Lust Under Licence

by Noel Amos

  The reason was a pair of caramel brown eyes that still, a year on from his last sight of them, followed him in his dreams. The note in his pocket was mysterious - which, of course, was one reason why he had rearranged his life at short notice to stand in surroundings he found deeply disagreeable.

  'Tom,' it said, 'will you meet me at the Singing Bird on Friday night? Any time after 9.30. There's a ticket in your name on the door. Please come - I need your help badly. Christina.'

  The name 'Slack' had been added in brackets after 'Christina' but it had been unnecessary. Tom had often thought of the slim schoolgirl at the bottom of the stairs on his last visit to the home of Professor Slack. Almost all of those thoughts had been guilty ones.

  He had sold the compromising photo of Lionel Slack to the Sunday Skunk and at the time it had seemed like an inspired move. He had driven a hard bargain - it had been the first real test of his negotiating skill - and the money which subsequently lay in his deposit account was earmarked to bankroll his off-campus schemes. 'Hold the front page,' remarked the newspaper executive who had signed the cheque.

  'Whore Stuffed By Virgin sensation. If we can afford it, we'd better put this chiseller on the payroll.'

  But the Skunk - 'Never scared to raise a stink!' - had gloried in its pound of flesh. 'LECHEROUS LECTURER'S DEN OF VICE!' ran the banner headline, 'Meet Professor Lionel Slack' - dirty old man of letters!'

  Naturally the Skunk had garbled the facts. It improved the story no end to say that Elvira was one of the Professor's pupils and not his au pair. Tom, his identity masked as 'a concerned student', was quoted, claiming that the Professor 'always looks up girls' skirts in tutorials' and 'it's common knowledge that some female students leave their knickers off to gain better marks.' With the stolen photograph (judiciously cropped) as its centrepiece, accompanied by pictures of a tearful wife accosted on the doorstep by a reporter, Lionel didn't have much of a leg to stand on.

  What Tom had not foreseen and what now lay at the root of his guilty conscience was the fall-out from this affair. The Professor disappeared from the university almost overnight - rumour had it that he had flown to Italy with Elvira - and the large sunny house on the green was suddenly occupied by a new Professor of English, a tight-arsed martinet whose passion was Anglo-Saxon poetry. A couple of months later Tom saw Mrs Slack in a supermarket in the city centre. She was standing in front of a shelf of baked beans with her hair in rat's tails and her blouse buttoned up wrong. It was only then that Tom realised exactly what he had done.

  Now he stood in the uncomfortable surroundings of the Floating Turd - as it was known - squeezed on all sides by a leaping shouting crowd of his own age who dressed and spoke as if they came from outer space. Which they might well have done for all Tom knew. Of the cool and beautiful nymphet Christina there was no sign - until the band came on.

  Tom didn't know much about music - any music - and the complexities of contemporary pop styles were a foreign language to him. This hadn't stopped him volunteering to manage his friend Sebastian's student band but he had seen that as a financial opportunity and acted accordingly. So, when five girls jumped on stage and began to thrash their instruments and shout, he took no interest in the noise they made. But he took a lot of interest in the crowd's reaction and in the band's appearance.

  He spotted Christina at once, though her hair had been pulled up into spikes and was streaked with pink. She stood at the back in a torn white T-shirt and army boots, a ring gleaming in her left nostril as she banged at an electric guitar.

  The other members of the group were dressed in a similar fashion though they managed to show a great deal more flesh. Tom's attention was caught - as was every other observer, he imagined - by the singer at the front of the small stage.

  She was older than the others, a woman among schoolgirls. She wore a leather mini and a black halter top which displayed the body of a showgirl. Her legs were long and strong and, from Tom's vantage below the stage, they seemed to go on forever, up into the dark mystery beneath her abbreviated skirt.

  Unlike the other girls, her hair flowed about her face and shoulders in a black mane. As she sang she ran her fingers through the dark mass, tossing and shaking it as she thrust her face up into the spotlight. Her features were big and exotic: a long nose, a firm jaw and broad full lips. Whatever she was singing, it came from the heart and she had the audience of scruffy, sneering kids eating out of her hand.

  After the set, Tom pushed his way to the door, his ears ringing. When he'd gone in he'd shown no interest in the advertised list of performers. Now he noted that he had been watching Shani and the Shagbags. Christ, what a bloody name.

  He'd assumed finding Christina would be a hassle but, at the front office, he was simply pointed towards an unmarked door which led backstage.

  She met him in the corridor. Close up the eyes were as magical as before though he couldn't say the same about the rest of her.

  'I saw you in the audience,' she said. 'You're a bit straight for a place like this.'

  'You're not kidding. What's this all about, Christina?'

  She stepped close. 'I need a favour, Tom. I know we don't really know each other but my dad always liked you and I can't think who else to ask.'

  'Ask away.' Those sincere brown eyes made him feel like Judas. Whatever she wanted he knew he would help.

  'We need a manager. Will you do it?'

  He was struck dumb. He hadn't expected this.

  'You handle The Scholars, don't you, and they're doing really well. Please, Tom.'

  'But that's different. That's just student union gigs. You're in a bigger league.'

  'Do you think so?'

  'To be honest, Christina, I might have cloth ears but, judging by your singer, you should be top of the hit parade.'

  'Hey, Tina, I like him already!' The soft voice came from just behind Tom.

  Shani looked no less overwhelming up close. A loose white shirt covered her shoulders but hung open to reveal her sumptuous curves, still glistening from her on-stage exertions. Her skin was a pale cafe au lait and her eyes were as black as midnight.

  Tom put out his hand. 'You were fantastic,' he said, doubtless it was expected of him but nevertheless it was true.

  Her touch was warm and dry and she kept hold of his hand, pulling him into the band's dressing-room. The other girls were sitting around smoking. They weren't wearing many clothes.

  The lead guitarist was naked, teasing her spiky red hair in front of the mirror. From the rear, the two halves of her arse were spread wide, white and firm.

  The drummer was towelling her hair, naked to the waist. She made no attempt to cover her small high tits as Tom entered. The keyboard player was rolling a joint, her bare breasts dangling, the nipples long and red.

  'Hey, girls,' said Shani, 'meet our new manager. He says he's going to put us on top of the charts.'

  There was a silence. The lead guitarist swigged from a beer bottle and belched.

  'He doesn't look old enough,' said the keyboard player. 'I suppose he's going to fuck us over like those other sleaze balls.'

  'I hope he can fuck, at any rate,' said the drummer. 'The last one had no staying power.'

  'Meet the Shagbags, Mr Manager,' said Shani. The dark shadow of her cleavage beckoned him. The broad swell of her hip pushed against his. 'Do you think you can handle us?'

  'Come clean, doc, is he putting it on?' Claire Quartermain's voice was low-pitched and confidential. Nevertheless Madeleine Flint had no doubt that they had reached the crux of the phone call.

  'I don't think so,' said Madeleine into the mouthpiece wedged between her shoulder and chin. She was using both hands on a computer keyboard and at the same time her eyes flicked backwards and forwards across a bank of monitors above her head. Dr Flint believed in making the best use of her time.

  'So he really has lost his memory?' said Claire.

  'It's only a partial loss and it's returning fast. As of now he can recall his entire life u
p to the age of twenty more vividly than he has done for years.'

  'Huh.' The inspector was unimpressed. 'How long's it going to take until he remembers last Friday night?'

  'I can't say. This kind of thing is unpredictable.'

  'Can't you hurry him along? Give him extra elephant juice or something?'

  'Claire, please.' Dr Flint introduced a hint of exasperation into her voice. 'This is strictly experimental treatment and I'm taking enough risks already. You must realise that I'm working on the cutting edge of neurological drug assistance. If he overdosed he could end up stuck in some particularly potent episode of his past.'

  'Some particularly potent bonk, you mean?'

  'Well, yes. Given that we are aiming to stimulate his sexual memory and use that as a trigger to recall past events and emotions. It's like asking a word processor to—'

  '—search for a key phrase in a document - I know all this crap, doc, you've dinned it into me before.'

  Madeleine Flint sighed loudly, she was weary of this conversation.

  'So you're saying,' continued the policewoman, 'that we have to wait till he's caught up with all the fucking he's done between the ages of twenty and thirty-eight? Christ, woman, at that rate this case won't make court till next century!'

  On the monitor to Madeleine's left, Tom Glass stirred feverishly on his bed. A gentle hand reached out to soothe his brow. Nurse Biscuit was at her station, a notebook and pencil in her lap.

  'Be patient, Claire,' said Dr Flint. 'We're getting some excellent material. I'm going to hand him over to you stuffed and plucked, ready for the oven.'

  'Thank God for that.'

  'Just do me one favour. Petra Rosewater, Glass's number two, is threatening to move him.'

  'What!'

  'She's talking about transferring him to a neurological unit elsewhere so she can get other opinions on his condition. Can you have a word with her?'

  There was silence on the line, followed by a sly chuckle. 'I'd love to,' said Inspector Quartermain.

  Chapter 12

  It was all very well for Tom to say he trusted her, thought Petra as she sat glumly at her desk, but there were some decisions she couldn't take on her own.

  For the most part she knew what she was doing. Though the executive officers of the reporting divisions of Glass Mountain would have preferred to deal with Tom himself they accepted that, for the moment, she spoke for him. Furthermore, a lot of time was spent in figure work, reviewing performance against target, calculating growth and compiling an overview of the group's position - areas in which she specialised. Trouble-shooting the various divisions also took her time but she'd had three years' worth of experience watching Tom do it and, if she got stuck, she wasn't too proud to seek advice.

  What gave Petra most concern was the new stuff. Tom's future plans. Innovations. That's what made men like him special, of course. They saw an opportunity and went for it with conviction. It needed the kind of skill and vision she didn't have.

  Which is why she was staring in confusion at the document in her hand. It was an agreement from a firm of solicitors in Scotland declaring the conditions under which Glass Mountain would purchase their clients' glass-ornament business for five million pounds. At first Petra had treated the matter as a joke and had rebuffed Messrs Mitre & Gauze politely. It was when they sent her a copy of a covering letter signed by Tom and guaranteeing the deal personally 'if it's the last thing I do as Chief Executive of Glass Mountain' she began to feel uneasy.

  The agreement was dated Friday 9th July - the day of Tom's accident. Harriet, his secretary, had denied preparing it for him and indeed there was no record of it on her word processor. However, they had discovered a copy of it on his desk.

  By now, Petra had a sick feeling in her stomach. She couldn't credit that Tom would have any interest in a glass-ornament business but the papers in her hand told her otherwise. Maybe he knew something that she didn't. He'd played crazy but profitable hunches before. But why would he offer five million pounds for a concern that, as far as she could tell, last year turned over something less than fifty thousand?

  It was almost a relief to turn her mind to other matters though her pulse quickened and her jaw set as Inspector Quartermain and a TCD sidekick walked unannounced into the room.

  'Sorry to drop in on you like this,' said the policewoman.

  'I'm very busy,' said Petra in a voice that even to her own ears sounded nervous and prim. 'I thought you'd finished here.'

  Immediately following Tom's accident, the Metropolitan Police had invaded the penthouse, searching for clues to Tom's mysterious fall. They had soon been replaced by Claire Quartermain and her shell suited goons who had not confined themselves to the top floor.

  'This a special trip to see you,' said Claire, making herself comfortable on the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the low table in front of her, pushing aside a pile of computer print-outs in the process.

  The sight infuriated Petra, as did the memory of what Quartermain had supposedly said about her to Tom. She decided to seize the initiative.

  'I take it you've come to apologise, Inspector, for making indelicate remarks about me to Mr Glass.'

  'Oh dear, did I? What did I say?'

  'I cannot repeat it, Inspector, but it was highly personal and deeply insulting. In the circumstances I must ask you to state your business and leave at once.'

  Claire appeared not to hear.

  'It's strange but I can't remember what I said about you, Ms Rosewater.'

  'You said she had a cunt that tasted like spun sugar, guv,' offered her companion with a smirk.

  'But that's a compliment, my dear! Or is it not true? Thank you, Sergeant Tooth. She has a good memory for these things,' she added confidentially.

  'Get out!' shouted Petra. 'Leave my office instantly, you fascist bitches!'

  The moment the words were out of her mouth Petra knew she had made a mistake. Not that she cared, for the adrenaline was pumping.

  'Amy,' said Quartermain in a tone of weary resignation and suddenly Petra found herself pinioned from the rear, her arms twisted up behind her in a grip of steel.

  Petra's shout of protest was cut off by a gloved hand that was clamped to her mouth.

  The inspector rose slowly to her feet, taking her time to put her shoes back on and smooth down her skirt. She took a position directly in front of the immobilised Petra.

  'Oh dear,' she said, 'I was hoping we could have a civilised conversation and now look what you've done. However, it does give me the chance to satisfy my curiosity...'

  As Petra became aware that the policewoman was undoing the buttons of her blouse she tried to struggle free, twisting her body and stamping her feet. But Amy Tooth had a hold like a vice.

  'You're very pretty when you're angry,' observed Quartermain, pulling the shirt wide open and flipping the cups of Petra's white lacy bra above her breasts. 'My, my, what have we here? Oh such adorable brown nipples! That's right, shake those pretty titties - what a sight you make! I bet your Tom just creams his pinstripes whenever he looks across the boardroom table and imagines these little beauties in his face. Would you mind terribly if—'

  And the inspector bowed her head to take a nipple in her mouth, first one then the other, rolling them between her lips, palpating the meat of the breast as she did so. She did it gently, knowingly, then more forcefully.

  'Why, Amy, would you believe her nipples are erect? I think she must like me.'

  A muffled squeal of fury escaped from Petra's captive mouth but the policewoman ignored it. She unzipped Petra's skirt as she mouthed her breasts and let it fall to the floor.

  'I mustn't forget what I came here for,' she said, now pinching the hard kernels of Petra's nipples between her fingers. 'I was going to tell you politely, Ms Rosewater, but there doesn't seem much point. Get off Madeleine Flint's back. Leave Glass where he is. Don't make waves. All right?'

  Claire's eyes were drilling into Petra's, expectin
g some kind of response. She nodded her head as best she could. This was probably the most humiliating experience of her life.

  'Good,' said the policewoman, 'and now we've got the business out of the way I think I'd better check one more thing.'

  The moment Petra felt the woman's hand on her hip she knew what she was going to do. She collapsed at the knees but Amy Tooth held her up as Quartermain stripped her panties down her thighs.

  'I knew you'd have a pretty one,' came the awful sound of the inspector's voice as she slithered down Petra's exposed and defenceless body. 'Such a neat little muff, such gorgeous black hair. Do you trim it yourself? Or do you ask your lovers? You must have lots of lovers.'

  The voice ceased its sly catalogue of degradation for a moment and Petra found herself holding her breath.

  She felt the heat of Quartermain's mouth before it closed on her exposed vulva. And then a gentle, insistent exploration of her sex with lips and tongue and probing fingers. She tried to press her thighs together and repel the invader but the sergeant's leg was planted between hers from the rear, holding her open.

  'Oh!' The voice was her own but she scarcely recognised it as it escaped her lips. She realised her mouth was no longer restrained, she could shout for help if she wanted to. 'Oh God,' she heard herself say softly, 'don't do that to me...'

  'She's got a wicked mouth has Inspector Quartermain,' whispered Amy Tooth's voice in Petra's ear as her pelvis went into spasm on the insidious probing of Claire Quartermain's tongue.

  Amy began to toy with her naked hanging breasts and Petra's hands, now free, clutched at Claire's silky brown hair, pulling her face into the fork of her body.

  'I hate you,' she murmured. 'You loathsome perverted lesbian bitches. Oh, God, you're going to make me come!'