by Noel Amos
She took him by the arm and tugged him towards the fork of the room.
'See for yourself,' she whispered.
At first Percy couldn't see a thing - the light in this area had been turned off completely. Then he made out a shape in the corner, half on and half off an upholstered dining chair. The shape was pale and indistinct and moved in a steady rhythm. Above the music, Percy could hear whispers and grunts. Then the shape came into focus and he was staring at the ovals of Brendan's bare buttocks as they thrust backwards and forwards, the cheeks hollowing and filling, the dark stripe of his rear division pointing down to the hairy plums of his dangling balls.
It was incredible! Brendan was fucking Felicity!
They crept closer. She was on her knees pillowing her head and shoulders on the seat of the chair as he knelt between her splayed thighs. The big white cheeks of her arse were bare, her skirt pushed up to her waist. As Brendan ploughed into her from the rear, his hands were beneath her body, playing with the glories of her great breasts which hung down and overflowed his palms.
Percy watched in disbelief. It was the most exciting thing he had ever seen. But he also acknowledged the bubble of anxiety rising in his gullet as his gaze settled on his wife's face. Framed by the wild tangle of her hair, resting on her forearm, her visage was serene and glowing. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving gently. Gone were the lines of anxiety and furrows of discontent. She looked about twenty.
A tug on his hand jerked him back to the present. He'd have to sort his feelings out later. For the moment other, more pressing, matters required attention.
'God, I feel horny,' Carol-Anne said as Percy led her to the sofa in the main room and pulled her skirt to her waist. 'Did it turn you on, seeing your wife getting her arse screwed off?'
'I was turned on anyway,' said Percy, spreading the girl's legs to look at her hairless pouting pussy.
'She's a gorgeous woman,' whispered Carol-Anne, her eyes gleaming. 'I bet you do it lots.'
Percy didn't reply. The music had stopped and from the other side of the room came the cries of Felicity letting her hair down. The sights and sounds of sex were in the air. The succulent orifice of Carol-Anne's quim beckoned him and he bent to kiss it.
'No, Percy,' she said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him away. 'You can suck me later. Fuck me now. I want it like she's getting it.' And she got on her knees and wiggled her bare arse at him.
'Stick it up me, Percy. Fuck me like he's fucking her. Make me come off like your wife.'
And so he did.
Chapter 40
Lucian arrived at Basil's New Year's party all of a fluster - and not just because of his appointment with Henrietta Suckling.
As he'd been getting ready for the party, he'd made the mistake of looking out of his window in the hope of seeing the delectable Nicole also getting dressed. He had not been disappointed - though, in point of fact, Nicole's clothes were being doffed not donned. Celebrations were obviously starting early across the street and Lucian was surprised to see that king-sized Freddy Cameron was already in the thick of things.
The pair of them were embracing enthusiastically. Freddy had obviously just arrived for he still had his jacket on and he was holding an unopened bottle of champagne in one hand. The other was sliding the pencil-thin strap of Nicole's camisole over a golden-brown shoulder. In turn, her hand was busy below his waist and, when they broke their kiss and she stepped aside, Lucian could see his long pole of a cock protruding obscenely from his pinstriped trousers.
It was an extraordinary sight: the diminutive African smartly dressed in his business suit with his big brown banana curving up from his fly. Nicole, now bared to the waist, slipped to her knees in a flurry of swaying tit-flesh and began to peel back Freddy's foreskin. From the way she stuffed the cock into her mouth, Lucian could tell that Nicole was very fond of bananas.
But it wasn't just this licentious display that had shaken Lucian to the core - he had after all witnessed Nicole entertain Freddy before. It was the appearance of a third party in the window across the street: a sandy-haired man with a bulge in his jeans and a camera round his neck.
'Good God, it's Hugh,' said Lucian out loud.
As Nicole warmed to her task, supporting herself on one hand while the other fed Freddy's shaft into her mouth, Lucian revised all his sympathetic thoughts about his tennis partner. He watched as Hugh gleefully pulled Nicole's tiny black panties from her milky-white rear and then framed his wife in the viewfinder of his camera. Obviously Hugh was a consenting party to Nicole's frolics with Freddy. Flash! went the camera. And flash! again as Hugh moved in for a close-up of his wife's hollowed cheek and glittering eye as she gorged on Freddy's tumescence. For all Lucian knew, Hugh might have been present when he had seen Nicole fucking the African before, hidden from Lucian's sight in another part of the room.
Hugh put down the camera and extracted his own wand of virility. Though not of Freddy proportions, it was hardly insignificant and it looked eager for the fray. Lucian knew the feeling. As Hugh sank to his knees behind his wife's gyrating bottom and pressed his swollen tool to her proffered pussy purse, Lucian fought the urge to ease the pressure in his own loins. God, how he desired that woman across the road! How he longed to have his cock between her lips like Freddy or up her cunt doggy-fashion, like Hugh, with her curvaceous buttocks buffing his belly and his hands on the dangling weight of her glorious tits!
The trio across the street were moving swiftly to their crisis, it was plain to see. But Freddy had one more trick up his sleeve and, as his mighty organ shot off into Nicole's mouth and Hugh erupted into her loins, the cork jetted from the champagne and a fountain of fizz splattered the happy threesome.
Lucian had turned from the window with envy in his heart and a hard-on of stone between his legs. His only consolation, as he splashed his loins with cold water in a vain attempt to cool his ardour, was to wonder whether the trio would have anything left to give by the time midnight arrived.
At the party, Basil met him in the hall and took his coat. 'All set, dear boy?' he whispered. 'Now, don't drink too much and don't you look at any woman other than La Suckling. Men are swarming around her already so you'd better get cracking. Follow me and I'll introduce you. And don't forget I'm counting on you!'
Basil gave almost the same pep-talk to Lorna ten minutes later. 'I can't believe you're prepared to prostitute me like this,' she muttered as he led her into the party throng.
'Get you, dearie. You were singing a different song last night. I defy you to tell me you've gone off Hartley Smythe so quickly.'
'Oh my God, Basil—'
The dark-haired Member of Parliament for the North Grinding was approaching.
'—he's fucking gorgeous!'
'Just make sure you fuck him then. I say, Hartley! May I present my invaluable assistant, Lorna Prentice...'
'Miranda - you came!'
'Not yet, Sophie, but the night is young.'
'Very droll, darling. How you've changed since I rescued you from Basil's clutches a few weeks ago.'
'I wouldn't call it a rescue, Sophie. You simply captured me for your own purposes.'
'Are you complaining?'
'Hardly. Is that Mathilde over there?'
'It is. She's helping with the refreshments so you can't lure her upstairs until the wee hours. Then she's booked, I'm afraid. Of course, you're welcome to join us.'
'I'll see. This is a working night for me. I've got to keep my eyes open.'
'Really? Don't tell me - it's something to do with Basil and who's going to win the—'
'Shh! You're not supposed to say it. It's an absolute bloody secret, Sophie, so don't breathe a word. Please.'
'This is a jolly significant occasion you know, er - Heather, isn't it?'
'Harriet. And you're the famous Rodney Branscombe.'
'I wouldn't say famous, actually.'
'A brilliant young publisher on the way up, then. A shit-hot acquiring edito
r destined to be an industry mover-and-shaker. A name on the lips of every writer and agent who counts.'
'Gosh. I thought you said you didn't know anything about publishing.'
'I just know the obvious things. Like who counts.'
'Crikey. You're quite a girl, Harriet, and stunningly attractive, if I may say so.'
'You may, Rodney. I value your opinion. You were telling me what a significant gathering this is. Why is that?'
'You're sure you don't work in publishing? Or for a newspaper?'
'Oh no. I'm sort of a librarian. In the country.'
'I see. Well, you've heard of the Baxendale Prize?'
'Vaguely. It's some kind of book award worth pots of money.'
'And with bloody funny roles. Like no one's meant to know who the judges are. But I can tell you, Harriet, and don't mention it to a soul - all five of them are here tonight.'
'No!'
'It's absolutely true. Our host, Basil Swan, is the chairman and I'd give him a wide berth if I were you because he's the biggest lech in the business. Unless you want to go home with fingerprints on your knickers.'
'Who says I'm wearing any, Rodney?'
'Really? Oh golly, aren't you?'
'I might show you later. Just tell me who else is on this panel.'
'Oh yes, well... That tall bloke over there with the fair hair—'
'I recognise him. He lives in my television set.'
'Hartley Smythe, MP. Smarmy bugger.'
'He's a hunk. Who else?'
'The bald chap with glasses and a big grin. Bishop Desmond Handcock. He's talking to another one, that little squirt in leather with the hair. God alone knows what they've got to say to each other.'
'Well, God would know, wouldn't he? Since he's a bishop. Who's the hairy one?'
'Garnet O'Dread the poet.'
'He looks like a rock singer. One of those heavy-metal guys who hasn't changed his wardrobe in twenty years. Aren't there women judges?'
'Only one. Mind you, she counts for about six. I can't see her.'
'Who is she?'
'Henrietta Suckling.'
'That old tart!'
'I think she's fabulous.'
'She's coming into the room now. Perhaps you'd better go and pay homage.'
'Actually, I wouldn't mind a word with her. Why don't you and I meet up a little later? Don't forget you promised to show me whether you're wearing any, er...'
'Run along, Rodney. Henrietta's got a queue forming around her already. I expect it's because she never wears underwear at parties. They say it slows her down.'
But Rodney didn't hear, he was forging through the crowd towards the actress.
'Creep,' said Harriet to herself as she watched him go. She wasn't displeased, however. He had marked her card most effectively. She had promised Monty Hastings she would help him win the one literary prize he coveted above all others. If she brought home the Baxendale she had no doubt Monty would realise she was more than just a leg-over with the elevenses. Then it would be Bye-bye Karen and Hello Harriet on a permanent basis. Harriet Hastings sounded so much better, in her opinion, than Harriet Pugh.
She fumbled in her cocktail purse, hoping that amongst the make-up and contact lens fluid she might find - yes, it was there: the little crucifix she carried for luck. She fastened the thin gold chain around her neck and carefully adjusted the tiny cross in the valley of her intoxicating bosom. Tugging the scooped neckline of her clinging peacock-blue dress just a little lower, she aimed her 36DD cleavage in the direction of the bishop and the poet. Now was her chance to bring her real influence to bear on the events of the literary world.
Chapter 41
'It's one of the ironies of life that I should be conversing with a bishop at an occasion of such spiritual bankruptcy. I smell the stink of depravity beneath this roof.'
Desmond Handcock, Bishop of Burlap, beamed at Garnet O'Dread and nodded his head. He always did this when he didn't understand what someone was talking about. And he hadn't understood much of what Garnet had said during the past five minutes. But the young man was a poet, which probably explained it.
'Here we gather,' continued Garnet in his dull monotone, to sound the death knell of a bitch of a year expiring in the vomit of its own corruption. And, wearing the mask of merriment to conceal the impurity of our neglected souls, we prepare to celebrate the birth of a new whelp of immorality.'
The bishop nodded more vigorously and drained the glass orange juice that Basil Swan had given him. A young man with piercing blue eyes and tight trousers immediately replaced it. This gathering was certainly full of handsome youths!
'In the eyes of a holy man such as yourself,' Garnet droned, 'the follies and pretensions of the literary world at play must be redolent of purgatory here on earth. Wouldn't you agree, bishop?'
'Er, I think it's rather a nice party myself. So much gaiety and laughter. So many attractive young persons having fun.'
Garnet barked a dry mirthless laugh, his stock-in-trade. 'You put me in my place, bishop. Unfortunately a poet cannot afford to rise above his sense of disgust. And mine is highly attuned, God help me.'
'He will, don't worry,' cried the bishop heartily, relieved to be on home ground. 'There's no need to address me as bishop, you know. Call me Des. Everyone does. And may I call you Garnet? You know, you remind of a someone in a pop group I used to admire when I was a student.'
'My father says I look like the singer in The Lace Banana.'
'That's it! How I used to enjoy their songs! They were so much more wholesome than all the others. 'The Hubble-Bubble Hymn', 'In Hippy Heaven', 'Roll Another One, Sweet Jesus' - how it all comes back!'
'I hope not, Des. Those are all drug songs.'
'Really?' The bishop finished his second orange juice and another waiter replaced it. As he pressed the glass into Desmond's hand he winked. He had a blond ponytail and the torso of a Michelangelo statue. The man of the cloth felt a sudden surge of gaiety and he laughed into Garnet's wryly smiling face. With that softly curling hair and his smooth cheeks, the poet too looked like a Renaissance youth.
'Don't look so gloomy, my young friend,' cried the light-headed bishop as he caught sight of a statuesque blonde heading in their direction. 'Why, here's a pretty maiden come to cheer you up.'
'She's a painted whore, Des. And she's showing all her chest!'
'Ah, but she bears the cross on her bosom, Garnet. She must be on the side of the angels.'
'Of course I am, bishop,' said Harriet Pugh as she introduced herself. 'I've been dying to know what you two have been talking about. Let me guess - modern literature!'
'No,' snapped Garnet, jerking his arm away from the be-ringed hand which had somehow alighted there.
'Really? On a night like this, surrounded by the stars of the publishing firmament, how could you not? Did you know that everybody here is talking about Refulgent Ennui, the brilliant new book by Montgomery Hastings. It's the most spiritually uplifting and poetically inspiring novel I've ever read in my life! It's just perfect for you two!'
Lorna was trying hard to impress Hartley Smythe, if not with insider's gossip - thanks to Basil she had plenty of that - then with her slender model's figure, artfully displayed in a dress from a salon in South Molton Street. Even she, a girl who had regularly blown her stepfather's monthly allowance on designer frippery, had been staggered by the cost.
The green silk was a perfect match for her red hair which she wore piled elaborately on her head, her long white neck circled by a smart modern necklace in white gold. Though she'd sat for hours in the hairdresser's chair she did not begrudge it. The hairdo was something that could not be repossessed - the rest of her outfit was going back on the morrow. She felt like Cinderella. On the stroke of midnight, however, this part-time princess was meant to be dancing on Hartley Smythe's cock. Perhaps she should be bolder.
'I've spent all day in bed,' she said, 'with the most fabulous book.'
'Really?' A flicker of interest s
tirred in his brooding brown eyes. 'Tell me more.'
'Oh no. I'd be embarrassed. It's made me incredibly horny.' And she giggled, hoping her act wasn't too transparent. Not that it was an act really. Dressed in just a whisper of silk, standing in a dark corner close to a man of power and influence and film-star looks - well, she was incredibly horny.
'It's about a woman's revenge on her unfaithful husband. She decides to sleep around to get her own back and, frankly, she leaves him standing.'
'I didn't know women read books like that,' he said.
'Of course they do. We all like to fantasise. Escapist reading is basically a masturbatory activity.'
'I see.' When he smiled his teeth gleamed in the shadows. 'And is that what you were doing in bed all day - masturbating?'
Lorna gulped her champagne. She hadn't meant to make this kind of confession. On the other hand, she had decided to be bolder.
'I couldn't help it. The Novelist's Wife is a very exciting book.'
'I'd like to see for myself.'
'I'll send you a copy.' You bet! I'm winning, Basil.
'OK but it's the effect on you I'm interested in.' His eyes, those swirling umber pools, travelled slowly down her body until his gaze came to rest on her thighs, their pale bare length almost entirely on view beneath the wispy hem of her dress.
'Show me, Lorna,' he said in a voice like molten chocolate. The sound caressed her, sweet and seductive. So he was a lecher after all and she would accomplish her mission. The knowledge made the moment all the more delicious.
'What do you want me to do?' she whispered.
'You know very well, you little tease.'
'I want to hear you say it, Hartley.'
'Pull up your dress and take down your panties. Show me your pussy. Yes, just like that.'
She obeyed him as he spoke, baring the fork of her long lean body for his satyr's gaze, and opening up her secret treasure.
'What a little jewel you have there,' he breathed. 'Let me see how you give yourself a thrill.'