beautiful and I'm sure-as-hell available.'
There was a silence after this outburst. Marianne had withdrawn her hands from Tom's loins and his cock lay twitching in frustration on his belly. He was fed up. He rather fancied wielding some of this power he was supposed to possess. Starting now.
'OK, Marianne,' he said, 'I shall talk to Black Raven within the next twenty-four hours. Your career is at the top of my agenda.' That sounded good at any rate.
'In the meantime,' he continued, noting with satisfaction a softening of her expression, 'I'd like a demonstration that you really are available. If you don't melt down my erection within the next ten minutes you can return to Badger and spend the rest of your professional life predicting ridges of high pressure.'
Marianne's face set hard and for a second Tom thought those scarlet talons of hers were about to fence for his cheek. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth and made a low gurgling sound, like the rattle of pebbles in the rushing water of a brook. It was a most seductive laugh. She probably was wasted on the weather.
'Very good,' she said at last. 'You really had me going for a moment. I love it when you pretend to be a ruthless tycoon. It turns me on.'
She got off the bed and kicked off her shoes, unzipped her skirt and threw it on the chair. Below the waist she wore just a scrap of thin turquoise material. The prominent mound of her pubis bulged against the cotton. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and lowered them an inch.
'Shall I?' she breathed. 'Do you want to look, darling?' Tom's cock was beating a tattoo on his stomach in an agony of frustration. He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.
'Time's running out, Marianne. Drop your knickers or it's back to Badger for good.'
'Oh you sod,' she said and pushed the thin strip of cotton down her thighs, laying bare the long slit of her vagina just six inches from Tom's face.
Perhaps it was the slimness of her hips or the length of her elegant body but the pouting sex delta at the junction of her smooth thighs seemed enormous. Or maybe it was because between her legs she was as hairless as a clam. At any rate, the outer lips of her pussy were unfurled to reveal a glistening succulence within and at the top of her crack her swollen clit seemed to sit up and beg. The breath caught in Tom's throat. This was a cunt in need of serious attention.
Marianne took a small step forward, pushing her pelvis into Tom's face. He flicked out his tongue. She groaned. He sank his hands into the apple-cheek rounds of her bottom and pulled her onto his mouth. She made a throaty noise as his lips found her clitoris and dropped a hand to his groin.
For two minutes there was no conversation, just moans and grunts and the rude slick-slick of fingers and tongue on slippery genitals and the agitation of Marianne's feet as they squirmed on the polished wooden floor. She came with a sharp cry on Tom's tongue and then again as he pushed a finger between her buttocks and up into her arsehole.
'Christ,' she muttered, breaking away from his embrace, 'it's no good, I've got to have it up me.'
She climbed onto the bed and straddled his loins, carefully avoiding the tubes still attached to his flesh. There was a metal hoist above the bed and she took hold of it with one hand while the other aimed his swollen member at the hungry nook between her thighs.
The hoist could have been specifically designed for this very activity. Given the nature of the exclusive medical facilities supplied by Partridge Place this would not have surprised either Tom or Marianne. But for the moment they were only concerned with the friction of cock in cunt, with the jostling of slim white thighs on muscular hairy ones and with the approaching moment of release as the spunk gathered in Tom's balls and Marianne's hairless pussy wept in anticipation.
At the door, her face pressed tight to the small crack which afforded her a perfect view, Nurse Biscuit gazed on in wonder.
And in a dark room on the floor above, a thin-lipped Dr Flint made notes in a small black book. In front of her, among a bank of television monitors, flickered the image of an ambitious TV weather girl suspended on a well-known businessman's cock.
Chapter 6
Petra was not much of an expert with a video camera.
'It doesn't matter,' said Cassie. 'Just get an establishing shot of what we're up to and then zoom in on my face when things hot up. You press this little red button here.'
Philippe was not happy about the filming. He lolled against the doorframe dressed in a purple tracksuit with a towel round his neck. Petra had often admired the size of Cassie's luxury kitchen but somehow Philippe's presence seemed to shrink the room. He was so big his head looked like it might graze the ceiling if he stood up straight. His black hair was cropped to his scalp and his jaw was square like a comic-book hero. Tortoise-shell spectacles gave him a professorial air - a professor of muscle.
'You will keep my face out of ze shot,' he said to Petra.
'Don't worry, Philippe,' said Cassie, 'this is just for my personal use. I've asked Petra to film the exercises so Chastity can provide an insight into my reactions.'
Philippe didn't look altogether mollified, thought Petra, but the mention of Chastity's name put an end to his objections.
'OK,' he said, flinging off his tracksuit to reveal an awe-inspiring physique barely contained by a canary-coloured singlet and blue jockey shorts. 'Let's get to it.'
'Don't you find him a bit intimidating?' muttered Petra as she followed Cassie out of the room but her friend did not appear to hear. It was evident she was under his spell.
Petra had expected the action to take place in Cassie's bedroom but to her surprise she found herself in another room which was kitted out as a gym. A rowing machine and an exercise bicycle stood in one corner, dusty from disuse she noted, and a large rubber mat lay on the floor. Cassie and Philippe took up positions facing one another and, to the blare of a disco beat, began what looked like a series of aerobic exercises.
'Allez, allez!' yelled Philippe as Cassie bounced up and down, her red hair flying and her substantial breasts jingling.
Petra aimed the camcorder and filmed a few feet. There didn't seem much point in continuing, however - surely Cassie didn't want a record of this?
Then the music slowed and the pair of them began to stretch their limbs in a languorous fashion and make balletic arabesques.
'Ah, oui,' growled Philippe, 'more slowly now. Ze blood it is flowing and we must listen to ze needs of ze body.'
Petra had trouble stifling a laugh but Cassie's rapt expression reminded her of her obligations. The redhead looked a trifle daft, twirling around on one foot in her bra and pants, but there was no doubt she was giving her all.
In one surprising movement Philippe seized Cassie around the waist and lifted her off the floor as if she were a two-year-old. He reversed her in mid-air and suddenly she was upside down clinging to the solid trunk of his body. Petra pressed the little red button - this was more like it.
In this position, Cassie's legs were around the Frenchman's neck and her arms encircled his waist, both of them nose to crotch in a standing soixante-neuf. 'How appropriate,' thought Petra, now finding her attention fully engaged.
Beyond holding a half-naked eleven-stone woman upside down, Philippe didn't appear to be doing much. But below his waist his pupil was busy and, as she glimpsed the thick wand of cock flesh that thrust from his briefs into Cassie's face, Petra felt a stab of desire. Not that there was any chance of her friend passing this particular baton - half of it was already down her throat.
Up top, Philippe was now using his mouth on the pantied crotch in his face. Petra marvelled at the way he first sucked Cassie through the material and then eased aside the sodden gusset using just his lips and tongue. Was this part of the famous Honeydew technique? she wondered, or simply innate Gallic flair? Whatever it was, she knew that it would be beyond her lover, Kelvin - more's the pity.
The pair of them had now subsided to the floor and Philippe was teasing Cassie's exposed pussy lips with his tongue, licking the length of her long, auburn-haired slit and then probing the tip into her gooey depths.
'Oh God,' Petra heard Cassie groan as she responded to this treatment. 'I'm going for my first - ah! Oh yes!' and her creamy buttocks began to quiver in Philippe's broad hands. Cassie's legs opened and closed in agitation around the Frenchman's neck. A lesser man would surely have wilted under the pincering of those strong thighs but Cassie's wild throes had no effect on his gentle lick, lick, licking along her swollen labia. 'AAH!' screamed Cassie and twitched to a climax.
They rolled apart and Petra was amazed to see that Cassie was consulting her watch and scribbling on a piece of paper.
'Have to keep a record,' she explained to Petra as she shucked off her wet panties and threw off her bra. Her breasts were full and pendulous, with long scarlet points that stood up like loganberries. Petra had never seen nipples like those before. What would they taste like? she wondered, shocked that she would think such a thing. But shock seemed an inappropriate reaction given the circumstances.
Philippe had stripped off too and was on his hands and knees, suspended above Cassie's body. Petra watched in fascination as he lowered himself till he was just inches above her and he began to move, from side to side and up and down. It took her a moment to realise that he was brushing her body with his cock, drawing the tip of his hanging member backwards and forwards across the dimpled dome of her belly. As he did so, he caressed the tips of her nipples with the great slab of his chest, occasionally pressing down on her and then pushing up to relieve the pressure. Petra wondered what it must be like to be body-kissed by a man mountain who could crush you at any moment.
Certainly Cassie liked it. She had hold of his teak-hard buttocks and was thrusting her pelvis up at him, trying to work the head of his elusive tool into the hungry hole between her legs.
'Please, please,' Petra heard her saying, 'put it in, Philippe. Fill me up and fuck me. Oh please - OH!'
Petra saw that his great cock had nosed into her bush and with one flick of his hips he was into her.
'Oh my GOD!' screamed Cassie and exploded into a flurry of jerks and twitches.
'Deux fois,' Philippe announced as dispassionately as a tennis umpire. 'You want to go for more? I think you are well ahead of your weekly score.'
'No, don't stop! I need at least three, maybe four!' howled Cassie, jerking her loins up at him as he held himself impassively over her.
'OK but I don't want you to overdo it,' he lectured. 'I have seen people too keen at the beginning, they end up with strained ligaments and pulled muscles.'
'Sod that, Philippe,' said Cassie. 'I think there's only one way to learn and that's on the job. Let's go for it! Oh yes!'
Philippe didn't argue further, he just swung into action as if to prove his point, pistoning his powerful cock between her legs in a blur.
Petra tried hard to record the meaningful action as requested, keeping the camera focused on Cassie's face as she moaned and howled through a succession of orgasms. But Petra's camera hand was shaking with excitement. She couldn't resist staring at Philippe's lean buttocks as they thrust and flexed and hollowed, driving his menacing cudgel of flesh up into Cassie's loins. She was mesmerized too by the sight of her friend's swollen pussy as it engulfed the big cock. Yielding yet strong, soft yet resilient, it joyfully embraced the pounding weapon.
'AAH!' yelled Cassie finally and passed out.
It took a few moments, in which time Philippe bid them au revoir, before Cassie was able to speak.
'Didn't I tell you, Petra? That's what I call personal training.'
'Well, he certainly pressed your little red button. It's not very romantic, though, is it?'
'My God, woman, what do you want?' Cassie sat up and reached for the glass of water Petra was offering her. 'This is lifestyle sex not romance, health and fitness not emotional dependence. We're talking work-out fucking here, perfect for today's independent woman. This way, just think of all the time you save in not having rows and pretending to be seduced and pussyfooting around before the guy gets down to your actual pussy. Mind you, there is one thing I regret.'
'Oh?'
'I wish I could get that bastard Philippe to come inside me.' Petra was astonished, though it was true that in the blur of orgasmic action she'd seen no evidence of Philippe ejaculating.
'Doesn't he ever?'
'No. Not one drop of his precious fluid does he shed. Mind you, I'm his ten p.m. appointment. He probably saves it so he can spunk off over lucky Miss Midnight. What the hell are you laughing at?'
Chapter 7
Kelvin Priest sat in bed doodling on a notepad and stroking his penis. The pad contained impressions of his interview that morning with Gossamer Hawk and his penis was similarly inspired. Kelvin was struggling to put some shape to the article he was preparing for Nouveau. He was not finding it easy.
Gossamer had knocked Kelvin for six. The combination of larky sixth-former and mature woman, of high-pitched giggle and low-slung cleavage, of flirtatious blonde and stern officer of the court had him in thrall. She had virtually propositioned him, had held out the image of herself stripped to the waist with the expanse of her soft perfumed bosom at the mercy of his roving hands. How he had longed to take up that proposition.
But had it been a trap? Had his natural timidity saved him from a trip downstairs to the cells? There, it was rumoured, transgressors were held in soundproofed confinement, subjected to a rigorous programme of 'attitude realignment' conducted by twenty-stone bull dykes who looked on men as an inferior subspecies.
Here, of course, lay the crux of the matter. As an enquiring journalist he should have probed more deeply, asked Gossamer searching questions about the business of The Primrose Court. How, for example, did they decide who to investigate? Who sat on the Corrections Committee? Was it really, as officially stated, an advisory body peopled by female business leaders and concerned only with self-regulation of the business community? Or was it a gang of harpies picking on their competitors and paying off old scores?