by Noel Amos
The men had their cocks out now. The stiff poles of flesh were rubbing against her hips and belly. Maybe now was the time to impose some order.
'I want the boy first,' she said firmly, pushing Jimbo away. The Scot backed off, seeing the sense in what she said.
Ally's tool stood out from his body, the long pink shaft pulsing, the helmet a blood-engorged purple. It was obvious he might explode at any moment.
Cassie spread her legs for him and threaded the quivering member inside her. She was running with juice. It was like plunging a brush into a glue pot. He sank down on her and stuck fast. She scissored her thighs over his back, holding him deep inside.
His tongue was in her mouth and his fingers were everywhere, exploring the satin opulence of her nakedness. They fluttered from her hips to her bottom cheeks to the rounds of her bosom flattened against his bony chest. He thrust his pelvis against her, sending the long needle of his penis deep into her hungry vagina. 'Oh!' she heard herself cry. 'Oh, yes please.'
But he couldn't last long enough for her. Not that she cared for she pushed his slim body from her almost before he had finished spunking and reached for her other lover.
Jimbo bulled into her without mercy, taking his broad stubby cock all the way back and then plunging into her again, his strong hands ransacking the cheeks of her arse, using them as a lever to thrust and power his lust into her. He didn't keep going long either but that didn't matter to Cassie. She shrieked as he shot deep inside her, taking her over the edge.
She lay back on the pillows between the two of them while they recovered. She held a limp cock in each hand and her big breasts heaved in time with her short breaths. Ally was gazing with longing at her swollen raspberry nipples and she pulled his head down to suckle at her chest. His penis was once more erect.
'What now, lover?' she said to Jimbo, whose thick cock was also showing signs of recovery.
'I'm going to teach my young friend here how to suck pussy,' he replied, sliding down Cassie's body until his head rested on her upper thigh. He ran an exploratory finger through her auburn-haired bush and between her swollen pink labia. The touch was surprisingly gentle and sent an electric tingle echoing through her loins.
'Now see here,' he said to a wide-eyed Ally, 'this is what's called the clitoris and if you just tickle here with your tongue, like this...'
'Oh yes,' muttered Cassie between clenched teeth, regretting some of her earlier disparaging thoughts about the male sex. Maybe these cretins knew a thing or two after all.
Chapter 22
For a smart woman, Marianne Matthews was sometimes a bit slow on the uptake. And so, when she once said to a girlfriend, 'To me, sex is just a tool,' and the friend burst out laughing, Marianne was perplexed. To her, sex was just a tool, a means to an end. True, she often enjoyed it and she subscribed to the theory that regular orgasm was good for the health, like a daily bowel movement, but she didn't much like doing it unless she had good reason.
For one thing, it was often inconvenient. Why spend hours selecting an outfit, putting on make-up, arranging the hair just so - when five minutes of furious body contact with a man with no appreciation of these things left you looking like an unmade bed? For two pins, Marianne wouldn't have bothered in the first place - especially when it left you riding the lift in the Black Raven Television skyscraper with what felt like half a pint of spunk running out of your knickers.
But there were always reasons why she had to spread her legs for a man. She wasn't so fabulously good-looking or intellectually devious that the important doors in life would open for her otherwise. She was a pretty girl with a throaty voice and slim hips who came from a middle-class home in Ruislip. Her father was an overweight accountant with a firm hand on the till who had lectured her about self-sufficiency even as he refused to help her with her maths homework. The young Marianne knew that if she was to have a flat in Knightsbridge, a wardrobe full of designer clothes and a red Mercedes runabout then she would have to stand on her own two feet. Or lie on her back.
Of late she had lain down much less frequently and, another gratifying factor in her recent success, with more attractive patrons. When she had first stepped out from drama school (daddy had paid for that - 'And it's the thing I'm paying for,' he'd told her) she'd wasted a lot of time bonking the wrong types: penniless actors and seedy directors who lost interest once their cocks had crowed. She'd had to fall back on one of her father's colleagues for the deposit on her mortgage. And though Uncle Harry was pasty and gross he was pitifully generous - he had no choice, Marianne would have had no qualms about telling her father. Then she bedded a senior producer at the BBC, earned some exposure on children's programmes and she was on her way.
Her capture of Tom Glass last year after a TV awards dinner was her crowning achievement - she'd given him a blow-job behind a potted palm in the hotel ballroom and then refused his calls for a week. It had been a high-risk strategy but it had paid off and now she only had to foreclose on his promise of marriage and she could start thinking in terms of mansions in the country, custom-made Versace outfits and a Ferrari or two in the garage.
So why was it she had allowed Gerald Gin-sling, or whatever his name was, Head of Arts Production at Black Rave to put her over his executive desk and mess up her fine silk underwear? Though he was slim and stylish, with clever lips and hands, it couldn't have been his sex appeal - she knew herself too well. There had to be another reason. Such as insurance.
The fact was that this bloody accident of Tom's had thrown all her plans into the melting pot. Every time she went to see him, first at the hospital and now at this country nursing home, she had the feeling he didn't know who she was. They made love, of course - these days he was randier than ever - but there was something funny about him. And about that blonde slut of a nurse who was always by his side, her cow eyes following his every move. Marianne knew what that look meant. And though she didn't much care if Tom fucked her fat arse to pass the time, she did care if her rich and powerful fiancé had conveniently forgotten his existing commitments.
Even more worrying, suppose he was brain-damaged? He could turn into a cabbage at any time. And if he became a vegetable before she popped a wedding certificate into her deposit box then she really would need some insurance.
She took a paper tissue from her handbag and dabbed at a dribble of spunk beneath her skirt. God, that Gerald had been a bull! Her pussy was still throbbing with the size of him.
She couldn't deny that Tom had kept his promise to put in a word for her with Black Raven. When Marianne had first encountered Gerald the previous week he was obviously unhappy about it. As a decisive young executive with a mind of his own he didn't like to be told what to do. Yet the word had come down from on high: the Badger TV weather girl had to be taken seriously. And as an ambitious young executive who knew where his next expenses cheque was coming from, he did as he was told. It didn't stop him being snotty.
'You do realise that Gravitas is an arts programme, don't you, Miss Matthews? It's not a sing-song for kiddywinkies or a weather forecast. This is an eyewitness report of cultural trench warfare. A bulletin from the cutting edge. Who's in, who's out, what's hot, what's going to define the aesthetic map for the thinking man and woman in the weeks ahead. Forgive me, Miss Matthews, but it seems to me that we need someone with more weight than your CV suggests you possess.'
Marianne had smiled at him. She had a very effective smile. 'I'd heard you were thinking of Henrietta Suckling,' she said throatily.
'In my opinion, Henry has just the right mixture of intellectual credibility and professional skill to cut across boundaries and subject the arts community to the microscope of rigorous critical scrutiny.'
'If you ask me,' said Marianne, though he hadn't, 'she's been around the block too many times. And if you want weight just look at her thighs. Mine, as you can see, are half the size.'
Maybe that was the point at which sex crept into the interview. Marianne should not really have play
ed the sex card, it was unnecessary. On the other hand it was all she knew and it worked. Gerald's pale blue eyes had dropped to her lap and her long slender legs. They had strayed there on a regular basis throughout that first meeting. Nevertheless he had continued to do his best to resist her.
'Really, Miss Matthews, don't you think those kind of personal observations are a trifle de trop? We are appealing to the life of the intellect here. We need a presenter who can command respect from every corner of the aesthetic spectrum.'
'So why choose one who's best known for chocolate commercials? Look, Gerald,' and here Marianne leaned forward to place a small elegant hand on his knee, 'it seems to me that you need a fresh approach. You want fast finger-on-the-pulse stuff with lots of action and - I hate to say it - sex appeal. Henrietta was great in her day but her tits have gone.'
'What!' Gerald was outraged.
'It's true. Don't say you haven't noticed. Her neck's got all scrawny and her boobs have slipped. Look at her on screen.'
Gerald regarded her with a tight little smile. 'You're a tough cookie, aren't you, Miss Matthews?'
Marianne grinned. She liked her qualities to be recognised. She took a folder from her briefcase. 'I thought you might like to see a few of my ideas. Issues, discussion topics, studio guests - that kind of thing.'
Gerald meekly took the folder. Somehow they were going to proceed on her agenda. 'Just don't forget, Gerald, if you want youth, drive, ideas - and tits that are self-supporting - that's what I'm selling. Right?'
And Gerald, his eyes now glued to the points of her nipples pressing through the cornflower blue silk of her blouse, muttered, 'Absolutely.'
That had been a week ago and things had moved on swiftly from then. Marianne had taken part in a studio run-through and been introduced to the company hierarchy. How much was down to Tom and how much to her own charms she wasn't sure but she knew she was in. Lunch and the afternoon session with Gerald had confirmed it. It hadn't been absolutely necessary to let him stick his big penis into the hairless clam between her legs but she suspected that she owed him one. Wherever else he might now be inserting his truncheon she'd bet it wasn't between the plump thighs of Henrietta Suckling - not any more.
Actually, fucking Gerald had passed an enjoyable hour, considering it wasn't one of her favourite pastimes. She'd sat on the edge of his vast desk and he'd knelt at her feet, licking upwards from her toes, nibbling and tickling the soft skin on the inside of her long white thighs.
He'd gasped in awe at the sight of her denuded pussy, the pretty pink lips spread invitingly, the candied interior bubbling with juice.
'How divine,' he'd cried and Marianne had quickly jammed his lips down into her crotch before he could embark on one of his claptrappy speeches about worship and goddesses. He'd worshipped at the sticky shrine all right, drinking down her juice and licking her from clit to anus and back again until she screamed and came on his face until she felt quite faint.
Even though she'd had enough by then, she could hardly refuse him the pleasure of revealing what lay behind the big bulge in the trousers of his Paul Smith suit. To be truthful, she'd been quite impressed by the sight of the swollen shaft he'd pulled from his pants and pressed into her small hand. She'd taken the big red head between her lips and sucked on it a bit to show willing. And when he'd shot off unexpectedly she'd swallowed all his come juice as fast as she could to avoid tasting it, even though it was something she never did. Now she was the presenter of Gravitas, Black Raven's flagship arts programme, she knew she could hardly afford to appear squeamish.
Since Gerald had come so unexpectedly without the benefit of sliding his tool into the hairless nook between her long legs and since she'd promised him, more or less, that she wouldn't leave until he'd done so, she let him strip her to the waist and suck on her firm pear-shaped breasts until her pointy nipples stuck up like bright red thumbs. To hurry things along, she'd placed his thickening tool between her soft white orbs and rubbed and rocked him till it looked like he was about to shoot all over her chest. In fact he was keen to do it but she'd said 'No, next time, right now I want it up my cunt!' which was really just for his benefit, to get him worked up he'd put it in her and get it over quickly.
In fact it had taken quite a while, he must have been holding back, savouring this unique opportunity, and so she'd had to talk to him a lot, whispering a string of obscenities into his ear about how she loved big cocks, especially his big cock, he could put it in her any time he liked, up her pussy and her mouth and between her tits and maybe if he was good, and she was sure he would be, up her arsehole which would be so tight around his fat cock that he'd spunk spunk and spunk inside her. And then he had and she'd come off again too, just to keep him company, and here she was leaning against the lift door with that same spunk dribbling down her legs, wondering how she was ever going to make it to the street to find a taxi.
'Excuse me, mademoiselle, but are you all right? You are looking very pale.'
The man was looming over her, his chest as broad as the door, it seemed, threatening to burst out of his jacket and tie. He wore tortoise-shell spectacles and an expression of touching concern. But it was his French accent that instantly captivated Marianne, wiping all thought of Gerald from her mind.
How wonderful it would be, she thought, to collapse into those big strong arms. So that's what she did.
Chapter 23
Cassie was delighted. Thanks to the efforts of her two lusty builders she had made up her arrears on the Honeydew regime and, so she calculated, was now turning her orgasm account into the black. If she could just manage a few more decent comes then she'd be ahead of schedule.
Jimbo and Ally, however, were running out of steam. Their cocks were limp and their faces were drained. Given half a chance, Cassie could see, they'd pull up the duvet and go to sleep. Well, she wasn't having any of that. It was time to be a little more inventive.
'Give me your hand,' she said to Jimbo. He looked at her glassy-eyed but did not protest as she placed his hairy paw between her legs.
'Look, Mrs,' he said, 'it's been great but Ally and I should be getting back to work.'
'Not yet,' she said, 'you wouldn't want to miss this.' And she daubed Jimbo's fingers in the goo that was running from her overflowing hole.
'Miss what?' said Ally, eyeing the slick motion of his friend's fingers on her slippery flesh.
'Well...' Cassie looked as demure as she could in the circumstances. 'I'm a bit embarrassed to say.'
'What is it?' Ally's cock was up now. It looked a little raw and tender but it was the penis of an eighteen-year-old sex-obsessed youth. Something mysterious and horny was going on and Ally's cock wanted in. Whatever it was.
Cassie leaned over to Jimbo and whispered in his ear. 'You're a right randy cow, aren't you?' he muttered but a large grin was already spreading across his face.
'What do you think?' she said, her free hand now pulling the thick barrel of Jimbo's tool. 'Are you up to it?'
He didn't answer in so many words but instead hauled her on top of him, crushing the length of her against his muscular frame and pushing his tongue down her throat.'
'What's going on?' demanded Ally, but they were too busy to answer him.
As they kissed, Cassie positioned Jimbo's swollen cock between her legs, driving the fat shaft deep into her hot and hungry vagina. And Jimbo's square builder's hands were on her big satiny buttocks, pulling the firm cheeks apart.
Ally gazed in awe at the bulging bottom flesh and the pink star of her anus so obscenely revealed to him.
'It's all yours, son,' said Jimbo. 'Put your cock up her arse... She wants you to.'
Between the great rounds of Cassie's bottom her rear hole seemed to pucker in invitation. At the base of the buttock divide Ally could see the root of Jimbo's pulsing tool, his testicles rolling between his hairy thighs as he plumbed the depths of her vagina. A strangled croak came from Ally's lips. He had never seen anything so rude in his life.
&
nbsp; 'What are you waiting for?' said Jimbo gruffly, circling Cassie's rear dimple with a blunt finger. He sank the digit in to the first knuckle and the pale moons of her bottom seemed to convulse at the sensation. 'Look, she's dying for it.'
'Please,' said Cassie, 'I want you both together. Put it in me, Ally. Hurry!'
Ally did as he was told. He was clumsy and in truth the position was difficult but Cassie didn't care. She was coming like clockwork now, even as he rubbed spit into her arse crack and the head of his tool bobbed between her cheeks. She'd not bum-fucked much before, only with an Australian boyfriend years back and he'd been a brute with a cock like a cucumber. This was different. Ally's penis was long but thin and the moment his glans rubbed against her she seemed to suck it directly into her bowels.
It was a strange feeling at first, uncomfortable rather than painful. Then his cock was all the way in and his weight was upon her, crushing her into the man beneath. It was as if an electric circuit had been completed, sending a current of sexual energy zinging through the three of them.
They fell into a natural rhythm, Jimbo's thick prick thrusting Cassie back onto Ally's thin tool which in turn pushed her back down onto Jimbo. They fell onto their sides and fucked on without a pause, the men's cocks fencing with each other within her guts, their hands fondling and squeezing and stroking her shameless flesh. She lost count of the number of times she came. It was bliss.
They didn't pause when the bedside telephone rang. They didn't even break stride when the door burst open and the giant plasterer stood over them, his big face beet red. He stared at them for fully a minute, literally struck dumb.
Ally couldn't hold out any longer. With a cry he thrust and twitched and rolled over onto his back, and lay as still as a log.
A great hand descended on him, yanking him from the bed and dumping him on the floor.
'That's Mrs Shackleton on the phone,' said the giant. 'You deal with her while I take over.'