by Noel Amos
She walked towards him with her eyes downcast. As Basil drew her into his arms he noticed the red marks on her neck.
'You little tart,' he murmured with delight. 'You've spent the morning bonking, haven't you?'
'Well, I - Charlie came back from his trip early. I hadn't seen him for ages.'
'You slut.' His hand was under her skirt, worming a way into the waistband of her leggings.
'He's my partner, Basil, and you're a married man. We both agreed that our friendship was something extra in our lives.'
'It is, darling.' He had stripped her leggings down her thighs now, her knickers too. Her bush was wet under his fingers. 'My, he must have been pleased to see you. You're dripping with spunk.'
'Basil, please! And don't denigrate my relationship with Charlie. I'm an independent woman and I'll have as many lovers as I like.'
'Absolutely, darling. Now, turn round and bend over the desk.'
'Not now, Basil. I don't want to.'
'Why are you rubbing my cock then?'
Lorna looked down. It was true; somehow her fingers were twined round Basil's brutish member, tugging the foreskin back and forth across the blazing scarlet head.
'God, Basil, I swear it's stiffer than ever. I don't know where you get your energy from.'
'Considering my age, eh? Well, that's my secret. Now bend over and stick your pretty bottom out, my dear. I need to cogitate.'
'What do you mean - OH! Basil, for God's sake!'
Lorna was quivering with indignation, her pale bottom cheeks too, as Basil's great club of a penis breached the divide of her arse. She squirmed and wriggled and tried to rise but his strong arms pinned her to the desk top.
'Just relax, sweetie, and let me get - ooh, that's it.'
'Aah!' squealed Lorna as Basil pushed his tool up her bottom like forcing a cork into a bottle.
'Mmm, delicious,' he muttered as he contemplated her skewered rear, the peachy pale moons of her buttocks cushioning his belly, the mouth of her rosehole sucking on the embedded shaft of his tool. He squirmed a hand beneath her body and began to finger her moist pussy slit. There was no longer any need to hold her down.
'Oh gosh,' she muttered as he found her twitching clit. 'Sometimes, Basil, your behaviour is impossible.'
'Lorna, you're beginning to sound like my wife. Now, shut up. You can imagine you're with Charlie or whoever you like but I've got something important to think about.'
It was Basil's habit to address knotty problems while engaged in leisurely sexual activity. During his reign at Whimsical many an ambitious editorial assistant had spent time on her knees beneath his desk or half undressed on the office sofa while he contemplated the business dilemmas of the day. It required a willing woman, of course, but Basil had always been wily enough to have one of those at his beck and call.
Now, as his right brain savoured the aesthetics of Lorna's well-plugged bottom, his left brain picked at the puzzle Miranda had posed: could he fix the Baxendale jury? Unlike other literary prizes, no unanimity of opinion was required. Three votes out of five would swing the decision. Which made the task a sight easier - if he were to take it on. Not that there was much doubt about that. Even apart from the pleasure of shafting Miranda on a regular basis, it was the kind of challenge Basil could not resist.
Beneath him Lorna was moaning in wordless pleasure, her head pillowed on her arms, her face hidden in a mass of red curls. Basil removed his hand from her crotch and replaced it with one of hers. Let her diddle her own pussy, his fingers were getting tired.
This year the Baxendale judging panel comprised of: a former publisher (himself); a liberal bishop; a youthful Yorkshire MP; an actress with a reputation; and an Irish poet. None of them, including himself, were likely to vote for a porno novel without some sort of inducement. The best kind, of course, would be that they adored the book. He imagined that that would not be likely. The Novelist's Wife wasn't bad - Miranda had left him a set of proofs and a quick perusal was one of the reasons Lorna's services had been required.
However, neither the bishop (for professional reasons) nor the poet (who was philosophically opposed to the entire reproductive process) could be expected to vote for a sex novel under any circumstances.
Which left the MP and the actress. In fonder times, Basil could simply have promised them huge advances for their memoirs or bottom-drawer novels. That would be more tricky now as he no longer controlled a publishing company. But there were other things he did control. Like people.
Lorna's arse was flexing and rippling on his rock-hard pole as she played with herself. He admired the hollowing of her cheeks as she strained to get more of him inside her bum and then the swelling of her pretty moons as she buffeted the globes back into his belly faster and faster until—
He allowed the wails of her orgasm to subside before picking up the phone and punching in the number of The Whimsical Press. By the time he had his nephew on the line, Lorna had lapsed once more into a gentle gyration on his rigid penis.
'What can I do for you, Uncle Basil?' said Lucian.
'It's what I can do for you, dear boy. How would you like to meet Henrietta Suckling?'
'The nympho actress? You're not handling her autobiography, are you?'
'Not at present but who knows? I take it you like her.'
'I had her picture on my locker at school. She used to be a stunner.'
'She still is. As you will discover for yourself.'
'Sounds good, uncle. I say, what's that funny noise at your end?'
'That's next door's dog - they've shut him in the garden. I'll be in touch about Henrietta, dear boy,' and he replaced the phone just as Lorna howled her way to another climax.
'God, you've got a bloody cheek,' she protested when she'd caught her breath. 'No one's ever made a phone call while fucking me before. And that remark about the dog...'
Basil pulled his cock from her bottom and watched with interest as the pink fissure of her anus slowly shrank into a tidy little pucker. How remarkable the female body was.
'What are your politics, my dear?'
'My politics!' She looked at him over her shoulder in astonishment. He stood behind her, his gleaming cock still as stiff as a post.
'Put it another way - what do you think of Hartley Smythe?'
'The MP with the blond hair? The one who's on all the smart-aleck quiz shows?'
'Do you fancy him?'
Her eyes narrowed as she thought about it.
Basil took a large handkerchief and began to wipe his cock. 'Your silence speaks volumes,' he said. 'How would you like to add him to your list of admirers?'
'He's got a wife. She's gorgeous - I've seen pictures.'
'But she's in Yorkshire with four children. No, don't get up, my dear, that position really suits you. The thing is, Smythe is in town and so are you.'
'Are you pimping for me, Basil?'
'Don't be vulgar, darling. I'm planning a little publishing intrigue. And, looking at you now, I can tell you'll be perfect for what I have in mind. You really have the most delicious bottom.'
'Basil, you're wicked.'
'So you're interested?'
'Of course I am - he's a dish. But, Basil, are you going to stand there all day polishing your cock while I lie here with my fanny on offer?'
Basil chuckled and ran a hand over her outthrust posterior. The fascinating divide between her cheeks promised a feast of delights and, indeed, his appetite was far from assuaged. He ran a finger down her split to the dark-fringed mouth of her neglected vagina.
'Ooh, yes!' she breathed and wriggled at his touch as if she were trying to capture his digit between the pouting lips. 'Put it in me, Basil, please. Put that big thing up my pussy and tell me what obscene and filthy things I'm going to have to do!'
As Basil felt the kiss of her quim on the glowing plum of his tool he sighed with satisfaction, his faith in the younger generation restored. For an independent woman, Lorna really was extremely obliging.
> Basil's good humour evaporated that evening when he took a call from Miranda Lynch.
'My precious, how delightful to hear from you so soon. My loins have been desolate since you left.'
'Spare me your oily witticisms, Basil. I've just discovered a few things about you that deserve a wider audience—'
'What things?'
'—and I shan't hesitate to broadcast them unless I can count on your support in that matter we discussed this morning.'
'You can indeed, Miranda. I have plans afoot. I was intending to fill you in on them when we had our next little tryst.'
'There won't be any trysting between us. And if you ever lay a finger on me again I shall take great pleasure in talking to the press about your summer cruise on the SS Augmentia.'
'Are you threatening me?'
'Call it what you like, Basil, but I have chapter and verse on the operation to revive your fading virility, not to mention the names and numbers of several women who personally witnessed the need to have it carried out.'
'That's outrageous. It's true that I had a medical condition which required some attention but I am fully recovered now - as you can testify.'
'Please yourself, Basil. I'm lunching the gossip columnist of the Daily Dog tomorrow and I'm sure she'll be fascinated by the antics of a respected elder statesman of our industry. Not to say highly amused. Particularly by the account I've heard of your trip to Paris last Easter with a secretary called Mandy Proffit. I'm told she felt very let down by your performance. Fancy trailing her in and out of all the sex clubs on the rue St Denis and still not being able to maintain an erection.'
'That's a lie. She's a vicious little tart who'll say anything to make money.'
'Probably. She's spent the grand you gave her to keep quiet about it and I imagine she'd love to talk to the Dog if there's any way it could help reduce her credit-card bills. As would Fenella Fleetwood or Mitzi Playfair or Brenda George—'
'Hang on, Miranda. Please don't rush into anything. These are entirely scurrilous accusations and there's really no need to make them public. I can assure you that I am pursuing the, er, business we discussed this morning as a matter of priority.'
'I see.'
'And the remarks about you wearing suspenders and stockings were, of course, just a little joke.'
'As was the threat to sodomise me on your desk?'
'Yes! Honestly.'
'I see. In that case I can probably postpone my lunch with the Dog for a week or two. Let's say until the New Year. Would that give you enough time to move things along?'
'Oh definitely. In fact I was planning a New Year's Eve party at which matters might come to ahead. You will attend, won't you?'
'Maybe. If your wife invites me.'
Now what the hell does she mean by that? wondered Basil as he replaced the phone.
Suddenly this Karen Hastings' book was no longer an amusing diversion. He'd better make damn sure New Year's Eve went with a swing.
Chapter 39
As he munched the last mince pie, Percy's eyes were drawn to the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the sitting-room ceiling. After six hours on the motorway, returning from the annual Christmas sojourn with Felicity's mother, he was knackered. But the mistletoe jogged his memory and one part of him at least suddenly became frisky.
In the week before Christmas, with the kids on holiday, Percy had not had a chance to get Carol-Anne on her own. Except once - on the night before the trip up north when the children were in bed and Brendan was treating Felicity's back. Percy had whisked Carol-Anne beneath the dangling white berries and wished her the happiest of Christmases.
She had returned the sentiment. Not in words as such, her lips and tongue being busy with the traditional mistletoe greeting, but in the way she pulled his Yule log from his trousers and caressed it with her two small hands. Percy had explored beneath her loose cotton shirt, liberating her breasts from their push-up prison and rolling the berry-red pips of her nipples between his fingers.
It was two days before Christmas and Percy's spirits were so festive that he had spunked off into Carol-Anne's hand even as he was planning to remove her tights and adjourn the celebrations to the sofa. In the event, he still took her tights off and, kneeling in a little pool of his own making, tongued her vagina till her knees gave way.
At least I come more often than Christmas these days, he said to himself as Felicity entered the room. Had she noticed the stain on the carpet yet? he wondered. He intended to blame it on a child's mishap with a glass of milk.
'I bet I know what you're muttering, Percy.'
'What's that?'
'What you always say when we get home from my mother's - thank Christ we don't have to do that again for another year.'
'Do I really, Flick? I thought we all had a good time.'
It was true. It had gone much more sweetly than usual. The old girl had been in fine fettle, the rest of the in-laws had been a good laugh and the kids had been delightful. More to the point, Felicity had been in sunny spirits the entire time. It made all the difference - especially to the way she looked. Even now, after the long journey, she looked quite scrumptious in her tight grey sweater with her hair flowing loose. Percy eyed her firm rounded thighs, exposed beneath her skirt as she sat curled up on the easy chair, and a nostalgic shudder ran through him. Time was, before they had children, they would screw like rabbits throughout the entire holiday.
He raised his gaze from her legs. She was looking at him, her eyes glistening like green stones. How was it he had slept in the same bed as this woman for the past three years and not laid a lustful finger on her?
'Flick—' he began, his throat unaccountably dry.
From the hall came the scrape of the front door and Felicity was on her feet.
'They're back!' she cried, rushing from the room.
His thoughts - whatever they might have been - remained unspoken.
Percy couldn't deny it was good to see Carol-Anne and Brendan. They'd returned from a riotous few days in London, so they announced, and Brendan muttered, 'Got some good stuff for the book,' to Percy as drinks were poured.
The four of them clinked glasses and raised a toast to the season and then set about the cognac seriously. Carol-Anne warmed her bum in front of the open fire, claiming she was cold.
'That's because you never wear enough clothes,' said Felicity rather sharply, Percy thought.
'She's all for easy access, aren't you, Annie Fannie?' said Brendan.
'Don't call me that, you Irish lout.'
'Aussie tart,' he replied cheerfully.
'I see you're getting on as well as ever,' said Felicity, holding her glass out for a refill. 'We'd better separate you before there's a fight,' and she pulled Brendan away from Carol-Anne into the centre of the room.
He did not resist her but said, looking up, 'Fancy that, we're standing right under the mistletoe.'
Percy watched spellbound as Brendan kissed his wife. It was a rude, open-mouthed snog. A teeth-and-tonsils affair. And, to Percy's amazement, Felicity did not resist the assault. On the contrary, she hugged Brendan's tall frame with urgency as she surrendered her lips.
Carol-Anne was grinning at Percy. She took the hem of her dress and, for a split second, raised it to her waist. The sight of her nude pussy-split framed by black suspenders almost had Percy coming in his pants.
Felicity and Brendan broke their clinch. She was still clutching her brandy glass and she drained it in one.
'Let's have some music, Percy,' cried Brendan. 'I bet the ladies would like a dance.'
It transpired that they would. Felicity unearthed a smoochy jazz record and Carol-Anne dimmed the lights. Brendan circulated the brandy and Percy stood glued to the spot, his cock twitching and his mind racing. Would he be able to control himself once he was dancing with Carol-Anne? What would Felicity do if he dared to kiss the Australian girl the way she had kissed Brendan? Would this end in pain or pleasure? Which ever it was to be, right now he didn't ca
re.
The room was L-shaped, acting as a lounge and a dining room.
Brendan was pushing the furniture back against the walls to give them space. In a trance, Percy helped move the table and chairs. Then Billie Holiday was in his ears and Carol-Anne was in his arms.
He wondered why they hadn't at least begun with their proper partners. But Felicity had turned to Brendan without a glance in her husband's direction and now was circling the room in the Irishman's embrace. The pair were whispering and giggling and Brendan's hand was in the small of her back, buried somehow beneath her sweater. Percy was still in shock.
'Hey, loosen up, Perce,' Carol-Anne said softly. 'This is fun.'
He bent his head to hers. 'Yes, but I'm worried about Felicity.'
'There's no need - she's having a great time. Why don't you give my bum a little rub?'
'What if she sees?'
'What if she does? I know Brendan. He'll be rubbing more than your wife's back in a minute. Just tell me, do I feel good to you?'
It was a stupid question, of course. The satin of her naked buttocks beneath the silk of her frock felt like heaven - hard-on heaven. She squirmed the taut delta of her belly against his swollen cock and moaned. Percy steered her beneath the mistletoe and shut her up in the traditional fashion. He could at least justify the embrace if challenged.
But there was no challenge. As he kissed Carol-Anne, he turned their bodies, his eyes searching the gloom for Felicity and Brendan. They were out of sight, presumably in the other part of the room. He unbuttoned her bodice.
'Yes,' she whispered. 'Take my boobs out, Percy. I want them squeezed and sucked. Quick!'
The instructions were unnecessary but thrilling. As he carried out her bidding, baring her breasts and cupping the warm flesh, she kept up a stream of titillating commands.
'Ooh, that's nice. Now kiss my tits. Suck my nipples. Do it softly. Now do it hard. Oh yes! Say you'll fuck me soon, Perce.'
He raised his head from her flushed and glistening bosom. 'What about the others?' he whispered. 'We can't - I mean, what if Felicity—?'