by Noel Amos
Up to this point Cassie had hardly registered the fourth party's presence. Now she was aware that this Neanderthal brute was stripping off his clothes.
'Hey,' she said somewhat feebly, trying to pull herself away from Jimbo. But the builder's arms were round her like a vice and his loins were still buffeting hers.
'We were just warming her up for you, Doug,' she heard Jimbo say as the bed suddenly sagged from the weight of another human being - a very large human being. 'Honest.' But it seemed Doug wasn't interested in recriminations at present. He was interested in making up for lost time.
Cassie was plucked from Jimbo's embrace and rolled onto her back. Her eyes bulged as she took in the vast naked frame looming over her. He was covered in hair and from the hearth rug of his belly thrust a penis that turned her mouth to ashes. Forget cucumbers, this man-mountain had a baseball bat.
Ally picked up the phone by the bed.
'What's your real name, Mrs Smith?' Doug said as he pushed a finger as big as a carrot between the tender lips of her weeping pussy.
'Cassie,' she whispered.
'There's no problem, Mrs Shackleton,' said Ally into receiver.
'Well, Cassie, I'm sorry to tell you but I'm about to change your life.'
'Oh no.'
'Oh yes,' Doug said, lining up his outsize member. The head lodged between her legs like a ruby-red tennis ball. 'I'm going to ruin you for other men.' And he pushed his tennis ball home.
Cassie cried out, on the brink of the biggest orgasm of her life.
'I promise you, Mrs Shackleton,' said Ally, 'there's no slacking on the job. I guarantee we're giving it everything we've got.'
Chapter 24
Professionally speaking, Philippe was immune to feminine charm. In the course of his work as a trainer in the Honeydew technique he had attended to dozens of women in the most intimate of situations. All of these clients were monied and groomed, and many of them were very personable indeed. He laboured over their waxed and pampered bodies, bringing them to the peak of physical condition through the power of orgasm. Without fail, the clients fell in love with him, or at least with his magnificent physique, his skilful fingers, his magic tongue - and the glorious baguette between his legs which urged them towards their Personal Orgasm Targets so divinely. But at the end of each session, resisting every blandishment, Philippe would simply tuck away his breadstick and disappear as swiftly as a glass of vin rouge down a routier's throat. For the women he left behind, lying glassy-eyed in post-orgasmic stupor, he had no further thought until the next session.
But Philippe was not a Honeydew trainer every waking moment of his life. In fact, despite what he had been telling his ever-demanding clients like Cassie Crow, he was currently taking time off to pursue one or two other possibilities of employment. Extraordinary as it may sound, shagging gorgeous women all day long was not this Frenchman's preferred way to make a living.
And so, when he encountered Marianne Matthews in the lift of the Black Raven TV building, he was not thinking like a professional in orgasm achievement. In the unfamiliar surroundings of the TV HQ - where he had hopes of making a career change - he was in a susceptible state of mind. He noticed that the slim blonde with endless legs and slate-grey eyes was supporting herself against the door. She seemed distracted and the distress in her face was clear. Philippe was surprised to find himself asking if she was all right. Then, as the lift hit the ground floor and the doors opened, somehow she was propelled into his arms. He held her fast.
He virtually carried her into the street and it seemed only natural for him to climb into the taxi alongside her. When they arrived at her flat he made her lie on the sofa while he poured her a brandy and ran her a bath. He wouldn't let her, do a thing - he even stripped off her clothes and put her in the soapy water. It was strange, they'd hardly exchanged ten words and they'd known each other less than forty minutes, but this behaviour seemed entirely acceptable. Of course, ministering to naked beauties in need was Philippe's stock in trade, but this situation was different. This beauty wasn't paying him and he was looking after her because he wanted to. As he soaped her high, pointed breasts he felt a glow of satisfaction.
When he'd undressed her he'd noticed the signs of recent love-making on her body - the fresh bruising on her apple-cheeked buttocks, her red distended nipples, and the goo that had dried on her thighs and was still seeping from her intriguingly shaved pussy. These things didn't bother him, though they made him curious. Any man would have been curious.
'Philippe,' she said. She had a delightful voice, he thought, low and throaty, so unlike the shrill harpies who usually laid siege to his body. 'I can't believe I'm letting you do this to me.'
'Relax,' he said. 'My vocation is tending to the needs of the body. You should consider me as a doctor. Your personal doctor.'
She giggled and her breasts shook. Philippe, who had seen as many quivering knockers in the past year as the director of the Folies Bergere, was mesmerised by this delicious exhibition.
'You've washed that breast three times, doctor. Don't forget the other one.'
Philippe found himself blushing. He never blushed - something extraordinary must be happening to him. He was also massively erect, with seminal fluid leaking from his swollen glans into the cotton of his briefs. As a Honeydew practitioner he had come to regard his penis as just another fitness aid - like a set of weights or an exercise cycle. These days he never had an orgasm with women and he achieved erection only by a trained effort of will. But right now he felt as if he might shoot off at any moment. Amazing!
'You are a very beautiful woman,' he heard himself say.
She sipped her brandy and rested her head on the side of the bath. 'Tell me more,' she said and closed her eyes...
The alcohol and the warm water made her drowsy. The Frenchman's wonderful voice ravished her senses like an orchestra in full flow.
Yoo are a vair byootifool wooman. I wursheep yore boday... Men had said these things to her before but not in fractured English with all the intensity of a Jacques Brel song.
Wiz yore pairmishun I keess yoo ere on ze and... zen on ze arm like zis...
Marianne was in heaven. She had just nailed down the job of her dreams and in a few minutes, she had no doubt, she would be nailed herself by a new lover. A French lover, what's more.
...and on ze nick... and on yore leely wite trote - formidable!
She'd had an Italian once, a film director who'd mangled an aria from Tosca before 'auditioning' her in his hotel suite. But naturally the fat bastard hadn't cast her.
...and zee teets, so firrm, so jolie, I keess zem all ovair like zis...
And there'd been any number of anally retentive Englishmen, dry-as-toast Scots and drunken Celts. All of them more in love with themselves than her. Not to mention the married German director who'd made her pay the hotel bill on their one weekend together and pocketed the receipt.
...and zees wundairful neeples... so peenk, so adorable, zay stand up like leetle soldjairs...
But now she was going to have a real French lover.
I keess yore leeps... mmm... yoo taste like champagne... At last a man of her own choosing whom she would fuck for fun not advancement.
Ze watair eez getting colt, cherie. Shall we go into zee bedroom?
Philippe deposited her, swathed in a large towel, on the bed next door, carrying her as easily as if she were a small child. She watched with wide eyes as he undressed, awestruck at the incredible physique that was unveiled before her.
Philippe was used to women's eyes on his body, particularly those of his Honeydew clients. He would feel their hot and greedy glances on his skin, crawling across his mighty pectorals, up his thighs and down his belly. Cannibal stares, hungry for his flesh, they devoured him wherever he went.
But now, unbuckling his trouser belt, he felt only pride under the searchlight of Marianne's curiosity. For once he wanted a woman as much as she wanted him. It was a new experience. He let his trousers fall.
'Oh my God,' muttered Marianne beneath her breath. Philippe made Arnold Schwarzenegger look like a stick of celery.
Naturally her gaze was locked on Philippe's crotch, where the head of his penis stuck up above the waistband of his bulging underpants. The straining white cotton was wet with juice and the protruding glans was purple with desire.
For me, thought Marianne. He's in that state all because of me! She extended a slender arm and yanked down the elastic waist of his briefs.
His liberated tool branched upwards from his loins as firm and solid as the bough of a tree. She grasped it with both hands and fed the glistening head between her lips.
Philippe grunted with surprise as she thrust as much of him as she could into her face. He tried to switch his mind into Honeydew mode and think objectively, to observe the nature of physical response when the body is aroused. To consider the reactions of nerve endings as merely connections in an electric circuit. To analyse cold-bloodedly the cause and effect of sexual stimuli...
But it was no good. The sight of that mop of silver-blonde hair bobbing against his belly, the knowledge that this elegant grey-eyed beauty was gorging on his cock and the feel of her hot lips on his pulsating stem was too much. With a howl of joy he shot a river of spunk straight down her throat. It was the first time he'd come inside a woman for nearly a year.
Marianne clamped her mouth over him tight as he exploded, drinking down his cream, determined not to miss a drop. She reflected that this was the second time that day she'd swallowed a man's load. Maybe she was getting to like it after all. Today was turning out to be full of surprises.
But the best surprise of all was yet to come for Marianne Matthews, the girl who regarded sex as one of life's necessary evils. When Philippe pressed his dark-cropped head into the fork of her slender thighs she discovered she was in the hands - and tongue and lips - of a cunnilingual expert. She was already on her way to her first orgasm when the phone rang.
'I have a call for you from Gerald Goldring,' said a bored female voice.
Gerald who? wondered Marianne as small ripples of sensation flickered through her belly. Oh him - the other guy she'd sucked off today. Her new boss.
'Hello, darling,' came his oily voice down the line. 'I've been thinking we ought to meet up tonight.'
'Why?' said Marianne, pulling Philippe's face closer into her crotch.
'I've been telling Sir Charles Mastiff what a find you are and he's desperate to meet you. Eight o'clock at The Mount Morris Grand. He keeps a suite there when he's in town.'
Philippe's tongue was like a warm and friendly snake. It was deep inside her, titillating all the pleasure points on the way to ecstasy.
'Sorry, Gerald, I can't. I'm not working tonight for anybody.'
A note of anger crept into Gerald's polished tone. 'Look, Marianne, Sir Charles is the man who allocates the budget. I've told him how sensational you are in all sorts of ways. No one says no to Sir Charles.'
'Tom Glass might,' said Marianne, getting irritated now. 'My husband-to-be, if you recall.' Why couldn't this prat get off the phone and let her concentrate on what Philippe was now doing to her clit?
'Well, Glass might indeed but I hear he's off his trolley and out of commission. Get real, Marianne, you can't afford to say no. Your contract's not signed yet.'
Marianne breathed an anguished sigh, the rising tide of excitement suspended for a moment. Philippe sensed her change of mood. He kissed her thigh gently and ran a comforting hand up her spine.
'OK,' she said, 'I'll see you there.' She twitched her pelvis in the Frenchman's face, urging him to resume his caresses. He began to eat her out in earnest.
'Excellent,' brayed Gerald. 'By the way, I hope you haven't forgotten your promise.'
'What?' Why wouldn't this idiot hang up? She couldn't hold back much longer.
'Your pretty little arse, my darling. I'm on fire already just thinking about it. You'll let me fuck it, won't you?'
'Oh God!' shrieked Marianne as the riptide of orgasm raced through her. 'Oh yes, yes, YES!'
'I'll look forward to it then,' said Gerald and hung up.
Philippe crawled up the bed and wrapped her in his arms. He rocked her gently and stroked her hair while she recovered her breath. By reflex she put her hand on his penis. It was like an iron bar stretching across his belly. 'So you're engaged to be married,' he said softly.
'Philippe, darling,' she said, absent-mindedly stroking his shaft, 'before we get carried away, I think we should have a serious talk.'
Chapter 25
Whatever the rumours, and the tabloids were full of them, Tom Glass had not come off his trolley - though sometimes he felt as if he might. It was nearly a month now since he had fallen into the street and lost control of his life. And though he was getting back to normal he knew the whole process was taking too long. He was still unable to run his business empire and he was the subject of some kind of crazy prosecution by the fanatic females of the Sex Police.
Thank God for Eve, he thought for the umpteenth time as he sipped his afternoon tea on the patio of Spilling Grange. She had devoted herself to him completely since his accident, sleeping by his side at the hospital in London and accompanying him to this luxurious nursing home in the Leicestershire countryside.
In front of him stretched a green expanse of lawn laid out with croquet hoops and beyond lay a meadow full of grazing sheep where bunnies romped at twilight. Around the old house curved a rippling trout stream which meandered away into thick woods crisscrossed with sun-dappled paths ideal for the strolling convalescent with a few hours to kill. It was idyllic but Tom wasn't fooled. Sooner or later each path came to a halt at the fence, ten foot high and topped with barbed wire. Guards with dogs patrolled at night. Every visitor was checked in and out at a security barrier. This was Spandau Spilling and Tom was Rudolf Hess.
So thank God for Eve, he said to himself again as he watched her walk across the lawn, a spray of freshly gathered wild flowers in her hand. She was a tall, sturdy girl and she looked good in a country setting. The starched white blouse of her nurse's uniform was stretched tight across her jiggling bust and her strong firm thighs undulated beneath the navy blue of her skirt as she strode towards him. He knew, from the memories that had returned to him, that he wouldn't have fancied her in his past life. He would have dismissed her as too big and gauche, not 'sophisticated' enough for him. But now he knew better. He appreciated every glorious inch.
Of course it was all bound up in his returning memories. The process of reclaiming his past was somehow all about sex. Each snapshot of his personal history framed a woman in his bed or on the floor or in the garden or, well, almost anywhere. And not just one woman, either, there had been many, in all sorts of combinations. And each of these encounters had plunged him back in time as if on some erotic Tardis. The dreams had seemed more real than the first time around - if that were possible. He didn't understand it. He found it frightening. Particularly because he didn't much like the person who was revealed to him this way. He told Eve as much, each time he woke from a trip into his past. He'd cling to her and confess and she'd absolve him with her understanding words, her loving smile and her magnificent, opulent body. Thank God indeed for Eve.
'Oh Tom,' she said as she arranged her posy of flowers amongst the tea-time crockery. 'Look at you!'
He realised she was looking at his crotch. He grinned a sheepish grin. His cock was sticking out of the fly of his pyjamas, the stalk stiff, the helmet gleaming red. 'You've been thinking about your old girlfriends again, haven't you?'
'No,' he said truthfully, 'I've been thinking about you. Come here.'
'Oh no, Tom, not now,' she protested even as she stepped close enough to his chair for him to slide his hand up her smooth thigh.
'You're not wearing any knickers,' he said, parting the fluffy hair of her bush with his fingers and exploring the frill of her labia.
'You asked me not to.' She gave a little moan as his fingers
circled her clitoris.
'Why not?' He lifted the hem of her skirt with his other hand so he could see her pussy as he toyed with it.
'So you could feel me any time, you said.'
Her cunt was like a flower, he thought, lifting its head to the sun and opening its petals. Her fragrance filled his nostrils. 'You're not wearing a bra either, are you?'
'You know I'm not. You forbade me. So you can watch my tits bounce, you said.' His fingers were sticky with her juice now. They made a squidgy sound as he slipped them in and out of her slick vagina.
'I was watching them sway as you walked towards me across the field. They seem to move about of their own accord. As if they've got a life of their own.'
'They're too big.' She was rocking backwards and forwards from the hips, as if trying to capture his entire hand in her snatch. He held his fingers still and watched her movements quicken.
'Take them out,' he said. 'Take off your blouse so I can see them properly.'
'Oh no, Tom, please. Someone might be watching.' Despite her protests her fingers were already unfastening the buttons. She slipped the blouse from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. 'There. Satisfied?'
They probably were too big, Tom reflected, even for her substantial build. The huge white globes quivered in the sunlight, slung halfway to her waist. What made them seem even larger was the smallness of her nipples, tiny rose-pink buttons thrusting out from the centre of the dimpled saucers of her areolae.
'I think they're magnificent,' said Tom, his voice hoarse with desire. 'Play with them for me.'
'Tom!'
'Lift them up and squeeze them. Wobble them around. You know what I like, Eve.'
She did indeed. Her cheeks flushed bright pink but she did as she was told. She shivered her shoulders and set the great tits dancing from side to side. She took a breast in each hand, cupping them, lifting the weight of flesh upwards and then letting them fall in a pink and white shimmer. Without being asked, she lifted first one breast, then the other to her mouth, bending her head so that she could suck and tease the tiny nipple into a scarlet point. And all the while her pelvis thrust back and forth as she humped shamelessly on Tom's fingers.