by Noel Amos
'Video.' Petra's voice was flat, she could not react to any more surprises.
'Yes. Chastity says I need to analyse my orgasms so that I can enumerate them properly. I mean, sometimes I'm not sure when one ends and another begins. So I need a video I can look at in the cold light of day. You're the only person I can trust.'
'What about this Philippe?'
Cassie laughed. 'Don't be stupid, darling, he'll have his hands full.'
Petra picked up her handbag. 'I won't take pictures of you and some toyboy having it off. I mean it, Cassie.'
'Yes, you will.'
'No.'
Cassie's jaw set firm and for a moment Petra glimpsed the resolute face that doubtless presided over Fragrant's editorial conferences.
'You will if you want to find out about today's meeting of the Corrections Committee,' she said.
'I've changed my mind about that. It's not important to me.'
'Forgive me, Petra, but I've always thought that anything concerning Tom Glass was very important to you. So why don't you sit down and I'll explain how my video camera works.'
Petra sat.
Chapter 5
'Who's Rosie?' said a low-pitched female voice, intruding on Tom's reverie of long-lost seduction. 'Tom, darling, don't tell me you've returned to the land of the living off your rocker.'
The silver-blonde vision at the door was tall and slender with an oval face and a long nose. The eyes were cool and grey and her lips and pencil-thin eyebrows arched upwards inquisitively. She was at once familiar and mysterious and she was looking at Tom much as a collector of coins regards a prized possession. Her face was bright with expectation.
'Hi there,' said Tom as emphatically as he could. He didn't know who the hell she was but she looked fabulous and at the back of his mind a small voice asked: I wonder if I'm fucking her?
Nurse Biscuit came to his aid. She dropped Tom's hand like a hot coal and scrambled to her feet.
'Oh, Miss Matthews,' she cried, 'it's such a thrill to see you again. Isn't it wonderful that Mr Glass has come out of his coma?'
'I dashed here straight from the studio,' said the newcomer. 'As you can see, I didn't even have time to change.'
Tom's mind was racing. He took in the fuchsia-pink summer jacket that Silver-blonde was slipping off her shoulders and noted the insignia on the breast pocket. The report of his accident in the Dog came back to him. This must be the Badger TV weather girl. His fiancée.
'Marianne,' he said, holding out his arms. I must be fucking her! he thought with glee.
'Darling,' she cried and fell into his embrace.
Nurse Biscuit edged out of the door.
'Thank God, you're all right,' murmured Marianne into Tom's neck as she gave him small perfumed kisses. 'I mean, you are all right, aren't you? You still have lots of wires and tubes and things sticking into you.'
She disentangled herself from him gently as if suddenly aware he was fragile.
'Well, I did fall ten storeys,' he said. 'I can't say I'm back to normal. I'm having trouble remembering things. I don't know how I fell, for example, or anything that led up to it.'
'How convenient.' The smile had slipped from Marianne's face.
'I know the papers are still stirring things but that's their business. Those bastards are out to shaft everybody.'
'Quite.' Her penetrating grey eyes had moved from his face and were now focused elsewhere on his body. He had the feeling that she was making her own assessment of the damage he had sustained.
'Why,' she asked at length, 'have you got a hard-on?'
It was a good question. The tower between his legs was plain as a pike-staff beneath the cotton sheet.
A dream bubble burst in Tom's head, bringing with it a vivid impression of Rosie's silky thighs muffling his ears and the coral pink folds of her fig in his face. But he said the only thing that was acceptable in the circumstances.
'I'm just pleased to see you, Marianne.'
'Are you really? I was beginning to think you weren't. You haven't asked one thing about me.'
It was at this point, Tom realised later, that he could have come clean. He could have told her the reason for his distracted manner. But how do you tell your fiancée that you don't recall ever seeing her before in your life? Especially when she's sitting on the side of your bed running her fingers over your thunderously erect tool.
'God, it's enormous,' said Marianne, pushing the sheet down his thighs to bring his cock and balls fully into the light. 'I don't remember ever seeing it quite so big.'
'Really?' Tom wanted to ask her precisely when she had last seen it and what they had done together. Were they a long-standing partnership joined by a well-established intimacy? Or a hot new liaison who fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance? It was an intriguing situation.
Marianne had both hands on him now, rolling his balls in her palm and slicking his foreskin back and forth across the purple helmet of his glans. She lowered her long and graceful neck and slipped her cool lips over the burning head of his prick.
'Mmm yes,' breathed Tom and thrust his pelvis upwards into her face.
She raised her lips from his straining tool and licked him. 'Have you,' she said between licks, 'thought any more about the Black Raven arts slot?'
Tom stared at her. Her long pink tongue trailed cunningly across his knob, teasing him, promising more.
'Well?'
'I'm sorry, Marianne, I told you I was having a little trouble remembering things.'
'I don't see how you can have forgotten something so important to me, Tom. You know I've had it up to here with being a weather girl. I've got much more to give the TV world than my sunny smile and perky manner. It's like being a fucking Barbie doll. And I'm pissed off with wearing pink.'
She was getting worked up, Tom noted with alarm. Her long red fingernails were digging into the tender skin of his scrotum just this side of pain.
'What's Black Raven?'
'Black Raven, Mr Mogul, is a television company that you happen to own. They need a presenter for their new arts programme and, apart from being your wife-to-be, I'm bright, I'm beautiful and I'm sure-as-hell available.'
There was a silence after this outburst. Marianne had withdrawn her hands from Tom's loins and his cock lay twitching in frustration on his belly. He was fed up. He rather fancied wielding some of this power he was supposed to possess. Starting now.
'OK, Marianne,' he said, 'I shall talk to Black Raven within the next twenty-four hours. Your career is at the top of my agenda.' That sounded good at any rate.
'In the meantime,' he continued, noting with satisfaction a softening of her expression, 'I'd like a demonstration that you really are available. If you don't melt down my erection within the next ten minutes you can return to Badger and spend the rest of your professional life predicting ridges of high pressure.'
Marianne's face set hard and for a second Tom thought those scarlet talons of hers were about to fence for his cheek. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth and made a low gurgling sound, like the rattle of pebbles in the rushing water of a brook. It was a most seductive laugh. She probably was wasted on the weather.
'Very good,' she said at last. 'You really had me going for a moment. I love it when you pretend to be a ruthless tycoon. It turns me on.'
She got off the bed and kicked off her shoes, unzipped her skirt and threw it on the chair. Below the waist she wore just a scrap of thin turquoise material. The prominent mound of her pubis bulged against the cotton. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and lowered them an inch.
'Shall I?' she breathed. 'Do you want to look, darling?' Tom's cock was beating a tattoo on his stomach in an agony of frustration. He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.
'Time's running out, Marianne. Drop your knickers or it's back to Badger for good.'
'Oh you sod,' she said and pushed the thin strip of cotton down her thighs, laying bare the long slit of her vagina just six
inches from Tom's face.
Perhaps it was the slimness of her hips or the length of her elegant body but the pouting sex delta at the junction of her smooth thighs seemed enormous. Or maybe it was because between her legs she was as hairless as a clam. At any rate, the outer lips of her pussy were unfurled to reveal a glistening succulence within and at the top of her crack her swollen clit seemed to sit up and beg. The breath caught in Tom's throat. This was a cunt in need of serious attention.
Marianne took a small step forward, pushing her pelvis into Tom's face. He flicked out his tongue. She groaned. He sank his hands into the apple-cheek rounds of her bottom and pulled her onto his mouth. She made a throaty noise as his lips found her clitoris and dropped a hand to his groin.
For two minutes there was no conversation, just moans and grunts and the rude slick-slick of fingers and tongue on slippery genitals and the agitation of Marianne's feet as they squirmed on the polished wooden floor. She came with a sharp cry on Tom's tongue and then again as he pushed a finger between her buttocks and up into her arsehole.
'Christ,' she muttered, breaking away from his embrace, 'it's no good, I've got to have it up me.'
She climbed onto the bed and straddled his loins, carefully avoiding the tubes still attached to his flesh. There was a metal hoist above the bed and she took hold of it with one hand while the other aimed his swollen member at the hungry nook between her thighs.
The hoist could have been specifically designed for this very activity. Given the nature of the exclusive medical facilities supplied by Partridge Place this would not have surprised either Tom or Marianne. But for the moment they were only concerned with the friction of cock in cunt, with the jostling of slim white thighs on muscular hairy ones and with the approaching moment of release as the spunk gathered in Tom's balls and Marianne's hairless pussy wept in anticipation.
At the door, her face pressed tight to the small crack which afforded her a perfect view, Nurse Biscuit gazed on in wonder.
And in a dark room on the floor above, a thin-lipped Dr Flint made notes in a small black book. In front of her, among a bank of television monitors, flickered the image of an ambitious TV weather girl suspended on a well-known businessman's cock.
Chapter 6
Petra was not much of an expert with a video camera.
'It doesn't matter,' said Cassie. 'Just get an establishing shot of what we're up to and then zoom in on my face when things hot up. You press this little red button here.'
Philippe was not happy about the filming. He lolled against the doorframe dressed in a purple tracksuit with a towel round his neck. Petra had often admired the size of Cassie's luxury kitchen but somehow Philippe's presence seemed to shrink the room. He was so big his head looked like it might graze the ceiling if he stood up straight. His black hair was cropped to his scalp and his jaw was square like a comic-book hero. Tortoise-shell spectacles gave him a professorial air - a professor of muscle.
'You will keep my face out of ze shot,' he said to Petra.
'Don't worry, Philippe,' said Cassie, 'this is just for my personal use. I've asked Petra to film the exercises so Chastity can provide an insight into my reactions.'
Philippe didn't look altogether mollified, thought Petra, but the mention of Chastity's name put an end to his objections.
'OK,' he said, flinging off his tracksuit to reveal an awe-inspiring physique barely contained by a canary-coloured singlet and blue jockey shorts. 'Let's get to it.'
'Don't you find him a bit intimidating?' muttered Petra as she followed Cassie out of the room but her friend did not appear to hear. It was evident she was under his spell.
Petra had expected the action to take place in Cassie's bedroom but to her surprise she found herself in another room which was kitted out as a gym. A rowing machine and an exercise bicycle stood in one corner, dusty from disuse she noted, and a large rubber mat lay on the floor. Cassie and Philippe took up positions facing one another and, to the blare of a disco beat, began what looked like a series of aerobic exercises.
'Allez, allez!' yelled Philippe as Cassie bounced up and down, her red hair flying and her substantial breasts jingling.
Petra aimed the camcorder and filmed a few feet. There didn't seem much point in continuing, however - surely Cassie didn't want a record of this?
Then the music slowed and the pair of them began to stretch their limbs in a languorous fashion and make balletic arabesques.
'Ah, oui,' growled Philippe, 'more slowly now. Ze blood it is flowing and we must listen to ze needs of ze body.'
Petra had trouble stifling a laugh but Cassie's rapt expression reminded her of her obligations. The redhead looked a trifle daft, twirling around on one foot in her bra and pants, but there was no doubt she was giving her all.
In one surprising movement Philippe seized Cassie around the waist and lifted her off the floor as if she were a two-year-old. He reversed her in mid-air and suddenly she was upside down clinging to the solid trunk of his body. Petra pressed the little red button - this was more like it.
In this position, Cassie's legs were around the Frenchman's neck and her arms encircled his waist, both of them nose to crotch in a standing soixante-neuf. 'How appropriate,' thought Petra, now finding her attention fully engaged.
Beyond holding a half-naked eleven-stone woman upside down, Philippe didn't appear to be doing much. But below his waist his pupil was busy and, as she glimpsed the thick wand of cock flesh that thrust from his briefs into Cassie's face, Petra felt a stab of desire. Not that there was any chance of her friend passing this particular baton - half of it was already down her throat.
Up top, Philippe was now using his mouth on the pantied crotch in his face. Petra marvelled at the way he first sucked Cassie through the material and then eased aside the sodden gusset using just his lips and tongue. Was this part of the famous Honeydew technique? she wondered, or simply innate Gallic flair? Whatever it was, she knew that it would be beyond her lover, Kelvin - more's the pity.
The pair of them had now subsided to the floor and Philippe was teasing Cassie's exposed pussy lips with his tongue, licking the length of her long, auburn-haired slit and then probing the tip into her gooey depths.
'Oh God,' Petra heard Cassie groan as she responded to this treatment. 'I'm going for my first - ah! Oh yes!' and her creamy buttocks began to quiver in Philippe's broad hands. Cassie's legs opened and closed in agitation around the Frenchman's neck. A lesser man would surely have wilted under the pincering of those strong thighs but Cassie's wild throes had no effect on his gentle lick, lick, licking along her swollen labia. 'AAH!' screamed Cassie and twitched to a climax.
They rolled apart and Petra was amazed to see that Cassie was consulting her watch and scribbling on a piece of paper.
'Have to keep a record,' she explained to Petra as she shucked off her wet panties and threw off her bra. Her breasts were full and pendulous, with long scarlet points that stood up like loganberries. Petra had never seen nipples like those before. What would they taste like? she wondered, shocked that she would think such a thing. But shock seemed an inappropriate reaction given the circumstances.
Philippe had stripped off too and was on his hands and knees, suspended above Cassie's body. Petra watched in fascination as he lowered himself till he was just inches above her and he began to move, from side to side and up and down. It took her a moment to realise that he was brushing her body with his cock, drawing the tip of his hanging member backwards and forwards across the dimpled dome of her belly. As he did so, he caressed the tips of her nipples with the great slab of his chest, occasionally pressing down on her and then pushing up to relieve the pressure. Petra wondered what it must be like to be body-kissed by a man mountain who could crush you at any moment.
Certainly Cassie liked it. She had hold of his teak-hard buttocks and was thrusting her pelvis up at him, trying to work the head of his elusive tool into the hungry hole between her legs.
'Please, please,' Petra he
ard her saying, 'put it in, Philippe. Fill me up and fuck me. Oh please - OH!'
Petra saw that his great cock had nosed into her bush and with one flick of his hips he was into her.
'Oh my GOD!' screamed Cassie and exploded into a flurry of jerks and twitches.
'Deux fois,' Philippe announced as dispassionately as a tennis umpire. 'You want to go for more? I think you are well ahead of your weekly score.'
'No, don't stop! I need at least three, maybe four!' howled Cassie, jerking her loins up at him as he held himself impassively over her.
'OK but I don't want you to overdo it,' he lectured. 'I have seen people too keen at the beginning, they end up with strained ligaments and pulled muscles.'
'Sod that, Philippe,' said Cassie. 'I think there's only one way to learn and that's on the job. Let's go for it! Oh yes!'
Philippe didn't argue further, he just swung into action as if to prove his point, pistoning his powerful cock between her legs in a blur.
Petra tried hard to record the meaningful action as requested, keeping the camera focused on Cassie's face as she moaned and howled through a succession of orgasms. But Petra's camera hand was shaking with excitement. She couldn't resist staring at Philippe's lean buttocks as they thrust and flexed and hollowed, driving his menacing cudgel of flesh up into Cassie's loins. She was mesmerized too by the sight of her friend's swollen pussy as it engulfed the big cock. Yielding yet strong, soft yet resilient, it joyfully embraced the pounding weapon.
'AAH!' yelled Cassie finally and passed out.
It took a few moments, in which time Philippe bid them au revoir, before Cassie was able to speak.
'Didn't I tell you, Petra? That's what I call personal training.'
'Well, he certainly pressed your little red button. It's not very romantic, though, is it?'
'My God, woman, what do you want?' Cassie sat up and reached for the glass of water Petra was offering her. 'This is lifestyle sex not romance, health and fitness not emotional dependence. We're talking work-out fucking here, perfect for today's independent woman. This way, just think of all the time you save in not having rows and pretending to be seduced and pussyfooting around before the guy gets down to your actual pussy. Mind you, there is one thing I regret.'