by Noel Amos
'Oh yes,' she whispered as he stood over her, his trousers round his ankles, his thick white wand rearing in her face. 'It's turned out just as I thought. Big.'
It certainly was at that moment as she bent forward to scrutinise it more closely, the neck of her slip gaping to reveal the shadowy slopes of her porcelain-pale breasts.
She picked up the remaining stocking. 'I'm going to give you a special treat, darling boy,' she whispered, and draped the weightless wisp over his outthrust limb.
'Oh Marilyn,' he moaned as she wound the material around him, holding an end of the stocking in each hand and pulling it back and forth in a see-sawing motion. The friction was tight on his cock, constraining and exciting him at the same time. The motion pulled on his foreskin, peeling it back off his glans which thrust, rude and red, inches from her lips. She darted out her small pointed tongue and licked it, moving her hands faster.
His cock quivered and strained. He knew it had never been so hard or so huge. This was a dream of his adolescence made flesh - to be masturbated through a silk stocking by the woman who had once starred in those dreams on a nightly basis.
Her thoughts were obviously travelling in the same direction. 'All those years ago,' she said, 'did you ever think of me?'
'Christ, Marilyn, of course I did!'
She chuckled and flick-flicked at his knob with her tongue. 'Did you think of me while you played with yourself?'
'Yes!'
'What did you imagine doing to me?'
'Everything! Especially when I saw you sunbathing topless in Uncle Basil's garden.'
'I remember. I did it on purpose to excite you.'
'Why, Marilyn?'
'It amused me. I liked to imagine you getting worked up with me in mind. If you'd been a little more sophisticated I might have shown you what to do with that whopper in your swimming trunks.'
'Really? God, Marilyn, don't tell me I should have made a pass at you.'
'Well, you should have.'
The see-saw friction on his penis was almost unbearable now and his legs trembled as the sap began to rise from his balls.
'Mind you,' she continued, 'if we'd done it then I doubt if we'd be doing it now. And you wouldn't have a hope in hell of publishing The Novelist's Wife. Oh my, Lucian, what a lot of spunk - have you been saving it up? You'll have to buy me a new pair of stockings.'
Dizzy with orgasm, Lucian slumped to his knees. He stared at the wet stocking in her hand and the wicked glitter in her violet eyes.
'You mean you're going to sell me the book?'
'I'm considering your offer seriously,' she said, slipping her knickers down her smooth white thighs and spreading her legs. The mouth of her pussy was a neat hairless slit, the pouting pink lips hungry for attention.
Lucian leaned forward and planted a kiss on the pale dome of her belly. The aroma of her excitement was in his nostrils.
'Mmm, yes,' she sighed and settled down in her seat, her legs opening wider. 'Of course,' she went on as Lucian's mouth began its inevitable journey south, 'I anticipate this being a protracted negotiation. You're going to have to pull out all the stops to convince me, darling boy. Oh that's good!'
She seized Lucian by the hair as his lips brushed her labia and pulled his face hard into her crotch. For a second he fought for breath and then plunged his tongue deep into the tunnel of her vagina, pressing his nose against her clit. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth and her hands burrowed under his shirt, the fingernails sinking into his flesh.
As her thighs scissored shut, threatening to cut off his breath completely, he felt the first drop of blood trickle down his back.
'How's it going with Marilyn?' Miranda asked Lucian the next morning.
'I had dinner with her last night,' he said, failing to mention that he'd had breakfast with her as well.
'And?'
'We're in serious discussions. It could take some while.' He stifled a yawn with his hand and winced with pain. The scratches on his back hurt every time he moved.
Miranda fixed him with her most penetrating stare. 'I hope you've got the stamina for it.'
These were Lucian's sentiments precisely.
Chapter 17
Percy was stuck.
The Whimsical Press had accepted his proposal for To the Hilt at once and, as Percy read Lucian's answering fax, a frisson of guilt had stolen through him. The man he had decried so roundly had proved himself to be a real pal. Lucian had even offered to deposit some money in Percy's bank account in his absence to keep the good ship Carmichael afloat. The fellow was more than a pal - he was a saviour.
Which made things worse, some three days later, to be staring at a mere half-a-dozen handwritten pages and knowing that they weren't any good. In the first flush of excitement Percy had thought it would be easy to knock out a few thousand words of erotica a day. After all, he was a professional writer. When he got cracking he could generate a fair pace on topics as diverse as beekeeping or Alpine gardening or the history of the postage stamp. Once you'd mugged up on a subject, the rest was easy. That was the problem, of course. As far as this subject went, recently he'd not done any mugging up at all.
'Can I get you anything, Mr Carmichael?'
Philippa was looking at him from a reclining chair a couple of yards away in the full glare of the mid-morning sun. Her curvaceous form gleamed with sun cream which had taken fully twelve minutes to apply to every tempting inch of bare skin. Percy knew that because he had timed her. Today she wore a cerise bikini that left even more of her exposed than usual. Percy admired the design of tiny seashells and other marine artefacts that danced along the curve of her bikini top and across the waistband of her minuscule pants. He particularly liked the little seahorse that sat right there on the crest of her pubic bulge, its snout poking up and its tail curling down to where the oiled flesh of her upper thighs kissed...
'Mr Carmichael?'
'Sorry, Philippa - I was miles away. If you're going to the bar you could get me a beer.'
Philippa slid off the sun-bed in one silky movement and bent to slip her espadrilles over her feet. For the umpteenth time in the past few days, Percy found himself staring down the bottomless ravine of her freckled cleavage. How a woman could be so small and yet have so much flesh to put on display was a constant wonder to him.•'
'Sorry, Mr Carmichael, you'll have to make do with coffee,' she announced as she straightened up. 'I've been talking to your wife and she says that if you drink beer all day with no exercise you'll get fat.'
Her suntanned buttocks, bisected by the cerise thong, winked at him as she walked away. Percy breathed a sigh of frustration as he watched her and surreptitiously eased his smitten penis into a more comfortable position in his shorts. Thrilling though her company was, it was not making his task any easier. She had not yet asked him to show her what he was writing, nevertheless he found her presence inhibiting. Particularly when all he wanted to do was describe blonde pocket Venuses with big freckled breasts and seahorses on their pussies. The alternative was to dismiss her, and the sloe-eyed Lucia of the afternoon shift too. But he couldn't bear to do that - besides he still needed their help.
'That's a terrible heavy sigh for a man surrounded by luscious handmaidens,' said a familiar Irish voice as Brendan took a seat by his side. He wore white shorts and trainers and was mopping his sweat-streaked face. Percy looked enviously at the beaded glass full of amber liquid in his hand.
'I've been playing tennis with your wife,' said Brendan. 'Lord, that's a woman with a powerful backhand.'
'Tell me about it.'
'Thank God I'm on the same side of the net this afternoon. We're playing in the doubles.' He took a deep draught and smiled in contentment. 'How's the book going?'
Percy pushed his notepad across the table without comment. It would be interesting to see Brendan's reaction. He, after all, was the target audience.
Brendan eyed the top page and his face fell. He took another gulp of beer and his brow furro
wed in concentration. 'What does "callypygian" mean, Percy?'
'Having beautifully shaped buttocks.'
'And "cyprian sceptre"?'
'That's a penis.'
'So what this bit means is the sight of her pretty arse made his cock go stiff?'
'Yes.'
'Then, for God's sake, man, why don't you say so? Do you expect people to read your book with a dictionary in the other hand? How the hell are they going to jerk off?'
Percy looked pained. 'Well, I did expect some kind of intellectual response as well as the purely visceral.'
Brendan snorted. 'Don't kid yourself, Percy. Guys read these books to get turned on and then they have one off the wrist. Or else their wives get lucky. It's a feel-good thing, not a degree course in etymology.'
Percy smiled. 'Touché, Brendan. I bow to your superior knowledge of the genre.'
'You bet it's superior. Anyhow, I'm going to be in your book, right? And I want a cock not a cyprian sceptre.'
'Not even a bloody enormous cyprian sceptre? OK, I admit it's not right yet.'
Brendan grinned. 'What's the problem, Perce? Don't tell me your nurses are not inspiring you.'
'To be honest, they don't help. I'm so busy ogling them I can't work. And then I'm embarrassed to write what I really want to in case they read it.'
'Embarrassed?' Brendan looked nonplussed, the concept was alien to his nature. He thought for a moment.
Below them, Philippa could be seen emerging from the beach bar carrying two cups of coffee. Brendan spoke quickly.
'I can assure you Philippa won't be bothered by anything you write. Just don't attempt to lay a hand on her.'
'I'd never dream of doing such a thing—'
'Of course you would, Percy, any horny guy would. Just don't do it. Dream all you like then write it down. If she reads it I guarantee she'll be flattered. I mean, is that girl an exhibitionist or what?'
Both of them paused to watch Philippa climb the steps to the terrace. She moved gracefully. There were no ripples in the coffee she carried but at each step the upper slopes of her exposed breasts quivered deliciously. As she undulated towards them and the little seahorse in her crotch thrust out its snout in Percy's direction, he realised she loved showing off her body.
'The little pricktease,' he muttered, suddenly aware that - on paper at least - he could do just what he liked to her.
'Got any money on you?' asked Brendan.
'Forty or fifty thousand lira.'
'Great. When Lucia asks you for it this afternoon, just hand it over.'
'Why?'
But Brendan was gone and Philippa was placing the coffee on the table by his side. The seahorse was inches from his face and he studied it closely, turning over in his mind the words to describe that bikini - and the scene which would follow as his hero, Max, sank his teeth into the scrap of cerise and tore it off an imaginary blonde's pretty arse.
By the time Lucia arrived that afternoon, Percy was riding a streak of inspiration. Max had seduced a big-chested blonde with freckles, Simone, in a changing cabin at the back of the crowded riviera beach, ripping her bikini off and sitting her on his rearing cock as he leaned against the wooden door for support.
Percy had imagined what it would be like to circle Philippa's small waist with his big hands and then described Max plunging such a woman up and down on his penis, her swollen breasts rubbing against his chest and her hot little mouth on his as they tried to keep the lid on their moans of lust. But that had proved impossible for Max and Simone and as she came for the third or fourth time, shrieking out in ecstasy, someone yanked open the cabin door and the pair of them tumbled nude into a crowd of onlookers.
Percy barely looked up as Felicity came by, her hair sandy and wet and her face brown from the wind after her sailing lesson.
'I say, well done, Percy,' she said as she took in his industry. 'You might as well crack on with it. The girls can supervise the kids at lunch. I'll get one of them to bring you a sandwich.'
'And a beer,' said Percy hopefully.
'Righto,' she said and strode off. It was the first pleasant interchange he'd had with his wife for days.
He turned back to the page before him and decided to have Max straddle Simone's chest and place his straining penis between her heaving freckled melons.
He was barely conscious of the moment when Lucia took her seat beside him, but when he looked up he found the Italian's dark and soulful eyes fixed upon him.
'Ello, Signor Percy. You work 'ard.' She smiled, revealing her brilliant white teeth. She too was a small girl but there the resemblance to Philippa ended. She was olive-skinned and slender, with a straight nose and lustrous black hair that fell to her shoulders. She wore a collection of bracelets on her wrists that rattled as she moved and long dangling silver earrings that tinkled when she turned her head. Her tiny feet were in white leather sandals with heels that rapped loudly on the flags of the terrace and when she spoke in Italian the sound was like a volley of machine-gun fire. All in all, her presence could not be overlooked and, so far, this constant noise had been distracting to the writer.
His cock had also found her distracting. Though she wore many more clothes than Philippa, her body, in its own way, had as powerful an effect. The eyes and the lips spoke of untold exotic pleasures for a lover. The little hands changed the dressing on his ankle with a lingering sensuality - as if they were reluctant to leave his flesh. She would often lay a small cool palm on his brow and gaze at him with tender concern, as if she were checking the temperature of an ailing infant. But her touch was more than motherly.
Her garments concealed her body like veils around an exotic dancer. She wore layers of clothing, open shirts over tiny vests, gauzy hanging scarves, thin wispy things that somehow placed emphasis on the unfettered curves of flesh beneath. Percy had often fancied he could see the shadows of her nipples through the flowing material. She wore no bra, he was certain of that from the way her flesh shifted, and her last layer always seemed to be white and thin, revealing the dark smudges beneath.
Now she laid a hand on his bare knee, the fingers just touching the flesh on the inside of his thigh. It was a typically intimate gesture.
'You 'ave money?' she said.
Percy remembered what Brendan had said. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of blue notes. She took them from him and counted them. Then they disappeared into her clothing, conjured away by those magic fingers.
'Come,' she said, taking hold of his arm with one hand and picking up his stick with the other. 'We walk.'
Percy wanted to protest. It was still difficult moving around and he saved his energies for hobbling to the loo and getting up to his room. But Lucia was tugging him to his feet and, remarkably for such a small woman, bearing his weight as she urged him forward.
They didn't go far, just along the walkway and behind a wicker screen which took them down the side of the hotel building. Chairs and tables were piled up here - it seemed this part of the terrace was not in use. Lucia pulled a sun-lounger with an adjustable back from behind a stack of chairs and tugged it into the open. She indicated that Percy was to lie back on it. He did so, gratefully taking the weight off his injured foot while she fussed around him. Then she perched on the side of the recliner, her hip pressing companionably into his.
'Is OK?' she asked.
He looked over her shoulder. To the left were the gorse and scrub-packed slopes of the nearby hills, to the right was the bay where a vermilion sea twinkled beneath a cloudless sky.
'Is very OK,' he said.
'Bene,' she said and kissed him.
It was an exotic foreign kiss. It tasted of espresso and tobacco and hinted at devilish sensual pleasures he had never before tasted. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.
'Ooh, Signor Percy,' she whispered in his ear and bit the lobe.
'Ow!' he cried. It was like being stung by a wasp. She laughed, a low husky chuckle, and pulled away
from him.
To his astonishment he found himself staring at her naked breasts. Somehow she had rearranged her clothing to unveil high shallow bowls of flesh which curved upwards to coal-black points. She took his hand and led it to her bosom, her bottomless brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
His hand shook as he felt her. The small rounds seemed to swell and leap at his touch, the nipples long, ridged and hard against his palm.
'Bella, bella,' he muttered, cursing his ignorance of Italian. 'You are beautiful, exquisite—'
'Ssh,' she said and offered her teats to his lips, holding back her shirt so he could explore her thoroughly with hands and lips. As he did so a little bit of his brain said, Make notes in your head! You can use this in your book!
He was so engrossed with her tits he was not aware she had unfastened his shorts until he felt her hand on his cock.
'Oho!' she cried with a chuckle. From her broad smile it was apparent she liked what she had found.
'Grande, molto grande!' she cried and slid her little fingers in his underpants to fish out his balls.
'Oh Lucia,' groaned Percy, all thoughts of note-taking completely banished. It had been many years since any woman, let alone a sloe-eyed Italian beauty, had taken the tiniest interest in his sexual equipment.
His genitals did look enormous in her small hands, the tool stretching fat and stiff up over his belly, the sack of his testicals overflowing one hand, the shiny scarlet glans rearing from between the fingers of the other. She squeezed his shaft and his whole body twitched. He was wound up so tight he might explode at any second. They both knew it.
She teased him. She fluttered her fingers up and down his straining weapon, then circled it with both hands, pulling back the foreskin till the knob stuck up like a purple lollipop. Then she dipped her shoulders and touched the black spike of each nipple in turn onto the gleaming head.
Percy's mind was in a mist as she played with him like this, wantonly, obscenely. God, it was fantastic!