by Noel Amos
Lucian had a perfect view up Nicole's rear crack. From the black-fringed mouth of her cunt purse up to the pink whorl of her anus, all was revealed. The insides of her thighs were slick with juice and the unfurled outer lips of her pussy glistened. Hugh dipped a finger into the pool within and trailed the evidence of her excitement up the crease of her arse. She wriggled at his touch, bucking her hips in unmistakable need. Lucian held his breath as Hugh pulled her body upwards.
Nicole straddled her husband. Throwing one dancer's leg over his lap she sat down facing him and, for a moment, her fabulous bust was suspended in his face as she held on to his shoulders and he positioned the big egg of his glans in the junction of her legs. Then she was slithering downwards, the barrel of his tool swallowed in the gullet of her sex as she settled in his arms. Their arms entwined, their mouths locked and her dark curls mingled with his blond locks as their loins enmeshed.
Lucian's stomach churned with lust and envy. Husband and wife had pleasured each other obscenely and now melted into one before him. As he watched, they toppled slowly backwards onto the bed and, a moment later, the light went out. The lewd entertainment had been thrilling and his cock danced between his legs. He suddenly felt an awful emptiness inside. 'Oh Caro,' he muttered out loud.
From below came the sound of a door opening and he shook himself out of his self-pity. What the hell was he doing? Lucian the lovelorn wimp was banished. He was a man with a new resolve, a man with a purpose - and that purpose was Blue Desire Books.
He wondered, as he descended the stairs naked and fully erect, whether it was obligatory for editors of erotica to sample all forms of sexual expression.
And whether Tania liked having her bottom spanked.
Chapter 13
The unfortunate accident on the volleyball court had not earned Percy any sympathy from his wife. 'You stupid bloody fool,' Felicity had said in the taxi on the bumpy ride to the local doctor. She'd said a lot else besides, most of which was to do with the pathetic nature of middle-aged men playing little boys' games when they were past it. And on the ride back her complaints were redoubled as the implications of the doctor's recommended course of treatment sank in.
'It's all very well for you to sit on your backside and rest for a fortnight but what about me? I'm here for a holiday too, remember? And now I've got to cope with the children single-handed.'
'Don't panic, Flick,' muttered Percy through clenched teeth as the old car rattled down the stony track, sending a lance of white-hot pain up his leg at every jolt. 'They can go to their games and things, can't they?'
'But that's only some of the time, isn't it?' she spat at him. 'You may not have noticed, Percy, but children of five, four and eighteen months need dressing and changing and feeding and putting to bed and sun-creaming and organising and being played with. And you're not going to be much use changing a filthy nappy standing on one leg. How could you do this to me?'
'I'll work something out, darling, I promise.'
'You had better, Percy, or I shall personally sprain your other ankle.'
But though Percy's name was now mud in the bosom of his family, down at the beach bar he had attained hero status. His fellow Plonkers had carried him to a table and plied him with the local gut-rot and buckets of sympathy in equal measure. A crowd gathered, which included Carol-Anne. She proposed a solution to his domestic plight.
'I can get you a team of girls to help out,' she said. 'We're all on shift here and there's not much to do when we're off duty except hang around. I bet I could drum up a rota of nannies and waitresses to lend your wife a hand.'
'Fantastic,' said Percy.
'It'll cost you, of course.'
'Of course.'
'I mean, the girls work pretty hard so if you're going to use their free time you've got to stump up.'
'How much?'
'Leave it with me, sport. I'll let you know.'
And she had. The upshot of which now left Percy staring hard at the telephone in the hotel reception on the brink of making one of the most embarrassing calls of his life. Except where his wife was concerned, he was not renowned for resurrecting bridges he had just burned.
'Lucian, it's Percy Carmichael. I'm glad I caught you. How are you, old son?'
Lucian wasn't thrilled to hear Percy's hearty boom. The scars of the pompous fart's abominable rudeness had not yet healed and Lucian would have been quite content to have continued any future intercourse by letter. However, he wasn't surprised. He'd had extensive experience of authors. In many respects they were like donkeys, particularly when confronted by a dangling carrot.
'I'm sorry I got a bit carried away when we last spoke, Lucian. I can assure you there was nothing personal in my remarks. I was just a little disappointed by the new policies of your lords and masters. I realise it's not your fault. You've always treated me with utter professionalism and I regard our relationship as something rare and special in a trade that is becoming increasing tarnished by—'
'What do you want, Percy?'
'Ah... well, I've been considering the proposal you made me the other day.'
Surprise, surprise. The donkey was after the carrot.
'I don't remember making you a proposal, Percy.'
Let the bastard sweat.
'But, Lucian, you must remember. When you sadly pronounced sentence of death on my Whimsical Walks in Whelk Country, you urged me to write for your new list.'
'What list?'
Lucian was enjoying this.
'You know, your... erotica list.'
'Oh, you mean the pornography line.'
'Yes!'
'But that's not your cup of tea, is it, Percy? As you said yourself, I believe. I could hardly expect a writer of your style and sensitivity to lower his standards to such a degree. I deeply regret even mentioning it to you.'
'But you've got to let me do it, Lucian. Please. I beg you.' There was a pause in the conversation. The note of desperation in Percy's voice was obvious to them both.
'Are you in trouble, Percy?' said Lucian, honour now satisfied.
'Christ, Lucian, you don't know the half of it. I've done my ankle and can't move and Felicity's behaving like a turbo-charged Nazi. I've got to hire half the staff here round the clock to keep her sweet and I can't get a penny back on my insurance - I've gone blind reading the sodding policy.'
'So you need some money and you don't care what kind of book you write.'
'Crudely put—'
'That is how we put it these days at Blue Desire.'
'What's that?'
'The name of our naughty imprint. For which you aspire to write. What's your proposal then?'
'I can hardly tell you over the phone, Lucian. Can't you just trust me? I'll start it here and show you what I've done when I get back. I've got three months before I have to research my history of the Stamp & Mame Corporation and I'll wrap it up by then. I had planned to write Whelk Country, as you know, but—'
'OK, Percy, I get the picture.' Lucian was anxious not to open old wounds. 'But you've got to give me some idea what the book's about. Have you got a title?'
'Distant Equinox.'
'For God's sake, that won't do.'
'Really? I thought it was rather classy. How about Reflections on a Sunless Sea? I've always wanted to write a novel with that title. It's rather poetic, don't you think?'
Lucian sighed. 'Stuff the poetry, Percy, it won't work. We want the grind of nubile flesh, the thrust and pout of busty babes on heat. And the title has got to send the blood rushing to the loins.'
'You mean, like Oil My Tits.'
'Blimey, Percy, that's possibly a bit too up-front but, yes, you're on the right lines. Has your hotel got a fax?'
'Somewhere, I suppose.'
'Well, you'd better scribble me out a synopsis tonight, with some sample action if you can manage it, and fax it to me by the time my meeting starts tomorrow morning.'
'Oh, thank you, Lucian, thank you. You've saved my life.'
'Don't get carried away, Percy. Send me a storyline, two pages will do. Just think of pulsing loins and big beautiful breasts.'
Percy looked out of the window at the row of women stripped to their bikini panties on sun-loungers by the hotel pool and smiled. 'Honestly, Lucian,' he said, 'that won't be a problem.'
Percy slaved all night over his outline for Oil My Tits - which was only a working title, to be sure, but he wrote it boldly at the top of his pad to keep his literary inclinations from taking over.
It was bloody uncomfortable sitting in the bathroom with his bad leg propped up but he had no option. Felicity's ill-humour had been mellowed to a degree by the presence of Gina and Dyan, two off-duty nannies who had put the kids to bed with cheerful efficiency. All Felicity had had to do was bark orders and tackle the duty-free gin. Now she was fast asleep in the bedroom while Gina listened out for the kids from a makeshift bed on the children's balcony. Which left the bathroom free for the reluctant pornographer.
It wasn't going too badly, Percy thought. He had a plot which had sprung miraculously from his current predicament: Virile mid-thirtyish Max goes on holiday with Arabella, his cold and shrewish wife of seven years. On the first day, Arabella drinks too much at lunch and falls down a flight of stairs, twisting her ankle. With Arabella confined to bed, Max is free to conduct carnal relations with the scores of stunning, scantily clad beauties frolicking on the beach.
Percy enjoyed the idea of turning the tables on reality and having his hero's wife incapacitated. Feeling marginally guilty, he went on to invent a charismatic local doctor who strikes up a rapport with Arabella on his regular visits. Armand, the doctor, is possessed of a freakishly large penis which he uses to comprehensively fuck and bugger the prudish Arabella until she is a slave to brute male passions. In the climax of the story Max, fresh from a three-way orgy with two bikini-clad volleyballing sisters, catches Arabella on her hands and knees sucking Armand's mighty prick, her big nude buttocks thrust invitingly in his direction. Overwhelmed with lust, Max plunges his cock into the proffered arse of his now-shameless wife, symbolically uniting them in a future life of unbridled licence.
'If only,' Percy muttered to himself as he contemplated the finale of his effort. He and Felicity had not had horizontal marital relations since the conception of Crispin, which was well over two years before. He had pinned his hopes for their resumption on this holiday but things had not started off on the right foot. Actually, he thought gloomily as he washed down a paracetamol tablet with a nip of scotch, they'd started on his left. Which was now bust. Hey-ho.
In a haze of pain-wracked nostalgia Percy recalled the image of Felicity's broad and bulging bottom. He'd never been up there, even in their sexiest times. He could imagine the squawks of outrage if he'd tried. Suddenly he laughed out loud as he realised he could fuck the arse off his wife as many times as he wanted in this book. He could write what he liked with her in mind - and any other female he fancied, come to that. That at least would be some satisfaction - to picture Felicity's buttocks spread before him, the dusky dimple of her rosehole yielding at the touch of his knob, parting its velvety folds to suck him in to the hilt!
He chuckled with delight as he crossed out the heading Oil My Tits. Inspiration was striking already. Thanks to his wife's arse he had a title: To the Hilt.
Percy was out for the count when Felicity found him in the morning, his long frame bent rigid, his swollen ankle propped up on the bidet. A snowstorm of screwed-up paper littered the floor and a half-empty whisky bottle lay on its side.
Percy's snores echoed around the small tiled room, reinforcing the severity of Felicity's hangover and irritating her beyond measure.
'Wake up, you stupid sod,' she muttered and booted him in the thigh. Who said you couldn't kick a man when he was down?
Then she summoned help to scrape her husband off the floor.
Chapter 14
Brendan O'Reilly was not much of a fellow for books. As a summertime water-ski instructor and a winter whizz on the Alpine pistes, his was an aggressively active lifestyle. And when he was not teaching wobbly-kneed holidaymakers how to stay upright on sea or snow, he had better things to do than read. Brendan O'Bonkers, as his Cascade colleagues often referred to him, was also an expert at serious R&R.
Not that Brendan was stupid. He'd only quit his Physics degree in Dublin out of boredom and the urge to spend time with his estranged father in Australia. In effect the skills he had picked up on the beach in Sydney had opened up a new career for him. Given the state of the leisure industry these days, being a beach bum was a respected vocation.
So woe betide the vacationing desk jockey who thought Brendan would be a pushover in the bar at chess or other intellectual pastimes. One stormy day when the water was too choppy for skiing, he'd run his eye over all the questions in the Trivial Pursuit box and now he was unbeatable. Sometimes it was useful to have a photographic memory.
Brendan was attuned to the needs of the holiday business. Keep the punters happy somehow, was his motto. Which was why he was standing in the office behind the reception desk, coaxing Percy's handwritten memo to Lucian Swan through the fax machine. Naturally he read every word.
His attention had first been drawn to Percy the previous morning. To be precise, his attention had been drawn to the scowling woman in the next deckchair to Percy. Her displeasure as her husband loped off to the bar was obvious. Brendan usually gave the wife the once-over first, not only because he was a connoisseur of the female form but because, nine times out of ten, she held the key to the couple's holiday happiness. If the wife and mother was having a good time, bet your life the rest of the family were too. And Brendan and his Cascade colleagues had acquired many techniques to keep holiday wives happy.
For a fellow like Brendan who appreciated mature women - grown-up girls with big square hips and bouncing bum cheeks and low-slung, extravagantly curved bosoms that a man could really get to grips with - Percy's wife was a wet dream come true. It was a pity about the pinched mouth and set jaw and emerald eyes clouded with habitual rage. But Brendan wasn't daunted. Tougher cases - and far less attractive ones - had passed through his hands and come out smiling. He looked on a woman like Felicity Carmichael as a challenge.
And so Brendan had been only too delighted to answer the damsel's early-morning distress call and help lift Percy off the bathroom floor. He'd gone further and put an ice pack on Percy's ankle, helped him dress and manoeuvred him downstairs to the restaurant terrace where he now sat, breathing in the fumes of his third black coffee. In the course of this attendance, Brendan had volunteered to send Percy's fax.
It was red-hot stuff, no doubt about that - the outline of a sex novel set in a holiday complex just like Cascade, full of throbbing dick looking for homes and cock-happy nymphos eager to solve the accommodation problem. It was enough to send a bloke running to the library. He revised his opinion of Percy. He'd already felt sympathetic to the mild-mannered hen-pecked guy, now he resolved to help him all he could. And there were lots of ways he could do that.
'That's sorted, Perce,' said Brendan as he took the vacant chair next to the invalid and returned his pieces of paper.
Percy blinked at him through his spectacles. 'Are you sure it all went through?'
'No problem. Here's the slip. 'Pages six. Result OK. Failure pages none.'
'Thank God for that,' Percy muttered. 'I'm expecting a reply later today. It's most important.'
'Don't worry - I'll tell the girls on the desk. We'll let you know the moment it comes. I mean, you're not going to run off now, are you?' He laughed and indicated Percy's empty cup to a short busty waitress with a coffee pot.
'Sexy, isn't she?' said Brendan as the girl walked away, her hips swaying under her blue uniform skirt. 'Dynamite body with the temperament of an iceberg - except in the right hands. She'd fit right into your book.'
Percy spluttered into his cup. 'You mean you read my fax? How dare you read my private business documents!'
> Brendan was unfazed. 'Keep cool, Perce, anybody would have. You're lucky it was me because I can be of invaluable assistance to you.'
Suspicion gleamed in Percy's eyes. 'What do you mean?'
'This book of yours is going to be set here, right?'
'Well... somewhere like here, yes. It won't be identifiable.'
'Because you don't want Cascade to sue you?'
'No, and I don't want anyone else finding out about it either.' Percy was panicking. His situation was bad enough, it would be intolerable if his fellow holidaymakers discovered what he was up to.
Brendan laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'Relax, my friend. Your secret is safe with me, as they say. Besides, I want to help out.'
'What do you mean?'
'I reckon you need a technical adviser. Someone who knows what really goes on in a place like this. I could tell you and you could put it in the book. It would make it more authentic - and a hell of a lot hornier than anything you could dream up.'
'If that's true why don't you write your own book?'
Brendan guffawed. 'You must be joking, man. I'm an over-sexed beach bum of twenty-two. When I get to your age I might write about life but right now I prefer living it.'
Percy digested this information. He had already calculated the novel would require upwards of a dozen no-holds-barred passages of uninhibited bonking, preferably with a shifting cast of gorgeous but physically dissimilar types. For a man who had slept with the same woman for over a dozen years and, for the past two, with no sexual contact whatsoever, this was a daunting prospect. He needed help with this book like a blind man needed a guide dog.
But he was still suspicious. 'What do you want in return?'