Lust on the Line

by Noel Amos

  At the next table Dyan was now snoozing on Garaint's lap while he fingered the pale white globes of her big bottom. Garaint's wife was straddling Pete from Preston, one hand holding her skirt high the other directing a thick red penis into the black fur of her nook.

  'Well, yes, er, I suppose it is,' mumbled Percy. 'I mean it does have sociological relevance though it is not meant to be academic in any sense...'

  'It sounds great,' said Carol-Anne with a brilliant smile, her little white teeth gleaming in the dim light. 'That's just the kind of thing we need in the Cascade Hotel library.'

  'There's no doubt about that,' said Percy.

  Clive was now giving Amanda the relief she had been screaming for, skewering his tool into her as she balanced herself on top of the stool - a remarkable feat of sexual coordination that had no effect in lowering the volume control. On the dance floor, Jean was getting it at both ends from her admirers, who were queuing up. Percy noted that her desire to acquire an all-over suntan had paid off.

  Carol-Anne took a despairing suck at her straw though her glass was plainly empty. 'Allow me,' said Percy but she pushed him back into his seat.

  'No,' she said, standing up. 'It's my round and I can't keep putting it off. Here, give me a hand.'

  To Percy's complete amazement, she began to wriggle her tight leather mini-skirt up over her hips. Beneath, powder blue panties clung to her delectable loins like a second skin.

  'Do you mind taking my knickers down?'

  Percy was dumbfounded.

  'Come on, Perce. I'm parched and this is the only way those bastards will serve me.'

  Despite other distractions, John and Ginger were staring at her from behind the bar.

  'But I'll go, Carol-Anne. Please sit down—'

  'What's the matter? Don't you want to look at my puss? Help me, Perce. Pull 'em down.'

  So he did, holding the wisp of material reverently as he lowered it over her firm boyish buttocks and down her slim finely toned thighs. And as he removed the garment, his face was an inch or two from the smoothest, prettiest, nudest pussy slit he had ever seen.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder and raised her leg to slip the knickers off her feet. As she did so the hairless pink cleft stretched and pouted before him as if begging for a kiss. Then her skirt was back in place and she was marching to the bar where Ginger and John were leaping and high-fiving with glee.

  Percy now no longer had eyes for the erotic exhibition taking place around him. A half-naked conga line had formed, snaking round the tables and then out onto the beach.

  Only those too drunk or too engrossed were left as Carol-Anne returned. She carried a tray which bore a jug of her preferred green cocktail, a bottle of cognac and two glasses.

  'At least they reckoned my tush was worth something,' she said. 'Come on, Percy, let's get out of here,' and she marched straight past him towards the stairs leading up to the hotel.

  Percy followed her without a backward glance as she crossed the hotel reception and strode up the main staircase to a room on the first floor. He held the tray while she unlocked the door.

  She led him straight out onto the balcony and breathed a sigh. 'Thank God we're out of that. Some nights things just get out of hand, don't you think?'

  The view from the balcony was sensational. The velvet sky above the bay lit by the pinpoints of tiny stars; the half-glimpsed shadow of the mountains inland; the lights of small bobbing boats out at sea. And the beach laid out just below them - a group of shadowy figures splashing in the lapping surf and the floodlit volleyball court alive with leaping, wobbling, nude men and women.

  'Good God,' muttered Percy.

  'I know,' said Carol-Anne, adding as if it were the ultimate sacrilege, 'there were even people fucking on the boules pitch.'

  'No!' said Percy, trying hard to stifle a giggle.

  'Yeah, I know. What people don't realise is that I've got organise a competition on that pitch next week. I don't need it messed up. Now, wait here. I'll be right back.'

  'Er, um, yes,' said Percy, dumbfounded by the turn of events. She returned a moment later holding a pair of binoculars, a pencil and a clipboard. She had also removed her skirt and stood beside him in just a pink halter top and a pair of trainers. She made reference to her state of semi-nudity.

  'Right, you guys,' she muttered as she leant on the balcony rail and trained her binoculars on the beach, 'I'm going to make a report.'

  Percy marvelled at her glorious body, so different from the ripe maturity of Felicity, the bounty of Philippa, the olive-skinned beauty of Lucia. How wonderful women were in their variety!

  'OK, that's Kiwi Jim with a girl in the canoe. That's major misuse of equipment. And they're not wearing buoyancy aids on the water so that's a breach of safety regulations—'

  Carol-Anne had the lean, toned figure of a fitness follower. Her thighs were long and strong and there were muscles in her slender arms. And those buttocks, jutting back at Percy as she pressed forward against the balcony railing, were firm and gently curving without an ounce of surplus flesh. Why, he'd wager they wouldn't wobble an inch if he slapped their cheeky crescents—

  '—oho, Ginger! Gotcha! What are you doing with her? You're on duty behind the bar till two. You'll get your pay docked for this!'

  —but what he really wanted to do, what he was going to do was to explore that little pocket of pink flesh peeping at him beneath the rounds of her buttocks at the junction of her thighs. Mmm, yes, that delectable vaginal opening so memorably glimpsed already. Suppose he slid to his knees behind her and pressed his lips to her pussy just like this—

  '—God, look at that, those two guys doing it to her on the volleyball court. That's disgusting! She's shaking her butt faster than she ever did in my aerobics class—'

  Percy had his tongue deep inside her now, kissing her pouting recess with all the pent-up frustration of the past few hours. And her cunt kissed him back, it seemed, the lips swelling and fluttering, the juice of her excitement bubbling from within her. And all the time her other mouth maintained its stream of recorded misdemeanours. Percy smiled to himself as he pulled his prick from his trousers. Let's see if she can talk through this, he thought.

  'Jesus, that's terrible! They're doing it in a chain right on the court! I'm going to fax London tomorrow about this - OH!'

  Silence followed and it was blissful. A silence which was broken only by the sounds of their bodies pressing wetly against each other. His hands were on her breasts, his mouth on her neck, his penis buried deep within her. His loins buffeted her small pliant arse as he gave her what she really craved and she never said another word until after she came.

  'Mmm,' she whispered later as they lay on the sun-bed beneath the stars, 'when I first saw you I never thought you'd be so sexy.'

  Most of their clothing had disappeared and the balmy night was gentle on their bare skin. Percy stroked her full soft breasts and said, 'To be honest, I thought I'd said goodbye to sex for ever.'

  'That just shows how wrong you can be,' she replied and, with a wriggle of her hips, she sheathed his distended penis in the hairless mouth of her vagina.

  'Yes,' he muttered, pumping into her honeyed sweetness. 'Doesn't it just.'

  Chapter 24

  In the end, Lucian's capture of The Novelist's Wife was rather anticlimax, which was more than could be said for the protracted period of negotiation that preceded it. During the course of ten days Lucian had climaxed with Marilyn Savage in an outlandish selection of positions and situations and she had out-climaxed him three-fold.

  On the tenth morning he woke in her bed after two hours of fitful sleep and dragged his bruised and battered body into a sitting position. Marilyn had humiliated him the previous night at dinner before two of her female friends and the memory burned hot and shameful.

  After the coffee she'd ordered him beneath the table and commanded him to suck her off. Then she'd insisted he bestowed the favour on her two companions, a literary journalist an
d a yachtswoman who was writing her memoirs. They all sniggered and giggled and criticised his technique as he'd pleasured them and his only satisfaction had been in making the yachtswoman come so volcanically that she'd knocked over a bottle of brandy. And all the while he'd been down there in the musky dark, tonguing their insatiable vaginas, listening to their vile remarks, he'd been spurred on by one thought: he had to sign The Novelist's Wife. Unless he performed every bizarre act she ordained, he knew Marilyn would sell it to Rodney Branscombe. She'd made no bones about it.

  And now, as he lay shattered in Marilyn's bed, scarcely recovered from the orgy which had followed his under-the-table demonstration, he remembered something. Something so blindingly obvious that even the most junior editorial assistant would have been aware of it. He was furious.

  'Marilyn!' he roared. 'Get in here!'

  The bathroom door opened and Marilyn emerged, her hair wet, a towel wrapped around her sumptuous body and a familiar mocking grin on her face.

  'You are the biggest bitch in the business,' he cried and jumped from the bed to grab her.

  'That's my reputation,' she said as he yanked the towel from her damp body and pulled her face-down over his lap. 'Lucian - please!'

  The first few slaps were delivered with anger, setting the smooth white cheeks of her bottom in motion, swiftly turning them to puce then scarlet.

  'Ow! Lucian! Stop it!'

  'You've tricked me, haven't you?' He slapped her some more.

  'I don't know what you mean. You didn't have to get under the table, you could have said no. Ouch! Now stop it.'

  He held her down firmly with his weight on the centre of her back. He watched her livid arse wriggling across his lap.

  'If I'd refused you'd have rejected my offer for the Hastings book, wouldn't you?'

  'Well, there are other editors who are more cooperative than you are turning out to be.'

  'Who?' He slapped her again and this time left his hand on the burning flesh. She pushed her bottom against it.

  She chuckled. 'I thought you didn't like me to mention his name in your presence.'

  'Say it now.'

  She was looking up at him over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with merriment. Evidently this was not that painful an experience.

  'Rodney Branscombe.'

  'You're a liar.'

  'Lucian, please. That's a most unprofessional remark.'

  'But, Marilyn, you know very well that the last book in the world Branscombe could publish would be The Novelist's Wife.'

  'Oh really.' He no longer held her down now and she raised her head to look at him. Her loins were grinding into his wantonly as she said, 'Why is that?'

  'Because GrabCo have just spent a million on Monty Hastings' new contract. They can't publish his wife's book, he'd go ballistic.'

  Her smile of triumph was unconcealed.

  'And you've been stringing me along,' cried Lucian, 'dangling Rodney bloody Branscombe over me, turning me into your personal sex-slave, when all the time you know there's no point in even talking to him about it.'

  'Poor Lucian,' said Marilyn and put her hand between his legs. His erection was enormous. 'I imagine it must have been terrible for you, spending night after night in this bed with me.'

  'No, of course not, Marilyn. You're fabulous but—'

  'But?'

  She was sitting up now and stroking his cock gently, fluttering her fingers along the top of the shaft just the way he liked it.

  'I feel I've been used. Taken for an idiot.'

  'I see.' She slipped onto her knees between his legs and considered the big swollen organ in her hand. 'I didn't plan it, Lucian, but it's not my job to point out the obvious, now is it?'

  She dipped her head and took one testicle into her mouth. In the full-length mirror behind her Lucian could see the violin curve of her waist and hips and the flaming moons of her abused buttocks. She took the other ball between her lips and a frisson of delight ran through him.

  After a moment she raised her head. 'I do feel a teensy bit guilty about making you do some things. But I never thought you'd do everything I asked.'

  She pumped his cock with one hand and flicked her tongue across his scarlet glans. 'Like when I made you spunk off at that Pirandello play.' She laughed and her small breasts quivered, the nipples dark and swollen.

  'I thought I was going to get arrested.'

  'It was such a bloody boring play, darling, everyone in our row was glad of the entertainment.'

  Her hand had found a steady rhythm and his knob was turning purple. She fondled his balls as she wanked him. 'Anyway, don't tell me you didn't enjoy last night. Three women to keep you happy must be every man's dream.'

  'Please, Marilyn, I'm shattered.'

  'You don't look it from this angle.'

  That was true. His distended penis loomed over her small, heart-shaped face.

  'I admit,' she continued, 'that I probably owe you a favour or two in return. Suppose in future I give you a blow-job every time you buy one of my books?'

  'But, Marilyn, you never sell me any of your books - oh!'

  She had slipped her pink lips over the end of his swollen tool and he watched in wonder as his entire length disappeared into her face. She came up for air and then swallowed him again. And again. Then her hand was jerking on his shaft and her tongue was rimming his glans. In the mirror her pretty buttocks quivered and, as she shifted her stance and he glimpsed movement between her legs, he realised she was diddling herself with her other hand.

  It couldn't last long like that. Not with her gumming his tool and wanking his shaft and the sight of her playing with her pussy in the mirror.

  'Christ, Marilyn!' he cried as he erupted down her throat. And she lifted her face from his cock and swallowed as she orgasmed on her fingers.

  'Well,' she said eventually, 'how did you like your first pay-off?'

  'You mean...?' As ever, it took a while for the penny to drop.

  'Congratulations. You've now bought The Novelist's Wife.'

  On second thoughts, it wasn't an anticlimax at all.

  Three - Naked in the Roses

  Chapter 25

  Staying at a hotel just ten miles from her own home seemed an extravagance to the teacher's daughter from a terraced cottage in the Rhondda. But Karen Hastings had come a long way since she was plain and spotty Karen Jenkins, the school swot of Llangavenny Grammar. Now she was married to a leading literary lion and soon to be a published novelist in her own right.

  Though she was the beneficiary of a generous monthly allowance from her husband, it gave her a particular thrill not to be spending Monty's money on her stay at Swivenham Hall. Thanks to Marilyn Savage she had received a cheque from Blue Desire Books which she had just deposited in a new and separate bank account. This was her own, hard-earned cash and she was going to blow it just how she fancied. And she fancied spending some of it on her friend Adele, from the bookshop in Long Swivenham, and Adele's fiance, Will. If all went as planned, she could always claim it as a tax-deductible expense.

  Apart from anything else, Swivenham Hall was delightful. An Elizabethan manor-house with its Tudor exterior lovingly preserved, it overlooked topiary gardens, tumbling terraces and a vast ornamental pond. A short walk from the rear of the house led to the main attraction for one of the party of three enjoying the brilliant summer day - the golf course. Will was an enthusiastic golfer with insufficient funds to pursue the game as he would wish. Today, as Karen's guest, he was able to enjoy the rolling fairways, polished greens and devilish long rough of the most challenging course in the district. He was half in love with Karen already.

  Adele jabbed Karen in the ribs as she studied Will standing over the ball on the seventh tee. He was a big man, broad of beam and shoulder with a shock of fine sandy-blond hair and melting spaniel-brown eyes.

  'Take your lecherous eyes off my feller,' she hissed.

  'He's worth looking at,' said Karen, wondering what it was like for Adele to
have that big muscular body pressing down on her of a night.

  Crack! Will smote the ball into the distance and followed its flight, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

  'How's that, girls,' he cried in delight; 'girls' emerged from his lips as 'gurrls' - he was from Edinburgh. Then he picked up his bag and strode off, full of bristling purpose. His companions sauntered along behind him. Playing golf was not on their agenda.

  Adele linked arms with Karen. 'You will come to the wedding, won't you? It's a pity you can't be my maid of honour.'

  Karen chuckled. 'You'll have to get one of your other girlfriends for that.'

  Adele sighed. 'Now I've met you I haven't got any other girlfriends.'

  'I'm pleased to hear it. For Will's sake. You've got to be straight with him.'

  'But what about us? I can't imagine giving you up.'

  'Don't go all moony on me, Adele.'

  'Well, do you want to stop seeing me?'

  The truth was that Karen didn't. Since she and Monty had ceased communicating, and despite her many other dalliances, Adele was the closest friend she now had. Perhaps her only one, she thought with a stab of self-pity.

  'No,' she replied, 'but the sex is only part of it. We can be friends without it once you're married.'

  'So we should make the most of it before then?'

  'That's not exactly what I said, Adele.'

  'But I know how you think, you randy cow. I bet right now you'd rather be in bed with me.'

  Karen grinned. 'How about those woods over there? No one would see us.'

  'Sure, but what about Will?'

  'Right, you demon Scotsman, show me how you whack the ball.'

  Will regarded Karen with amusement - tinged with desire, of course. Her salmon-pink shorts revealed more of her rounded brown thighs than was customary on the golf course. She had seized the club from his hand as he evaluated his shot off the next tee.

  'It will be my pleasure,' he announced and led Karen with much patronising ceremony to the ladies' tee. There followed a deal of banter between the two, both verbal and physical, as the tall Scot crouched over her from behind, demonstrating how to swing the club. Karen simpered, leaning back into the bear-hug embrace of his burly arms. She winked at Adele and shamelessly ground her buttocks back into his crotch.