by Noel Amos
In the bedroom, Karen was oblivious to everything but the scratch of paper on her skin, the satisfaction of completing another vengeful swipe against Monty - and the enjoyment of a thick penis in her yearning cunt.
She was on her knees on the bed, her nude buttocks thrust and spread wide to take the force of the photographer's buffeting from behind, his stiff pole gliding and swooping the length of her moist passage in a steady rhythm. Beneath her lay the crumpled remnants of a few hundred pages of A4 paper.
It had been Clifford's idea for her to recline naked on a pile of typewritten pages but it had been Karen's inspiration to use typescript of Monty's last novel for the purpose. To lie on a bed of her husband's overblown prose, displaying every inch of her flesh for a celebrated exploiter of the female form, that had given real pleasure. Had turned her into a shameless wanton for Clifford's camera. Had spurred her on to stroke her breasts and pinch her nipples and tweak her clitoris to orgasm, time and time again. Until at last Cliff had called a halt and fallen on her himself, giving her the benefit of the very special telephoto lens he carried between his legs.
'Fuck me, fuck me, Cliff,' she cried. 'Do me with your big prick until I come again.' The great photographer smiled as he went about his work and the pair of them tumbled on Monty's bed of prose until every page was creased and torn and stained with the juices of their coupling.
Karen shuddered to her final orgasm and shivered with pleasure as a lake of semen pooled on the paper spread beneath her loins. At last she had fallen in love with the literary life.
Chapter 31
Miranda Lynch was as good as her word. As promised, she took Lucian to lunch to celebrate his acquisition of Karen's book. But if he expected her no-nonsense facade to crack during a long and languorous prandial experience he was disappointed. His enjoyment of wind-dried guinea fowl on a bed of focaccia, stuffed with cranberries (a Grimaldi special) was severely curtailed by a review of Blue Desire's progress.
'We're scheduled almost to the end of next year,' he was able to report, a feat which entitled him in his opinion to a bottle of the second-best claret. To her credit, Miranda had allowed him to order it without objection even though she - wouldn't you know it - barely touched her own glass. The result was that he was a bit squiffy by the time he laid down his knife and fork. Under the scrutiny of the toughest woman in publishing this was doubtless an error of judgement. For the moment, however, judgement was not at his command.
'You know, Miranda, my Uncle Basil is a great admirer of yours.'
Was that a glimpse of a smile on her perfect pink lips?
'I was at his house last night,' continued Lucian, 'and he was talking about you.'
'Really?'
'Yes. He said he only accepted such a piddling pay-off from the firm because you were so scrumptious. All the time you were negotiating he couldn't take his eyes off your legs.'
This time she did smile, there was a small twitch of the mouth. Or was that a snarl?
Lucian blundered on. 'He also said he couldn't get over the discrepancy between your image and your behaviour.'
She nodded. 'Discrepancy,' she repeated in an encouraging tone.
'Yes. The way you look like a brain-dead Barbie doll and behave like a corporate stormtrooper.'
'Oh?' The lips might be smiling but clouds were gathering in those swirling grey eyes.
'That's just his way of saying how impressed he is by you. You know Uncle Basil.'
'I do indeed. I'll call him when we get back and invite him to lunch.'
The clouds had dispersed, Lucian was relieved to see. He spoke with more confidence as he examined the dregs in the wine bottle. 'He says he's not lunching at present. He's trying to catch up with all the Baxendale stuff. I mean, buggering off on that cruise with Aunt Sophie for the summer put his schedule up the... oh dear, I've just made a boo-boo.'
'You have?'
'No one's meant to know he's one of the Baxendale judges. I only found out because I went into his study. He swore me to secrecy. You won't tell anyone, will you? Please?' To his surprise he felt her hand on his, stilling his agitation. It was warm and her voice was soft.
'Calm down, Lucian. These things always get out. It's impossible to keep them secret.'
Lucian knew this was true but he didn't feel any better. One of the many peculiarities of the Baxendale Prize was that the identity of the judges was not to be revealed before the prize-giving dinner on pain of the prize being rendered void for that year. This particular stipulation in Gwendoline Baxendale, the benefactor's, will had been designed to avoid the public dog-fight between judges that annually affected the other literary prizes. It was an idiotic condition which had nullified the competition for the past two years running.
The hand squeezed his. 'Don't worry, Lucian, I shan't blow Basil's cover.'
'Thanks, Miranda. I've put my foot in it, haven't I?'
'Actually, Lucian, you have been most interesting, so cheer up.' She glanced over his shoulder. 'I understand you're rather partial to dessert wine. Why don't we invite these two ladies to share a bottle?'
Lucian looked up to see the familiar figure of Marilyn Savage approaching, a buxom brunette in a grey-patterned power-jacket in tow. He hastily stumbled to his feet.
Marilyn greeted Miranda like a long-lost sister, which puzzled Lucian since he'd gathered the impression a certain froideur existed between the two of them. She introduced her companion as Cherry Shaftoe, a big wheel on The Sunday Badger. It transpired that the two of them had been lunching in the adjoining room. What a coincidence!
'So you're the one who bought Karen Hastings' book,' purred Cherry as she sat down next to Lucian.
'I've been telling Cherry a little bit about it,' said Marilyn. 'It would be just perfect for the cover feature in the Badger colour sup.'
'Absolutely,' burbled Lucian, swigging from a glass of golden liquid that had appeared by magic at his elbow.
Cherry swigged too, her full red lips kissing the glass in an intriguing manner. For a woman in her middle years, she had a decidedly mischievous look about her. Her wide, burnt-sugar eyes twinkled at him in a conspiratorial fashion. It struck Lucian that she was as tipsy as he was.
'I'll certainly be giving it serious consideration,' she was saying. 'But all you publishers are after our cover slots. The competition is stiff.' And she shot Lucian a look brimming with significance. 'Marilyn's been telling me what a persuasive negotiator you are,' she continued, turning to him so that he couldn't help but be impressed by the undulating vista of the silk-clad hills beneath her jacket.'
'Er, well... Miranda would have fired me if I hadn't bought it,' he said with an unconvincing grin. Nobody laughed.
Cherry placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed hard. 'So you went flat out to get it. I admire a man who'll give his all for what he wants.'
'I'm sure Lucian really wants Karen in the Badger,' said Marilyn.
'Oh good,' breathed Cherry, leaning back in her chair and gazing at him hungrily. It struck Lucian that he'd be really worried if he didn't know that she had already eaten. On the other hand, she looked like a woman who could easily accommodate two puddings.
'I was telling Cherry about your table-top technique, Lucian,' said Marilyn.
'Table-top technique?' He was nonplussed.
'Or should I say, under the table top,' continued Marilyn. 'You remember that, Lucian. My yachts woman friend was particularly impressed.'
Lucian choked on his wine. A memory of sore knees, soft white thighs and shrieks of orgasmic hysteria flashed into his mind - the night he had sucked off Marilyn and her pals beneath the dinner table. Oh my God! She wants a repeat performance!
'Marilyn, I...' His mouth was opening and closing like a landed fish. He looked to Miranda for help. She said nothing. It would have been as profitable to appeal to his wineglass or the tablecloth. With a pounding heart, he drained the former and lifted the latter.
There was an eerie half-light beneath the table. The
y were sitting at the rear of the restaurant, a position sheltered from prying eyes but a little short of natural light. And here, under the canopy of table and cloth, the three pairs of female legs glowed in the gloom like objects in a dream.
Marilyn's he knew well. Slim, delicate, waxed to a satin smoothness, her bare brown limbs were nonchalantly crossed, one shoe dangling from a painted toe, rocking from side to side in a rhythm that betrayed her emotion. Lucian could well imagine the river of excitement wetting her tiny lace panties.
Miranda, on the other hand, was an enigma to him. That her incorruptible beauty could countenance such shameless acts as were about to be committed was a shock. Perhaps she didn't realise what he was about to do? But that could hardly be the case - she must have set the whole thing up. Her grey eyes had held a gleam of curiosity as he sank beneath the table, the kind of bloodless curiosity exhibited by scientific researchers and members of the judiciary. Lucian had no doubt that, on this performance as on any other, Miranda was sitting in judgement.
Her legs were long and slender, encased in some kind of opaque shiny material that doubtless protected her entire lower anatomy from contamination by dirt, wind and human contact. Not that Lucian could see further than the hem of her oyster-pale skirt which finished primly just above the knees. Inevitably, in Miranda, those bony promontories were neat, exquisitely turned and clamped tightly together.
Not so the knees of the VIP journalist. Her legs were spread in a welcoming vee, her scarlet skirt riding half-mast across nude dimpled thighs. The invitation was blatant. Naturally, Lucian accepted it and began to explore beneath that scarlet pelmet.
There was a loud intake of breath from above the table, followed by a throaty gurgle as Lucian brushed his lips across the skin of Cherry's left thigh. His fingers delved upwards, stroking, probing, seeking out her special places with his fingertips. He wanted to tease her, to set her wriggling and writhing and begging him to do obscene things to her. But the moment he was lodged between her spread limbs, his hands on the butter-soft skin and her musky perfume in his nostrils, he was seized by passion.
He bared her pussy with a rip of her knickers. She squealed but he knew she loved it from the way her big bottom lifted from the seat and her exposed pubis was thrust into his face. There was barely a fringe of hair on her belly. She was all slippery sweetness and smooth smooth flesh. As he pressed his lips to her vagina and roved her perfumed folds with his tongue, he slipped his hands beneath the cheeks of her bottom and spread them apart.
Above him he heard voices.
'I give you my word Karen Hastings won't talk to anybody else before publication.' That was Miranda.
'You can stay with her for a couple of days. She's quite adorable.' Marilyn.
'Ooh, that's nice.' Cherry.
'We've had six-figure offers from the Dog and the Bunny though.'
I'd rather run with a quality paper.' Miranda.
'You see, darling, we can't let it go for peanuts. You'll have to go some way to matching the money.' Marilyn.
'Six figures for a smutty novelist!' protested Cherry. 'I don't see how we could - oh God! Mmm, oh that's fantastic! You're right, Marilyn, the boy's a musician on the clitoris.'
Lucian ceased titillating that sensitive little promontory and blew a gentle breath across the tender folds of her nether lips. Now was not the time to ease her agitation. It was a crucial stage of the negotiation.
'Suppose,' said Miranda, 'you ran the profile of Karen for the colour sup and then serialised the book in the news section around publication. '
'You'd sell a hell of a lot of papers,' Marilyn chipped in.
'Oh my God, that's good!' moaned Cherry as Lucian curled his fingers into her bum crack and began a sly manipulation of her rosehole. Her abundant flesh leapt and quivered in his hands. 'We've got some sensational photos of Karen you could use,' said Miranda.
'Clifford Rush took them, darling, so you can imagine how wicked they are.' Marilyn.
Cherry's fingers were in Lucian's hair, tugging his face into her agitated crotch. 'Please, please!' she moaned.
'So, two hundred grand would be cheap at the price when you think about it.'
'What do you say, Cherry?'
'Yes, for God's sake, yes! Only just let me—'
Lucian plunged his tongue inside her, pressing the bridge of his nose the length of her split and sliding his forefinger deep into the slippery fissure of her anus.
'AAH!' shrieked Cherry and her thighs closed on Lucian's ears shutting off all sound.
When she finally relaxed her grip, Lucian heard Marilyn's voice saying, 'How about some champagne to celebrate our agreement? What do you say, Cherry?'
'I say that sounds a wonderful idea but I'm not drinking it with you two tricky bitches.'
'Really?' The satisfaction in Miranda's voice was palpable.
'No. I'm drinking it with your lapdog of an editor. I'm taking him to that hotel over the road right now. Any objections?'
'None at all,' said Miranda. 'You can keep him till next Monday. Just let me have him back in one piece.'
Beneath the table Lucian rested his head on the soft cushion of Cherry's thigh and allowed her hand to slip inside his shirt. She abraded her thumb across his nipple and a shiver ran through his drunk, disbelieving and desperately horny body. He placed a gentle kiss on her warm skin.
'Move it, you little tart,' said Marilyn as she prodded him with her shoe. 'On your feet and give the lady her money's worth.'
Four - The Bottom Line
Chapter 32
'Nooo!' wailed Crispin Carmichael, his little face as red as a ripe tomato.
'Yes, Crispin, yes!' yelled an infuriated Felicity, struggling to keep a hold on her squirming two-year-old as he flailed against her knees. They were standing on the front-garden path of the Carmichaels' house having their daily battle about Crispin's new coat.
'No coat, mummy,' cried Crispin, breaking free and running headlong down the path, the despised garment trailing from one arm. As the pristine blue denim splashed through a large puddle, Felicity lunged for it and fell face down into the muddy water.
'Shit!' she screamed and then, 'Crispin, come back!' But her son was gone, out of the gate onto the pavement. 'Crispin!' she yelled again in despair as she realised her back was spasming in pain and her legs would not push her to her feet fast enough to catch him.
The low winter sun shining in her eyes was suddenly blotted out by a looming shadow.
'It's OK, Felicity, I've got him,' said a voice she could not place and she made out the familiar shape of Crispin nestling in a tall man's arms.
'Thank you,' she said, sitting up slowly, her heart pounding and a knotted ball of pain lodged in the small of her back. 'Do I know you?'
The man chuckled as he held out his free hand to help her climb to her feet. 'Well, you don't do much for a fellow's self-esteem,' he said in a soft Irish brogue that formed itself into a name in her head at the very instant Crispin said—
'Brendan!'
Inside the house, Felicity sat gingerly at the kitchen table, a cushion at her back, while Brendan unearthed tea things, Crispin sitting cheerfully on his shoulders. As the kettle boiled, he whisked dirty dishes from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher.
'Things are a bit of a mess,' she said. 'The au pair left last week, and I'm trying to do a million things at once.'
'Just you sit there,' said Brendan, setting a steaming mug in front of her. 'I'll clean up, it's no problem.'
And he did, clearing the work surfaces, stowing food back in the fridge and picking squashed banana out of the rug. To Felicity's amazement, Crispin helped him pick up bits of Lego and collect all the squidgy balls of Play-Doh that had rolled under the table.
Felicity swallowed three aspirins and tried to stand up. 'Christ,' she muttered between clenched teeth as the pain seized her. 'I really am in trouble. Crispin's due at a birthday party in an hour, I've got to pick up the other two from school, I swore I'd d
rop off the accounts to the Operatic Society and I doubt if I can even drive. And, oh shit, the fucking Presleys are coming to dinner!'
'Sit down, Felicity, and relax,' said Brendan. 'As a matter of fact, your luck is in.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that, after Cascade Holidays, I'm an expert in a crisis.'
Felicity lay on her stomach on the bed with her blouse off and her bra undone. Her immediate concerns had been dealt with: another toddler's mum had taken Crispin to his party, her elder children were being collected from school by a classmate's nanny and Brendan was shortly to drive to the High Street and deliver the promised accounts. On the way back he would shop for dinner and a friend of his had been summoned from London to cook it. But first he was going to attend to Felicity's back.
'You'd be surprised,' he said as he began to manipulate the flesh along her vertebrae, 'just how many people do their back on holiday. Every week you can bet somebody buggers themselves having a go at an unfamiliar sport. I got quite good at patching people up. Oho, you've seized up here, haven't you?'
'Yes!' she squealed as his fingers dug into her.
His hands were at the base of her spine pushing at the waistband of her clothes.
'I'll have to get under here,' he said, unzipping her skirt.
'Just don't get any ideas,' Felicity said as he tugged the garment down and then peeled back her tights.
'I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mrs Carmichael,' he said, getting to work with his big strong hands.
'It's not that I don't appreciate your help, Brendan, and I admit that we did, um, enjoy one another's company on holiday. But that was then and this is different so don't, don't try anything on. Is that clear?'
You bloody hypocrite, Felicity said to herself as Brendan began to work on her aching spine. An hour after he turns up he's got you half naked on the bed. Think what you must look like with your arse sticking up and your tits bulging out under your arms. You're dying for it.