by Noel Amos
'You see,' he said triumphantly, jamming his thumb up her back passage and thrusting his fingers simultaneously into her pussy hole, 'you love it, don't you. If I keep this up you're going to come, aren't you?'
She didn't reply but moaned wordlessly, her hips now bucking in time to his thrusts, her arse and cunt eagerly eating up the fierce fingering. Suddenly he stood up, lifting her with him and threw her face down on a nearby sun-bed. She flopped down like a doll, her big breasts splaying out from under her body, her legs spread to reveal her pink wet quim, her bum cheeks still raw and flaming from the spanking. Danny eyed her with a predatory gleam in his eye. He knew she loved his animal brand of fucking.
'Kneel up,' he commanded. 'Stick your arse out so I can see where I'm going to put my dick.'
She obeyed at once, pulling her knees under her and thrusting her bum out obscenely. Without being asked, she reached round with both hands and spread apart her cheeks, revealing every delectable millimetre of her hairless crack, from the distended eye of her pretty pink anus down to the splayed purse of her quim. Danny smoothed oil into his rock-hard organ. He had her well-trained, there was no doubt about that.
Then he was up her. His thick prong charging straight up her bumhole with no finesse, no civilities, just brute strength. A loud groan rang from her prone body as she took his weight and her slender frame rippled beneath him as he sawed in and out of her bottom, stuffing his fat organ up her rear tunnel with the energy of a sprinter. But this sprinter was determined to make the race last, he was out to extract every nuance of pleasure from the delicious body bent beneath him.
His stomach slapped against her quivering bum flesh as he bulled into her. He had both arms around her now, massaging and mauling a big soft tit in each of his massive hands. Little mewing noises were coming from her mouth as he prodded and pounded. He knew that she now had a hand between her legs, playing with her pussy lips and stroking the hard nub of flesh at the top of her slit as she sought her own satisfaction before he finished. The thought that she was wanking away beneath him while he fucked her arse sent an electric thrill through his body and he prodded and delved and pinched and smacked away at her wanton flesh on the verge of delirium.
And then he came, his energy redoubling in unbelievable fury, as he pumped, pumped, pumped and finally exploded deep inside her glorious bum.
For a moment he lay on top of her, a dead weight, panting his breath into her ear like a dog. Then he was on his feet leaving Beverly in a bruised and crumpled heap.
A slim Spaniard in a white coat was standing by the patio door, a tray of food in his hands. It was possible he had been there some time. Danny strode past him, his fat dick now dangling damply between his thighs, a big grin on his face.
'Placido,' he said, 'bring me a sandwich upstairs. And then get the car out, we're going to the airport.'
'Yes sir,' said Placido subserviently. But his coal-black eyes were not on his employer, they were focused on the still undulating thighs of his mistress and on the thick white slick of spunk that was oozing from between the cheeks of her rosy bottom.
Chapter 16
Candy Kensington lived in a mansion in St John's Wood. It was extravagantly furnished with high quality antiques: Hepplewhite chairs and Chippendale tables, chiffonniers and armoires and bijoux writing desks and ornate gilt mirrors, lush brocaded curtains swagged and rouched, exquisite little watercolours and vast lowering oils of stormy seas and Venetian canals and shepherdesses. Cabinets bulged with crystal glasses and Chinese porcelain; bouquets of flowers, exquisitely arranged in oriental vases, filled the vast drawing-room with the fragrance of high summer. It occurred to Billy that, outside of a museum, he had never been in the presence of so much ostentatious wealth.
Candida Kensington herself was no less extravagantly turned out. Her cream summer suit was by Chanel, her snakeskin high heels were by Jourdain, her wristwatch was by Cartier - and Billy longed to discover who had designed her underwear.
Her features were animated. She smiled and laughed a lot, flashing small white teeth from long curling lips and her oval face frequently dimpling into a grin. Her big brown eyes never left his face, indicating some kind of urgent interest in him. Candy was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen yet there was something about her which made him positively drool with desire.
Billy shamelessly ogled her slim tanned legs, which crossed and uncrossed in a faint fleshy whisper as she sat by his side on the vast chesterfield. He shifted uncomfortably, a plate of sandwiches concealing the kind of erection that had made last night's sojourn beneath Tracy's bed seem such agony. How could this be after an energetic night spent tussling with a voracious sexpot? It was a mystery to him why his sex urge had returned so conclusively. But the moment he had set eyes on the elegant society queen his carnal impulses had come flooding back, threatening to overwhelm him. He hoped he would not come in his pants.
He found it hard to take in what Candy was saying.
He gazed with longing at her slender, finely manicured fingers as they raised a thin sandwich to her mouth and marvelled at her as she ate: the way her perfect glistening teeth crunched neatly into the bread, the exquisite manner in which her lips moved as she masticated and the sweet bob of her Adam's apple as she swallowed. He pictured those delicate fingers paddling through his chest hair, walking down his body to take a firm grip on his painful shaft. He couldn't help but imagine her bending that slender neck and taking the ripe red plum of his glans between those wickedly curling lips and nibbling it, grazing it with those tiny teeth - this was crazy! He had come here to undertake some cunning diplomacy and all he could think of was this rich bitch chewing on his cock!
He forced himself to make some kind of conversation. 'Do you have cats yourself?' he asked. There was certainly no sign of them if she did.
'Oh no,' she said. 'Unfortunately my home, as you can see, has far too many unsuitable objects in it and so it wouldn't be fair to keep any pets. It's a terrible shame but living with valuable things is such a burden and cramps one's life in so many ways.'
Billy really did not know what to say to that. He sat mesmerised as she crossed her legs once more. They were bare. He imagined kneeling at her feet and running his hands from her slender ankles, up her firm calves and then beneath the hem of her skirt - was she wearing panties? he wondered. Would the hair of her bush match the deep chestnut of her head? Perhaps she would have no hair down there at all, just a naked sex-mouth, as moist and succulent as a slice of ripe honeydew melon. And he could bury his head between her thighs, close his hungry lips over hers and suck the sweet juice that flowed from her very core...
He tried to concentrate on Candy and what she was now saying. It seemed she ran charity organisations for all sorts of species. Abandoned gerbils apparently were in need of special care and she was trying to reintroduce red squirrels into NW8. Billy decided that, whatever her other attractions, this woman was literally crazy about small furry mammals.
'Let's talk about your pussy,' he heard himself say.
'I'm sorry?'
'I mean, Poor Pussy,' he corrected himself, 'the Gala concert.'
'Of course, but do you mind if we do it upstairs while we're working?'
'No—' Billy was puzzled, but he'd go upstairs with this woman any time, in fact the sooner the better.
She preceded him up flights of stairs with fine mahogany banisters and glistening brass carpet rails and along hallways hung with more paintings, which became less conventional and more contemporary in execution the higher they climbed. Billy hardly noticed a thing, his eyes glued to the graceful form ahead of him and in particular at the purposeful swivel of her buttocks as she ascended.
She lead him into a room that was obviously used as a studio. Sunlight flooded in from the high windows. Drawings and paintings littered the room, from large canvases to small pencil sketches pinned haphazardly to the wall. All the artwork contained the same subject matter - the male nude.
In a flas
h of insight Billy knew what Candy was going to say before she said it. For the second time that day a desirable woman was going to ask him to undress. She did have the grace, however, to be rather more diplomatic than Katie Crisp.
'Billy, I hope you won't mind just slipping out of your things and standing over there.'
Billy stared at her boggle-eyed, his cock so huge in his trousers that it seemed it might almost leap out of its own accord. This was going to be horribly embarrassing.
'You see, Billy, I've been searching and searching for just the right model to complete my programme design and I have a hunch that, with you, my search is over.'
Somehow he found himself removing his jacket. 'What programme?'
'For the Poor Pussy Gala. I'm designing the programme myself. It has a centre piece of an adorable kitten lying on a cushion and below are the twin muses of comedy and tragedy, male and female figures, bearing the theatrical masks. Look, you can see it here.'
Billy studied the sheets of paper on her slanted drawing table and could indeed see many workings of the design she was describing. The kitten was of a chocolate-box nature with a cute little bandage over one ear indicating, doubtless, that it had been rescued. A slim female figure reclined on the right-hand side of the drawing, arms held aloft towards the cat, offering up the mask of tragedy. The figure was nude, with long slender flanks, narrow loins and pouting pear-shaped breasts. The face had almond eyes and curling lips. Billy recognised it at once.
'A self-portrait? It's the lips and the eyes, they are very distinctive.'
'Naughty boy,' she replied, batting her eyelashes at him. 'There's no other way you could spot me, is there? At least, not on such a brief acquaintance.'
By now Billy was down to just his trousers. He hopped up onto the small dais. Maybe he could get away with exposing himself just this far. But no.
'Oh, Billy,' she said at once, 'I think you'll have to take your trousers off. I'm awfully sorry but I couldn't get the proper lines of your body otherwise. You can, of course, leave your underpants on.'
Billy knew that such a fig leaf would hardly be adequate. Nevertheless he stepped out of his trousers and turned to face her.
He could swear she gulped. Certainly her eyes seemed to pop as she took in the extraordinary bulge in his skintight bikini briefs. His cock was lodged sideways and so its length was barely contained within the thin white cotton. He knew very well he might just as well have been naked. Every bulge and ridge of his magnificent tumescence was revealed to her thirsty gaze.
'My,' she said, 'you're just what I'm looking for. If you could place your left hand on your hip and hold your other arm up - yes, that's lovely.' And she began to draw.
The atmosphere in the room was pregnant with possibilities. The silence grew heavy, broken only by the scratch of her pen on paper and, to Billy's ears, the beat of his own heart which pounded in his chest like a drum. He could swear that his cock was twitching in tempo inside the tight confines of his briefs.
'About the Gala,' he said hesitantly, 'Imogen was telling me who was on the bill.'
She didn't reply but continued to sketch, staring at him intently.
'I must say,' Billy blundered on, 'it's a most impressive gathering, though I'm a little surprised at one or two omissions.'
'Oh yes,' she said.
'I mean for such a popular cause I thought you might be aiming at a rather broader audience. You know, have someone younger, just to keep up with the trends.'
'Like who?' she asked. Her attention now well and truly caught.
'Well, I know that Imogen has an exciting new singer on her books...'
'Who's that?'
'She's called Tracy Pert. She's just made her first record.'
'I don't think I've heard of her. Of course I'm not really up on who's in and who's out on the pop scene.'
'Tracy's very popular. Imogen has high hopes for her.'
'Have you seen her perform?'
'Yes, I have. Sort of. She's a friend of mine.'
'Tracy Pert,' Candy repeated to herself. 'Wait a minute. She's that pin-up girl, isn't she?'
'Yes, she's really very talented.'
'Good God.' The lead in Candy's pencil broke with a loud crack. 'And she's a friend of yours, is she?'
'Er, yes.'
'And I suppose she's the reason you're standing there with that silly look on your face and your penis half out of your pants.' Suddenly Candy was spitting blood. She was out of her chair and throwing Billy's clothes in his direction, her eyes blazing and the red flush of anger in her cheeks.
'You can cover up your equipment right now, Mr Dazzle, and then you can clear off. I tell you categorically that no lowlife slum child with elephantiasis of the mammaries is going to ruin my evening of classical entertainment. Got that?'
Chapter 17
In the dining-room of Emmeline's, Pandora Britches' club, Pandy and Sophie shared a secluded corner banquette. It was an elegant room full of light though not of people. Which suited both parties.
The two women sized one another up. Pandora wore a crisp blue shirt and designer jeans, her hair pinned back in a wooden barrette and she observed Sophie through scarlet-framed spectacles that obscured half her face. She appeared purposeful and efficient, in contrast to Sophie who looked as if she had dressed in a hurry. Her auburn curls billowed untidily around her shoulders and the black lycra mini-dress, which showed off every sumptuous curve of her voluptuous body, was distinctly inappropriate in the asexual surroundings of the most aggressive women's club in London. Sophie oozed sex. The effect was entirely intentional.
'You're not exactly how I pictured you,' said Pandora, 'I expected someone rather more... well, rather less attractive.'
'Same here,' said Sophie. 'I thought you'd be dressed in tweeds. I've read some of your revues in The Rag you come over as a hardline feminist dyke.'
'Well, I've got to trim my copy to the readership. I also write for the Blizzard, don't forget.'
'How could I? That's why we're here. Where's Mrs Fretwork?'
'Patsy won't be joining us. I'm sure you understand.'
'Not exactly. It's her I want to talk to.'
'She can't go out while this big serial is going on. We can't have any of our rivals getting wind of her. They're beasts. They'd spoil anything, given the chance.'
'So where is she?'
'Somewhere secret.'
'Safe from her husband?'
'He's no problem, he's in Spain.'
'He can hardly be unaware of what she's saying about him every day in the Blizzard. He won't be happy.'
'So you think he might come after her? And that's why you're so interested.'
'Exactly. Of course, Danny also has many associates still active here. Apart from keeping Mrs Fretwork out of sight, I hope you are taking steps to ensure her safety.'
Pandora took a long sip of her mineral water and said, 'You're not offering police protection, by any chance?'
'Well, if you could put up with me for a bit...'
'You?'
'You thought I meant a couple of strapping male detectives, I suppose. No chance. It's me or nothing. I can assure you I can be very effective if it comes to the rough stuff. I've been trained. I also have other methods of enforcement.'
'I'm sure you do.'
'I'd keep out of the way, if that's what's bothering you.'
'I'm not sure that I'd want you to, you're far too attractive.' And she put her hand on Sophie's thigh beneath the tablecloth. Sophie did not attempt to remove it.
A waitress appeared and set a plate of crudités in front of them.
'Bring us a bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal,' ordered Pandora.
Sophie's eyebrows rose a notch.
'Don't worry, sergeant, I don't expect the Metropolitan Police to foot the bill. Or don't you drink while you're on duty?' Pandy was enjoying herself. Her hand was by now quite at home on Sophie's right thigh, roaming over the firm bare flesh, probing and squeezing as pruriently a
s any male suitor about to effect a boozy seduction.
'Actually,' said Sophie, eagerly raising the flute of pink sparkling liquid to her mouth, 'I only say no when I'm in uniform.'
'I should like to see you in uniform,' said Pandora, taking the hem of Sophie's skirt and slowly raising it upwards to her waist. The journalist studied the exquisite picture thus revealed, of creamy white thigh flesh and gently curving belly barely concealed by black lace panties. The bulging mound of Sophie's bush was clearly delineated beneath the thin material.
'I've always wanted to look at a policewoman's cunt,' she said.
Sophie returned her gaze. She was obviously being tested. 'You mean, in a public place? Like the dining-room of a club dedicated to the memory of women's suffrage?'
'Quite,' said Pandora, letting go of her skirt, leaving it bunched around Sophie's waist.
'It looks like your lucky day, doesn't it?' said Sophie, pulling the gusset of her panties to one side and exposing a thatch of auburn pussy curls and the long crinkly lips of her pink quim. She held her other hand to Pandora's lips and pushed two fingers into her mouth. 'Lick them,' she ordered, 'make them nice and wet.'
Sophie lowered the moistened digits to her cunt and slipped them inside herself, pushing obscenely in and out, then sliding them to the top of her crack, splaying them in a vee, revealing her long erect clit to Pandy's eager gaze. The ripe smell of pussy rose in the air. Pandy sniffed it in eagerly.
'You're a little saucebox, aren't you? You must want to see Patsy Fretwork very badly.'
'I want to see her husband very badly,' said Sophie, continuing to play with her clit, the colour rising in her cheeks, her breath already beginning to shorten.
Pandy removed her spectacles, then slipped to her knees beneath the table and positioned herself between Sophie's open legs.
'Won't someone notice?' said Sophie. 'Or doesn't anybody care what you do in a place like this?'
But there was no reply from Pandy. Her mouth was otherwise engaged.