Lust Under Licence

by Noel Amos

  She took her mouth away and replaced it with her other hand, staring greedily at the tumescent genitals in her grasp.

  'You're hung like a horse,' she muttered. 'Put me over the desk and fuck me silly or I'll have you gelded.' She grinned to herself at the prospect.

  Alberto took no notice of her last remark, he was already pulling her to her feet and hauling her skirt upwards. Thin peach panties descended over matching suspenders and stockings and pooled around her ankles. Bent across her desk the twin globes of her bottom cheeks jutted like great white moons. Alberto peeled apart the flesh to gaze on the winking star of her arsehole. Below it, the gaping pink purse of her pussy bubbled with juice.

  He ran the glans of his cock up and down the bum crevice and fingered the wet lips of her overflowing honeypot. He gave her left buttock a soft enquiring slap.

  'Yes!' she snapped. 'Smack me. Oh! Smack me hard!'

  Broad strong hands descended in measured blows. Left, right, then left again, turning the creamy globes into quivering spheres of crimson.

  'YES, YES!' she yelled. 'Now put it in.'

  Alberto obeyed. It was more than his job was worth to do otherwise.

  Gossamer thrust her big beautiful buttocks backwards into his crotch, spearing herself on his stiff tool. Oh, it was heaven. The interview with dishy Kelvin had turned her on. It was a pity he was such a wimp. She'd bet he'd only have half the stamina of Alberto.

  She came once and slowed her thrusting, content to pace herself now the first tide of desire had washed over her. Alberto could stay hard for as long as she wanted, he wouldn't dare come till she said so. She thanked the day she had landed this job, if only for the perks. 'Perks spelt P-R-I-C-K-S,' she told herself, jamming back onto his rearing organ and laughing out loud.

  Alberto muttered, 'Mamma,' and began to gently diddle her clit, the agitation of his fingers in her cleft pushing her into the path of her next wave of pleasure.

  'Oh gosh, oh gosh,' she cried, jerking her head from side to side, the flailing locks of her hair lashing down onto the yellow folder which had occupied her attention that morning.

  The file marked 'Glass'.

  Chapter 3

  In his head, Tom Glass was sitting in the kitchen of his parents' house in Manchester marvelling at the slim white legs of his brother's fiancée as her babydoll nightie rode up her thighs.

  'There you are, Tommy,' said Rosemary as she set a cup of tea on the table in front of him. She ruffled his uncombed mop of black hair affectionately, as if she were petting a dog. 'Rosie—'

  'Yes, Tommy?'

  'Do you know how old I am?'

  She stopped in the act of cracking eggs into a bowl. 'Of course - you're seventeen.'

  'I'm two months away from having the vote. Three months off going to university. Old enough to get married and have kids.'

  'Yes?' There was confusion in her large brown eyes.

  'Old enough not to be called Tommy. Call me Tom, call me Thomas, but please don't call me Tommy. OK?'

  'I'm sorry, Tommy - Tom! I didn't know you felt like that. It's just that everyone—'

  'Quite. Everyone around here wants me to stay in short pants and be cute little Tommy. It reinforces their own sense of worth - I've read about it. Mum even wanted me to be a pageboy at your wedding—'

  'That was a joke. She didn't mean it.'

  'It was indicative of her underlying feelings, Rosie. No one round here wants me to grow up.'

  'Tommy, that's unfair.' Rosemary had abandoned the eggs and taken a seat at the table beside Tom. This was important. 'Oops, I said it again, I'm sorry. But look, Jack's on your side.'

  'Jack's the worst. He wants me to be a little brother for ever. Someone he can impress, someone he can beat.'

  'What do you mean?' Rosemary was agitated now.

  'I mean he's got everything round here. He's got a job, he's got a car, he's got money. He's got you.'

  'Me?'

  'Absolutely. He's got a girl with great legs sleeping in his bed every other night at his parents' home and they aren't even married yet.'

  'I didn't know you were such a puritan.'

  'I'm no puritan, Rosie, but I don't appreciate you two hammering the mattress all night long in the room next door when I'm not even allowed out till closing time.'

  'You're jealous, Tommy.'

  'You bet I'm jealous. Two years past the age of consent and no luck and there's my brother making love to the most gorgeous woman in the city night after night about three feet away.'

  'Oh God, Tommy, I'm sorry. I never thought. I mean, we - can you really hear?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm embarrassed. We try and keep the noise down.'

  There was a pause in the conversation. The boy's dark brooding eyes were boring into hers and she had to look away. 'Do you really think I'm gorgeous?'

  'Utterly.'

  'And you think I've got great legs?'

  'I love the way you move. You're like a dancer.'

  'You're a bit of a smooth-talker, Tom Glass.'

  'That's better. I like it when you call me Tom.'

  He was smiling now and it was as if the sun had come out.

  'I don't believe you're as shy with the girls as you make out.'

  'I've hardly ever kissed one.'

  'Oh, come on!'

  'It's true.'

  'You must have.'

  'Not properly. It's been a fiasco so far.'

  'Well, for God's sake, we can soon fix that.'

  Rosie leaned forward and placed a hand on the back of Tom's neck. The nightie rode higher. Her lips were soft as satin and her breath was sweet. He let her hold her mouth to his, resisting the urge to devour her. A small pointed tongue suddenly slipped between his lips.

  'Oh,' he murmured as she explored his mouth. Still he did not respond.

  'You can kiss me back, Tom,' she said, 'it's all right. I won't bite. Oh, that's nice.'

  And it was. His tongue was in her mouth and she was sucking on it, eager to teach her pupil some of the skills she practised at night in the room next to his.

  'You mustn't sit there like a block of wood, you know. Put your arms around me.'

  She was on the bench beside him now and the nightie was almost up to her groin. Her body heat flowed into him through two thin layers of clothing.

  'Wow,' she said, disengaging her lips. 'You see, Tom, you can kiss very well.' Her face was flushed and her eyes were dancing. The soft pressure of her left breast on his chest was burning a hole through his pyjamas.

  'I'm not sure, Rosie.' Bashful, he looked down - to the creamy flesh of her thighs exposed nearly to her hips. A wisp of fair brown hair nosed into view beneath the embroidered pink hem. He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Without thinking she leaned into him, mouth wide, breasts thrusting, her hands beneath his pyjama jacket to grasp his muscular torso. His hands too began to wander, pulling the pink babydoll confection up to her waist and closing over the hot smooth flesh of her buttocks.

  'Oh Tom!' she squealed as he pulled her onto his lap and her legs automatically scissored around his waist, pressing her most intimate folds against a column of flesh that rose vertically from his crotch.

  As she realised what she was doing she tried to pull away but it was too late. Somehow her wriggling and squirming only managed to lodge the head of the biggest, smoothest, firmest penis she had ever encountered into the wet and hungry mouth between her thighs.

  'Oh God!' she yelled as this irresistible cock invaded her, miraculously unaided it seemed, and Tom's strong hands on her hips drove her down its whole length. She rose and fell on the delicious spike, her tongue down his throat, her fingers twined in his hair. The word 'damn' echoed somewhere in her head even as her first climax bubbled in her loins.

  Tom did little. There was no need. The woman was like a wind-up toy - turn the key and watch her go. The beauty of it was that she had turned the key all by herself...

  Tom opened his eyes with a start. A Matisse go
ldfish swam on the wall in front of him and by the side of his bed sat a plump nurse with an anxious look on her pretty face. As for Rosemary...

  'By God, Eve, I can remember.'

  'Oh, Mr Glass, how wonderful.' She squeezed his hand.

  'I dreamt I was in my parents' house in Manchester. I can see them all - mum and dad and my brother Jack.'

  And the girl who was nearly my sister-in-law, he added silently. He could remember every moment of the day he'd fucked her. Fucked her all over the house. In the kitchen, in his bedroom, in all the bedrooms, in the living-room on the rug by the fire - which was where Jack found them on his return from work. He'd had her every way by then, from the front, from the back, between her tits and down her throat. She'd swallowed his spunk like a parched pilgrim, he recalled.

  That's what she'd been doing when Jack walked in - licking come juice from the swollen head of his penis as she lay between his spread thighs. Not that he'd seen Jack make his famous entrance because he'd had his face buried in the slippery folds of Rosie's crotch, returning the favour she'd just done him. By that point he'd dropped the pretence that he didn't know a thing about girls and he'd been giving her his special cunt-suck: a whistle of hot breath on the clit, alternating with gentle tongue flicks and accompanied by two fingers pistoning deep into the vagina. She was coming even as she screamed out Jack's name.

  'Poor Rosie,' he said out loud. 'I wonder what ever happened to her?'

  Chapter 4

  'Congratulations, Petra,' said Cassie Crow, as she downed a glass of red wine. 'It's good to see another woman get a grip on the reins of power.'

  'It's only while Tom's out of commission,' said Petra Rosewater, Deputy Executive Officer of Glass Mountain.

  They were sitting on the roof terrace of Cassie's apartment, the remains of an alfresco dinner on the table between them. The late summer sun was setting over the river in spectacular fashion. It was a fabulous view, expensively acquired. But while Fragrant remained the topselling women's monthly its editor could afford the best.

  'Of course, you're the exception that proves the rule,' said Cassie. 'You're much too attractive to be the boss.'

  'Come off it, Cassie, times have changed.'

  'Says who? We're running another article next month on boardroom discrimination. If you're a woman you still only stand a chance if you look like a wet weekend. And have no tits.'

  'What?'

  'It's true. Thirty-eight double D spells typing pool, thirty A and buck teeth means you might make upper-echelon workhorse. Apart from me, you're the only woman I know of with a cleavage and a seat on the board.'

  'Not that big a cleavage.'

  Cassie laughed and speared a chunk of smelly goat's cheese.

  'No one's going to overlook it, sweety-pie. The way you shake those pretty little apples I'd say you were a major distraction at any big boys' meeting.'

  Petra did not dispute the point, there was no arguing with Cassie when she'd put away two gins and a bottle of wine.

  'Anyway,' she said, 'I thought all this discrimination was changing. That's the point of The Primrose Court, isn't it?'

  'Aha.' Cassie grinned. 'My lips are sealed.'

  'Rubbish. You know something, don't you?'

  Cassie busied herself pulling the ribbon off a large box of Belgian chocolates and did not reply.

  Petra curbed her impatience. Cassie was a good friend but her work on the Corrections Committee of The Primrose Court was a bone of contention between the two of them. Cassie was sworn to secrecy, of course, but she enjoyed leaking snippets of information. First, though, Petra had to jump through hoops.

  'Cassie, please.'

  'Have a chocolate.'

  'I don't want a chocolate. And you shouldn't eat them either. What happened to your diet?'

  'I've got a new one. Haven't you noticed?'

  'I've noticed you hoovering up cholesterol all evening, if that's what you mean.'

  'And how do you think I look?'

  Cassie stood up and turned around so Petra could admire her shape.

  There was a lot of shape to admire. Cassie Crow was not a small woman. She was tall and eye-catching, with long shiny red hair and laughing green eyes. Her tight white slacks clung to her hips and bottom as if sprayed on and her curves, though ample, were supple and seductive. She lifted the hem of her thin blue sweater and displayed an area of tanned brown midriff.

  'See?' she said, pinching the flesh between finger and thumb. 'No spare tyre.'

  Petra was impressed. 'You look great,' she admitted, 'you really do. What's the secret?'

  'This.' Cassie plonked a book on the table. 'It's the latest thing from the States and Fragrant dropped a bundle on it for serial. When it came in I insisted on guinea-pigging it myself.' Petra picked up the slim volume. The blush-pink front cover typography read: The Come-Again Lifestyle - Discovering Your POT. The sensational multi-million-copy bestseller by Chastity Honeydew. Filling the entire back page of the jacket was a portrait of a doll-faced young woman whose elaborate blonde coiffure was spread across a pillow. Her lips were full, luscious and parted and her eyes were closed, long eyelashes resting on a cheek as flawless as a baby's bottom. She appeared to be in the throes of ecstasy.

  'Interesting,' said Petra, attempting to keep the scepticism out of her voice. She knew she had to humour Cassie if she were ever to find out who was next on the hit list of The Primrose Court.

  She ran her eye over the copy on the front flap of the book. There were lots of separate lines in a big bold face preceded by asterisks:

  * Discovering the way to Honeydew Heaven!

  * How to calculate your revolutionary POT

  * Understanding your POT chart

  * Locating your POG

  * Techniques and positions explained

  * Satisfaction guaranteed - and how!

  'It looks a bit technical,' she said.

  'That's just crap,' said Cassie. 'It's like all these books. It's got one idea and the rest is window-dressing. I mean, you can't sell a one-page book, can you?'

  'So what's the idea? Save me ploughing through a hundred and ninety pages.'

  'OK. First you have to find your POT. Mine's eighty-one. That's the number of letters in your first name, times the month of your birth. Nine letters in Cassandra times September, the ninth month, equals eighty-one.'

  'OK. I was born in August so I'd be five times eight - forty.'

  Cassie frowned. 'That's not enough. If it's under fifty you have to add in the letters in your surname. In your case that's fourteen times eight, that makes one hundred and twelve. Wow, you lucky girl.'

  'So?' Petra was at a loss.

  'You still don't get it, do you? Let me explain in words of one syllable.'

  'Please do.' Petra helped herself to more wine, Cassie was irritating the hell out of her.

  'POT stands for Personal Orgasm Target. Mine is eighty-one. That means I must achieve eighty-one orgasms a calendar month.'

  'Good God.' The blood drained from Petra's face.

  'That's the whole thing. No diets, no aerobics, no workouts, no funny pills. Just doing it, lots. And it works, as you can see. In the office we call this "Fucking for Fitness".'

  'But, eighty-one times a month. That's...'

  'Two point six one comes a day in a month of thirty-one days, or two point six six averaged across a year. That's a minimum. You can do more if you want to.'

  'But how? I mean, Luke left six months ago...'

  'Petra, there's no need to be embarrassed. We are not talking sex here. This is not about messy relationships and faking it and finding some slut's knickers in his briefcase. This is health and fitness and personal growth.'

  'You're not kidding!' Petra's voice rose an octave. 'I'll have to grow another clit to make a hundred and twelve orgasms a month!' And she reached for her wineglass.

  'According to the book, there are some women who are so highly tuned they can do that in an hour. But that's a bit freakish, if you ask
me.'

  Cassie took her calculator out. 'In your case, I make it three point six eight a day. We're never going to get the smile off your face.'

  'But I'm not doing this!'

  'Come on, Petra. I need more guinea pigs. We're going to profile the first month's progress of half a dozen different women and Chastity Honeydew is going to provide a commentary. She's coming over from California to promote and part of our deal is that she writes some extra stuff for Fragrant readers. I've spent hours with her on the phone already, working out the details. We paid a fortune for the book. It's dynamite.'

  'I don't need this, Cassie.'

  'Yes, you do. You're a stressed-out female executive who can't enjoy life any more. Businesswoman X, actually - we reserve your anonymity. You're perfect for us and it's perfect for you. Trust me.'

  'What will Kelvin say?'

  'He'll love it. He'll be on cloud nine or wherever when you start demanding his body every night.'

  'But he can't do it a hundred and twelve times a month! Besides, he's not around half the time.'

  'Honey, you are so naive. He doesn't have to come, you do and his being away could be a big advantage.'

  'Oh God.' Petra realised that somewhere along the line she had agreed and she felt an involuntary twitch between her legs. She was soaking, she realised. 'You're a terrible influence on me, Cassie Crow.'

  'Darling, you certainly won't regret it. Especially when you see Philippe.'

  'Who?'

  'Philippe. He's my POG - Personal Orgasm Guide. He studied the method with Chastity in the States and Fragrant assigned him to me. He's French. You'll adore him.'

  Petra gazed at Cassie in shock though, come to think of it, the existence of a 'Personal Orgasm Guide' wasn't much of a surprise. Only a hot new lover could work the kind of transformation she saw in Cassie.

  'Is this Philippe due here this evening?' she said.

  'At any second.'

  'I'm leaving,' said Petra and stood up.

  'You can't go. You need to observe the techniques. It's much better than looking at the book. Besides I need you to take the video.'