by Noel Amos
'I suppose our best hope is still that he recovers his memory. I keep hoping every time I see him that he'll be back to normal. Have you talked to him recently?'
Claire grinned. 'I saw him last night. When we took him into custody.'
Petra screamed. The noise was involuntary, as was the jerk she gave to the tablecloth which caused the half-full bottle of beaujolais to somersault into her lap.
Petra wept in the ladies' loo. She had wasted her time sucking up to the Quartermain bitch when Tom was already in jail. The policewoman had made her look like a complete fool. And her white silk suit was ruined.
There was a knock on the door. 'Come out, Petra,' said Claire.
'Go away,' said Petra.
'There's no point in you sitting in there.'
'Sod off,' shouted Petra drunkenly.
'Now now, calm down. It wasn't my idea to arrest Tom, you know. I just obey orders like everybody else.'
'The Nuremberg defence.'
'It's true. Open up.'
'What are you going to do? Rape me like last time? Fuck off, you Nazi.'
'Don't be daft, Petra. Look, I've got a car upstairs, you'll be home in twenty minutes. Maybe we can rescue that suit.'
'Was it really not your idea to put Tom in jail?'
'Prosecutor Hawk's express command. Honest.'
The door swung open. A bedraggled Petra was slumped on the toilet seat.
'Come on, darling,' said Claire with her sweetest, most ominous smile. 'Let me get you home and out of those wet things.'
Chapter 38
Outside The Primrose Court the August sun was shining. It was a perfect summer's afternoon. Inside, in the basement, there was no light or warmth. In the darkness of Tom Glass's meagre cell it could just as well have been December.
Tom drew the thin blanket around his bare shoulders and shivered. The room was damp, the bed was hard and there were chains around his ankles. A tap dripped into a bucket somewhere out of sight. His stomach grumbled and his bladder ached. No one had come near him for fifteen hours - not since they'd thrown him in here at midnight.
He'd always feared it would come to this. His ordeal was just beginning.
A key turned in the lock and a shaft of blue artificial light from the corridor fell on his face. He blinked as a tall figure entered, carrying a tray. The aroma of hot tea ravished his senses.
'Bet you thought we'd forgotten you,' said a nasal Cockney voice. 'We 'adn't, we was just leavin' you to stew.'
Tom pulled himself into a sitting position, the chains on his feet clinking as he did so. His visitor had now turned on the light and he could see she was more of a girl than a woman, a thin streak with ragged blonde hair and a sulky face stretched into a malicious grin. He was conscious that beneath his blanket he was stark-naked.
The girl poured tea into a mug and set it on the floor by the bed. Tom reached for it. 'Thank you,' he said.
The girl grasped the blanket and pulled it off his body. Her small eyes gleamed as she took in his broad chest, flat stomach, lean thighs - and fat sausage of a cock. Tom sipped his tea, there wasn't much else he could do.
'You're a cool customer,' she said, 'I'll give you that. Some people go bananas when they first come in here. Scream night long. Wet themselves and everything. Then we give hell.'
'Really,' said Tom. He couldn't help noticing that she was wearing a skirt no longer than a pelmet.
'Of course, they're in here to suffer anyway so it gets them off to a good start. The sooner they suffer, the sooner they realise the error of their ways. And get out.'
'I see,' said Tom. The little witch really had the most fabulous legs.
'The way you're going, mate, I reckon you'll be in here a very long time.'
'I doubt it. There's been a serious miscarriage of justice. I expect that heads will soon roll, from top to bottom. I'd be interested to know your name.'
'Fiona.'
'Just Fiona?'
'Constable Fiona Maybe. As in maybe I'll be nice to you and maybe I won't.' And she took hold of his testicles and squeezed.
Later, in the dark, Tom willed himself to go to sleep. His bladder was now empty, his stomach full - and his face was covered in dried juice from Fiona's pussy. She'd made him suck her off before she'd let him pee. And after he'd eaten bread and cheese she'd shackled his hands and left him with no means of relieving the bone-hard erection that throbbed between his thighs. He was used to regular sexual release. His body ached for the abundant flesh of Eve Biscuit.
At present his mind was filled with images of Constable Fiona Maybe - of long pale legs and a loose-lipped cunt and a sulky face with an evil grin. And Fiona was just the advance guard, he realised, the storm troopers would be following on behind. He would need all his strength. He willed himself to sleep.
Tom dreamed of New York. Of an apartment on the Upper East Side overlooking Central Park where the winter sunlight sparkled on the crystal goblet in his hand and picked out every crest and cavity of the Jackson Pollock canvas on the wall. And glistened on the auburn tresses of his colleague and lover, Meredith Rich, sitting by his side.
Opposite them reclined their host, the owner of this luxurious apartment where servants glided across polished mahogany floors like phantoms and the walls were adorned with enough priceless modern art to furnish a small museum. Ralph Simons raised his brandy glass to Tom and Meredith in salute.
'OK,' he said, 'you finally wore me out. You got a deal.'
Tom wanted to shout with joy. He'd been trying to nail down the old sod and his TV company for six months. Instead he stood and held out his hand. Simons grasped it in strong bony fingers and clapped him on the back.
'I tell you, Tom,' said Simons, 'I wouldn't dream of getting into bed with you guys if it wasn't for Meredith.'
'I'm glad she finally won you over,' said Tom, beaming at the tall redhead. 'She's pretty persuasive, isn't she?'
'Yes, sir.' Simons ignored the slender hand she was proffering and slid his arm around her waist. 'I'm already thinking of changing my mind so she can persuade me all over again.'
Tom laughed but it rang a little hollow. He knew the kind of persuading Meredith had been up to and he was far from happy about it.
Simons had pulled the girl into his arms and was kissing her enthusiastically. One hand was on her back, rucking up the peach silk of her blouse, the other dug into the rounded flesh of her buttocks through her skirt. She disengaged her lips for a moment.
'Take it easy with my clothes, Ralph,' she said. 'You don't have to tear the paper to get at the present.'
Ralph relaxed his grip. 'Hey, that's smart. That's what I like about you, Meredith, you not only got a great ass you got brains.' And he laughed.
Tom's face ached from the effort of holding his smile in place. He wanted to kick the bastard in the nuts but Meredith's hazel eyes were flashing him an unmistakable message: Don't blow it now.
'OK then, little lady,' boomed Ralph, 'take off the gift-wrapping yourself.' He sat back in his chair with a smirk his face. 'I bet Tom appreciates a striptease as much as I do.'
'Come on, Ralph,' said Tom, 'a joke's a joke.'
'It's OK, Tom,' Meredith cut it. 'I don't mind entering the spirit of the occasion.' She pulled her blouse from her skirt with one hand and kicked off a shoe. 'Get up on the table,' commanded Ralph, 'and make it sexy.'
She made it as sexy as she could, considering she wasn't dressed for the activity. She quickly peeled off her blouse and skirt and winter tights and posed in a silk half-slip and matching panties. Her nipples were clear points beneath the slip and her knickers were caught in the cleft of her bottom. She stood above them, her face a mask of indifference, and let them look.
'Take off the rest,' said Ralph.
She pulled the slip over her head and flung it at him, her bare breasts shimmying. He caught the material and held it to his face, inhaling her perfume.
'Now the panties,' he said, his eyes big as he watched her tug the gusset fre
e of the chestnut curls of her pussy. He snatched the garment and pressed it to his nose. 'You smell hot,' he said.
'You make me hot,' she said, 'you filthy old goat.'
'Ain't I just?' He reached up and ran his hand into her crotch. His fingers probed her damp bush, seeking the entrance to her vagina.
Tom was frozen with horror and lust. Meredith had told him that Simons was a disgusting old lecher - now he was seeing for himself.
'Hey, Tom,' Ralph said, one hand busy between Meredith's legs, the other prying apart her buttocks, 'pay attention - I'm warmin' her up for you.'
Tom looked at Ralph without comprehension. He had been debating whether to slip away and leave the pair of them to it.
Ralph's beady glare was fixed on him, even as he palpated Meredith's tender flesh. 'Take your pants off, son, and show an old boy how it's done.'
'But... I...' he was at a loss.
'Come on, baby,' said Meredith, holding out her hand. 'Ralph wants to watch us make love.'
'No,' said Tom. 'Definitely, no.'
'I don't think you mean that, son.'
'Please.' There was a note of desperation in her voice.
'Look, partner, you want this deal, don't you?'
What choice did he have?
He unzipped his pants...
Tom woke in the dark, shivering not with cold but with lust. His stiff cock sawed against the blanket in frustration. His memory of that day in New York was crystal clear in his mind. He could taste the honey of Meredith's breath on his lips, feel the taut kiss of her belly on his - and see the gargoyle grin on Ralph Simons' face as he watched the pair of them fuck for his personal pleasure.
It was not an occasion that any man was likely to forget - and yet Tom had forgotten it from the date of his fall until now. His pulse quickened. It had been eight, no - seven - years ago. It was much later than his dreams of Shani and Tina and Chas Cross. Maybe this time his memory was really coming back!
His mind turned to the events of seven years ago, when he had broken into the cable TV business, the adorable Meredith Rich by his side. His penis twitched in anguish on his belly. How he could do with Meredith's adorable touch right now!
Chapter 39
Petra cursed her foolishness many times over as the police car cut a swathe through the West End traffic on its way to her Primrose Hill flat. The burly blonde driver in a TCD shell-suit - not, thank God, the awful Sergeant Tooth - squealed corners on two wheels and zigzagged through oncoming vehicles, siren screaming, as if answering an SOS.
'This is an emergency after all,' said Claire Quartermain, taking possession of Petra's hand and squeezing it in a supposedly reassuring fashion. 'There's no time to lose if we're to save that suit.'
Petra said nothing. She was drunk and she was scared. She had stupidly put herself at the mercy of the one person in London she should have avoided - the ghastly lesbian who now held Tom Glass under lock and key. She held her thighs together as tightly as she could and willed herself to resist the forthcoming ordeal. But she knew it would be no good. Already she could feel her excitement lubricating her vagina.
Claire bundled Petra into her flat and dismissed the driver. 'Help me, darling,' she said to Petra as she began to unbutton the spoiled jacket of the suit. Like a robot, Petra stepped out of her skirt and handed it over. Then she retreated to her bedroom.
She stripped off her remaining clothes and crawled naked into bed. Her head was spinning and her body was quivering. Outside she heard the sounds of cupboards opening and water running.
Her bedroom door opened.
'I've done the best I can with your suit,' said Claire. 'I'm afraid it's never going to be the same.'
'It doesn't matter,' said Petra. 'It was my fault.'
'I had the impression it was mine. I shouldn't have sprung the news about Tom on you like that. I'm sorry.'
'What's going to happen to him?'
'There'll be a trial.'
'A show trial, you mean.'
Claire shrugged and sat on the bed. 'Let me be your friend.'
'I can't trust you.'
'No? What would you say if I told you this may work out to your advantage?'
'How could it?'
'See? You're curious.'
'I am not. Take your hands off me please.'
'But you're shaking and you're cold. Let me hold you.'
'Please, Claire. Oh—'
The kiss lasted a long time. At first Petra struggled then she tried a different kind of resistance and flopped like a spineless doll. Then she found herself kissing back, pushing her tongue deep into Claire's hot mouth. Spineless, she thought to herself as the policewoman reached for her breasts, that just about sums me up.
Claire sucked her nipples to swollen points.
'Bite them,' Petra heard herself say, 'bite them hard. Ooh yes!'
'You're a real livewire, aren't you, darling?' said the other, stripping the bedclothes from Petra's nude body.
Petra grabbed Claire's hand and thrust it between her legs. 'I hate you,' she said, pressing the fingers into her hairy mound, 'you're making me behave like this.'
Claire pulled her hand away. Her fingers were wet. 'You're on heat, woman,' she said. 'Bring yourself off. I want to watch.'
Petra pulled her knees back to her chest and used both hands, spreading herself and stroking the pink stalk of her clitoris with her left and thrusting four fingers of her right deep into her vaginal tunnel.
Claire leaned over her to drink in the view. Petra fancied she could feel the policewoman's eyes burning into her most intimate flesh as she manipulated herself. What she was doing was crazy, obscene, degrading. Yet she yearned to exhibit her weeping cunt to Claire, to finger and fondle her tingling flesh, to share her most secret parts and revel in the hot flush of shame. She couldn't help it.
'OH!' The cry broke from her throat like a surfacing bubble, to be followed by more bubbles of ecstasy as her hips writhed and her arse shook and her fingers moved in a blur. 'OH YES!' she shouted at the moment of release.
'Oh yes,' said Claire as she removed the now-still hands and replaced them with her warm lips, rimming the labial frill of Petra's hungry vagina and pushing her tongue inside as deep as it would go. She cupped the bowl of Petra's suspended buttocks and drank the juices which ran from her steaming sex. She bathed her with her lips and tongue until the intensity of the self-pleasuring faded and Petra yearned for more.
Then Claire stood and stripped. The summer dress was thrown carelessly to the floor, followed by her brassiere. She retained her white panties which were cut high on the hip. Through the thin cotton could be seen the brown hair of her pubic beard. Her breasts were full and pink and they jutted out to the sides of her body - to Petra's eyes they looked huge as they hung over her. The areolae were as big as saucers with small dark nipples like cherry stones. Petra buried her face in the soft globes and sucked like a starving puppy.
Claire insinuated a lean thigh between Petra's legs and ground her pelvis down onto the younger woman's pubis. Petra answered the pressure, buffeting her loins back into the policewoman's pantied mons. The two of them set up rhythm, pushing, jostling, squeezing their pliant flesh together, lost in a whirl of lust.
Petra came first, Claire made sure of it, pushing a hand between their bodies to finger the brunette's throbbing clit, bringing her to the edge. And over it.
'Oh, Claire!' she sobbed into the policewoman's neck and bit down hard. Claire squealed with the pain and the thrill of it and smacked the taut sphere of Petra's right buttock.
'You little bitch,' she said, fingering her wound, 'you've drawn blood.'
'I'm sorry, Claire. Punish me. Beat me. Please.'
The policewoman needed no encouragement, throwing the wriggling woman over her knees and smacking her arse cheeks until they glowed crimson. Petra twisted and turned under the blows, tears flowing from her eyes to match the river of her excitement running from her burning cunt.
'Harder, harder!' she moan
ed, surprising herself with the intensity of her passion. And as she squirmed under the blows, the smack of cruel hand on yielding buttock echoing through the room, her thoughts turned to the strange novels of Morticia Chekhov. Maybe they weren't so outlandish as she had first thought.
Later, after Petra had recovered, they returned to their earlier conversation.
'I know this may be unpalatable to you,' said Claire, 'but you do stand to gain if Glass is successfully prosecuted.'
'What do you mean?'
'You could end up running his business. This whole thing is about replacing men with women, don't you see?'
'But I couldn't.'
'Why not? You're doing the job already. And if you don't, they'll find some other smart cow to put in his place.'
'But he's done nothing wrong! It's his company!'
'Then put yourself in a position to help him if the worst comes to the worst. Do you know anyone with connections to The Primrose Court?'
'Cassie Crow, I suppose.'
'There you are. And I can put in a word for you too. Maybe.'
'What do you mean "maybe"?'
'Put it like this, Petra, there's a hole between my legs which needs plugging. With your face.'
Petra grinned. She had a better idea. She showed Claire The Magic Wand.
Claire turned the strange glass object over in her hand. 'My, my,' she said, a flush of appreciation on her cheeks.
As she examined the Wand, Petra slid her hand into the policewoman's sopping knickers.
'This is made by Glass Tools of Glendrockit,' she said, her fingers roving the hairy jewel of the other's capacious, loose-lipped cunt. 'Would you like me to show you how it works?'
Claire grunted as Petra located her clit. The policewoman's fingers were wrapped tight around the Wand's glowing shaft and her eyes were smoky with want.
'Then you can use it on me,' continued Petra, stroking and tickling Claire's jumping flesh.