Lust on the Line

by Noel Amos

  The bishop sighed as he sat beside the poet on the bed. 'Don't misunderstand me, my boy, but if I have to listen to another hysterically enthusiastic young person telling me about an exquisite new novel I shall ask to meet my Maker ahead of schedule. Are all publishing parties like this?'

  Garnet grinned and, from a zipped pocket in his leather jacket, produced a vodka bottle. He poured generously into two tooth glasses taken from above the washbasin in the corner.

  'Not for me, please,' said the bishop hastily. 'I never partake.'

  'Oh yes, you do.' The poet flourished a bottle of orange juice taken from some other compartment in his clothing and added it. 'Basil's little tarts have been spiking your drinks all evening.'

  'Really!' The bishop was flabbergasted. So flabbergasted he took a mouthful without thinking. 'I've often wondered what it must be like to be under the influence.'

  'And how is it?'

  Des giggled. 'I feel like one of those novels everyone was going on about. You know - "ecstatically informed".'

  Garnet smirked. "'Meticulously wrought".'

  "Mythically charged".'

  "Erotically inspired".'

  'Oh yes indeed.'

  'Really, Des?'

  'Well, by that boy with the golden ponytail and—'

  'The lollipop in his pants?'

  'It was huge, wasn't it? I didn't mean to stare but Garnet, what are you doing?'

  'I think you ought to satisfy your curiosity about a few things, Des. You need a lollipop of your own to lick. How do you like the look of mine?'

  The bishop gulped at the sight of his young poet friend who had continued the unzipping process and now stood with his tumescent wand of virility jutting from his leather loins.

  'Well?' demanded Garnet.

  The bishop opened his mouth but no sound ensued. The poet plugged the orifice in the appropriate fashion. With his lollipop.

  In other rooms of the house, other orifices were being similarly filled. In the study, for example.

  After the stroppy and disobliging behaviour of most of female guests it was a relief for Basil to encounter Harriet Pugh. She had administered the first instalment of that relief while his glass of champagne fizzed merrily on the mantelpiece - Harriet being on her knees on the hearth rug with her plush lips stretched in a scarlet ring around his veiny cock.

  She rose to gulp greedily from her own glass, a hand still petting his momentarily satisfied member.

  'Mmm,' she breathed in thrillingly affected tones, 'it's the best kind of cocktail. I call it White Velvet.'

  'You do?' Basil was at a loss.

  'The taste of champagne and spunk. If you could bottle it, you'd make a fortune.'

  Basil topped up her glass. 'Do you drink it often?'

  'Whenever I get the chance. Why, Mr Swan, I do believe you're getting hard again. That's most impressive.'

  'I'm impressed by you, my dear. What is it that you do - apart from giving the most delicious head?'

  By way of reply Harriet slipped the straps of her dress over her shoulders and pulled the peacock blue veil to her waist.

  'Oh I say!' exclaimed Basil as her two heavy-slung melons met his sight, the flesh quivering, the nipples blood-red with need.

  'I cater to men of letters,' said Harriet as her dress hit the floor in a rustle of excitement, revealing her naked but for stockings and suspenders. 'It's appropriate we're in your study because, in fact, I also give very good office.'

  She walked away from him, her broad curving buttocks creamy in the dim light.

  'How would you like me, Mr Swan? Over your desk?' And she bent over the table, unconsciously adopting the position favoured by Lorna in her former role of personal assistant.

  Basil approached the magnificent rear, the twin globes outthrust and spread wide for his personal entertainment. In the groove of her secret divide the split peach of her pussy, lightly dusted with brown fur, gaped in invitation. Above was the pink dimple of her anus and all around was the strawberry-and-cream marvel of her nude arse. It was twice the size of Lorna's boyish rear. Basil was sure it would afford twice the pleasure.

  He anointed the scarlet head of his penis with juice from her sticky quim. As he filled the vacancy between her legs he was of half a mind to ask her to take up her current position permanently.

  On the top floor, Lorna Prentice probed with her tongue, savouring the honey-sweet tang of the first pussy she'd pleasured since boarding school. Between her own slim legs the rapacious mouth of Miranda Lynch brought her to a shuddering gasping orgasm that had to be the best so far. What a way to start the New Year, she thought, to be locked in a passionate sixty-nine with a woman. A woman, what's more, whom she loathed.

  'I loathe you, I loathe you,' she whispered into Miranda's sweet musky centre.

  Miranda's hand stroked her slender flanks. 'I love you too, darling,' she whispered and began the happy business of bringing her off yet again.

  On the first floor, Bishop Desmond stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Was this the face of a man who had sinned? If so, why couldn't he get the silly drunken grin off his face?

  Over his shoulder he could see Garnet lying on the bed, naked, with a similar soppy smile on his usually dour countenance. How beautiful he looked. And how irresistible.

  'Come back to bed,' called the poet, 'and put your big cock up my arse.'

  It wasn't poetry but it was the sweetest sound the bishop had heard in years. He did not resist the call.

  On the ground floor, Basil straddled the succulent torso of his newfound admirer as she wrapped her big hot teats around barrel of his tool. She'd done everything he asked and more until they'd both moaned and babbled and spread their juices all over the study furniture. He had only discerned one peculiarity about her - she had a tendency to bang on about some novel by that creep Monty Hastings when she got excited.

  'Mmm yes, yes please,' she murmured, 'fuck me there, do. Promise you'll finish off on my tits. I love a man to spunk on my breasts. It reminds me of a passage in Refulgent Ennui when…'

  But Basil wasn't listening. There was only one passage on his mind - the soft slick thoroughfare between her juddering titty globes that housed his throbbing prick.

  The entire house reverberated with fucking. Throughout it all Lucian spent the night alone on the front-room sofa. When he closed his eyes, his mind replayed delicious moments on the same sofa when Henrietta Suckling had manipulated his aching penis to orgasm. He could also see once more the galling moment when the actress had risen to her feet and dragged a smug-faced Rodney Branscombe upstairs - where he was doubtless still buried to the hilt between her juicy thighs even as he spouted bollocks about the marvellous books on his spring list.

  Now Lucian lay with an enormous erection on his belly and the ashes of failure in his mouth. He could still feel the teasing touch of La Suckling's fingers on his tool and sleep was a distant prospect. And he was not looking forward to facing his Uncle Basil once this cursed night was over.

  Chapter 44

  Basil strode through the debris of the party like a bear with a sore head. The hangover didn't help, of course, but that was to be expected at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day. What wasn't, was the absence of his usual cure - to whit, a willing woman. Basil swore by cunt as solace for a thick head and this morning his head was very thick. Like his cock.

  So the first irritation of the day had been when he reached for the hot and supple body that had pleasured him in the early hours on the study couch. But Harriet had disappeared. No trace of her remained apart from the lipstick stains on his prick, her pussy-musk on his fingers and the memory of her magnificent rounded arse rubbing against his belly. How he longed to bury his cock in that wide and welcoming divide! The angry tumescence thrusting from his loins wanted it too. The purple cap of his penis stared at him in reproach.

  There were times, incredible though it was to contemplate, that Basil regretted the remarkable success of his rejuvena
tion treatment. On mornings like this, when there were weighty matters to consider, he resented being a slave to his libido.

  The scene that greeted him in the kitchen had not eased his ill-humour. Sophie, in a fluffy blue dressing-gown carelessly draped over her ample charms, sat sipping coffee. Basil had not been slow to see an opportunity.

  'Happy New Year, my darling,' he had whispered as he bent to kiss her mouth, at the same time slipping his hand into her gaping neckline with the intention of dandling the big loose breasts he knew so well.

  'Go away, Basil,' said Sophie, turning her head so he kissed only toast crumbs on her chin and grasping his hand before it made significant advances. 'You smell of last night's booze and last night's woman.'

  Before Basil could open his mouth to protest - his transgressions were never openly acknowledged - Sophie continued.

  'I've made a New Year resolution, Basil. No more dishonesty in our relationship. I want things out in the open.'

  Basil took a step back. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, meet Mathilde.'

  On cue, a flaxen-haired girl advanced on the table with a pot of coffee in her hand. She was wearing a baby-pink T-shirt which barely covered her pussy mound and revealed thighs as white and breathtaking as a Nordic snowscape. Basil's cock twitched impatiently and his head throbbed.

  'We've met already,' he said, taking Mathilde's free hand and gazing into her ice-blue eyes. 'You're by far the prettiest waitress we've ever had.'

  'She's also my lover,' said Sophie.

  'What!'

  'You heard, Basil. I'm off men and it's all your fault. I prefer Mathilde. I'm sure you can see why.'

  'Well, Sophie, I'm a liberal-minded fellow as you know and Mathilde is a most bewitching creature.'

  'So let go of her.'

  Somehow Basil was still clutching Mathilde's slim white fingers. He released them with reluctance, protesting, 'Sophie, please! What kind of a man do you think I am?'

  His wife grinned at him and placed a proprietorial hand on Mathilde's rump. 'Surely you don't want me to tell you, do you, Basil?'

  The girl pushed her bum back against Sophie in a small movement that twitched the bottom of her shirt provocatively north. Basil stared at the bulge of her mons outlined against the pink material. Good God! He could even see some fine hairs, glinting like spun silver, below the pink hem.

  He cleared his throat. 'I'm very happy for you both. And as a broad-minded man I can see no objection to your, er, friendship. There's just one thing...'

  'Yes, Basil?'

  'Can I watch?'

  Basil saw the movement of Mathilde's hand fractionally before a pint of coffee was launched over his trousers. Fortunately the liquid was not piping hot but Basil nevertheless retreated to the hall - in some discomfort. There he met Henrietta Suckling donning a leopard skin fun fur, looking as bright as a button.

  'Basil, sweetheart, what a marvellous do! Such wonderful company! The best New Year's Eve party I've been to all year. Are you all right, darling? You've wet your pants.'

  'I spilt some coffee. Won't you stay and have some?'

  The actress shot him a wicked grin. 'No thanks. I've got a sexy young publisher lined up to drive me home and give me breakfast in bed. Now, where is he?'

  Basil's spirits soared. 'You mean Lucian? I'll find him for you.'

  'Is that his name? I forgot. Oh here he is. Come on, dear heart, take me home and ravish me instantly!'

  Basil's sky-bound spirits crash-landed as Rodney Branscombe appeared from the downstairs loo. It was all he could do to mutter a civil farewell as the actress bundled her captive out of the door. Not that Rodney noticed. His eyes were hollow with fatigue and his face was as pale as paper. Basil doubted there was much ravishing left in him and wished that he himself could replace the whey-faced editor in the actress's bed. His obstinately erect cock throbbed in agreement.

  Basil surveyed the damage in the front room, wincing at the wine stains on the Axminster and the stiletto marks on the mahogany table. From the chandelier drooped a pair of knickers and two used condoms. Thank God the help were returning at noon to clear up.

  A snore from a far corner led his gaze to the slumbering form of Lucian, stretched out on the sofa in the rear alcove. With malicious glee Basil tipped his nephew onto the floor where he lay in a dishevelled heap, quite disoriented.

  'Get up, you useless boy. I knew I shouldn't have relied on you. You've ballsed everything up.'

  Lucian looked up from the ash-stained carpet. 'And a Happy New Year to you too, Uncle Basil.'

  'What's the matter with you, Lucian? Wasn't Henrietta hot enough? While you've been having a first-class kip Rodney Branscombe's been shagging her arse off.'

  Lucian struggled to his knees. 'Actually, uncle, I've only dropped off to sleep. I've had a terrible night. By the way, do you know you've wet your trousers?'

  Basil was about to make a suitably withering retort when a voice summoned him from the doorway.

  'Goodbye, Basil.'

  'Lorna, my dear!'

  Basil's spirits lifted. Here might be a solution to one of his problems - the pressing one in his pants. And though Lorna looked a little delicate in the morning light there was no denying her basic fuckability. He advanced on her with intent.

  'Before you go, darling, would you mind just popping into my study? Something urgent has come up and it can't wait till tomorrow.'

  Her reply took him by surprise.

  'I'm not going anywhere with you, you slimy sod.'

  'Steady on, Lorna.'

  'Have you forgotten what you said to me last night? You were rude and vile and you sacked me.'

  'Did I? I recall I lost my temper—'

  'You called me a brainless little tart who had outlived her usefulness in your employment.'

  'Lorna, I can't apologise enough. I was distraught, I was drunk, I didn't mean it - look I'm on my knees.' And so he was. In Basil's experience, it was a necessary quality of a successful publisher to be able to grovel. 'Mea mea culpa, my angel. I abase myself before you. I kiss your heavenly feet.'

  'Don't do this to me, Basil,' Lorna wailed. 'Don't try and get round me—'

  'Hush, Lorna. Let me deal with this.' A different voice assailed Basil's ear. He looked up from his position at Lorna's feet to see Miranda Lynch approaching - from the rear. She took two athletic steps forward and launched her right foot.

  'OH!' yelled Basil as Miranda's pointed patent-leather party shoe caught him squarely in the crack of his temptingly presented posterior. He pitched forward onto his nose and rolled over onto his back, whimpering with pain.

  Miranda bent over him. 'I enjoyed that, Basil. And I'm going to enjoy kicking your reputation all over the newspapers if you don't deliver what you promised. You've got till tonight, remember.'

  'My God, Miranda,' stuttered Basil, 'there's no need to resort to personal violence. Business is business.'

  Miranda smiled and hooked an arm round Lorna's waist. 'That boot up the bum was for Lorna, Basil, because she wouldn't have the nerve to do it herself. Not yet. Just you wait till I've finished training her as my new personal assistant.

  'And this is lesson number one, Lorna. When you've got an opponent on his knees, kick him where it hurts.'

  What a ball-breaker, thought Basil as she pushed Lorna out of the door, literally.

  Chapter 45

  The year was not half a day old and already it was turning into an annus total fiascus for Basil Swan.

  'Take that smirk off your face,' he yelled at Lucian in the wake of Miranda and Lorna's departure.

  'Now, now, uncle,' said Lucian, making no attempt to hide his amusement. 'You're not my boss any more. I work for Miranda, don't forget.'

  Basil hobbled towards the sofa and sat down next to his nephew. 'I'm sorry, Lucian,' he said. 'This morning is full of painful truths. I feel like a useless old fart well past his sell-by date.'

  Lucian put a reassuring hand on his uncle's knee. It was still d
amp from the spilt coffee.

  'Look, why don't you go and change. You'll feel much better.'

  Basil sighed. 'I ought to check the rooms upstairs. See what's broken. Find out who's drowned in vomit in the attic. The usual drill after a party.'

  'I'll do that. Then I'll meet you in the kitchen. Would egg and bacon suit you?'

  Basil covered Lucian's hand with his own. 'Perhaps you're not such a useless boy after all.'

  Basil cleaned the last dollop of egg yolk from his plate with a scrap of bread and poured himself another cup of coffee. He was showered and shaved, fed and watered. Physically he felt a hundred per cent better, mentally he was still shaken by the setbacks of the party and its aftermath. If only he could get Miranda off his back! She'd relish turning him into the laughing-stock of the publishing trade.

  Lucian was reporting on his inspection of the house and Basil was barely listening. The fact that there was an upturned poinsettia on the second-floor landing and a pair of torn tights blocking the loo was not of significance in the greater scheme of things.

  'Aren't there any publicity nymphets wandering around still angling for a plug?' he asked, mindful of his needy loins.

  'Sorry, uncle, everyone's gone. Apart from the two guys in that little room opposite the airing cupboard.'

  'What two guys?'

  'They were asleep when I went in so I left them to it. I had to borrow a key from the next room because the door was locked.'

  'But who are they?'

  'I don't know. One's a lot older than the other and the young one has long hair.'

  'Good God!' Basil was on his feet, a glint in his eye. 'Were they wearing anything?'

  'I don't know. I mean, they were under the bedclothes. Though I did notice some leather trousers on the floor.'

  'Fantastic!' Basil was grinning from ear to ear. 'Come on, Lucian, follow me.'

  'What are you going to do?'

  'Pull my nuts out of the fire and, incidentally, show you what it takes to be a great publisher.'