by Noel Amos
And missed.
'Oh SHIT!' screamed Chastity. 'I never got there! Get off me, you great ox!'
Troy pulled himself away from her, his face now that of a little boy on the verge of tears. 'God, I'm sorry, Chastity. I thought we were together, I thought—'
'Shut your moronic mouth and get lost,' hissed his employer. 'Carter, bring your dick over here, you're on.'
With a weary sigh, the boy on the sofa strode over to the desk, his half-hard penis swinging in front of him. The blonde grabbed it and tugged him towards her by the root. His broad frame loomed over her as she laid her forehead on his gleaming pectorals and pressed the soft swellings of her chest into the hardness of his torso.
In a little-girl voice she said, 'You won't let me down, will you, Carter?'
'Of course not, baby,' he replied and brushed the top of her head with his lips. In her small hands his big penis was now at full stretch, the helmet a shiny scarlet. She ran a blush-pink nail along the underside of his shaft and it jumped at her touch. She parked her bottom on the edge of the desk and pulled him into position between her spread thighs.
Troy sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, his tool snail-like between the bronzed slabs of his thighs.
Outside Cassie gazed on, not sure what to make of this bizarre scene. But, as she watched Carter run the head of his big stalk up the length of Chastity's pouting split, her body began to throb to its own rhythm. Without thinking, she dragged her knickers down her thighs and jammed her hand between her legs. Watching that bitch Chastity getting it had made her wet. Very wet. She was on the brink of coming already.
The sound of footsteps made her look round in panic. The last of Chastity's boys stood there, a box of pizzas in his ham-like fist, his eyes bulging at the sight of her.
'Ms Crow?' he said. 'Are you all right?'
Cassie was still bent over the desk in the position she had adopted to peer through the glass. Her skirt was above her waist, her panties round her ankles and her large fleshy rump was thrust towards the newcomer. Her fingers, though stilled by his presence, were wedged in her throbbing pussy.
'I work with Ms Honeydew,' he said.
'I know.' Cassie removed her hand from between her legs and began to clamber off the desk.
'I'm Randy,' he continued in embarrassment.
'Thank God for that,' said Cassie, removing the pizzas from his grasp and placing those big hands on the soft, quivering cheeks of her arse. 'So am I.'
Chapter 36
It was a first, Cassie knew, and probably a last. She had never arrived at work at six-thirty before but today it had been necessary to beat the opposition. She sat at her assistant's desk in the solitude of the empty office suite and nursed a cup of tea in front of the television. Thanks to Randy, she felt better. The warm glow of his attentions the previous night had not yet faded from her loins. He had also done wonders for her orgasm chart. Though her POT was still well down at least she would be able to demonstrate to Chastity some recent activity.
Cassie was a secret fan of breakfast television. The marketing people had once told her that a significant proportion of Fragrant readers tuned in every morning, so she felt an obligation to watch. At any rate that was her excuse for ogling the soapy-smooth Irish presenters and the tanned hunks who urged the bleary-eyed world to work out on the way to work. And today, more than ever, she had cause to wet her panties at the invitation to tug on the Lycra and flex her pees. For the hunk in a leopard skin jumpsuit, his wedding tackle on display like a vacuum-packed lunch, was known to Cassie. She had unpacked that lunchbox and munched on his sausage many times. She was hungry for him still.
Philippe.
So that was why the rat had never resumed her sessions and had fobbed off all her approaches. Obviously he had not been suffering from a bad back after all. He'd been planning a change of career.
'OK, everybody,' said Philippe on the TV screen as the producer closed in on his pumping thighs, 'imagine you 'ave something 'ard and firm between your buttocks.'
'You bet,' breathed Cassie.
'Imagine you 'ave a citron. Now squeeze that wiz your buttocks,' purred the Frenchman. The camera framed his lean tight buns as he demonstrated. 'Qui, oui, squeeze that citron for me!'
Cassie squeezed her citron. She felt good, like she always did with Philippe. What a shame she now had to share him with an audience of five million. The dirty, dirty rat!
Marianne Matthews also squeezed her citron while Philippe strutted his stuff. It gave her enormous satisfaction to watch him flex his fabulous frame as Badger TV's new fitness guru. This was in some measure because she had made the necessary introductions - 'my parting gift to Badger' she called it - but mostly because their affair still burned white-hot.
Philippe gyrated his muscle-packed butt on the bedroom television as Marianne ground the heel of her hand into her pubic bone. The pressure tugged the flesh of her pussy up and down, stretching her clit, tickling her all-but-sated nerve ends. The room smelt of last night's fucking and now the aroma of her present excitement thickened the atmosphere still further.
Pump pump went Philippe's tight bum on the small screen and pump pump went Marianne's silky buttocks on the bed sheet. She pushed two fingers between the swollen frills of her labia into the hot swamp of her cunt. She was in a fever and couldn't help herself - just as she hadn't been able to help herself last night. She had intended Philippe to have a good night's rest and had sworn to herself she would leave his irresistible body alone. Somehow it hadn't worked out like that. At two in the morning she'd had her ankles round his ears and when the alarm had gone at four to get him to the studio he'd had to remove his beautiful cock from halfway down her throat.
And now here she was, inspired by the sight of her lover on television, wanking her raw and swollen pussy to yet another orgasm.
'Formidable,' said the pink-suited TV presenter. 'Thank you, Monsieur Muscles. All the ladies will be rushing out to buy lemons after that.'
Let them, thought Marianne, pinching her clit between thumb and forefinger. Just so long as I can keep his banana.
Chastity Honeydew removed her spectacles from the bridge of her nose and tossed them onto the desk. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment before fixing Cassie with her milky-blue eyes. She sighed. It was an expression of profound disappointment.
'Well, Cassie,' she said at length, a furrow of displeasure on her flawless forehead, 'it hurts me to say it, but I suspected as much.'
She tapped the notebook she had been reading. 'Your POT results are pitiful, the worst I've seen in months. I can see now why your operation here is on the skids.'
Cassie's jaw dropped, she had expected personal vilification but to condemn Fragrant was like threatening her own child. 'I beg your pardon,' she said.
'Just look at this outfit, Cass. Low morale, no motivation, poor time-keeping. I mean, it's eight-thirty in the morning and where is everybody?'
Cassie opened her mouth to tell her that office hours began at nine but Chastity had already moved on.
'I've worked on magazines in New York and I tell you, sister, they make this set-up look like amateur night. Remember Pink Pajamas? The hottest rag in the Big Apple when you were still learning how to sharpen a pencil. I doubled its circulation in five months. Believe me, Cass, I've seen pros in action and this bunch you've got working for you couldn't cut it in a kindergarten.'
'So how come our circulation has just hit half a million and I'm the Women's Magazine Editor of the Year?' said Cassie with acid in her voice.
Maybe Chastity did not hear, at any rate she did not answer. There were other things on her mind. 'Take a good look at yourself. You're the boss - at present anyway - but you mooch around here like you haven't had a big one for a month. And when I look at your results, I see that you haven't. OK, there's a few ups on your graph here and there, and you obviously made some kind of effort last night for which I am grateful, but basically there's zilch. I mean, it explains why you look so
terrible and all. But you started off so well. What happened? Did you forget to change the batteries in your vibrator?'
During this speech Cassie considered murder, maybe she could glue up Chastity's lips and nostrils and let her suffocate on her own wind. Instead she said, 'My Personal Orgasm Guide quit. I don't seem to have got on very well without him.'
The furrow on the flawless brow lengthened and something approaching concern flickered in the milky-blue eyes.
'Shit, honey, you should have said. We'd have got you another.'
'I kept hoping he'd come back. He was - he is - a bit special.'
'Do I know him? What's his name?'
'Philippe.'
'Philippe?' Chastity looked thunderstruck. 'French guy built like a young Arnie Schwarzenegger? With a schlong like a jumbo bratwurst?'
'I like to think of it as a loaf of French bread.'
'Whatever. Something you can make a regular meal out of. And your meal ticket ran off. Poor you.'
Cassie was amazed to find that Chastity was holding her hand. The gesture was so unexpected she began to cry.
'Hey, come on, sister,' said the American and she produced a handful of paper tissues from somewhere to stem the flow.
'I remember that guy,' she said as Cassie mopped up. 'I trained him personally out in LA. Though, believe me, he didn't need much training. He had complete control of his body and could keep it up for hours. And he knew all the little places where a woman likes to be...'
The milky-blue eyes began to cloud with nostalgia and other emotions. She reached for the tissues herself.
'I thought he'd gone back to France. He left about a year ago. I tell you, Cass, it's been a bloody year since he went.'
'Really?' Cassie was rapt. This conversation had taken an unexpected turn. Having let slip her own guard she was interested in any admission Chastity might make. She opened her mind to the possibility that she might come to like the bitch after all.
'You see, Cass, I believe in the Honeydew method. It's my life's work. Healthy living through orgasm, that's my philosophy. By the way, my next book's called Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Choices, it's about freedom and liberty and all that stuff - do you like it?'
'Fabulous.'
'So, you see, I'm a business, I got commitments, I got turnover to generate through books and seminars and spreading the Honeydew philosophy all over the world. So how do you think it would be if it got round that Chastity Honeydew couldn't come any more?'
'What?'
'You see. You're shocked. You've gone white.'
'You mean you can't have an orgasm?'
'Haven't had one for a year.'
The implications of what she had witnessed in her office last night flashed through Cassie's mind. It was true, Chastity had not come, despite the efforts of her trained studs.
Chastity sighed a heartfelt sigh.
'I shouldn't tell you, Cassie, but I need to tell someone. I haven't got my rocks off since that Frenchman packed up his breadstick and left me last year.'
An idea dawned. 'Would you like to meet Philippe again?'
Chastity pursed her pretty pink lips in a wan smile. 'Sometimes I think that if I could just get into his pants one more time the lights would go on again. You know, that I'd be OK after that.'
'Right,' said Cassie, getting to her feet with renewed energy. 'You and I are going to pay a visit to a certain television studio tomorrow morning.'
'What for?'
'It's a surprise. Just bring the boys with you.'
'Why?'
'I want to go in with all goons blazing.'
'I don't get it.'
'Never mind. Just remember I'm doing you a big favour and I want something in return.'
'What's that?'
'I want my office back.'
Unaware of the fate awaiting him, Philippe pushed open the door to Marianne's bedroom, dropping with fatigue. He had been awake half the night making love and up before dawn to give his all to his new job. Then he had made straight for the gym - keeping himself in shape was now more important than ever. He had been longing for the moment when he could pitch face down onto the soft mattress and bury his face in the pillows and allow sleep to descend on him like a soft warm blanket...
'Darling.' The husky voice was in his ear and Marianne's fingers were on his back, plucking at his shirt like little mice. 'You can't go to bed with all your clothes on. Let me help you.'
'No, no, cherie,' he murmured. 'Just leave me. I'm so fatigue...'
'Philippe, I insist. At least let me take your jeans off. Lift your hips, that's right. Oho! I thought you said you were sleepy.'
'Marianne, please.'
'My, my, look at this. I swear that's a part of you that never sleeps. I bet I know where he'd like to go.'
'No, cherie, no.'
'Oh yes, my darling, yes!'
Chapter 37
'Here we are, Miss Rosewater, the best table for you, as promised. May I bring you an aperitif?'
'Make it a mineral water, Josef. I've got to keep a clear head.'
Petra Rosewater had thought hard about this lunch meeting. Her intention was to establish some kind of ascendancy over her guest and so she had selected the venue with care (a converted boathouse overlooking the river packed with media trendies) and had power dressed for the occasion (a white silk suit with padded shoulders, buttoned to the throat). Her plan was to take the bull by the horns - or the dyke by the dugs, as she'd said to Harriet when she'd left the office. She was lunching Inspector Claire Quartermain and she was scared shitless.
'Petra, my dear, what a delightful place!'
Petra stood shakily and allowed her cheeks to be bussed by a vision of summer sunshine in a pink and cream dress with a scooped neck and short sleeves. Claire Quartermain's arms were tanned and her hair fell onto her shoulders in loose brown curls. The lines of weariness around her eyes and mouth were crinkled into a smile and, most terrifying of all, she was wearing lipstick. The waiter's eyes caressed her shapely hips as he eased her into her chair.
'You must have some clout to get a table here,' continued the policewoman. 'I hear it's all the rage.'
'Tom has the clout,' said Petra. 'He put money in the business.'
'How philanthropic of him. Cheers!' And she drained a tumbler full of fizzing clear liquid a-chink with crushed ice. 'I hope you don't mind, I ordered a cocktail on my way in. Delicious.'
'It looks it,' said Petra whose best intentions were evaporating as fast as her Perrier.
'Here, taste.' Claire pressed the glass into Petra's hand. It bore the clear pink imprint of the policewoman's lips. Petra pressed her own to the other side of the glass and the liquid bubbled down her throat like iced nectar.
'Waiter,' said Claire to the alert Josef, 'you'd better fetch a couple of these at the double. And bring the menu and wine list while you're at it.' Petra still had the cocktail glass in her hand. She took another gulp. Already things seemed to have slipped from her control.
'Look, Inspector—'
'Claire.'
'Look, Claire, the reason I've asked you here is to discuss Tom's accident.'
Josef returned with the drinks and fussed. Petra could have done without the recitation of the day's specials but Claire was agog. She made him repeat the list so she could fix the details in her mind. Petra ploughed on.
'I think I've got some idea who he saw that night. It was a secret meeting that he didn't discuss with any of us.'
'I think I'll have guinea fowl, they say this chef is very good with game. Shall we have some wine?'
'If you like.'
'I'd prefer red. How about a beaujolais? That's not too heavy.'
'OK.'
'I rather like the look of the St Amour. What do you think?'
'Please, order what you like.' Petra was fast realising that there was no point in trying to talk seriously to the inspector until she had eaten. Or maybe the woman was deliberately trying to put her off. In which case she was succeeding
.
'I'll have the same,' she said to Josef as he hovered, pencil poised. What the hell, she thought and drained her cocktail.
The wine was a success. They ordered a second bottle to go with the cheese. Petra watched Claire lick a runny dollop of brie from the side of her thumb. Her long pink tongue scooped up the creamy cheese with relish. She's like a cat, thought Petra, lithe and sensual and clever. With sharp claws.
Claire caught Petra looking at her. Her hazel eyes flashed and she grinned. One silky lock of hair had fallen across her face and she pushed it away absent-mindedly as she said: 'So who was he meeting on the night he fell off the balcony?'
Petra put down her wineglass and took a deep breath. 'Whoever it was they represented a company called Glass Tools of Glendrockit.'
'Tell me more,' said Claire as she speared the bleu d' Auvergne. And Petra told her.
'So,' said Claire, still chewing, 'he bought this company without telling anybody about it and then took a dive over the balcony with a pair of knickers on his head.'
'I think he was drugged and then pushed.'
'By the person he'd just promised to pay five million quid? Wouldn't that scupper the deal?'
'It doesn't look like it. He signed an agreement that's binding. I've been trying to get out of it ever since.'
'Has he got the authority to do that?'
'Yes. He owns the company, he can act on his own without reference to shareholders.'
'I see. And what do these Glass Tools people say?'
'They say, "Where's our cheque?" Through their solicitors, that is. I haven't met anyone from the company and there's no such place as Glendrockit as far as I can tell, not unless it's in the Cayman Islands.'
'An off-shore shell company, you mean?'
'Yes. I thought you ought to know about this as it puts Tom in a better light, doesn't it?'
Claire raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Obviously she didn't agree.