Lust Under Licence

by Noel Amos

  'Oh?'

  'I wish I could get that bastard Philippe to come inside me.' Petra was astonished, though it was true that in the blur of orgasmic action she'd seen no evidence of Philippe ejaculating.

  'Doesn't he ever?'

  'No. Not one drop of his precious fluid does he shed. Mind you, I'm his ten p.m. appointment. He probably saves it so he can spunk off over lucky Miss Midnight. What the hell are you laughing at?'

  Chapter 7

  Kelvin Priest sat in bed doodling on a notepad and stroking his penis. The pad contained impressions of his interview that morning with Gossamer Hawk and his penis was similarly inspired. Kelvin was struggling to put some shape to the article he was preparing for Nouveau. He was not finding it easy.

  Gossamer had knocked Kelvin for six. The combination of larky sixth-former and mature woman, of high-pitched giggle and low-slung cleavage, of flirtatious blonde and stern officer of the court had him in thrall. She had virtually propositioned him, had held out the image of herself stripped to the waist with the expanse of her soft perfumed bosom at the mercy of his roving hands. How he had longed to take up that proposition.

  But had it been a trap? Had his natural timidity saved him from a trip downstairs to the cells? There, it was rumoured, transgressors were held in soundproofed confinement, subjected to a rigorous programme of 'attitude realignment' conducted by twenty-stone bull dykes who looked on men as an inferior subspecies.

  Here, of course, lay the crux of the matter. As an enquiring journalist he should have probed more deeply, asked Gossamer searching questions about the business of The Primrose Court. How, for example, did they decide who to investigate? Who sat on the Corrections Committee? Was it really, as officially stated, an advisory body peopled by female business leaders and concerned only with self-regulation of the business community? Or was it a gang of harpies picking on their competitors and paying off old scores?

  Those were the things he should have asked. Instead he had allowed her to shoot the breeze in her delicious fashion, to hypothesise about arses on girls in the street and barbarians in suits. Some of that stuff would be fine for the average Nouveau reader who was always in need of guidelines on how to think correctly. But Kelvin wanted to give Nouveau man more. He could see the heading now: 'Are we heading for a sexually correct police state? Kelvin Priest puts Prosecutor Hawk on the rack.' That would get the quiche and branflake set buzzing.

  There was nothing for it, he would have to pick up the gauntlet thrown down by Gossamer and invite her out to dinner. His tool twitched in his fingers - Y-front man said yes.

  He pushed the bedclothes down and looked his cock in the eye. The head was as red as a beet and the shaft pulsed in his hand. It had never looked so big. Not that it was especially large - he didn't kid himself he was spectacularly endowed. But what he had, had never been cause for complaint. It had kept Petra happy for two years and he was sure it could give Gossamer a thrill too. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

  The chug of a diesel engine in the street below alerted him to Petra's arrival. It was not an unusual situation for him to be tucked up in bed and for her to return home in a taxi. She had a big-deal job at Glass Mountain and she often worked late, and since Glass's accident she had not once shown up before midnight.

  He heard the sound of her footsteps in the hall and he covered up his twitching cock and balls.

  Petra burst into the room and chucked her briefcase onto a chair.

  'Hello, darling,' said Kelvin, 'tough day?'

  'Don't ask,' she snapped. She appeared flustered. Her lustrous dark hair, normally held under control by an assortment of bands and barrettes, was flowing loose and her pale cheeks were flushed. She was pulling at her clothes and throwing garments onto the floor. This was not her normal behaviour.

  'You must be tired,' said Kelvin, wondering what the hell had got into her. 'Come to bed.'

  'You bet,' said Petra, now reduced to a tiny pair of scarlet silk panties. She was not a big girl, being slim and light of foot, nevertheless she was pleasingly curved. She had high pouting breasts with nut-brown nipples and a waist Kelvin could almost span with his hands. But her hips swelled and her bottom cheeks swayed with all the womanly allure a man could want. And the neatly trimmed black muff at the fork of her thighs was bursting out of the scrap of silk that encircled her loins.

  Kelvin couldn't help observing that the scarlet panties were stained a darker hue in the vee of her crotch. In fact, he would have been blind not to notice as the material was now poised an inch in front of his nose. Her hands were in his hair and her lean thighs on either side of his torso as she straddled him on the bed. His confusion was overwhelming.

  'What's up, Petra? Are you all right?'

  'Shut up, Kelvin. I want you to eat my pussy.'

  'But, Petra, I think you—'

  'Christ, Kelvin, can't you do what you're told for once?' she cried and jammed his face onto her pantied mons. 'Now, eat me out. Suck me through my panties. Oh God, that's better!'

  It was the best fuck they'd had for ages, probably since the start of their romance. Not that this was a meeting of mind as well as body - one of those cosmic exchanges between lovers in which the giving is as important as the receiving. In this carnal bout the receiving was all-important to both parties.

  As Petra rode on Kelvin's face she pictured herself upside down on Philippe's tongue, clinging to the Frenchman's tree-trunk of a body, her lips around his formidable baton, his fingers playing on the cheeks of her upturned arse the way he had pleasured Cassie.

  It took her only moments to come and she slid from Kelvin's chest eager for more. Kelvin's generous tumescence was sympathetically received, first of all in her mouth though she didn't keep it there long - the damned thing looked as though it might go off at any second - and then where it truly belonged, up her well-juiced cunt.

  It didn't last long there either but she came at the same time he did, in a long-drawn-out spiral of pleasure that radiated up her spine and down her legs as he speared his tool up, up, up into her very centre. Then he did a very surprising thing. Even though he had just exploded inside her, he kept his cock jammed deep between her legs and gently stroked her pussy lips and clit, all the while tonguing and kissing her nipples, until she had had another orgasm - a slow deep soul-stirrer that left her floating on a cloud.

  'Troisfois,' she murmured into his hair, her hips undulating to his rhythm.

  But Kelvin didn't hear. As he mouthed the cherry pits of her nipples he dreamed of the fuller, lusher pastures of Gossamer Hawk's bosom where, for the moment at least, it was still safe to let his imagination roam.

  'I'm sorry I was such a witch,' said Petra as she snuggled into Kelvin's body post coitus.

  'I'm not complaining,' said Kelvin. 'You can stay late at the office every night if you come home like that.'

  'I wasn't at the office, I had dinner at Cassie's.'

  'Aha.' That explained one mystery. 'I had a phone call from Partridge Place. I wondered why they couldn't get you at work.'

  'You've got a message about Tom?' Petra sat bolt upright. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'I couldn't. I had a mouth full of pussy, remember? Don't panic, Glass is out of his coma and feeling fine.'

  'Thank God.' She subsided onto the pillow, relief mingling with a series of thoughts, chief among them the news she .had finally extracted from a shagged-out Cassie. The Corrections Committee had forwarded Tom Glass's name for investigation. Petra had to let Tom know as soon as possible. Still, there wasn't much she could do about it at the moment. She put her hand on Kelvin's shrunken cock and gave it an inquisitive squeeze.

  'What's got into you tonight, Petra?' he said. 'Not that I'm complaining.'

  'If you must know, it's Cassie. She's made me promise to go on a new diet.'

  'But you don't need a diet.'

  'It's more a health regime. For Fragrant.' His prick was big in her hand now.

  'That smelly rag.'

 
'Shut up and fuck me. I want it hot and hard. I want to come again.'

  He put his hand between her legs. Juice was running out of her like a river. His come and hers, mixed.

  'Any other orders, mistress?' he asked, four fingers inside her and churning.

  'Yes, do you speak French?'

  'I can say soixante-neuf. Will that do?'

  'Parfait. Just be quick.'

  Chapter 8

  Tom was dreaming. But, like last time, the dream had the solidity of real life. His past life.

  He was in an attic room in a large Victorian house. The dormer windows were open wide and a warm breeze puffed the flowery Habitat curtains into the cramped space, making it even smaller. Jeans, a T-shirt, a crumpled summer dress and a pair of M&S panties lay in a pool of sunlight on the rush-mat floor. He was squashed into a narrow single bed with the owner of the panties. There wasn't much room but neither of them was complaining. On the contrary.

  'Aiee,' groaned Elvira, 'is too much, too much!'

  Tom laughed and thrust deeper between the fabulous olive cheeks of her upturned bum. His hand was beneath her body exploring the thicket of her crotch, diddling her throbbing clit towards orgasm.

  The clock on the bedside table said 11.30. Tom was supposed to be at a lecture on As You Like It, currently being delivered a mile down the hill in the English Department by his tutor, Lionel Slack. He didn't care. Buggering an Italian sex-pot with a bum like a ripe peach was an education in itself, possibly one with more long-term advantages. The beauty of it was that Elvira was also Professor Slack's au pair.

  'Si, si!,' muttered Elvira into the sheets as Tom began to ram with urgency into the velvety pillows of her broad buttocks. 'Give it to me, Tomas. Shoot your hot spunk inside my ass!'

  The real purpose of Elvira's foreign sojourn was to improve her English. That she had succeeded in broadening her bedroom vocabulary was a matter in which Tom took pride. He did not, however, kid himself that he was her only teacher.

  He pushed himself up on both hands to get a good view of his thick stem see-sawing in and out of her bottom hole. The white shaft made an exciting contrast with the pink mouth of her elastic anus and the delicate sheen of her brown buttock flesh.

  It was amazing to him that he could fuck her up the arse, that she would want him to do it to her that way. In truth, it was the only way she would let him penetrate her - apart from in the mouth. She had left Italy a virgin, she said, and she would return intacta between the legs or her father would kill her. But between the bum cheeks was another matter, she had to have some way of paying for her bedside English lessons. Besides, so Tom had concluded after a couple of visits, she just loved to be poked in the butt. It drove her wild.

  'Ah, ah, ah!' she squealed, wriggling back onto his prong, trying to ram every centimetre of available cock flesh up her fundament, her own fingers now busy on her clitoris. 'Yes, yes, I'm coming! I'm coming!'

  And so was Tom, there was no denying the honey-sweet suction valve between her cheeks and the fleshy kiss of her creamy moons on his belly as he pumped and banged and finally shot off deep into her hungry bowels.

  'God, Elvira,' murmured Tom into the coal-black tangle of her curls now spread across the pillow, 'that was fantastico.'

  She just grunted and a moment later, as Tom had anticipated, her breathing deepened and she cradled her head in her arms. Tom slipped from the bed and pulled the covers over her. She had made it clear the last time they made love that she liked to be left to recover alone in her small bed. He had pretended to be sorry about it but in fact it suited him well.

  He dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs. The house was quiet. He presumed that Lionel's wife was out and the kids were at school. A good time to snoop in the Professor's study.

  The study was on the first floor at the front. Tom had been there several times that summer term for tutorials and once, in his first term, for a freshmen's cocktail party. Tom knew his way about.

  He knew, for example, that Lionel kept the key to the filing cabinet by his desk in a pretty china cup on the mantelpiece next to the framed photographs of his children. He opened the cabinet and soon found what he was looking for.

  The Professor's study was large and well appointed. Lionel preferred to work in its airy luxury than in his stuffy room in the English Department. In a corner of its book-lined splendour stood a photocopier. From Tom's point of view, the arrangement could not have been handier. Tuesday mornings were turning out to be a piece of cake. Get up late, stroll to the Prof's, sneak in the garden door, fuck Elvira senseless, sneak into the study, find the text of last week's lecture and copy it. Simple.

  It helped that Professor Slack was a creature of habit. His lectures were finely honed - as they should be, he'd been giving the same ones for nearly ten years. Now they were scripted down to each significant pause and impromptu aside. The scripts were neatly typed and filed in order, ready to be pulled out at the appointed time in the academic year. Fortunately Tom didn't have to sit and listen to them. He had discovered a short cut.

  He had discovered other things of Lionel's too. For example, his mark book. It was Lionel's practice to return a student's essay after scrupulous evaluation and to record its worth in a green directory. Once returned, of course, there was no way Lionel could check that the mark on the essay and the mark in the green book remained the same. Using the red fountain pen that the Professor kept by his book - fussy old fart - it was a simple matter for Tom to subtly amend his past performances. It was surprising how many essays of Tom's improved with time. He soon had better marks than any other student on the course, despite the fact that he rarely appeared at lectures.

  Tom was feeling pretty cocky today. After making his copies, he began to flick through the correspondence in the Professor's in-tray. It was boring stuff but he couldn't tear himself away. A fortnight earlier he'd come across a letter from his own father urging Professor Slack to treat him with particular sensitivity because of his feud with his elder brother. Tom had laughed at that.

  Right at the bottom of the tray he struck lucky. There were seven or eight Polaroid photographs in a brown envelope. They were very explicit. Despite lousy lighting and red eye, Elvira looked pretty good, Tom thought. Good enough to set his cock twanging like a tuning fork even though the Italian minx had drained him dry less than twenty minutes earlier. Here was Elvira lying naked, playing with her bush. Elvira bending over and spreading her buttocks in invitation. Elvira holding herself open with one hand and aiming a vibrator with the other. Then, even more interesting, there was Elvira sucking cock - taken at a distorting angle as the suckee pointed the camera downwards. Then - Good Lord - there was the suckee himself with his head on Elvira's thigh, tongue extended towards the spread lips of her honeypot. The suckee was Professor Lionel Slack.

  Tom's heart hammered in his chest. The revered man of letters was dipping his nib in the Italian inkwell in the attic, just like Tom himself. And making a record of his extra-curricular activity. How bizarre.

  Tom knew this discovery had to be to his advantage though quite how, as yet, was not clear.

  He heard the sound of the front door opening on the floor below. Shit!

  Without thinking, he pocketed a photo, one that clearly showed Lionel in contravention of his matrimonial commitments, and replaced the envelope at the bottom of the in-tray. He grabbed one of the Professor's own scholarly works on Shakespeare from the shelves and stuffed inside it the sheaf of papers he had copied. Then he marched smartly into the corridor.

  At the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the sound of his descending footsteps, was a slender girl in a baggy brown school uniform. Tom knew who this was from the framed pictures on Lionel's mantelpiece - Christina, the eldest daughter. She was older than in the pictures, though. And despite the ugly shapeless clothes, it was clear from her porcelain-perfect complexion and almond eyes that she was a beauty.

  'Hello,' said Tom, more heartily than he intended. 'I'm one of your father's
students. The au pair let me in. I came by to get a book your father promised to lend me.'

  All of this was true and he met her curious gaze with as much sincerity as he could muster. Her eyes were caramel brown and her blonde hair hung in a single braid down her back like thick rope.

  'He says that one's his best.'

  For a moment Tom was bemused. Then he realised she meant the book. He almost laughed out loud. She didn't suspect a thing.

  'Got to rush,' he said, pushing past her still form and striding for the front door. 'I'm late for my next lecture.'

  He ran down the front steps aware that those beautiful brown eyes were burning into his back.

  Tom woke up suddenly. It was as if someone had flicked a switch and pitched him forward twenty years in the blink of an eye. He had reclaimed another segment of his past and the taste of it was in his mouth.

  Two women stood by his bed, looking down at him. One was about forty with a tired face, wearing a light summer raincoat and holding a scuffed briefcase. The other was taller and younger with peroxide curls, pink lipstick and a sulky expression. She was dressed in a rainbow-coloured shell-suit with stripes on the sleeve - could it be some kind of uniform? She looked mean.

  'Thomas Glass?' said the weary one.

  'Yes?'

  'I'm Inspector Claire Quartermain of the TCU and this is Sergeant Tooth. We'd like some of your time.'

  'Police?'

  'The TCU, Mr Glass.'

  'What's that?'

  'The Thought Correction Unit.'

  'I still don't understand.'

  'Tell him, Amy,' said the inspector and slumped into a chair.