by Noel Amos
'Barry!'
'Show me then. Go on. Show me your pussy, you cock-happy nympho.'
Karen shut her eyes. The smile was gone. Her face was taut with anguish. But she reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it quickly to her hips. She was leaning back against the tree and her legs were braced apart. At the junction of her thighs was a thin vertical strip of coal-black hair. Below it the nude mouth of her pussy gaped, the outer lips swollen and wet. She wore no underwear.
Barry stared at this exposed intimacy of flesh, the tough-boy words stillborn in his throat.
'Go on,' she prompted him. 'Don't stop.'
'But, Karen, you're so gorgeous, I—'
'Barry.' There was a warning in her voice and her eyes were open, fixed on his.
He took a deep breath and said, 'Get my dick out, bitch.' Karen moaned and fumbled for his fly with her free hand. 'Hurry up!' he ordered as the zip stuck. But then her fingers were in and his cock was out, thick and crimson-tipped, hairless like his chest, obscene in her slim hand. She ran her fingers from base to tip and back, squeezing and rubbing, testing the steel-hard rigidity of the youthful flesh.
He was panting now, the script wiped from his mind. Her fingers delved further and eased his balls out of his jeans. She dandled the full orbs in her palm. He crushed his lips to hers and she pulled her mouth away.
'Put it in,' he commanded, suddenly remembering. The rest of it was easy. 'Put my cock up your wet snatch, you little tart.'
But she was ahead of him, for her pelvis was tilted forward and the swollen plum of his glans was in the fork of her thighs. She stood higher than him on the roots of the tree - as if she had selected the spot for the very purpose - and now she bore down on him, pushing the fat tip of his penis into her nook and slithering along his sturdy length.
'Oh God, yes!' she cried, all pretence gone, and they clung to each other in a quaking, shivering clinch as his tool thrust and drove into the hungry centre of her. Despite the awkward position it didn't last long and, as the silver spray gushed in a deluge from his twitching cock, his knees buckled and the pair of them slumped to the earth.
They did not speak on the drive back either but, before he got out of the car, she allowed him a long and tender kiss.
She sang to herself as she set off, at last, to the shops.
Chapter 3
That evening Lucian stayed late at the office. The painful interview with Miranda had plainly laid his future on the line. Lucian could take a hint - especially when it was delivered with the subtlety of an executioner's axe. So now he sat in his scruffy basement office, surrounded by the piles of paperbacks he had hastily acquired from the top shelf of the local newsagents.
It was nearly nine and everyone else had long gone, he assumed.
But there wasn't much point in heading home himself, not now Caroline had left him. He sighed indulgently as he poured a glass of lukewarm plonk, then picked a book from the pile in front of him. It was one of life's ironies that the day after he had foresworn sex for good, he was ordered to steep himself in sexually explicit material.
Reluctantly he began to read.
'Your time has come, Selwyn,' breathed Edwina Justice as she rose from behind the glistening rosewood desk, the horsewhip clasped in her fist. 'Prepare to suffer!'
'Spare me, mistress,' blurted the distraught youth. 'Never!' cried his implacable tormentor as she strode towards him, her emerald eyes flashing like lightening bursts, the thrusting mounds of her magnificent breasts tumbling from her bodice, the erect nipples cleaving the air like juddering drill bits...
'Bloody hell,' whispered Lucian, a vision of his own tormentor, Miranda Lynch, taking shape in his mind. He recalled those smooth pink cheeks flushed with missionary zeal as she spoke of the commercial appeal of sex-book publishing, the glint in those wide turbulent eyes and the silky thrust of her pert bosom.
'Bloody hell,' he repeated, easing his stiff cock into a position of comfort within his underpants. Perhaps there was something to be said for this erotica stuff after all.
The sound of a cough made him jerk his hand suddenly from his trousers. His colleague Lorna Prentice was standing in the doorway. For a moment he was worried that she had noticed him fiddling with his tool then, as she took an unsteady pace into his office, he realised she probably wasn't up to noticing much.
'So this is where you're hiding, Lucian,' she said. 'We're all at the Running Rat drowning our sorrows.'
'I didn't know,' said Lucian. 'I'd have come too.'
'We couldn't find you. Never mind, I've found you now. I've come to say goodbye.'
'See you tomorrow then.'
'No, Lucian,' said Lorna, 'this is a real goodbye. I've been sacked, I'm not coming back.' And she slumped into the chair on the other side of his desk, her long coltish legs sprawling apart. Now Lucian could see the misery in the swirling depths of her green eyes and in the downturn of her pretty mouth.
'I don't believe it,' he said.
'It's true. Miranda said she had to make editorial cuts and it was last in, first out. That means me. I've only been here eight months.'
'But that's stupid,' said Lucian, outraged. 'You're brilliant, you're going to be a star!' He was on his feet, he hadn't felt so animated all day. 'I'm going to talk to Miranda. She doesn't realise what she's doing.'
'Thanks, Lucian, but it won't do any good now. I've left already - I just came back to get my things.'
'Why so soon? Wouldn't she give you time to look around for another job?'
'Not after I told her to shove it up her bum - though I doubt she's got a hole there. I bet she never takes a crap, the shit just stays in her system and spews out of her mouth.'
'Good God, you didn't tell her that, did you?'
'I nearly did when she stopped on her way out to wish me luck. Hypocritical bitch. I'm going to get a brilliant job somewhere else and show her, I swear.' And she laid her hennaed mop of hair on her arms and burst into tears on Lucian's desk.
Lucian watched the rise and fall of her thin shoulders beneath the cotton of her summer dress. It was funny how someone else's troubles put your own into perspective. He produced a box of paper tissues from a drawer.
After a moment Lorna sat up and blew her nose loudly. She dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath. Lucian handed her wine in a paper cup. As she drank she noticed for the first time the pile of lurid paperbacks that littered the desk. She laughed.
'Lucian, what are you doing with all these mucky books?'
'Research.'
She snorted in disbelief and her full lips spread into a grin.
'That's better,' said Lucian, 'now you look like your normal gorgeous self.'
'Don't try and change the subject. You were playing with yourself when I came in, weren't you? Did I catch you at it?'
'No. This is research, honest. I too have had a review of my job prospects with the merciless Miranda. She wants me to drop everything else and produce a list of books like these.'
'So, it's farewell Whimsical Walks—'
'Quite.'
'—and hello Whimsical Wanks.'
'Very funny.'
Giggling, she picked up a book and scanned the page. An explosion of mirth followed. She chucked the book aside and took another. This time the merriment faded and she read for a full minute before turning her eyes to Lucian.
'Wow!' she breathed. 'Are you sure you're up to this?'
'I'd better be. There's no Uncle Basil to protect me now.'
'Uncle Basil treated you like shit. I don't know how you put up with it.'
'Ah,' said Lucian, pouring them both another drink, 'I'm a put-up-with-it kind of person. Things happen to me, I don't happen to them.'
Lorna nodded. 'You're all languid and floppy, Lucian, that's true enough. But Caroline has happened to you, so don't knock it.
'Caroline left last week.'
'Oh no! Why?'
'She said I was too laid-back - and she wanted to be laid elsewhere.'
/> 'So that's why you're hanging around the office getting smashed.'
'I suppose so.' He sighed.
'We're a pair of real sad sacks, aren't we?' she said.
'Orphans in a storm.' He picked up the bottle but it was empty.
'This is pathetic,' said Lorna, getting to her feet. 'There's something I've always wanted to do and now's my last chance - will you help me?'
'Do what?'
'Shut up and follow me.'
The boardroom was on the first floor. Through the high windows the ornately moulded ceilings and glass-fronted bookshelves, lined with the output of The Whimsical Press, were dimly lit by the orange glow of a streetlamp. Down the middle of the long room the mahogany surface of the boardroom table gleamed faintly. Here was where the regular business meetings took place, where editors pitched their projects, publicists plotted strategy and salesmen cursed missed targets - in short, where the daily round of publishing ground on. It smelt of sweat, stale coffee and furniture polish. And boredom.
Lorna's eyes gleamed in the half-light as she closed the door behind them. She kicked off her shoes and turned her back to Lucian.
'Undo my buttons.'
'What?'
'The buttons of my dress. Come on!'
Lucian's fingers fumbled as he rushed to do her bidding. 'What are you up to?' he asked, baring the nape of her leek.
'I'm going to dance naked on that table. It's one of my fantasies.' Beneath the dress was a thin white half-slip. There was no sign of a bra.
'I've sat here in meeting after meeting,' she said as the dress slithered over her slim hips to the floor, 'just dying to do something really rude and wave two fingers at the system.'
Lucian chuckled. 'And I thought you were all business.'
'Oh I am. It's just that I've got a wide range of business interests.'
She was facing him now, her hands on the hem of the tiny camisole. She pulled it over her head and the wild cascade of her hair and threw it over her shoulder in triumph. She drew her knickers down her thighs and tossed them, too, into the gloom.
'Help me up,' she said and Lucian steadied her narrow back as she climbed onto the table. Then she began to move.
It wasn't a conventional dance in any sense, just a combination of graceful bending and swaying as she undulated her long lean body up and down the length of the table. Lucian was mesmerised. He couldn't tear his eyes from the nut-brown nipples on the gentle curves of her breasts and the black vee of hair at the junction of her thighs.
She stood above him and, suddenly, belly-bumped her pelvis like a stripper.
'Of course,' she said, 'that's only the beginning of my fantasy. In the next bit I need a man.' She tossed her head and the dark mane shimmered across her slim shoulders and the little bowls of her breasts quivered. 'Take your clothes off, Lucian.'
'But—'
'Don't you dare let me down,' she said as she jumped off the table top. 'What's the matter? Don't you want me?'
It would sound feeble to explain that, after Caroline, he had vowed to give up sex. In any case, Lucian thought as he took off his shirt, this wasn't sex per se. It was a symbolic act of vengeance by a wronged woman. He was simply a means to her end - or his cock was.
Lorna's hands closed around it at once.
'Is that in your fantasy?' he asked, seizing her by the hips.
'Oh yes,' she said, 'except the one I was thinking of was bigger.'
Lucian pinched an apple-cheeked buttock. 'Bitch.'
Lorna giggled. 'What's the point of a fantasy if it doesn't improve on life?'
Lucian kissed her hot little mouth and kneaded her bottom. Her nipples were burning into his chest and her fingers were sliding up and down his tool. If she kept that up her fantasy might come to a premature conclusion.
'What happens next?' he muttered between kisses.
'You fuck me on this table.'
'It won't be very comfortable.'
'Who cares?'
She led him to the top of the table and sat herself on the edge. 'This is Miranda's place, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Let's do it here, then.'
She opened her legs and he stood in the fork of her thighs, her cunt almost on a level with his throbbing cock.
He combed his fingers through her bush, the hair softer than he had expected. The flesh beneath was soft too, her pussy mound plump and sticky and perfumed like a ripe peach. He found the little pip of her clitoris and she squealed.
'Put that thing in me now,' she hissed and he obeyed.
It was weird, fucking in the meeting room where he had yawned and fidgeted and suffered on so many occasions. Now this tall girl with the pretty mouth and big dark nipples was stretched out backwards, her mane of hair fanned out across the wood, her legs round his waist, engulfing his raging cock.
'This is fantastic,' Lorna said. 'I feel like I'm fucking the whole rotten firm.'
'You're fucking me,' said Lucian, bending to kiss those curved and luscious lips.
But they were set in a hard thin line and Lorna's eyes were closed is she whipped her head from side to side, muttering and cursing, you bitch, you bitch, Miranda Lynch! I swear I'll fucking fix you - OH!'
Her orgasm overtook her in a rush and Lucian was almost a spectator as she thrashed beneath him. By contrast his culminating twitch and gush seemed a poor and feeble thing.
Lorna looked up at him squiffily as his limp member slipped from the hairy nook between her legs.
'Will you come home with me?' said Lucian, thinking suddenly of his empty flat.
Lorna shook her head. 'Sorry. Charlie's expecting me. He'll kill me if he finds out about this.'
'I shan't tell a soul.'
She sat up and hugged him. Her kiss was sweet as she patted his cock.
'Lucian,' she said, 'I want you to know that when it counted you weren't floppy at all.'
Chapter 4
As a rule, dinner in the Hastings house was not a jolly affair - not these days. Tonight was no exception. Monty made himself a ham sandwich and washed it down with a bottle of designer lager. Then, grabbing the last piece of apple pie, he retired to his study to work on his current masterpiece.
Later, Karen assumed, he would set off for the village local to mix with 'some real people', as he put it. She had often heard him say how important it was for a 'historian of the imagination', i.e. a novelist such as himself, not to lose touch with 'the sons of toil and soil'. Monty's cronies at The Turnip Clamp included a stockbroker, a Harley Street proctologist, a public relations consultant and the owner of a chain of video rentals. At closing time these sons of toil would repair to Ray the video man's bachelor cottage where, Karen assumed, they would catch the latest addition to his ever-expanding blue movie collection. In the not-too-distant past Monty would have returned in the small hours and given Karen the benefit of his hard-on. No longer, not now they had separate bedrooms.
Karen's disillusion with her illustrious husband had begun as a small crack in the facade of their unity. Now the fissure ran from top to bottom. The issue that had first divided them was children: Karen longed for them, Monty said he did too - but not yet. Six years after their marriage, the position had not changed, except that he had met with literary success and, wonder of wonders, was fast becoming rich.
Some eighteen months previously a lucrative commission had beckoned from Hollywood. Karen had decreed that this was the time to procreate and Monty had turned green and run off to Los Angeles. There he earned obscene sums of money for work destined never to be seen and performed obscene acts with a lot of actresses. Whether it was the running away or the actresses that started the rot in their marriage, Karen couldn't decide. Not that it mattered, it was the babies he was denying her that were important.
Somehow they had stayed together. No word of their difficulties had got out. They were still seen as a happy, glamorous, perfect couple. But, to Karen, the new start with the new money in the new house in the Oxfordshire countryside was
a sham. She was married to a phony. And, damn soon, she was going to make sure everybody new it.
After Monty had gone to his study she made straight for her own bedroom. She locked the door behind her and then, with a key taken from her bedside drawer, she opened her walk-in closet. The space had been specially created for her when they had refurbished the old house and was designed to accommodate an extensive wardrobe. Karen had easily been able to make room at the rear to house a desk and a personal computer.
While the machine was booting up, Karen drew the bedroom curtains and flung off her clothes. The only problem with working in her closet was the heat. On summer nights like this her naked body would swim in perspiration. The sweat ran from her forehead to her chin to the tips of her breasts then down her domed belly to pool in the black strip of hair between her legs. There it would mingle with the thick juices which welled from her vagina as she fell under the spell of her own words. Karen was writing a sex book. If Monty discovered what she was up to he would have a shit-fit, and that thought, more than anything, really turned her on.
Tonight Karen reviewed her encounter with Barry, the blond mechanic. The boy was a hunk, no doubt about it, and she loved the way just the sight of her body drove him to distraction. Unfortunately, his mind didn't measure up to his cock. 'Same old story,' she muttered to herself. No matter how often she instructed him to treat her mean in their lovemaking, to threaten and humiliate her as he bore down on her with his angry red-tipped cudgel, it wasn't in him. In reality, Barry was just an adoring puppy who wanted to lick her all over and bask in her approval. Unfortunately for him, Karen was not turned on by puppies. She wanted thrills, excitement, danger - her book would be all the better for it. Perhaps she should look elsewhere for inspiration.
Karen considered her progress so far. She had completed a hefty chunk of manuscript, nearly 200 pages of A4, neatly word processed and laser-jet printed. It looked most professional. And she wasn't finished yet.
Her story was about the infidelities of a childless couple whose relationship survived in name only. Though the wife's indiscretions were based on her own firsthand experience, for the husband's she had had to be more ingenious. Of course, any resemblance to persons living or dead was entirely coincidental.