by Noel Amos
'Aha,' cried Lucian, rising to his feet and holding a glistening finger in front of her. 'You are wet with need, Contessa. Your aristocratic cunt is dripping with desire for an artisan's cock. You must be punished.'
'No!' wailed Caroline.
'Unwrap the instrument of your pleasure,' he ordered and pointed to the thin parcel on the table.
Caroline continued to protest but her fingers ripped open the paper with an eagerness she could not conceal. In the shop, the cane had looked innocuous and silly. In Caroline's trembling hands, next to her exposed flesh, it looked vicious.
Lucian pulled a straight-backed chair into the centre of the room. 'Bend over the back,' he commanded. 'Present those delectable buttocks for chastisement.'
'You wouldn't dare,' cried Caroline in defiance. 'If you mark my flesh my husband will have you killed.'
'I think not, Marietta. Haven't you realised that this is all the Count's idea?'
'No!' wailed Caroline. 'It can't be!'
'Oh yes, my little one. And I have precise instructions how I am to decorate your arse.'
'God have mercy,' cried Caroline and threw herself over the back of the chair.
It was a corny scenario, Lucian considered, though he had rather enjoyed hamming his way through his lines. And Caroline had acted her part as if she were auditioning for the RSC. One thing was certain about her book; if it had the same effect on future readers as it did on his cock all parties would be well satisfied.
The back of the chair was not high and Caroline was able to bend over it from the waist, thrusting the creamy ovals of her incredible buttocks high in the air. Though Lucian had never felt a desire to cane a woman before, he had to admit the peachy moons formed a tempting target. He made an experimental swish through the air with the cane and the thing seemed to leap in his hands with a life of its own. Lucian felt a pang of alarm. Christ, he didn't want to really hurt her.
'Don't leave me like this,' she cried. 'Get on with it if you must.'
He brought the cane down on her right cheek, trying to inflict the minimum amount of pain. The flesh wobbled as it absorbed the blow but retained its flawless pallor.
Caroline jerked her head around and glared at him. 'Do it properly, Lucian,' she hissed and for a moment they were no longer acting out her drama.
In a flash, other memories of their time together crowded into his head. The sneer in her voice, the contempt in her eyes, another man's cock in her mouth...
Smack! The sound was like a pistol shot as the cane cracked onto the meat of her arse. Then smack again, this time onto the left cheek in a backhand swipe that left a long pink stripe emblazoned on her flesh.
'Oh!' squealed Caroline and her buttocks quivered with the force of the assault.
Lucian waited for her to compose herself. She had a weal on each side now and, according to Caroline's own instructions, she was to have a couple more. He conjured up the picture of that Polaroid again and let her have it.
'No, please!' she moaned. 'Don't do it, Bruno. Don't - aah!'
But Lucian took no notice. This is what she wanted - what she had explicitly asked for. And what she was going to get.
When he had finished he flung the cane to the other side of the room. It had done its job. Caroline's twitching, clenching arse was symmetrically striped with cuts that would surely take many days to fade. Who else would see them? he wondered with a pang of jealousy.
But now was no time for wimpish thoughts. Caroline cum Marietta was still doubled over the chair, her body shuddering as she sobbed out her pain - real or assumed, he could not tell. Her pink and blazing bottom beckoned like a beacon, her stockinged legs open in a vee, the pouting purse of her pussy winking wetly at him. He quickly pulled off his clothes.
Her cunt was dripping like a tap, her sex juices running down her thighs to her stocking-tops. He had never seen her so turned on and, as he sank his tongue deep into her honeyed circlet, he felt her shaking with desire. He gorged on her wet sex like a starving man, holding her cheeks apart with his hands, squeezing and fondling her tender buttocks as he licked her from arsehole to clit and back again while she squirmed in excitement upon his face.
He stood and sank his cock in her to the depths, the first time he'd fucked her for weeks. It was as if he were inside a different woman - as if this were a new cunt around his cock and each movement of her body a revelation. In a way, of course, this was true. He was not Lucian worshipping Caroline, he was Bruno fucking Countess Marietta.
And Bruno's lust was insatiable. He thrust on and on, bulling his cock into the heart of her until she screamed out in orgasm. Then he slowed, stroking her abused flesh, pushing the camisole down her back to caress the fair skin, reaching below her to fondle the swollen pear-shaped breasts and all the time shunting his big organ in and out of her sex.
Lucian realised he could do anything he wanted to her now. She had come a lot and he had held back. After his debilitating week he reckoned he had one big climax left in him and he wanted it to be special. And what could be more special than finishing between the twin globes of flesh that he so adored and which now burned with the marks he had inflicted? There would never be a better time to fuck her arse.
Lucian pulled his tool from Caroline's pussy and moved it up the few centimetres to the dimple of her anus. It wasn't in the script she had ordained but she was so on heat he knew she wouldn't object.
If Caroline was surprised she didn't show it. She merely pressed her bottom back against him as he pushed. For a few seconds her flesh resisted, then came a moan from her, a grunt from him and - oh bliss! - his glans was suddenly corked within her anal ring and his entire cock was being devoured in the heat of her most private orifice. He drove in and she thrust back. He had his hand in her crotch, playing with the wet folds of her pussy lips, pressing his fingers against the hard nub of her clit, urging her towards a climax to match the one now building in his loins like an unstoppable wave.
The chair tipped over as they came and for a moment they glued together in a sated, shuddering heap. Lucian's face buried in her hair, the smell of her in his nostrils, his hammering and yearning for her. 'God, Caro,' he muttered into her neck, overwhelmed by the moment and on the brink of saying things he knew he shouldn't. Like, don't leave me, my darling, I beg you. Come back to my bed.
But she was pushing him off and reaching for her coat, her face a mask of disgust.
'You buggered me, you bastard,' she hissed. 'That's not in my book.'
'Well, perhaps it should be.'
'Did you have to make such a meal of it? God, I hate you.'
'Don't look on it as buggery, Caro. Consider it an editorial suggestion.'
But Caroline wasn't listening, she had done up her last button and stalked from the room.
Lucian called after her, his voice as stern as he could make it, 'Same time next week, Marietta. And don't be late.'
The front door closed with such violence the whole house shook. To think he'd almost told her he still loved her. The new Lucian had had a lucky escape.
Chapter 22
Percy was feeling no pain. Thumping rock from the sound system merged with drunken laughter and wrapped him in a cocoon of noise. He swallowed a mouthful of brandy and grinned stupidly at the bronzed and beaming revellers who surrounded him. The children were all in bed, dinner had been consumed and the booze was flowing. It was the last night of the holiday and all those crammed into the beach bar were determined to make the most of it.
Percy was pleased to see that even Felicity was entering into the spirit of the occasion. He watched her as she laughed at something Brendan said, her head thrown back and her hair hanging loose in a chestnut cloud over her bronzed shoulders. He knew that his were not the only admiring eyes on the gleaming cleavage revealed in her black figure-hugging cocktail dress.
Brendan leaned across to him and whispered in his ear. 'I hope you're making mental notes.'
'What do you mean?'
'Remember I to
ld you about No Knickers Night?'
'Yes?'
'Well, this is it. Look up there.'
Percy looked. On the rail above the bar hung flags and straw-covered Chianti bottles and bunches of plastic grapes. And also, as he could now plainly see, half-a-dozen scraps of lace and cotton that he immediately recognised as women's undergarments.
Brendan explained further. 'John and Ginger behind the bar put the word out. They'll let any woman drink for free if she'll take knickers off and hang them up.'
'Good God.' Percy peered closely at the girls around him then up at the flimsy trophies on display. The thought that there were half-a-dozen knickerless women so close to him had his imagination working overtime.
'Sometimes it's the most unlikely types who end up bare-arsed,' continued Brendan. 'You wouldn't think it of Mrs Wootton-Smythe, would you?'
Amanda Wootton-Smythe was an elegant blonde who had made herself universally unpopular throughout the holiday fortnight. Her husband was taciturn, her children were brats and she herself was civil to no one. She and Felicity had had a stand-up row following a queue-jumping incident at children's tea-time.'
Now Amanda was perched on a bar stool talking to curly-headed Clive, the volleyball Plonker. She wore an emerald-green wrap-round skirt which, to Percy's eye, revealed only long lean leg and thigh right up as far as he could see. As he watched, the barman placed a tall frosted glass in front of her filled with foaming lemon liquid and topped with a paper parasol.
'She's drinking Ginger's Specials,' muttered Brendan. 'I guarantee you'll get an eyeful if you stay just where you are.'
'Bloody hell,' muttered Percy, his eyes on stalks as he willed the green flap of her skirt to gape a little further between her thighs.
'It's not just her either, Percy. I reckon little Jean and Dyan and Garaint's wife have all opted for the free bar. You don't know where to look now, do you?'
That was true. Percy's eyes were darting madly about, seeking out the women Brendan had named. Jean and Dyan were dancing on the dais behind the speakers on the other side of the bar. From the roars and whoops coming from the knot of lads standing below them he could guess that what Brendan had told him was correct.
'You want to make the most of this, you know, Percy. For the book and all that. Would it help if I got your wife out of the way?'
Percy gazed at Brendan with pure gratitude. For such a young man he did seem to have a mature understanding of Percy's requirements. Peeking up women's skirts with Felicity sitting next to him was not the most sensible course of conduct.
'Look,' continued Brendan, 'I think I can persuade her to play boules with me. I've told her I'm better at that than tennis and she says she can still beat me.'
'Sounds like Felicity. Do you think she'll go for it?'
But Brendan was already whispering in Felicity's ear. She gave him a look Percy couldn't fathom and then placed her hand on Percy's shoulder.
'Darling, I'm tired,' she said. 'If it's all right with you I'll give this silly boy a game of boules and go straight to bed.'
'Of course, Flick.'
'There's no need for you to come though. Stay up as long as you like and enjoy yourself.'
Then she pecked his cheek and disappeared up the steps to the hotel with Brendan at her side. Percy smiled with satisfaction. This holiday had really done her good, there was no doubt about that.
He turned his attention to Amanda Wootton-Smythe's incredible legs.
The boules pitch was in darkness - which suited Brendan and Felicity just fine. They didn't need illumination for the game they were going to play.
'I must be mad,' said Felicity as he slipped the strap of her dress from her shoulder, baring the bountiful curves of her left breast.
'You're not mad, you're beautiful,' he said and exposed her right breast to the moonlight.
'Mad for your big Irish cock, at any rate,' she muttered, dragging his jeans down his hips.
His mouth was on her nipples, teasing them to hardness, his spittle glistening on the saucers of her areolae. His hands were under her skirt, gripping the solid globes of her buttocks, wriggling a finger into the moist crease between.
'Oh God, Brendan, I'm going to miss this,' she muttered, pulling his penis into the open and tugging it towards her crotch.
'Steady on, woman, let's get comfortable. We've got plenty of time.'
'But I need it now, Brendan! This is my last night and I want you to fuck me and fuck me and—'
He shut her up by covering her mouth with his and pulling her down on top of him into the dusty grass by the boules pitch. Her skirt was round her waist and her legs were spread. And as Brendan thrust his tool into the wet and welcoming crevice between her thighs he met with no impediment. Such was Felicity's intention to make the most of her last night, she too could have drunk at the bar - for free.
Chapter 23
The half-hour following Felicity's departure was one of the most extraordinary Percy had ever spent. Wedged in his seat, he watched the comings and goings around him with mounting disbelief. Suntanned and sozzled, aware that the sands of holiday time were fast trickling out, everyone it seemed was prepared to let their hair down.
The mysteries of Amanda Wootton-Smythe's wrapround skirt had long been revealed to Percy - and to anyone else who cared to look. The sourpuss expression had slipped from her face to be replaced by a loose-lipped grin and beside her on the bar were five discarded paper parasols. She sat on the bar stool with one leg on the floor, the other resting on the stool rail, her thighs bare and wide. Clive stood in front of her, making jokes and laughing as if he were unaware that his companion was all but naked from the waist down. But his right side was turned to Percy and his left hand could not be seen. Percy had his suspicions just where it was hiding.
Couples were now slow-dancing between the tables and Percy had located two more knickerless women: Garaint's wife had her bottom on view as the Welshman waltzed her around the chairs and Dyan had fallen asleep at the opposite table with her frock hiked to her waist.
'Hiya, Percy,' said a familiar voice in his ear. He tore his gaze from Dyan's overflowing buttocks to see Carol-Anne, the Entertainments Officer, taking a seat by his side. Her pretty face was creased by a frown.
'God, am I pleased to see someone who's not behaving like is a remake of Caligula. I swear it's the worst part of my job having to put up with this kind of obscene conduct on the last night. Honestly, I don't know what gets into people. I can only apologise Percy.'
'There's no need, Carol-Anne. You must allow the holidaying work-slave a little licence at the end of his sojourn in the sun.'
'Gee, that sounds profound. You're a wise man, Mr Carmichael.'
Percy blushed. Flattery from a woman as young and scrumptious as the blonde Australian was as potent as the cognac burning in his belly.
'Say, Percy, would you do me a favour and get me a drink? I mean, if your foot's up to it.'
'Of course. I'm supposed to exercise it these days anyway.' Percy hauled himself to his feet, cursing the giant erection that stretched his trousers to bursting. He turned his back to Carol-Anne quickly, hoping she wouldn't notice.'
'So she sent you this time, did she?' said Ginger as he poured Percy's order.
'What do you mean?'
'Just a little joke between Carol-Anne and us guys behind the bar. She's on our case all week so we say we'll only serve her on party night if she gets her kit off. We'll get her before the season's over, no sweat.'
Ginger finished swizzling a long green drink and decorated it with a cherry on a stick. 'There you go, mate, and good luck. They say she's got great acceleration if you can just get her engine started.'
But Percy was scarcely listening; he wanted to satisfy his curiosity on another point. His position at the bar was just behind Amanda's chair and if he leaned forward and to one side - Good God! It was as he had suspected but the blatant rudeness of the sight still took him by surprise. In the spread vee of Amanda's thi
ghs he could see Clive's hand stimulating her cunt. With two fingers embedded deep between the sticky labia, Clive's wrist was moving, slowly in, slowly out, as he gently masturbated her. From the murmur of sound from her lips it seemed he was playing her like a fish. Percy strained to hear.
'Promise me you'll fuck me soon, Clive darling, oh that's so marvellous in my pussy, one more drink and fuck me with your lovely lovely cock...'
Percy turned back to the table with his erection intact. There was nothing he could do about it. As he took his seat, his loins poised momentarily next to Carol-Anne's face, he thought his distraught penis might burst from his trousers and poke her in the eye. He sank into his seat with relief.
'Thanks a bunch, Percy.'
'My pleasure. Thank you for helping me out this past couple of weeks. Your girls were brilliant after I smashed my ankle.'
'We aim to please. I'm just thrilled we had a real writer staying here. Now tell me, exactly what is it you're working on?'
There was a moan from Amanda's direction, followed by another and another. The kind of moan that, in certain women, heralds the approach of a noisy orgasm.
Percy tried to ignore the distraction. Carol-Anne's earnest face, the eyes big with interest, demanded a response. 'It's a, er, study in human relations—'
'Oh. Oh! OH!'
'An exploration of how men and women interact in their leisure time—'
'Oh God, oh God, oh GOD!'
Carol-Anne's brow puckered in puzzlement. Percy fought to keep his eyes on her face. Over her shoulder, on the dance floor, he saw Jean on her knees with her boyfriend's cock in her mouth. By the bar Amanda was now shouting out an unstoppable flow of obscenities.
'Is it a sociological book then?' asked Carol-Anne. Only the speed with which she had disposed of her green drink betrayed awareness of the mayhem developing around her.
'Cock! I want cock! Give me COCK!' yelled Amanda.