by Noel Amos
Sophie might have protested but the touch of Betsy's fingers on her temples froze the words in her throat. They made circles on the skin on either side of her head, pressing gently and skilfully, banishing the tension in her forehead. Now, from her position seated behind her, Betsy moved her hands to Sophie's neck, relaxing her then titillating her nerve ends as she slid her fingers over her skin, pushing down to the base of her throat and sliding her hands beneath the thin cotton of her blouse onto the upper slopes of her breasts.
'Oh!' cried Sophie as Betsy's fingers reached her nipples. 'Oh yes!'
'Relax, Sophie,' said Betsy, leaning forward so her hair hung in a yellow sheaf over Sophie's face while her hands grasped the fullness of Sophie's big tits.
'Oh!' screamed Sophie again as the magic of Betsy's touch washed over her. 'Ohh!'
Betsy lowered her head and fastened her lips over the open mouth beneath. Sophie reached up through the golden curtain and gripped Betsy around the neck, locking them into a long and passionate upside-down kiss.
By now the car was off the main road, Arnold considering it prudent to take to the lonely lanes. He looked down with longing at the heaving loins of his passenger, the skirt riding high on widespread thighs to reveal a thin strip of white panty at her crotch.
He slowed the car so he could give more attention to the action beside him. The kiss still endured and Betsy had stripped open Sophie's blouse to reveal a sumptuous pair of creamy titties lolling half out of a lacy white brassiere. As Arnold sneaked glances to the side he saw Betsy's hand reach further, over the bunched skirt and under the band of Sophie's tiny panties. The long thighs snapped shut on the questing fingers and then sprang open again as Sophie thrust her pelvis up off the seat to try and capture as much flesh as she could in her hungry snatch.
Arnold pulled the car off the road into a wooded layby.
Betsy pushed the flimsy panties to one side revealing two fingers already sunk to the knuckle inside Sophie's long-lipped quim. Arnold shifted uneasily in his seat and unfastened his seat belt.
'What are you doing, Arnold?' said Betsy. 'I thought I might be able to help.'
'I bet you did. Well, you're not needed.' Betsy's fingers were still working in Sophie's spread pussy, jabbing into her in a steady rhythm that was being answered by Sophie's upward thrusts.
'I think she wants a man, Betsy.'
'Don't be stupid. Stick that big thing of yours in her and you'll be up on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon. Now drive on.'
A bemused Sophie, her senses tingling as she teetered on the edge of orgasm, half-heard this exchange. Only one thing was clear to her, a cock was on offer and, if that was so, then she wanted it.
'Yes,' she said feebly, 'give me that big thing. Stick it up me, please!'
But Arnold didn't hear as he gunned the motor and Betsy had other ideas. With her free hand she had managed to rearrange her own clothing and now, as the car resumed its journey, she insinuated her long body along Sophie's to bring her mouth to the spot where her hand was working so energetically.
For Sophie the yellow screen of hair over her face had vanished to be replaced by slim thighs and a pink-lipped pussy mouth ripe for kissing. And as the first ripples of orgasm broke over her aching body she began to kiss Betsy as fiercely as she had ever kissed anyone in her life.
Chapter 56
Coincidentally, on a separate stretch of road bound for Bedside Manor, another act of sexual licence was taking place.
Sebastian Silk, king of the musical theatre, had been as nervous as a kitten throughout the press conference at Heathrow. It wasn't the massed ranks of the fourth estate that unnerved him - he was used to them - it was the woman at the centre of it who was to accompany him in his chauffeured limousine to the Gala. To Sebastian, Melissa Melone was more than simply the world's greatest soprano, she was a goddess. Her agreement to sing his new song cycle at the Gala eclipsed all his previous successes. The West End smashes, the Broadway hits, the clutch of chart-topping albums - all faded in comparison with Melissa Melone's approval. For Seb Silk, formerly Cedric Damp of Ball's Pond Road, Melissa Melone represented an entree into the world of proper Art.
Melissa had stepped off the plane from Rome in the midday heat of August dressed in an ankle-length sable coat. The journalists flung themselves at the bait; in the no-news silly season Melissa was guaranteed good copy.
'How come, Miss Melone,' asked the Blizzard, 'you are here to support the cause of feline welfare and you are wearing a fur?'
'Because my coat is not real, it is for fun - a fantasy. I think the real pussy should keep its coat but we women must be allowed our fantasies too.'
'But it's nearly eighty degrees, aren't you hot?' From the Rabbit.
'You don't know what I am wearing beneath this. Maybe it is nothing.'
'Go on, Melissa, let's have a look. Strip off!' This from the Dog, which didn't merit a reply, just a finger-wag of disapproval and a saucy smile.
Melissa Melone was a creature of legend. Her origins were obscure - the dozen biographies disagreed on fundamental points - but from her first performance in the great opera houses there was no disagreement. Here was a Voice that could act and seduce the hardest of critics. Her looks helped, of course. She was big and blonde, a Valkyrie in scale, yet thoroughly Italian in her warmth and passion. She was a fixture in the artistic firmament and had been for more than twenty years. Only her five ex-husbands, their dependants and lawyers, a few hundred jealous women and the majority of her fellow performers had any cause to hate her.
And now she sat beside Sebastian in the back seat of the limo.
'At last,' she said expansively, 'we are alone.' Which was true if you discounted the chauffeur. Her secretary and hairdresser were making their way separately.
Sebastian was overwhelmed. He had the impulse to fall on his knees before her.
'This is a great honour,' he began.
'Bull,' she said quickly. 'We are artistes, we don't have to talk bullshit to each other.'
Sebastian's heart sang - if only his critics could hear that Melissa Melone regarded him as an equal. He'd make some of those snobs eat their reviews...
Melissa fixed him with her mysterious sea-green eyes. 'You are a very naughty boy, Sebastian.'
'Melissa?'
'Don't you act innocent with me. Though this is the first time we meet I know lots about you. Not just the rubbish in the newspapers. I have been singing this new music of yours for two weeks now and I know you are a naughty boy.' She chuckled, a low throaty gurgle that turned Seb's stomach upside down. 'Do you want to find out what is beneath my coat, like those lecherous reporters?'
Sebastian was confused. He had spoken to her on the phone frequently during the past few weeks, being unable to get away to Rome and assist in the rehearsals. She had been charming and businesslike, now she was implying an intimacy that surely wasn't possible and yet... His eyes were transfixed as she began to unbutton her coat, still holding it closed over the mountains of her chest.
The car was moving fast in the outside lane of the motorway, the world flashing by in a blur through the tinted windows. Cocooned in the air-conditioned interior, drinking in the musk of Melissa's perfume, Sebastian felt suddenly liberated. The daily politics of his four current productions, the sniping of his ex-wife and the nagging of his present one, all vanished from his mind. In this brief time-capsule with the exotic goddess of his dreams at his side he felt blissfully free.
The coat was now gaping, offering tantalising glimpses of creamy flesh. A firm thigh in a sheer stocking breached the fur on her lap. Seb was tumultuously erect.
'That doesn't look like a fake fur,' he said.
'Of course it's not. I have a wardrobe full of furs. Real ones. I love the touch of fur on my body. I have a real tiger-skin rug, too. I keep it to make love on.'
'You'd better not tell Candy Kensington.'
'Don't try to change the subject, Sebastian. I want to talk about you.'
&
nbsp; The coat was now unbuttoned, it fell open sufficiently to set Seb's imagination running riot. The most famous bosom in opera, celebrated throughout the world on album covers and posters, spilled out of a peach satin half-cup bra. The shadow between these magical globes promised a ravine of cleavage into which Sebastian longed to plunge. He stared agog at the great right breast, so close to him, which threatened to burst free from its support, its milky upper reaches billowing over the edge of the undergarment.
'You see,' she said, 'you are staring at my teats like you have never seen a woman before in your life. I know you are a wicked man in your mind.'
'Melissa,' panted Seb, 'any man would feel wicked looking at you right now.'
'OK, but let's talk about this music you have written for me. I know what it means. It is saying come and make fuck with me, yes?'
Seb gulped. 'Actually, it's a tonal poem.'
'Maybe, but the poetry says come fuck with me. Like a lady cat in her season calling the male cats. Tonal poem - pah! That's what the music professors say. You are not that, you are from the guts - yes? That's why you are such a big success.'
Sebastian flushed with pleasure. Though he was used to compliments, to receive them from this quarter was thrilling.
Melissa began to sing a phrase from his composition; in a hypnotic purring tone that filled the small space and sent a message of pure joy down his spine.
'I am right, yes? This is a song of a cat on heat.'
It was true, it had seemed appropriate given the Poor Pussy cause but it was inspired by the overwhelming feeling of lust she stirred in him and - he'd bet on it - every red-blooded male who had ever heard her sing.
'That is why there are no words, yes? Just sounds.'
'Do you like it?' he asked nervously.
She threw back her head and laughed. Seb's thirsty gaze drank its fill of her shaking bosom. 'It's not a matter of like,' she said. 'It is perfect for me. Shall I show you?'
Seb nodded.
She began to sing very softly. The notes rose and fell, controlled and soft then suddenly harsh and loud. There were indeed no words, just sounds, pure and liquid, wailing and guttural. Her eyes were closed, her feet were planted firmly on the floor and the sound flowed up from her belly, twisting and spiralling around Sebastian as he sat, enthralled.
As she sang her bosom seemed to flex in her bra as if it were seeking to burst out and her hands rose to her breasts and began to make little circles round the satin cups.
Then the music swelled and she poured out a torrent of naked emotion, as if she were stripping herself bare. She's right, he thought, it's just an outright plea to be fucked! And he was aware his cock was pulsing in his pants, threatening to poke a hole clean through the material.
Now it was as if she were in pain, some terrible bowel-wrenching pain that she could not contain and the sound she made drowned out the throb of the engine, the rush of the wind and the sound of the wheels on the road. He watched completely mesmerised as, almost of their own accord though her fingers must have released them, her fabulous breasts burst from their prison. Breathtaking hills of flesh, still stupendous in her middle years, they shifted outwards and downwards, their turgid chocolate-brown nipples erect and inviting.
And as Seb stared at these bounteous glories unveiled for him alone and her voice hit the long concluding top note that only the truly blessed could ever hope to reach, he had the most blissful orgasm of his life.
'Sebastian, are you all right?' asked Melissa long moments later.
He stirred slowly from his prone position on the seat and opened his eyes to see that she was holding her arms out to him. He allowed himself to be pulled into the exotic warmth of her embrace and pillowed his cheek on the magical flesh of her bosom.
'You see?' she said triumphantly. 'I shall have a great triumph. I shall make them all come in their pants!' And she stroked the composer's curly hair and delicately fed a big brown nipple into his mouth.
In the front seat the bewildered chauffeur drove on, plucking at the material in his crotch as it lay in a sticky mess over his slowly deflating penis.
Chapter 57
'I don't care what you say, Billy, I don't want anything to do with him.' Tracy Pert looked thoroughly indignant. As indignant as anybody could look wearing tight leather shorts and a long furry snake between her legs.
'I understand how you feel, Tracy. By any normal standards the guy behaved like a pig. But he's normal, he's a superstar.' Billy edged to the side of her in the cramped confines of the tiny dressing room and peered at her rear. 'What is that thing sticking out your bum?'
'It's my tail.' Tracy presented her derriere to him and shook it saucily. The woolly growth projecting from between her buttocks flipped from side to side. 'It's part of my costume - do you like it?'
'To be honest, Tracy, I don't see why you want to dress up as a monkey.'
'I'm not a monkey, you berk, I'm a cat. Poor Pussy Rescue - get it?'
'And what goes with it - whiskers and a flea collar?'
'Oh, fuck off, Billy Dazzle. And tell Brick Tempo to fuck off, too.'
'Calm down, Tracy, it was only a joke. You look fantastic in those sexy shorts. You'll knock 'em dead.'
Tracy's murderous expression turned instantly to one of anguish. 'Billy, I'm so nervous. I'm going to muck it up, I know it. My song's going to seem so silly amongst all this ballet and stuff. They're making fun of me already.'
Her ravishing blue eyes suddenly swum with tears and she fell into Billy's outstretched arms.
'Who's making fun?' he asked, not slow to cup her perky bum cheeks in the palms of his hands.
'Those little bitches next door. Marion Mucus and her dancing snotbags. They were giggling about my boobs. One of them asked me if they were real.'
'Envy,' said Billy, 'there's not a tit worth touching up amongst the lot of them. And they'll take you seriously when you sing with Brick Tempo.'
'What?'
'It's difficult to explain, Tracy. Believe me, he wants to sing with you. He's changed since you first met him.'
'But that was only yesterday morning!'
'Nevertheless. Anyway, he asked me how he could make it up to you and we hit on the idea of a duet. He's writing it now.'
'Are you having me on?'
'Come and talk to him. He's down by the river. He says it inspires him.'
'Billy Dazzle, if you're joking I'll rearrange your private parts.'
'When you're around, Tracy, they do that of their own accord.'
'There's Billy Dazzle,' said Betsy, 'the guy with the blonde heading across the field.'
'That figures,' said Sophie, 'from what I've heard about him.'
They were looking out from a room on the second floor of the Manor itself. Arnold and Betsy were to use it as a bedroom.
'Do you want to meet him? Shall I call him over?'
'No. I just need to be able to identify him. Besides, it looks like he's busy.'
Sebastian Silk was an averagely endowed fellow. Better than average, according to his wives and girlfriends, if they were of a mind to be honest. However, as his limo approached Bedside Manor, Sebastian was kneeling on the floor between Melissa Melone's vast white columnar-thighs feeling utterly inadequate.
'You see, cara? I warned you,' said the diva. 'It is not possible for you to satisfy me with a staff such as you possess. I am built on a grand scale, only a truly outsize penis can fill me as I need to be filled.'
It was true. Between her long strong legs was a cavern in which Seb rooted ineffectually. He felt as if he were stoking a fire with a toothpick.
'Don't worry, my darling, it is not your fault. I arouse lust in others but cannot satisfy it in myself - that is my curse and my gift. It is the reason I am such a big success.'
'No, Melissa, you sing like an angel—'
'Ssh, Sebastian, we are nearly there. You must come to your climax at once.' And she closed her mouth over his, her big mysterious eyes staring deep into his as her
hands clasped his buttocks and pulled him into her. Sebastian was lost. He felt as if some great sea current had swept him away and he was powerless. A finger suddenly penetrated his anus, pushing deep inside him in a hideously skilful caress that had him bucking and moaning and shooting his spunk into the depths of her as the car purred slowly up the drive of Bedside Manor.
Tracy was enjoying herself; for once someone was taking her seriously as a performer. Brick was fingering his guitar, explaining his new song and demonstrating where she should join in. He was a clever player, the melody flowed effortlessly and he soon coaxed Tracy into passable harmony. It was a seductive tune, Tracy threw herself into it and he smiled encouragement, his craggy face crinkling with warmth. Billy was right; he was a changed man from the day before.
Only one thing puzzled her - the words to this new song. 'How I long to roam your valleys/And paddle in your creeks/To dabble in your bushes/And lay my head between your peaks.' But why should she worry?
'You're not such a bloody awful bastard after all, Brick,' she said cheerfully.
'Why, thanks, ma'am,' he replied, 'does that mean you'll come up and sing with me tonight?'
'OK, why not? What should I wear?'
'Anything that shows off that gorgeous body of yours.'
'Don't worry, I know what my main selling points are.'
Sophie was feeling quite pleased with herself. Arnold had fixed her up with a ticket for the performance and Betsy had supplied an evening gown. To be more accurate Betsy had bullied, cajoled and flirted her way into the Opera Company wardrobe. There they had selected a low-cut cocktail dress in jade green which clung to Sophie like a second skin and was set off by a necklace of artificial pearls.
'Wow! You look fabulous; said Betsy enthusiastically. 'Isn't it a bit tight? I feel like I'm going to burst out of it.'