EROTICON HEAT
by
ANONYMOUS
Eroticon Heat first published in 1997 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.
ePub ISBN 9781780801810
mobi ISBN 9781780801827
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
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.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This work 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 author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright J-P Spencer. The right of J-P Spencer 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.
Contents
Lust on the Line
An Afternoon Call
Grace and Anna
Faithless Lady
The Spank 'em Papers
A Night in a Moorish Harem
'Frank' and I
Eveline
The English Governess
Lust Under Licence
Teleny
My Secret Life
Lust on the Line
For most people a holiday in the sun is the time of the year to let their hair down. It's also a time of stress - things can go wrong. And when they do, it's time to carry on regardless. Like Percy and Felicity Carmichael.
On Day One of the family sojourn at an Italian holiday hotel, Percy wrecks his ankle playing volleyball - leaving Felicity with the prospect of managing three small children and an invalid husband. Fortunately Percy, a writer of company histories and travel books, rises to the occasion. He gets on the phone to his publisher in England and wrings a book contract out of them to pay for the round-the-clock nannying and nursemaiding his family require. The bad news is that the book in question is an erotic novel which must be crammed with scenes of inventive shagging - something felicity and Percy have not indulged in for years. But there's good news, too, for inspiration is all around. Particularly in the pneumatic, partially clad forms of the pocket Venuses who now wait on the incapacitated writer hand and foot. Not that his wife sees things in quite that light...
Whack! Felicity hit the tennis ball with all her considerable strength. From the back of the court the ball flew over the net like a bullet and dipped inside the line, leaving Henry, her tennis coach, stranded in mid-court.
'Love thirty,' shouted Felicity with unconcealed satisfaction and marched along the baseline to receive serve. She was enjoying this. Every time she crunched the ball she imagined she was thumping Percy's head. It gave her considerable satisfaction.
Henry was preparing to serve, his jaw set in a determined line. She could see he had not been prepared for her skill or her aggression. He wasn't going to give her an easy ball this time.
He was a tall, lithe youth, agile but not beefy. And he was by no means the best opponent she had ever faced. Though he was possibly - a voice in her head suggested - the prettiest.
He served to her backhand, much faster than before, but her old instincts did not let her down. She drilled it across court past his groping racquet. He stood at the net and gave her a rueful grin.
'I thought you said you hadn't played for years.'
'I haven't. I've been breeding - it doesn't give you time for much else. Love forty, I believe.'
She waited for Henry, enjoying the sight of his tight neat rump in his tiny white shorts as he bent over to retrieve the balls. Then she summoned her concentration as she had always done by thinking of something that made her blood boil. That was easy. The picture of Percy reclining on the sun terrace, a beer in his hand and that blonde trollop, Philippa, fussing around him with her chest half exposed. That really fired her up!
Henry served - a kicking, swerving thunderbolt right into her body. She chipped it back and he went for the cross-court line. She reached it somehow, panting hard, and lobbed it over him as he took command of the net. He turned and chased. It was a valiant effort but his return bounced mid-court and she was on it. 'Ugh!' her grunt rang out as she smashed the ball as hard as she could. It caught Henry, dashing back to cover the net, flush in the solar plexus like a boxer's low blow and doubled him over in windless agony.
She led him to the bench at the side of the court and patted his back as he crouched over, his head between his knees, unable to speak.
'I'm sorry, Henry,' she said without meaning it and thinking that (a) he wasn't much of a tennis coach if he couldn't beat an out-of-practice, out-of-condition mother-of-three and (b) he was a wimp.
But a pretty wimp, said that sly voice in her head again. A handsome, tanned, blue-eyed, youthful wimp whose blond hair was soft and sweet-smelling as she cradled his head on her chest. And whose bare skin was under her fingers, his shirt riding up his back as he sobbed and heaved.
He lifted his head and there was wonder in his azure eyes. 'Christ,' he said at last, 'you're not Martina Navratilova's sister, are you? You're bloody good.'
'I used to be,' said Felicity. 'I was a schoolgirl champion, Junior Wimbledon and all that, but I couldn't give anyone decent a proper game now.'
'Thanks a lot,' said Henry.
'Sorry, I didn't mean—'
'It's OK, Felicity, you've found me out. I'm not the tennis coach. The real one quit last week and I'm standing in till they get a replacement. I thought I was doing pretty well till you came along. You're entering the tennis competition, I take it?'
'I haven't got a partner. My husband's hopeless and anyway he's sprained his ankle.'
Henry sat up straight and rubbed his stomach. 'Don't worry, I'll find you someone. Brendan the water-ski instructor is dead keen though he's pretty wild. As he's staff he's only allowed to play to make up the numbers. I guess that's what he'd be doing if he partnered you.'
While he was speaking Henry had stood up, feeling his stomach. Now he pulled up his shirt and tugged his shorts halfway down to examine the damage.
The white skin below his bikini line was a flaming red and the beginnings of a painful bruise could be seen. Felicity gazed at the exposed strip of skin, at the taut and youthful belly and the blond strip of hair running down from his navel in a thickening line, turning a coppery hue as it disappeared from sight into his shorts.
Felicity was hit by a wave of emotion she had thought she would never feel again. A thudding, tummy-turning bolt of lust that she recognised from a distant past and another life. She wanted to bend forward and place her mouth on that exposed skin, to feel the springy curls of Henry's belly hair between her teeth, to plunge her lips down, down into his crotch and root there like a pig after truffles.
And then she realised, from the way he was standing there, gazing at her with those innocent blue eyes, that she could.
'Do you want me to kiss it better?' she asked.
He nodded his head.
If it hadn't been for the blonde girl with the bosom fussing over Percy she probably would have pulled back. But she had seen the way her husband ogled that yawning cleavage, as if he were committing the position of every freckle to memory. Well, two could play at that and, as with most games, she was go
ing to play it better.
She kissed gently round the edge of Henry's bruise, just brushing the skin with her lips. Then she trailed her tongue, snail-like, up to his belly button. He tasted hot and sweaty but not disagreeably so. On the contrary, he was fresh and alive in her mouth, ravishing her senses with the sweet succulence of youth. He was the first young strong male she had embraced in how long - twelve years? Fifteen? Maybe more, way back in her loose-hipped, free-swinging, tennis-playing heyday when she was sought after off the court as well as on it. When the boys at tennis parties had ever-ready, always-reliable, spring-loaded erections in their pants.
Just like Henry.
'Oh yes!' she muttered as her fingers peeled down his shorts to bare a white and throbbing staff, an object of irresistible beauty to her with its curling copper-coloured hairs and the scarlet cap glistening with excitement. She didn't resist.
'Oh yes!' he moaned as she sucked the knob into her mouth, her hot lips sliding down the shaft, swallowing him to the root.
His hands were in the chestnut tangle of her hair and hers were on his bare firm buttocks, her nails cutting cruelly into the taut flesh. Her head bobbed as she gorged on him, the plum of his glans butting the soft skin of her upper palate. He tried to stop her but she was in charge. She ringed his shaft with one hand and pumped him as she conquered him with her mouth. It was all over in under a minute.
'Jesus!' he cried as he emptied himself between her lips, his cock twitching and his legs giving way as she brought him to his knees for the second time in twenty minutes. Not that he was feeling any pain this time.
She sat back on the seat, her mouth overflowing with a salty tang of his juices. She swallowed it slowly, the first draft of young man's spunk she'd tasted in years - probably since those tennis parties. She'd sampled a lot then, she recalled. And after she'd sampled, it was time for her partner to return the favour.
She pulled her tennis skirt to her waist and spread her legs, exposing a bulging vee of white cotton. A line of dark perspiration marked the vertical mouth of her quim. Curling brown hairs peeked out from her panty hem, promising a wild pubic growth that could not be contained.
Henry, still on his haunches before her, stared. She hoped he was man enough to accept the challenge.
She pulled the gusset of her knickers to one side, showing him her tangled bush and the thick wet lips with obvious need. Felicity's was a big hairy cunt - a mature woman's organ that had once gorged on youthful thrills, had given birth three times and had fasted ever since. Now it had a powerful hunger.
Henry shuffled forward and placed his hands on her thighs. He regarded her shyly from under long, girlish eyelashes. He looked about ten years old. But the distended penis that swung up from his loins was not that of a boy. The shaft was long and broad and, praise be, as firm as before she'd taken him between her lips. Her fingers closed round it as his mouth descended on hers and they kissed.
Oh, he tasted good! And he felt good, too, as she hugged him in her arms. A hand delved between her legs to explore the juicy purse of her pussy and, God, that felt fantastic!
Then Henry was all over her, tugging her shirt out of her waist, unclipping her bra and - bliss - crushing her bare breasts to his chest. His fingers were in her crotch, stroking and fondling her labia and rimming her hole and teasing the skin near her aching, needful clit.
She tugged on his cock, muttering, 'Put it in, put it in!' but he wouldn't and just teased and tweaked and pinched her intimate flesh till she was trembling on the brink of that feeling once so familiar and now so foreign to her—
'Oh!' she sighed as his finger circled her clit and 'Ohhh!' as he rubbed the fat head of his penis up and down her gaping crack and 'OHHH!' as he thrust his cock inside her long-neglected cunt, sending her moaning and sobbing over the edge on a wave of ecstasy that drove all the hurt and anger and self-pity from her mind.
It was the best tennis lesson she had ever had.
By the time Lucia arrived that afternoon, Percy was riding a streak of inspiration. Max - his hero - had seduced a big-chested blonde with freckles, Simone, in a changing cabin at the back of the crowded riviera beach, ripping her bikini off and sitting her on his rearing cock as he leaned against the wooden door for support.
Percy had imagined what it would be like to circle Philippa's small waist with his big hands and then described Max plunging such a woman up and down on his penis, her swollen breasts rubbing against his chest and her hot little mouth on his as they tried to keep the lid on their moans of lust. But that had proved impossible for Max and Simone and as she came for the third or fourth time, shrieking out in ecstasy, someone yanked open the cabin door and the pair of them tumbled nude into a crowd of onlookers.
Percy barely looked up as Felicity came by, her hair wild and her face flushed from her tennis lesson.
'I say, well done, Percy,' she said as she took in his industry. 'You might as well crack on with it. The girls can supervise the kids at lunch. I'll get one of them to bring you a sandwich.'
'And a beer,' said Percy hopefully.
'Righto,' she said and strode off. It was the first pleasant interchange he'd had with his wife for days.
He turned back to the page before him and decided to have Max straddle Simone's chest and place his straining penis between her heaving freckled melons.
He was barely conscious of the moment when Lucia took her seat beside him but when he looked up he found the Italian's dark and soulful eyes fixed upon him.
''Ello, Signor Percy. You work 'ard.' She smiled, revealing her brilliant white teeth. She too was a small girl but there the resemblance to Philippa ended. She was olive-skinned and slender, with a straight nose and lustrous black hair that fell to her shoulders. She wore a collection of bracelets on her wrists that rattled as she moved and long dangling silver earrings that tinkled when she turned her head. Her tiny feet were in white leather sandals with heels that rapped loudly on the flags of the terrace and when she spoke in Italian the sound was like a volley of machine-gun fire. All in all, her presence could not be overlooked and, so far, this constant noise had been distracting to the writer.
His cock had also found her distracting. Though she wore many more clothes then Philippa, her body, in its own way, had as powerful an effect. The eyes and the lips spoke of untold exotic pleasures for a lover. The little hands changed the dressing on his ankle with a lingering sensuality - as if they were reluctant to leave his flesh. She would often lay a small cool palm on his brow and gaze at him with tender concern, as if she were checking the temperature of an ailing infant. But her touch was more than motherly.
Her garments concealed her body like veils around an exotic dancer. She wore layers of clothing, open shirts over tiny vests, gauzy hanging scarves, thin wispy things that somehow placed emphasis on the unfettered curves of flesh beneath. Percy had often fancied he could see the shadows of her nipples through the flowing material. She wore no bra, he was certain of that from the way her flesh shifted, and her last layer always seemed to be white and thin, revealing the dark smudges beneath.
Now she laid a hand on his bare knee, the fingers just touching the flesh on the inside of his thigh. It was a typically intimate gesture.
'You 'ave money?' she said.
Percy remembered what Brendan had said. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of blue notes. She took them from him and counted them. Then they disappeared into her clothing, conjured away by those magic fingers.
'Come,' she said, taking hold of his arm with one hand and picking up his stick with the other. 'We walk.'
Percy wanted to protest. It was still difficult moving around and he saved his energies for hobbling to the loo and getting up to his room. But Lucia was tugging him to his feet and, remarkably for such a small woman, bearing his weight as she urged him forward.
They didn't go far, just along the walkway and behind a wicker screen which took them down the side of the hotel building. Chairs and tables wer
e piled up here - it seemed this part of the terrace was not in use. Lucia pulled a sun-lounger with an adjustable back from behind a stack of chairs and tugged it into the open. She indicated that Percy was to lie back on it. He did so, gratefully taking the weight off his injured foot while she fussed around him. Then she perched on the side of the recliner, her hip pressing companionably into his.
'Is OK?' she asked.
He looked over her shoulder. To the left were the gorse and scrub-packed slopes of the nearby hills, to the right was the bay where a vermilion sea twinkled beneath a cloudless sky.
'Is very OK,' he said.
'Bene,' she said and kissed him.
It was an exotic foreign kiss. It tasted of espresso and tobacco and hinted at devilish sensual pleasures he had never before tasted. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.
'Ooh, Signor Percy,' she whispered in his ear and bit the lobe.
'Ow!' he cried. It was like being stung by a wasp. She laughed, a low husky chuckle, and pulled away from him.
To his astonishment he found himself staring at her naked breasts. Somehow she had rearranged her clothing to unveil high shallow bowls of flesh which curved upwards to coal-black points. She took his hand and led it to her bosom, her bottomless brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
His hand shook as he felt her. The small rounds seemed to swell and leap at his touch, the nipples long, ridged and hard against his palm.
'Bella, bella,' he muttered, cursing his ignorance of Italian. 'You are beautiful, exquisite—'
'Ssh,' she said and offered her teats to his lips, holding back her shirt so he could explore her thoroughly with hands and lips. As he did so, a little bit of his brain said, Make notes in your head: You can use this in your book!
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