by Noel Amos
'God, Tom Glass, you're a beast,' she hissed, pinching her nipples with her fingers. 'You really bring out the tart in me.' Her bottom lip was swollen and her eyes were half shut.
Her thick fair hair had come loose from its ponytail and now danced around her head in a blonde cloud.
'You're no tart,' he said. 'You're a magnificent, horny woman. You do it because you love it, don't you?'
'Oh yes,' she cried as he leant forward and placed his lips over her vagina. She thrust her loins onto his mouth. A plump buttock in each hand, he lapped at her eager cunt. She ground herself to ecstasy on his face, moaning, 'Oh yes indeed oh gosh oh Christ YES!!'
The orgasm slowly drained away leaving her weak and delirious. She rested her weight on his shoulders, his head still buried beneath her skirt. She felt exhausted and light-headed - especially as she knew she'd have little time to recover before he'd want to bury his burning erection somewhere in her tingling body.
She supposed he was right, she did love it. But she knew she was indeed a tart. After all, someone - not Tom - was paying her.
Chapter 26
'They're at it like rabbits down there, guv,' said Sergeant Amy Tooth as she looked towards the rear of Spilling Grange from a window in the west wing.
Inspector Claire Quartermain stood up from her seat across the desk from Dr Madeleine Flint and joined her junior colleague.
'My, my,' she said as she took in the sight of Nurse Eve Biscuit wriggling half naked on the fingers of patient Tom Glass, 'they don't care, do they?'
'They think they're on their own,' said Dr Flint.
'Obviously,' said Claire.
'Cor, look at those knockers swing,' enthused Amy. 'If she belts him round the head with those he'll never get his memory back.'
'That'll do,' said Claire, administering a severe pinch to her subordinate's left buttock out of Madeleine's sight. 'Though that would be a nasty setback, wouldn't it, doctor? All of this is taking long enough as it is.'
The doctor's mouth compressed to a thin line. 'As you know, Inspector, you cannot accelerate the healing process.'
'Can't you?' The policewoman turned to face her. 'I thought that's exactly what you were doing. You said you could speed up his recovery with your wonder drug. You promised me you'd slip him some extra.'
Madeleine Flint sighed. 'I did increase the dosage, it's true, but I'm not sure the result isn't counterproductive.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that the more he takes, the more he remembers.
Instead of just recalling the significant sexual moments of his life and using them as stepping stones to recovery, he's now reliving many insignificant encounters as well.'
Claire Quartermain cursed. 'You mean he now remembers every time he got his leg over with one of his pop singers fifteen years ago?'
'Not every time.'
'Just as well, eh, guv?' said Amy. 'We'll be drawing our pensions by the time he's finished otherwise.'
Claire shot her a look of pure venom. It was all very well for Amy to laugh, she didn't have Gossamer Hawk breathing down her neck. Yesterday's meeting with the Prosecutor was too fresh an encounter for Claire to find the present situation amusing.
Gossamer had laid matters on the line. The recently established Primrose Court had not found universal favour - which wasn't much of a surprise in Claire's opinion, though she did not venture it. Too many of its victims had been nonentities: middle managers with wandering palms, dinosaurs on the verge of retirement who weren't worth reforming, and so on. What was required, according to Gossamer, was the public vilification of a youthful captain of industry. Put a man like Glass in the dock, she had said, and you put The Primrose Court on the map.
As things stood they could probably stitch Glass up with no problems. However there was no point in bringing to book a politically incorrect business mogul when he had no memory of his crimes. 'We're not Stalinists,' Gossamer had said when Claire had ventured to suggest that it didn't matter what Glass remembered. 'We must expose the whole man in all his ghastly chauvinism and force him to recant. Then we'll make a real impact on the male bastions of power.'
This kind of talk made Claire uncomfortable. She was just a pragmatic policewoman and she'd go a long way to avoid starry-eyed idealists like Gossamer. Unfortunately Gossamer had a lot of clout. A zealot with power - just who you didn't want for a boss. And right now she was demanding Tom Glass's nuts on a platter.
'So how much does he remember now?' said Claire to Madeleine.
The doctor consulted her notes. 'He's just taken over Chas Cross's company, Euphoria, and become a millionaire at the age of twenty-four.'
'Blimey,' said Amy, 'how did he manage that?'
'Shani and the Shagbags had six number ones in a year and two platinum albums. Euphoria had been in trouble and the company had such desperate cash-flow problems they couldn't pay Glass his royalties on time. Cross let Glass buy him out.'
'With his own money?' said Claire.
'Basically, yes. The real story was that Cross suddenly lost his grip. He became besotted with one of the Shagbags and his business went to pot. Glass took advantage. Here's Nurse Biscuit's report.'
Madeleine pushed a folder across the desk. 'You could also look at the videos.'
'What videos?' said Amy.
'We've got recording equipment in his room. So far there's about five hundred hours of material. We can use it to corroborate Nurse Biscuit's testimony and vice versa.'
'I wouldn't mind looking at some of those videos,' said Claire.
'I see no objection provided they are logged out.' Madeleine pointed to a bookcase overflowing with cassettes. 'They're completely unedited. You'll have to fast forward through a lot of, er, activity between Glass and Nurse Biscuit.'
'Of course,' said Claire. 'We'll ignore all that, won't we, Amy? It's of absolutely no interest to us at all.'
Downstairs, in Tom Glass's room, Nurse Eve Biscuit was oiling her big breasts unaware that a concealed camera was watching her every move.
Tom was watching too as she slowly poured aromatic flower essence onto the upturned jellies of her chest and smoothed the lotion into every pore. Tom stood by the bed, breathing hard, his cock twitching in impatience as Eve's little fingers teased her nipples to firm peaks and smoothed under and over the big rounds, setting the flesh wobbling deliciously.
'Now you,' she said, beckoning him closer and slicking the lubricant up and down the broad spear of his distended penis.
He straddled her chest and laid his cock in the valley between her pink and glistening mountains. She grasped one in each hand and folded the warm flesh over his aching member, squeezing her bosom in from the sides until his barrel was completely enveloped. He braced himself on hands and began to shaft up and down that delightful passage. On the upthrust his empurpled glans speared up from her cleavage and she bobbed her head to lick the gaping eye of the shiny helmet before it slid back down her slippery valley.
The ritual of the tit-fuck was well established between the pair of them.
As they amused each other in this fashion they talked. It wasn't uplifting conversation - in a general sense, that is, though they found it stimulating. It concerned the pleasure they took in each other's body - the shape, the size, the feel, and so forth. Comparisons were made with others and, in particular, their suitability for the precise activity in which they were engaged. Dr Madeleine Flint, it was agreed, would be too slender of bosom to provide much comfort for a lusty tool like Tom's; and Eve's last boyfriend, so she said, had been so diminutive that his cock would have been lost forever had they ever tried to do it this way.
As ever, when discussing the matter, Tom would conclude that Eve provided the most exquisite, the most perfect and probably the most unbeatable tit-fuck in the entire world. This comment always pleased Eve and led her to greater activity with her hands and tongue. The whispered endearments became more obscene and less coherent. Soon, in fact, Tom was unable to utter anything at a
ll beyond 'Ooh' and 'Oh yes' and finally, 'I'm coming', at which point he inundated her face and neck and chest with a river of spunk.
As always, Eve rubbed the cream from his cock lovingly into her tits, soothing the abused flesh, laughing up at him with a sparkle in her eye. And a hunger, too, for it was her turn now and she was savouring what she would have him do to her next.
And, unknown to them both, the camera in the ceiling recorded every thrilling moment.
Chapter 27
Marianne arrived at The Mount Morris Grand in disarray. Her face was flushed, her silver-blonde mane was uncombed and her clinging black jersey sheath plainly showed that beneath it she wore no underwear. Nevertheless she looked fabulous, she had the air of a well-fucked woman - which she was. Every eye in the cocktail lounge turned in her direction as she made her way to the table occupied by Gerald and a lean, craggy-faced gentleman in a dinner jacket - Sir Charles Mastiff. He elected to kiss her hand while Gerald summoned a flunky to pour her champagne. Most of the bottle had gone already, she noticed, but then she was half an hour late.
'Salut,' she gurgled and drained her glass in one thirsty gulp.
'Welcome,' said Mastiff in a bottomless gravelly voice, his deep-set gaze boring into hers in an unnerving fashion. 'Congratulations, Gerald,' he continued without taking his eyes off Marianne, 'I can see at once that I have underestimated the potential of Gravitas. The nation will embrace arty-farty chit-chat as never before just for the chance to look at Miss Matthews.'
Marianne grinned happily at him and stifled a burp. The alcohol had gone straight to her head and she felt suddenly and deliriously happy. The reason for that was the wonderful French boy waiting for her at home, whose caresses had made her rather late. Sex, of course, not being of great importance to her, the impact he had made on her in bed that afternoon had been significant. He was some kind of physical trainer, she had discovered, who had studied a new method of keeping fit through orgasm. My God, if this was the result she was all for it. It had been hell leaving him behind, she even felt a slight pang of guilt in saying she had to attend an important business meeting and wouldn't be back till late.
And now she was here, in opulent surroundings, being feted by two handsome men who were about to buy her a most expensive dinner. And then - well, no doubt they would want to take her dress off and subject her to all sorts of physical indignities. But that was show business and Marianne had her career to think of. At heart, she was a practical girl and the practical thing was to just get on with it.
'Can we eat soon?' she said to her two admiring companions. 'I'm famished.'
The meal passed in a dream. Marianne ordered lots of bitty things like caviar and asparagus while the men made serious selections across four courses. Her appetite was assuaged by two quickly eaten bread rolls and so she picked at her food. Though she knew where the evening was destined to end, she wasn't sure about this bit. She suspected her role was to look decorative while Gerald pitched his pet projects at his chairman.
She noticed, as did Sir Charles Mastiff - she could tell by the set of his jaw - that each of Gerald's schemes was more obscure than the last and involved an expensive overseas trip.
'There's the most fabulous little theatre company on the South Pacific island of Kitongu,' brayed Gerald. 'Every year the indigenous population has a festival of arts taking a landmark work of western culture and adapting it to their own traditions. Last year they performed the complete Ring Cycle in grass skirts and coconut shells. This year, so I'm told, they're doing a stage version of The Magic Mountain in a full-size native war canoe. I was thinking that Marianne and I might embark on a little scouting mission to evaluate the possibility of a half-hour Gravitas special.'
Marianne was filled with horror. Though the thought of a jolly in the South Seas was appealing, big-mouth Gerald was not the companion she would choose. She stepped in swiftly. 'Wouldn't that be a little extravagant? And Mann has such little relevance to the aesthetic agenda of women today.'
Gerald shot her a glance of pure venom but she had the chairman's attention and that was what she was after.
'So what do you think would be of relevance?' asked Sir Charles.
Marianne said the first thing that came into her head. 'Orgasms.'
She had their attention now all right. She continued, inspiration striking as she seized her moment. 'There's a book about to come out here which tells you how to keep fit by having more orgasms. I think we should interview the author, examine her method, talk to people who've tried it - you know the sort of thing.'
'But that's not art,' howled Gerald. 'That's women's-page crap journalism. We'd lose all our intellectual credibility!'
'And get a top-ten rating, I shouldn't wonder,' said Mastiff, his face alight, 'especially if Marianne presents it in that dress. This is the kind of creative input I like.'
Marianne beamed. 'It's all very hush-hush at present,' she said, 'but I've got an inside track to the author.'
The hunky Philippe and his magic tongue, she thought to herself.
'Well, stay on it.'
You bet!
'And keep me posted.'
Gerald opened his mouth, no doubt to pour scorn, but Mastiff cut him off. 'Don't say another word about it, Gerald. You've made a brilliant appointment in this young lady and she's told me all I need to know. I'm very pleased with the pair of you.'
He snapped his fingers at the head waiter, 'Coffee and champagne in my suite now, please.' He turned to Marianne. 'You don't mind if we trespass some more on your time, do you? I think we need to take this matter of the orgasm a little further.'
'Whatever you say, Sir Charles,' said Marianne, taking his arm as they left the restaurant, 'I'm all yours.'
It was a short journey to Mastiff's suite but an eventful one. By the time Marianne stepped through the door the dress was half off her back. The television executives completed the process and pushed her straight into the bedroom.
'Are you sure this programme isn't called Grab My Ass?'; she protested but there was no response. The time for joking was over.
She lay on the bed face down, stark naked, listening to the slither and click of two men swiftly pulling off their clothes. Whatever their disagreements over programme policy, the pair knew how to work in concert when it came to poking pussy.
'Kneel up,' barked a voice, 'get on your hands and knees.'
Marianne did as she was told, aware of the spectacle she made with her bum pointing up invitingly and her breasts hanging down like ripe fruit. For a woman who didn't much like sex she couldn't wait for their hands to close on her hot and eager body. It had to be Philippe's fault. What he had done to her that afternoon had her senses singing. Not that she wanted to think about Philippe just at the moment.
'I say!' whispered Sir Charles. 'What a fabulous figure.'
'Indeed, sir.' Gerald's voice sounded tight. 'Fabulous.'
'Exquisite.'
'Graceful.'
'Oh, for God's sake,' the voice was Marianne's, 'cut the crap and fuck me, please.'
'Look, she's trembling, Gerald. Do you think she's cold?'
'I think she's hot for it, sir. She's trembling because she's horny.'
'Please,' yelled Marianne, 'please! Oh!'
There were hands on her now, delicately touching her, smoothing over her curves, gently caressing her limbs, stroking her flanks. The bastards must have done this before.
'Fine tits, Gerald. I find the way they elongate in this position very satisfying.'
'Quite, sir. And if you slap them just a little, like this, and set them rippling back and forth...'
'Oh, marvellous!'
Marianne made a grab for Gerald's cock, which was bobbing before her face. But Gerald stepped away and a hand crashed down on her right buttock with a smack.
'Stay still!' hissed Sir Charles and he hit the other buttock just as hard. To her surprise, as the pain faded a warm glow seemed to spread through her loins. She was dripping wet between the legs.
'Please, please, please!' she heard herself moaning. She was rubbing her thighs together now, trying to ease the itch in her hungry pussy, undulating her whole frame, aware her tits were swinging and her arse was gaping and that she was making an obscene display of herself. She couldn't help it.
They had closed in on her now, pressing their hairy male nakedness against her yielding softness. She could feel their cocks rubbing against her arms and legs, their hanging balls brushing against her. Their pungent man-smell, of sweat and cologne, enveloped her. Two mouths were on her as well, kissing her back, her neck, her dangling breasts. It was glorious. She was squealing out loud with pleasure as her thighs juddered together.
Fingers pinched her nipples knowingly and a hand probed her arse crack, wetting her anal pucker with the juice that was slicking her thighs.
'Put it in, put it in,' she moaned over and over. 'Both of you. Together. Put it in.'
One of them shut her up by thrusting the thick head of his penis between her lips. She swallowed him to the root, her nose buried in the coarse hair of his belly. She could feel his hands in the thick mop of her hair pulling her into him.
Then something hot and very big pressed into the dimpled hole between her arse cheeks. She recognised that bull's pizzle of a cock. She squirmed and clenched her buttocks round it. It was her own fault, she'd fired Gerald up with the prospect of shagging her arse and now he was going to do it.
His hand slapped her bottom again, once, twice, on each side, urging her to keep still. She couldn't for she was already twitching with orgasm. Then the big thing was lodged in her bum and she was coming full spate, thrusting back down on it with a mouthful of cock at the other end and her tits swinging like church bells on Christmas morning.