by Noel Amos
'It's my pleasure,' she gasped, two fingers now embedded deep in the syrup-slick folds of her cunt.
Henrietta Suckling was everything Lucian had expected her to be: elegant, alluring, witty - and popular. It was now approaching midnight and he hadn't yet managed to get her on her own. Men buzzed about her like bees round a honeypot and the chief drone, to Lucian's chagrin, was Rodney Branscombe. For ten minutes he had flattered her shamelessly, proclaiming that her acting in a sitcom could not have been bettered by a youthful Maggie Smith and going on to extol the virtues of her latest chocolate commercial.
'I swear, my darling, that when I first saw it I dashed out and bought a box - even though I hate mints. Your performance was utterly hypnotic I was simply brainwashed!'
What hogwash, thought Lucian, though he wasn't so stupid as to say so. Nevertheless he seethed inwardly as La Suckling exclaimed, 'How sweet!' and kissed Rodney on the cheek. So it was inevitable that when Branscombe began to boast about fabulous books he had recently acquired for GrabCo, Lucian felt the urge to compete.
'You can kiss goodbye to the number one spot in the bestseller list from April onwards,' he said. 'I've got the hottest property of the year.'
'How fascinating,' said Henrietta. 'What is it?'
'A story of betrayal and vengeance and the burning flame of erotic passion. It will create a scandal and capture the imagination of the nation.'
'Pooh!' sneered Rodney. 'It's only Monty Hastings' wife's dirty book. Too tacky for words, if you ask me.'
'As it happens, Branscombe,' said Lucian, 'I wasn't asking you. You'd publish this book like a shot - if you were allowed to!'
'Now, now, boys,' breathed the actress, placing a placatory hand on both their knees as they sat on either side of her.
At that moment the lights went out and the sound of chanting voices reverberated throughout the house.
'Ten - nine - eight...' they cried but Lucian was aware that his two companions were not counting - why not?
'Five - four - three...'
He leaned towards Henry, conscious of her warmth and musky perfume and the pressure of her hand still on his knee. Beneath the hubbub he thought he heard a sticky, lip-smacking kind of sound. Surely she wasn't snogging that twit Rodney?
'Happy New Year!' The cry went up and corks popped and the chimes of Big Ben rang out.
Despite the gloom Lucian could plainly see Henrietta's face pressed to Rodney's, her mouth parted as he probed with his tongue. Yet the flash of jealousy and thwarted purpose that shot through him was swallowed up in the lightning bolt of emotion which followed - as the hand on Lucian's knee thrust upwards to close on his crotch.
The horny slut, thought Lucian as nimble fingers unzipped him and burrowed into his underclothes, closing with practised intent on the rock-solid barrel of his cock.
'Oh Henry!' he heard Rodney whisper in the darkness. 'You're fabulous, gorgeous, I want to—' The voice was cut off as Henrietta kissed him again, her fingers still busy on Lucian's penis. He slid his hand onto her hip and up to her well-rounded bosom. Slipping into the opening of her decolletage, he felt for her nipple. It was big in his fingers, like a nut. As he squeezed the engorged nub of flesh she shivered and applied an answering pressure to the head of his rampant tool.
Lucian lifted her big right breast out of her bodice. The white flesh glowed in the dark and he lowered his lips to the dark bud at its centre. The hand in his lap was tickling his prick, tormenting and teasing. Across the hillock of flesh in his face he could see her other arm and the dark shape of Rodney. From his rival's moaning and writhing Lucian had no doubt that Henry had charge of his cock too. And when Lucian lifted her dress to her waist to explore the thrilling territory of her loins he found that Rodney was there ahead of him.
How thoroughly obscene this was, Lucian thought as his lips and hands sucked and fondled and roved all over the actress's lush body, taking turn with the other man in a bizarre act of lustful cooperation. He had his tongue in her mouth now, as Rodney yielded the upper ground to drop to his knees and raise Henrietta's skirt to her waist. Lucian held her quivering body tight as the other man spread her legs and thrust himself into the welcoming fissure between her alabaster thighs.
As his rival began to pump, Lucian was mesmerised by the sight now clearly visible in the half-light. Rodney's cock was a gleaming weapon stabbing into the open purse of the woman's blonde-bushed sex. Her bared white body undulated with each lunge and the swollen orbs of her breasts rolled and shivered in spectacular display.
The two of them began to pant and moan and Lucian realised that the harsh grunting that mingled with their voices was his own. Her hand on his cock speeded up and suddenly the three of them were moving together. Lucian pushed his fingers into the fur of Henry's pussy to find the tiny peg of her clit and the three of them came like that, Lucian with his hand trapped between their jumping bodies, his penis spurting gouts of spunk all over his trousers.'
As euphoria faded and Rodney collapsed into Henry's arms, covering her nude and glorious flesh, Lucian realised that his arch-rival had got there ahead of him once again.
Chapter 42
'How are you getting on, Lorna?'
She was standing with her back to Basil and the touch of his hand on her shoulder made her jump.
'For Christ's sake,' she hissed. 'Oh, it's you.'
Basil grinned. 'Where's Smythe?'
'In there.' She pointed to the conservatory door, which was closed.
'Why aren't you in there too? It's the perfect place to nail him.'
'Because—' Lorna didn't want to go into the matter in detail. It was more than embarrassing to admit that she had had her prey eating out of her hand and lost him. That she had shamelessly pulled her knickers down, hiked her skirt to her waist and wanked her pussy till the juice had run down her thighs. Then, at the point when the MP was surely about to throw himself upon her and give her what she needed with his doubtless mighty cock, another woman had turned up. The blonde in the too-tight pink suit had materialised out of the shadows and stood by his side as Lorna had taken herself over the hill and come off like a fire-cracker in front of the pair of them. Lorna had never felt so humiliated. Particularly when the blonde had said in a snotty voice, 'How very edifying,' and led the gorgeous Hartley off by the arm without a backward glance.
'—he's in there with another woman,' she said simply. 'And don't ask.'
'Well, I've got to know who she is.'
'I haven't a clue. She's a short, brassy blonde with too much on top and a voice like vinegar. He must like that kind of thing.'
Basil grinned. 'Come on, let's have a look. If we catch him with his pants down with her it's as good as him doing it you.'
Lorna wasn't sure she agreed but she followed Basil out of the back door all the same. It was a trifle chilly in the garden, bearing in mind how she was dressed, but she soon forgot about that.
'Brilliant!' exclaimed Basil as he led her across the paved patio and pointed to the conservatory windows. The interior was dimly lit and tall spiky plants in tubs offered a degree of cover to the occupants. Nevertheless it was obvious at first glance that they were furthering an already intimate acquaintance.
'Just look at that,' said Basil. 'The Opposition Spokesman on Family Values making the beast with two backs.'
Lorna refrained from adding that he was actually making the beast with two backs and one pair of legs - Basil was always telling her not to be pedantic. But whatever the nature of the carnal creature before them its activities were undoubtedly fascinating.
The blonde had discarded her skirt and Hartley his trousers. She clung to his torso like a koala up a gum tree, her arms wrapped around his chest and her loins impaled on the branch of flesh that thrust rudely from his crotch. Lorna stared with wonder at the taut lines of his bare legs, sinuous and golden with hair, that rose up to support the top-heavy tower of grunting, grappling flesh.
'Mmm, I like the bum,' muttered Basil in her ear, a
comforting arm around her waist.
'How could you?' said Lorna. 'It makes mine look undernourished.'
'Possibly.' He slipped a hand beneath her dress to test the assertion. Lorna made no objection; she was riveted by the sight of Hartley's broad hands supporting the woman's buttocks. Though sizable, Lorna had to admit the woman's arse was shapely and, in this position, displayed to obscene perfection. It was undoubtedly arousing to see the white flesh billowing over Hartley's fingers, the furrow splayed to reveal the dimple of her rosehole and the black-fringed mouth of a quim stuffed to the hilt.
Basil's hand had ceased its preliminary investigations and now burrowed between Lorna's legs. Lorna leaned her hip against him and allowed him to probe her tingling pussy, her attention still captured by the erotic spectacle.
'We've got him now,' crowed Basil. 'Two witnesses to an adulterous encounter in the conservatory. I wonder who she is?'
'Some PR tart, I expect.'
Now Hartley was jiggling the woman up and down on his cock, waltzing her around the room as he did so. 'Cocky bastard,' said Basil.
'I'll say.'
'He'd better watch out - if he falls on the glass table he might end up a cockless bastard. Oh Christ!'
Hartley managed to avoid the table but his legs buckled following an ambitious step and the pair of them crashed to the floor. The onlookers heard the shriek from within, followed at once by a gale of laughter.
'At least they're not hurt,' said Basil. 'Oh my, look at that.' Lorna was looking and her elation at tricking Hartley Smythe vanished in an instant. 'I knew she wasn't a natural blonde,' she muttered.
'So what?' Basil's finger in Lorna's knickers had ceased its gentle frotting of her clit and he stood stock-still, trying hard to make sense of the scene before him.
On the conservatory floor, some distance from the sprawling lovers, lay a mass of brass-blonde curls. The woman, who now knelt to grasp Hartley's still-rampant member and re-insert it into her dark-haired pussy, was a born-again brunette.
'You've lost out, Basil. You can't blackmail Hartley Smythe.'
'Why not?'
'I recognise her now without the wig. That woman he's fucking is his wife.'
'You know, Garnet, I'm beginning to think you're right. This is turning into a celebration of lax moral behaviour. There are an awful lot of young women who don't appear to be wearing many clothes.'
'That's not the half of it, Des. Have you seen those two on the sofa over there?'
'You mean the woman with the decolletage and that handsome boy. But, Garnet, she's old enough to be his mother. They're just having a convivial chat, surely?'
'Have you seen where her hand is? Come a little closer, over here behind this screen.'
'Dear me! Saints preserve us! She's holding his - his penis!'
'His cock, Des. His foul and bestial organ of generation.'
'It's not foul in itself, Garnet. I have to say that, in purely visual terms, it's rather pretty. And jolly long. I don't think I've ever seen one that size.'
'Well, you probably don't come across many erect dicks in your line of work.
'Alas, no. That is, er, as a senior churchman I am somewhat removed from the more earthy side of pastoral care - oh my gosh, what is she going to do with it?'
'Put it in her mouth, Des.'
'But it won't fit! Oh, it does. The way she crams it all in is really most skilful. I imagine that the sensation is pleasurable for both parties?'
'Like silk on velvet. The throb of excitement in the pulsing stem, the gush of seed on the palate—'
'Ah, I can tell you are a true poet, my handsome Irish boy.'
'You're not so bad yourself, Des. If you weren't a holy man I'd be tempted to call you devilish good-looking. Oh look, he's having an orgasm.'
'I say!'
'Fountaining the milk of his desire into the generosity of her embrace.'
'How beautiful! Thoroughly reprehensible, of course, but aesthetically pleasing nonetheless.'
'Absolutely. Now I suggest we slip away quickly before that blonde whore with big breasts tries to molest us again. She's looking this way. Quick - follow me!'
Harriet regarded their departure with regret. There was a fierce glow in her loins and a romp upstairs with two men would have dampened the flames - and she would have killed two birds with one stone. But the Baxendale judges were proving an elusive lot. She'd frightened off the bishop and the poet, the MP was nowhere to be seen (she'd searched) and Henrietta Suckling only had eyes for cock - the one significant sexual appendage Harriet was lacking. Which just left the chairman of the panel and host of this gathering: Basil Swan. Before she succumbed to the allure of one of the many other young men who were roaming the party, she'd have a final attempt to bring home the Baxendale bacon for Monty.
'So, Basil, how is your master plan proceeding?'
'There've been one or two hitches, Miranda, but the night is still young.'
'No it's not. People are dropping like flies. There's a disgusting orgy going on in the front room but none of your fellow judges are involved.'
'There's Henrietta.'
'She doesn't count. If she doesn't lay half a dozen men at a do like this it's bad for her image. You'll never pressurise her into voting for The Novelist's Wife. You'd have more luck if you could say she spent New Year's Eve at home alone with a cup of cocoa. Now that would be bad for business.'
'I suppose you're right but—'
'Forget it, Basil. Your wife has offered me the use of her room, and I'm going up there now to get away from this repellent fiasco. And I tell you this, if you can't guarantee me the Baxendale tomorrow then I'm going public about the rhino horn or whatever it was they injected into your horrible little prick.'
Basil watched her mount the stairs with malice in his eyes and despair in his heart. 'It's not little,' he muttered, 'at least not any more.'
'Talking to yourself, Mr Swan?' said a husky voice behind him.
He turned to confront the smoothest, deepest cleavage he had seen that night. Encased in constricting peacock blue, decorated with a tiny glistening crucifix of gold, it set the tiger in his tank purring with desire.
'I just wanted to say what a truly fascinating evening this has been for someone like me who knows nothing of the world of books. Thank you so much.'
'How kind of you... I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.'
'Harriet. I came with a man from the GrabCo publicity department but he's gone.'
'So you're on your own and without a drink?' said Basil, taking her arm. 'Why don't we just slip into my study? There's a bottle of champagne I've been saving.'
Sod that bitch Miranda Lynch. Sod the Upstanding Member Hartley Smythe and Henrietta No Knickers Suckling and that silly slut Lorna Prentice and his useless floppy-haired nephew, Lucian. Sod the lot of them.
What Basil needed was a soft pillow to rest his head on for the night. Two soft pillows would be even better. Encased in peacock blue.
Chapter 43
By the time she was halfway up the stairs, Miranda had banished the altercation with Basil from her mind. She never cried over spilt milk. If Basil's schemes came to nothing then she'd find another way of getting what she wanted. Right now her thoughts dwelt elsewhere - on the comfortable bosom of Sophie Swan and the youthful white flesh of their mutual playmate, Mathilde.
But Miranda never reached Sophie's boudoir. Barring her way, sitting on the step of the second-floor landing with her head in her hands, was a young woman in tears. Miranda's face was level with a pair of neatly turned knees when the sobbing figure looked up.
'Lorna,' said Miranda, surprised.
The girl stared at her in anguish and suddenly Miranda found herself bending over her, an arm around those slim shaking shoulders. She'd never got on with Lorna but she could not ignore her distress.
'What's the matter? Can I help?'
'It's B-Basil,' moaned Lorna, wiping the tears from her face with her fingers and spreading mascara a
cross her cheeks.
Miranda produced a handkerchief and began to wipe. 'What about him?' she said.
'He's a bastard.'
'So you've finally found out. I thought you were in love with him.'
'I hate him.'
'In my observation that's often the same thing. There, that's better.'
'God, I must look a fright.'
'Actually, my dear, you look how you always look - young and beautiful.'
Miranda didn't know why she said that or why, on impulse, she gave the girl a hug. Lorna hugged her back, her slender body still quivering with emotion. Miranda was conscious that, in their party finery, neither of them was wearing a great deal. Their bare arms and shoulders rubbed together in pleasant intimacy.
Lorna giggled. 'This is pretty funny, us sitting here like this. You kicked me out six months ago. And now Basil's chucked me. I must be the least-wanted editorial assistant in London.'
'What! Basil's fired you?'
'As of today. I guess that makes you feel good.'
'You think I'm pretty hard-hearted, don't you?'
'Until two minutes ago, Miranda, I thought you didn't have a heart at all.'
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Miranda took Lorna's hand and pressed it into the low, square-cut neck of her dress. The girl's fingers slipped between silk and flesh, moulding to the curve of Miranda's left breast.
'Can you feel my heart?' said Miranda.
'It's beating very fast.'
'I've changed recently, Lorna.'
The girl looked at Miranda, astonishment and fear in her big dark eyes. And something else, thought Miranda, as her nipple swelled in Lorna's palm. How delightful.
Desire.
'Do you think we're safe now?'
'Should be, Des. If we lock the door they'll think we're just a randy couple who've commandeered a spare bedroom for a bonk.'