by Noel Amos
Afterwards they lay in a sticky heap for a long time. Then she squirmed around on top of him to plant a wet kiss on his lips. He held her tight, a silly grin on his face - and his impossible erection still burning a hole in the silky soft skin of her belly.
Chapter 25
Joyce Gosling paged half-heartedly through the TV Times, already aware that there was nothing on the box she wanted to watch. She could ring Aunty Doris but the old duck was probably in bed already. She could have a nice long bath, wash her hair and paint her toenails - if Amanda hadn't already taken up residence in the bathroom. She'd read the paper, done the easy crossword and she'd made the casserole and crumble for tomorrow's lunch. She was buggered if she was going to clean anything at this time of night. Ray was out till God knows when - till the pubs closed at least. There wasn't anything for her to do.
What she'd really like, she decided, was some big strapping fellow to turn up unannounced, with a bottle of champagne under one arm and an enormous box of chocolates in the other. A few drinks, a few laughs and then off with her knickers and out with his big tool and they'd spend the night happily rogering. Sod the crumbles and the casseroles, some energetic screwing was the kind of entertainment she fancied. She hadn't been properly ploughed since Christmas Eve and that was only because she hadn't let Ray at the brandy till he'd done his duty.
The front door bing-bonged. Joyce's dreams were about to come true.
As she opened the door a bronzed and bearded shape lunged into the hall and threw both arms around her, grasping her well-upholstered form with the familiarity born of long acquaintance. 'Danny Fretwork!' she shouted in amazement. 'How the bloody hell did you get here?'
'Plane to Heathrow, tube to Woodford. No problem, my darling.'
'You just waltzed in?'
'A beard and a false passport, that's all it took. Stupid sods. You'll have to help me get the fuzz off, Joyce. I stuck it on in a hurry.'
He threw his shoulder bag down on the floor and marched into the front room, tugging her behind him by the hand.
'God, it's good to be back in England. I tell you, too much lying in the sun drinking cheap brandy makes your brain rot.'
'But Danny, if they catch you, you won't be so keen on merry England. Why have you come back?'
'Because there's some things a man has to sort out for himself.'
'It's Patsy, isn't it?'
'Precisely,' he growled, the smile gone from his face. 'I just need a few words with my darling wife and then I shall be off and out of it. But—' and here his expression lit up and he held his arms out once more to Joyce '—let's not worry about that tonight. Where's Ray?'
'At the pub.'
'So he won't be back for a bit?'
'If Ray returned before closing time they'd have run out of beer.'
'Great.' Danny had Joyce firmly in his bear-like embrace, one hand around her waist, the other unbuttoning her housecoat at the point where it ballooned generously over her chest.
'Danny,' she protested, 'layoff.'
'Come now, Joyce, you wouldn't deny a starving man.' The coat was open to the waist now, partially revealing a capacious bosom encased in a vast straining white bra.
'Starving? What are you on about? Don't tell me they've run short of senoritas out in Spain.'
'It's not the same thing, my darling. There's no substitute for English cunt in England and you are much better than that. You are Essex cunt, right here in Essex and that makes you number one in my book.'
Throughout this elaborate tribute to her charms, Danny had been at work stripping the feebly protesting Joyce down to her scanties. He slipped the straps of her bra over her dimpled shoulders. She made another attempt to push him off, holding one arm firmly across her chest.
'Come on, Joyce, don't be a spoilsport. Let's get those marvellous knockers of yours out in the open. You don't know how often I've longed to lay my face between them throughout those lonely months of exile.'
'Bullshit,' she replied. Nevertheless she lifted her arm, allowing him to peel the stiff white material from the ends of her creamy cones of flesh. Her massive breasts came free, springing into the room like great white footballs.
For a woman of her maturity Joyce's bosom was indeed magnificent, with just a little sag and spread which, to many an appreciative eye, only added to its character. And Danny's eye was indeed appreciative.
He grasped a big tit in each hand and pressed his face into the beckoning valley between, muttering as he did so, 'England!' Joyce tenderly stroked the back of his head; she was easily moved by a show of patriotic sentiment.
At that moment there came a thump on the ceiling and the sound of a high-pitched female voice yelling, 'Oh shit!'
Danny jerked his head back. 'Who's up there? I thought we were alone.'
'Blimey, it's Amanda. She's having a bath. I forgot all about her.'
'Amanda!' Danny's face creased into an enormous grin. 'I must just pop upstairs and say hello.'
'Danny, she's in the bath.'
'So? She won't mind. Meanwhile, why don't you rustle me up a little snack. Some proper English grub - egg and chips. And a bottle of beer. Perhaps we could have it upstairs, in the bedroom.'
'Danny Fretwork, you are wicked.'
'That, my darling, is my reputation!' And with a final squeeze of her dangling glories he slipped out of the door.
To be precise, Amanda Gosling wasn't exactly in the bath. She stood in the cramped and steamy bathroom with one towel wrapped around her still-damp curves and another wound into a turban around her wet hair. She screamed as Danny's hulking form burst into the tiny space but her cry soon turned to a girlish shriek of pleasure as she recognised him.
'Uncle Danny!' she squealed and flung her arms around his neck with predictable consequences. The ends of her towel around her middle burst apart and it slithered to the floor, leaving her naked in his arms. Danny clasped the moist nymph to him with fervour, his hands on the full rounds of her pert bottom.
'Amanda, my sweetheart,' he breathed into her exquisite pink ear, 'I've missed you.'
'I've missed you, too,' she replied, 'life hasn't been half so much fun since you done a runner.'
'You've missed the pocket money, more like.'
She didn't reply to that, instead she slipped her naughty little tongue into his mouth and rubbed her delicious front against his shirt. He could feel the warm dampness of her through the thin cotton.
'Let's have a look at you,' he said at last, holding her away from him. 'I want to see how you've changed.'
'You're just a dirty old man,' she replied but she took a pace back and pirouetted daintily in front of him. Not that 'dainty' was a word that sprang to Danny Fretwork's mind as he gazed at her. Amanda was a youthful version of her mother, with the long legs and flared hips of a showgirl and big high breasts that seemed to defy gravity. Danny stared in admiration at the swaying tits and rounded belly and the neat thicket of black hair at the crest of her split.
'My, Amanda, you've grown into quite a big little girl, haven't you?'
'You bet. It's been a while since I was little in any way at all, as you well know, uncle.'
Danny pulled her soft body into his arms, slipping one hand down the dimpled curve of her stomach to the inviting bush between her legs. For a moment she held her thighs pressed tightly together, denying him access.
'I can still use pocket money, however.'
'Of course.' They both laughed and she opened her legs to him, his thick index finger sliding straight into her wet hole. It slicked in and out, making a rude sticky sound.
'Ooh, yes,' she said and pulled his head down to her bosom to push one stiff raspberry of a nipple into his hungry mouth.
'Danny,' Joyce's voice rang out from downstairs, 'do you want beans and tomatoes with your egg and chips?'
Amanda replied for him. 'Bung the lot on, mum, he'll need to keep his strength up.'
Danny said nothing, being occupied with other things.
&nbs
p; It was great to be back.
Chapter 26
Placido was now a happy man. He had stopped listening to the demon inside his head which told him it wasn't right to be lying in Signor Fretwork's comfortable double bed with his arms wrapped around the sleeping form of his master's woman. He reckoned that he had earned at least one night of bliss after the trials of the day. The agony of Fun-Fun Beach still burned in his memory but was superseded by the glow of satisfaction that came from later events. Bringing Beverly home, washing the sand and semen from the nooks and crannies of her abused body, tending her cuts and bruises, fetching her mugs of strange English tea - these things had been a pleasure and not a chore. And when she had sleepily held out her arms to him and pulled him down beside her into the bed he had felt it was no less than his due.
And the way she had loved him! Without a trace of the whore he had seen in action on the beach and by the pool, but hotly and passionately nonetheless. Worshipping his body, cradling his big tool in the warm and wonderful tunnel between her legs until he had fountained all of his dammed-up lust deep within her. And then holding him there long after, reluctant to let him go.
Now she slept in his embrace, her head on the hair of his chest, her face as unlined and peaceful as an infant's. Placido did not know whether it was true what she said, that Signor Fretwork would not be back, and the implications of that were beyond him. However, he resolved to keep Beverly with him as long as he could, to protect her and love her and curb her excesses as his employer would surely wish. And if his reward was that he might spend the night in her bed, surely it was better than that she should be frolicking with hooligans like those German boys.
A bolt of anger consumed him. Those Germans! It gave him great satisfaction that he had taken their woman - both women in fact - for Marlene had accompanied them back to the villa. She lay asleep in Placido's own bed, a few doors away. Placido had felt it his duty to bring her with them when she had asked. Her companions were barbarians. It would not be right to leave a young girl in their company. At least here he could ensure that she absorbed something of the real Spain. He would make sure she saw things far removed from pot-smoking and nude bathing and other imported uncivilised activities. Tomorrow he would ask Emilio to take her into the village for the holy day. They were dropping a goat from the church tower. That should show her something of real culture.
The two women were on the sofa side by side. The gin had long gone but the lack of male company was still keenly felt. Despite the efficiency of the vibrator and its pleasing size it was no substitute for the real thing.
Sophie and Patsy had traded war stories of bedroom battles both honourable and dishonourable, of lovers past and lovers yearned for. And though laughter had been the keynote and the shortcomings of the male sex had frequently been the point of the stories, nevertheless the absence of a cock - two, at least, said Patsy - was palpable and the buzzing jumping machine in their untutored hands just didn't seem to do the trick.
'Oh shit,' said Patsy, as she clumsily sawed the big beast between the tender lips of her aching pussy, searching once more for the soul-stirring orgasm that was eluding her. 'I just can't handle this thing.'
'Then let me show you,' said a voice from the doorway and the overhead light snapped on, cruelly illuminating the chaos of the room and the embarrassingly intimate tangle of bodies on the sofa.
Pandora Britches had returned, a broad grin on her predatory face. She did not exude an air of content. She swiftly divested herself of her jacket and threw herself to her knees between their squirming legs.
'No,' she said in answer to Patsy's feeble enquiry about her dinner date, 'I did not have a successful evening. I've been insulted and abandoned but I'm delighted to see that you two are in a position to make me feel a whole lot better.'
'For God's sake,' cried Sophie as Pandora thrust a hand between her legs and rudely fingered her slippery slit. But it was an empty protest for the touch was instantly pleasurable and she knew that she would submit to whatever was required to keep this formidable woman sweet. Pandora's other hand had taken charge of the vibrator and Sophie saw at once from Patsy's astonished expression that Pandy knew just how to use it.
The journalist looked down with satisfaction on the two women spread out in front of her, their bare legs scissoring open and closed in obscene harmony as she expertly steered them both to orgasm.
Candida Kensington's face was contorted with concentration. It always was when she sketched this quickly. Not that she really needed to rush for there was no sign that Billy's remarkable hard-on would ever subside. Nevertheless she hurried, for she felt the urge building within her loins once more. She had to have it again and that would make... God, she couldn't remember. They had been at it for hours and still the organ between his legs stood as proud and noble as ever.
She crouched in the vee of his thighs, her pencil flying across the paper. This was going to be good. One of her best. And there were many that were very good indeed among her collection. Of course, the model helped. How could she fail when faced with such a beautiful subject: snowy white skin, strong broad column, ruby red cap, a solitary blue vein pulsing - she stopped for a moment and leaned forward to suck between her lips the plump head of his pole. She couldn't resist.
She looked up at Billy's face. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. But how could he be with this formidable monument to her charms rearing up from his belly? This was turning into one of the most marvellous nights of her life. How could she ever thank him?
She supposed she could reconsider the matter of the Poor Pussy Gala. It's true there was room for this Tracy woman to do her act. It might be fun. She supposed it would keep some of the men interested. After all, the point of it was to get everyone to enjoy themselves and consequently cough up as much money as possible. If Tracy finished off the first half it would make a nice contrast with the Marian Mucus corps de ballet and send everybody off to the bar in a more upbeat mood. Yes, that might work.
She laid down her pencil. She could always do some more work later but right now she felt she deserved a little play. She reached out and took the stiff shaft in front of her in her hand...
Ray Gosling knew he had been hitting the bottle hard. Now he had obviously got to the point where he needed help. If he had to go to the clinic and dry out, so help him he'd go.
He stood in the kitchen, leaning on the sink to stop his whole body shaking. It had to be the DTs. He couldn't really have seen what he had thought he had seen. It was funny, though, how realistic the vision had seemed to be. Funny, too, the way it had gone on and on rather than just flashing in and out of his befuddled brain. But dreams were like that, weren't they? Only he'd had this one when he was awake and not asleep.
Up in the bedroom, on his bed, the sight of Joyce, stark naked, riding on a man's face, her quim pressed into his mouth, his tongue licking upwards, clearly seen between the dark wet curls on her mound, flicking between the elongated flaps of her pussy, delving upwards to the top of her crack to worm and tickle around the bright red nub of her clitoris. That had been so vivid!
And to see his daughter, Amanda, facing Joyce, bouncing up and down on the man's cock, that had been just as real. The way her mouth was all slack and her eyes closed and her panting like that as if she was on the downslope of a shattering orgasm, her young tits jumping up and down opposite Joyce's great big slack ones that writhed and rippled in their turn. And the man beneath them: large, hairy and strong, his cock just glimpsed as Amanda rose up and down, squirming on the big fat shaft as if she were completely out of control.
And then the last bit, the thing that had sent him running downstairs into the kitchen to recover, when the man had lifted Joyce off his head, his big meaty hands disappearing into the soft flesh of her bum, raising her solid arse-cheeks to reveal the grinning face of a bearded Danny Fretwork. It was too much. It was some kind of nightmare warning that said to him very loudly, 'Stop drinking.'
At that mo
ment a large hairy hand descended on his shoulder and Ray jerked upright to find himself in the bearlike embrace of his former employer and colleague - Danny Fretwork, as naked as a newborn baby, his thick cock dangling wetly between his monumental thighs.
'Ray, my man,' said this awful vision, 'I'm back. Have you missed me?'
Three - All Tied Up
Chapter 27
'Do you know,' said Patsy as she dreamily placed a soapy mug on the tiny draining board of the kitchen galley, 'that a woman can have a hundred and thirty-four orgasms in one session? Well, maybe not every woman but one woman did. Under research conditions too - it's a scientific fact.'
'Are you all right?' said Sophie, dabbing a damp tea-towel over some cutlery.
The two of them stood side by side in the cramped quarters on board a Thames cabin cruiser called, in honour of the tousled form by Sophie's side, Princess Patsy. Technically it was owned by Patsy but the money that had paid for it, some years earlier needless to say, had been plonked down in cold cash by her once-loving husband. Over the course of an exhausting weekend the three women had moved it from its moorings a mile upstream to its current berth owned by the Blizzard's proprietor, who also happened to be Pandora's uncle. On the bank a strategically placed police team kept look-out. Short of submarine, there was no approach to the boat that was unobserved.