Lust on the Line

by Noel Amos

  Chapter 8

  For nearly a quarter of a century, from the early fifties to the mid-seventies, Monty Hastings' rambling manor-house had been home to a boys' preparatory school. And though many alterations to the building had been made by successive owners since then, not least by Monty and Karen themselves, various features of the school remained. One of them was the ugly black external staircase, erected as a fire escape, that disfigured the rear of the building. Karen hated it, imagining it not so much a way out in an emergency as an invitation to prowlers, burglars and rapists to come on in.

  This morning, however, she was thankful for its existence. She had left home as usual at eleven, driving out of the gate certain that Monty's eyes were following the progress of her car. Since he had spent the previous three days at a symposium in Edinburgh debating 'The Semi-Colon as Ideology', she knew he would be keen to resume his normal work schedule with Harriet Pugh.

  She had parked five minutes down the road and returned through the woods that bordered one side of the house. It was a simple matter to cross the back lawn and tiptoe quietly up the fire escape until she reached the small landing on the second floor. She was careful not to drop the video camcorder she held in her hand. The door now facing her opened onto the large office room where, at about this time, Monty and Harriet were to be found beavering away at his latest creation.

  The door was of solid steel but with a small window at head height. Across the window was a curtain held in place at top and bottom by elastic threaded through the hem. The previous night Karen had adjusted the curtain in preparation for this moment. The chinks on either side would give her just enough space to aim the camcorder and record what was going on within.

  As she placed her eye to the crack, trepidation was mixed in equal part with anticipation. This was simply another facet of her research. Along with gangbangs, buggery and three-way orgies, she had not yet experienced voyeurism. She had every expectation of bridging that gap in her knowledge.

  At first she was disappointed - if that was the right word to describe the sight of her husband sitting on the sofa with a pad of paper on his lap and a pen in his hand. Could it be that, for once, the rat was actually at work? And where the hell was that tramp, Harriet?

  The mystery was solved a moment later as the door to the office bathroom opened and Harriet appeared. But this was not the Harriet of T-shirt and jeans that Karen was accustomed to. She was transformed.

  In a crimson satin basque trimmed with black, cinched tight at the waist, the half-cups of the bodice revealing the slope of her breasts down to the pigment of her areolae and the straps of her suspenders cutting into the soft white flesh of her thighs, Harriet Pugh was a spectacular sight. Her stockings were sheer, her heels were high and her strawberry-blonde hair hung loose to her creamy shoulders. In the pit of Karen's stomach the disappointment was gone, replaced by jealousy, hurt and, she had to admit it, a burning coal of excitement. She thumbed the On button on the camcorder and lifted it to the crack in the curtain.

  Harriet was putting on a display for Monty. Up and down she walked on her precarious heels, showing off her provocative front and then her incredible rear. Karen watched through the camera lens as Monty's personal assistant stripped off her black lace panties and wiggled her bottom, inches from her employer's face. She turned to face him, fluffing up the brown thatch of hair in the fork of her thighs and revealing the long pink lips of her pussy. Harriet Pugh was behaving like a complete slut. In a funny kind of way, Karen thought, she was magnificent. It would never have occurred to her to perform like this to keep Monty happy.

  And Monty was happy. The writing pad had been set aside and the pen was lost on the floor. There was a glazed look on his face that Karen used to know well. Her faithless husband was now in the grip of desperate lust and needed release quickly. And Monty, Karen recollected, had never been one to wait for his satisfaction.

  But Harriet made him wait, Karen was amazed to see. That is, she took her turn first, seizing his head and pushing it into her open crotch as she stood over him. And from the way she moved her hips and squirmed her big round buttocks in his burrowing hands, Karen could tell she was taking her pleasure in earnest.

  As she watched her husband's hands at work on another woman's naked bottom and heard the moans and sighs of approaching orgasm filter through the fire-escape door, Karen forced herself to consider the point of her self-inflicted ordeal. She had no doubt she could portray the scene before her to telling effect, just as she had described all the other erotic experiences which had come her way. Those hot and horny scenes, vividly transposed sometimes just minutes after the events which had inspired them, now comprised two-thirds of a book. It was quite enough material to submit to a publisher. She had decided to call it The Novelist's Wife. Maybe it would be deemed unpublishable, in which case the research had undoubtedly enriched her life - for better or worse. On the other hand, Karen was sure that what she had written was good enough to accomplish her real purpose - to embarrass the hell out of her fraud of a husband.

  Through the camcorder lens Karen observed Harriet Pugh's big pink buttocks quivering like jelly as she reached her orgasm with a full-blooded scream. The noise was so long and loud that Karen was insulted all over again. How could the bitch behave like that in her house with her husband? Just what did the woman think of her? Of course Karen knew the answer to that already. Harriet thought Karen didn't count. She'd find out she was wrong, Karen reflected, when she saw the full details of her indiscretions described in print.

  The thought brought Karen back to the dilemma of her book: just who should she approach? It would be easier if it was someone she already knew. Maybe Eric Goldwin, Monty's first publisher. Eric was a one-man band who had supported Monty out of his own pocket for two years while he wrote The Waning Moon, the novel that had made Monty's name. Nowadays Eric hated Monty with good reason, for Monty had jumped ship after Moon and signed up elsewhere for the kind of advance that Eric couldn't match. But Karen knew that Eric was not the right man for The Novelist's Wife. He was old-fashioned and prudish, certainly far too much of a gent to make the most of such sensational material to Monty's detriment.

  Karen considered Driftwood & Denton, the firm who had stolen Monty from Goldwin House. They loathed Monty too, these days, after he had accused them of being cheapskates for not coming up with three-quarters of a million for a new contract. He had written to the books supplement of the Sunday Blizzard complaining about their mistreatment of authors in general and their short-sighted parsimony to him in particular. This was after GrabCo Worldwide had coughed up an incredible million-pound agreement for a novel, a collection of short stories and the first volume (God help us) of Monty's autobiography.

  The action on the other side of the fire-escape door was continuing. Harriet had now had her fill of Monty's mouth between her legs and the pair were going at it on the sofa in the regular fashion. Monty's bare bum - still lean and desirable, Karen had to concede - was thrusting in purposeful rhythm between Harriet's legs as she lay on her back along the cushions. Karen watched in fascination as Harriet pried open Monty's arse crack and began to circle his anus with a blood-red fingernail. Was it something he particularly liked? she wondered. If so, he'd never asked her to do it.

  All that was academic now, Karen reflected. Even though she enjoyed her liberal clothes allowance, her fancy new car and the rest of the bounty spread on Monty's table, the crumbs stuck in her throat. She had seen through the great author now and, in her opinion, his writing wasn't good enough to publish on toilet paper. On second thoughts, she wouldn't approach a publisher directly. She needed a different kind of helping hand to make the most of the intriguing possibilities of her literary revenge - a cool professional who knew all the angles.

  On the sofa, matters were coming to a conclusion. From the pink flush on Harriet's neck and bosom Karen guessed that she was approaching yet another earth-shattering climax. As the grunts and yells built once more to a crescen
do, Karen watched the red fingernail cease its circular journey and plunge down and in, deep between Monty's buttocks to the second joint. A shout of a different pitch rent the air and Monty spasmed, his whole body rigid, his loins glued to the pliant cushion of flesh beneath him, his arse pierced to the core by the witch who now monopolised his affections.

  As she lowered the camcorder from her eye, Karen allowed herself a small dry laugh. She'd stick more than a finger up Monty's arse with her book. She'd expose his entire greedy, self-indulgent, cheating, fraudulent life to the world and she knew now just who was going to help her do it. Someone who loathed Monty as much as she did. Someone who knew every move on the publishing chessboard. Someone with iced water in her veins and no mercy in her heart.

  A literary agent called Marilyn Savage.

  'No strings, eh?'

  'No strings. You live your life, I live mine. You let me stay here till I've done the work on the book and I pay you rent.'

  'OK.'

  It was the morning after the night after the afternoon of the drug-inspired orgy with Tania and Lucian was feeling fragile. The clock by the bed told him it was almost noon but his limbs were like lead and only the fumes from the coffee Tania had made him were keeping him awake.

  She, on the other hand, seemed as fresh as a daisy. Her hair was damp from the shower, tied back off her head in a purple scrunchy that showed off the smooth sweep of her neck and the little blonde curls on the nape that Lucian remembered exploring with his fingers last night as she—

  This was no good. Yesterday had been an aberration. His extensive carnal investigation of this admittedly gorgeous woman had been brought on solely by drugs. He struggled to get his mind back to their conversation.

  It seemed that while he had been sleeping she had explored his apartment and discovered the study with the spare bed and PC. Evidently she was in need of both those articles and he had agreed to make them available to her. The fact that her towel was slipping down her chest was an irrelevance.

  'I've given up sex,' he heard himself say.

  She had the grace not to laugh. 'You could have fooled me.'

  'You were... this was... er, exceptional. You seduced me from my resolve. I promise it won't happen again.'

  She narrowed her eyes. 'Is there a reason?'

  'I've just broken up with someone. I need time to recover emotionally.'

  'Oh right. You're a tender flower who's all bashed up.'

  'Exactly. It's not that you weren't, aren't, wonderful and I haven't enjoyed every moment—'

  'OK, I get it, Lucian. I don't mind being past tense already. Whatever suits you, it's your place. There's just one thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'This is a business arrangement, right?'

  'Sure.'

  She leaned across and removed the empty mug from his hand. As she did so the towel gave up its struggle to conceal her sumptuous bosom.

  'That puts me in a bit of a spot.'

  'Oh?'

  He couldn't take his eyes from her breasts as they swayed with her movements. They were so thrusting and firm. They made his parched mouth water.

  'You see, Lucian, until I collect the delivery advance on my book I haven't got any money to pay the rent.'

  'You can owe me, Tania. I trust you.'

  How pretty her nipples were, nut-brown and snub-nosed. He couldn't banish the thought of them last night, erect and sharp, rubbing against his chest...

  'I've a better idea. In Marimba they don't have much money - so they barter.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Petrol for beer. Spark plugs for a chicken.'

  'Fascinating.'

  'It is. I've got used to the Marimba way of doing things. Why don't we barter?'

  Lucian blinked at her. He knew he must seem dense. He also knew she was somehow making it easier for him to agree to something he shouldn't.

  'Think about it,' she went on, tugging at the bedsheet and exposing the abused, pink - and fully upstanding - penis twitching on his belly. 'You are the spark plug and I am the chicken.'

  She wrapped her fingers round the barrel of his tool and squeezed. His glans peeped from his foreskin, purple with desire.

  'A business arrangement with no strings?' he said.

  'Precisely that,' she replied and slipped his cock into her mouth. Lucian didn't have to do a thing. He just lay back and thought of Marimba.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of the doorbell took Lucian by surprise. He was even more surprised to see Caroline Fitzjohn on the doorstep, carrying a suitcase.

  'Hello, darling,' she said and sailed past him up the stairs. She stopped halfway up the first flight and turned, the pose showing off her slim bare legs below the hem of her pleated grey skirt. She looked familiar yet somehow changed, as if the few days in which she had been gone had altered his perception of her. Her fine blonde hair was swept back off her brow and silver-set pearl earrings glinted in the lobes of her ears. Beneath her navy blue blazer she wore a plain white scoop-necked T-shirt that left bare the smoothness of her throat and the upper slopes of her summer-brown chest. Caroline always dressed smartly, in conservative styles that somehow seemed to show off her body more thoroughly than a wardrobe of tarty gear.

  'I've come to pick up some of my things, I hope you don't mind.'

  'You could have rung me, Caro,' he complained as he climbed after her, knowing he sounded wimpish even as he spoke. That was one of the problems with relationships, he thought, you ended up seeing your least attractive traits through your partner's eyes.

  'Sorry, darling, I never got round to it. Life was just too hectic. Don't tell me I'm interrupting something exciting like a slide lecture for your perambulating authors. Mind you,' she stopped again, halfway up the second flight, 'these days, I gather, it might be an orgy for your sexy writers.'

  'How did you hear about that?' he said.

  Her face, inches above his, dimpled with merriment. 'So it's true then? You're editing a porno series. I hope you won't find it too taxing.'

  She turned away with a smirk and took the last couple of steps to the door to his flat. Lucian put down the case which he had carried unbidden and pushed back the door for her to enter.

  'It's meant to be a secret, Caro. Where did you hear about it?'

  'I can't remember, darling. I've been talking to so many people recently.'

  Caroline worked on the diary page of the Daily Dog so she could have picked it up from almost anybody in the know.

  'I hope you aren't going to write about it in your rag,' Lucian said.

  'Oh come off it. Our readers aren't interested in publishing pond life. Though I suppose I could dress it up a little. "How the mighty have fallen - once-proud British publishing house The Whimsical Press has been cancelling contracts with some of the country's most respected authors in order to commission a series of pornographic novels. Editing this tide of filth is Lucian Swan, nephew of the firm's former owner Basil Swan. 'I know I am betraying my uncle's literary legacy,' he sobbed, 'but the Germans own us now and I'm only obeying orders.'"'

  'Caro!' Lucian was apoplectic. 'Don't you dare!' He found himself gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her in fury. The sound of her high tinkling laughter brought him to his senses. 'I'm sorry, sweetie,' she said, her pale blue eyes gleaming with triumph. 'I still know how to get you going, don't I?' And she stood on tiptoe to plant a conciliatory kiss on his cheek.

  Lucian turned his mouth and shifted his grip to fold this infuriating and exquisite woman into a lover's embrace as of old. But she was gone, slipping from his grasp and leaving him stupidly clutching at the empty air.

  'Bring my case up, would you, darling?' she called over her shoulder as she took the stairs to the attic bedroom. Lucian did as he was told. He found her surveying the fitted wardrobe which ran down one wall. Most of the hanging space was taken up with her clothes.

  'Gosh,' she said, 'there's a lot of my stuff, isn't there?' Lucian did not reply. The amount of space her
things took up was an old bone of contention and he wasn't about to disinter it. 'Remember this?' she said.

  It was a black evening gown with a deep decolletage which she had worn to a gala at Covent Garden in the first week of their romance. Lucian remembered it very well. He particularly remembered slipping his hand into the high split in the skirt and fondling the soft bare skin of her inner thigh during a selection of Puccini arias. At the time, his hand had been far from frozen.

  'Or what about these?'

  'These' were a minuscule pair of fuchsia-pink Lycra cycling shorts - not that Caroline would ever dream of climbing on a bicycle. She had used them to provoke Lucian, squeezing her fleshy little bottom into them and strutting around the place of an evening to rouse him into a rutting frenzy.

  She turned the immodest garment over in her hand. 'I bet I couldn't even get into them these days, my bum's got so big.'

  'Oh for God's sake,' sighed Lucian, this also being a familiar topic of discord. Like ninety-nine per cent of women, in Lucian's experience, Caroline was obsessed by her weight. In reality she was a small woman, a slender five foot three with fine bones and a nicely distributed set of curves.

  However, if there was one area of her anatomy that was possibly out of proportion, it was her rear end. And Lucian adored it for that very reason. Her bum was broad and bulging and provocative. When her panties rode up into her crack, the exaggerated cheeks of her buttocks were like swollen teardrops joined by a tiny strip of cotton. He worshipped that bottom. During their stormy affair it had been the rock of flesh that he had clung to in the most turbulent of seas. In bed at night now, his cock stiff and eager between his legs, it was with the image of Caroline's perky outthrust posterior in mind that he spunked off again and again. If there was one thing above all that he missed about Caroline Fitzjohn, it was her smooth, juicy, porcelain white, simply beautiful bottom.