by Noel Amos
He smacked the delectable hemisphere of her left buttock, the sound echoing round the small space.
'Yes,' she said, 'like that.'
He smacked the other cheek, harder this time, leaving the clear imprint of his palm on the pale flesh. She sucked in her breath with a hiss and stuck her bottom out further.
He took a buttock in each hand and gently pulled her open. The circlet of her arse was a nut-brown whorl and the rear of her vaginal purse was hairless, the lips long and madder-hued. He ran his tongue the length of her crack, sucking those long lips into his mouth, then sliding back up again to tickle the bulls-eye of her anus.
'Oh,' she murmured.
He tongued her arsehole thoroughly and then brought the bursting head of his tool up to lodge between the olive globes of her bum cheeks. If she had protested at this point he would have retreated. She said nothing but laid her head flat on the stair. Her spread behind nuzzled back against his straining penis, rubbing and inflaming him.
He poked the head of his tool into her behind without ceremony.
'Ah!' she cried but did not flinch.
The broad glans stuck in the tight ring but he pushed slowly in. She met him on the outthrust, arching her back and bracing her legs. She raised her head up, the riot of black curls tumbling down her back. Now he was in her to the hilt.
'Do it to me,' she hissed as his fingers found the knot of curls at the head of her pussy and pushed down into her slit. He fondled the slippery lips of her labia as he began to fuck her arse.
He was determined to make it last, to savour every moment of this bizarre coupling on a staircase in a strange city. He wanted to make Laura come and come again, to thrust in and out of her bottom and play with her clit until she couldn't take any more. Then he'd roll her over and plug her pussy and play with those big tits that had tormented him earlier. He wanted to flood Laura with a riot of sensation and an ocean of sperm.
He smacked her buttocks some more as she convulsed beneath him in her third or fourth orgasm. Then he exploded deep inside the magic tunnel of her incredible derriere. The funny thing was, he didn't even like her.
The light shining directly into his eyes wrenched him from sleep. At once the pain and discomfort came flooding back. 'Look at the dirty bastard,' said a voice Tom couldn't quite place, 'he's got a hard-on.'
'He's always got a hard-on,' said another - Fiona, Tom was sure about that.
'I bet he's having another of his sex dreams. Reliving the good old days when he fucked over every female he could get his hands on. Isn't that right, Mr Pervert?'
The torch wavered as his persecutor smacked a hand across the barrel of his exposed tool. Tom caught a glimpse of peroxide hair and beady eyes. Sergeant Amy Tooth. He might have known.
She smacked him again, harder this time and he couldn't suppress a grunt of pain. Amy Tooth's cruel voluptuous mouth split into a grin.
'You've had kid-glove treatment up to now, Mr Glass, but that's about to change. I want a full confession of your sex crimes or I'm taking the gloves off.'
Tom said nothing though his heart hammered in his ribs and his cock twitched on his belly. He was determined not to tell this bitch a thing. Particularly not about Laura.
They crawled up the remaining stairs to her bedroom, not able to walk. They collapsed on the bed and he tore the remains of her dress from her body.
'Bang goes five thousand bucks,' she said.
'Who cares?' he said placing his head reverently between her spectacular breasts. 'I'll buy you a dozen more.'
'What would I have to do to earn them?' She slicked his foreskin up and down his prick.
'I'll think of a few things.' He sucked a thick chocolate-brown nipple between his lips.
'Don't think,' she said, 'let's just do.'
And they did.
The phone woke them at eight in the morning. Laura stretched a slender olive-brown arm across Tom to answer it. In the morning light her skin was as flawless as an infant's. She looked as if she had slept for twelve hours as opposed to three or four. He kissed her throat and she turned a lazy soot-black eye on him. His cock came instantly erect as she spoke into the phone.
'The joint stinks, daddy, but it didn't matter.'
Tom wasn't listening to what she was saying. He pulled her on top of him, his hands sinking into the satin-soft swell of her hips, his mouth caressing the delicate stem of her neck.
'I gotta tell you I cursed you for over an hour...'
He nudged the tip of his tool into the groove of her sex.
'...but I've been thanking you ever since.'
He slid up her in one smooth movement and she settled onto him with an imperceptible sigh.
'You were right, daddy. You always are. Oh!'
His hands were toying with her fabulous bum, cupping and separating the globes, ringing the honeyed circlet of her anus with a fingertip.
'You'd better talk to him yourself, daddy.'
He had one hand in her bush now, seeking her tiny pulsing clit. She held the phone to his head and the unmistakable voice of Ralph Simons filled his ears.
'Say, Tom, you're not married, are you?'
'No, I'm not.' What was the crazy old coot on about?
'A businessman ought to be married. You ought to settle down, son. Have a family.'
Laura began to kiss the corner of his mouth and the sharp points of her breasts burned into his chest as her belly rubbed against his. It was hard to concentrate on what Ralph was saying.
'My daughter loves England. Why don't you take her back with you? Just while I'm studying the contract.'
'But we have a deal, Ralph. You don't need to study the contract, just sign it!'
Laura was becoming agitated now, breathing hard into his shoulder, little shudders rippling through her as she ground her pubis into his.
'Things have changed, Tommy. We're not talking business now, we're talking family merger. Think about it, son.'
And Tom did think about it as Laura came in heaves and pants, her sinuous body slithering on top of his, her passion picking him up and sweeping him away into a shaking, quaking orgasm that rocked him to his bones.
It was a ridiculous idea. Quite insane. But there was something about this perverse and elegant beauty now slumbering on his chest that had turned Tom upside down. Maybe her father wasn't so crazy after all.
Chapter 43
The hostility rose from Amy Tooth like steam as she showed Petra into the cramped meeting room on the ground floor of The Primrose Court. Petra avoided the policewoman's belligerent gaze as she took her seat and waited for Tom. Claire had warned her that she would not be made welcome.'
Tom's appearance, however, wiped all other concerns from her mind. His face was drawn and hollow-eyed and his hands were shackled behind his back.
'Is that necessary?' demanded Petra of the blonde warder who ushered him in.
'Sorry, love,' she said. 'Sergeant Tooth's orders. She had a shit-fit when she heard he was allowed a visit. I daren't take 'em off.' And she slipped out of the room before Petra could protest further.
Petra wrapped her arms around Tom and hugged him tight. His body twitched and jumped in her embrace.
'You've got a fever,' she said.
'It's sexual frustration,' he whispered in her ear. Beneath the baggy grey jogging pants he wore she felt the solid bulge of an erection bump against her hip. 'You know how I've been since the accident. Those harpies work me up but won't give any relief.'
'You poor man!' She stroked the bulge.
'It's OK. I'm not telling them anything. Ooh!' He flinched at her touch.
'What's the matter?'
'The Tooth woman singed the hair off my balls with a cigarette lighter.'
'What!'
'I'm a bit sore in places but don't take your hand away. If we sit down would you mind just fondling me a little?'
'Wouldn't my mouth be better? I mean, if you're sensitive down there.'
'God, Petra, don't you tease me
too.'
'Don't worry. I'm going to suck you dry.'
'You're an angel.'
'I'm just being practical. I want to talk to a man who can think straight not someone with his brains in his balls.'
'I don't fucking believe it!'
The big globes of Meredith's breasts were shaking with passion and Tom couldn't take his eyes off them. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off them ten minutes earlier when she'd bounced to orgasm on his penis but now they wobbled with a different kind of emotion. Anger. Disbelief. The lust for revenge. He'd just told her that he'd married Laura Simons three days ago in Las Vegas.
She came at him with a champagne bottle, 130 pounds of nude and spitting fury. Her hair flew around her head in an auburn tangle and her tit flesh quivered as she aimed blows at his head. She looked magnificent. He took the force of the bottle on his arms and crushed her to him. She bit his neck.
He had known there would be no easy way to break the news to Meredith but he guessed that fucking her first had not been the most politic. The trouble was, she had been begging for it and she was too damned gorgeous to resist.
'Bastard! Bastard!' she spat into his face. 'How could you leave me here to flash my butt at Simons for two weeks while you're off shagging his daughter? How could you do it?'
Tom didn't answer. He should have told her at once that he'd fallen for Laura but she would never have consented to stick around and keep the old boy happy under those circumstances.
'And how could you breeze in here and take me to bed without mentioning that you married her?'
'I'm sorry, Meredith. I'm a bastard, I know. But I had to have you one last time.'
'You utter sod. I'll kill you for this.'
'Are you sure she said that?'
'Positive. I remember a lot more now, Petra. And the more I remember, the more suspects there are.'
Tom was looking less haggard already. The tension had eased from his face in direct proportion to the amount of spunk that had erupted from his balls. And there had been plenty of that, Petra could still taste it. She ran a friendly finger along the length of his shaft. Even detumescent he was an impressive size.
Their conversation followed on from one instigated at Spilling Grange in the rare quiet moments of a threesome with Eve. As they'd established, it seemed that every woman Tom had ever bedded in his past had grounds for pursuing a grudge against him. And now here was Meredith.
'What about your wife?' said Petra.
'Who?'
'This Laura person. I never knew you had a wife. I've worked with you for three years, Tom, and there's never been any mention of wives or ex-wives. Just fiancées. Like Marianne.'
'Oh yes. The one with the voice.'
'Yes, that one. My God, Tom, you're incredible. No wonder women are lining up to kill you.'
'Do you think Marianne might have pushed me then?'
'No. I think she's a little gold-digger who'll leave you alone now she's got her job at Black Raven. There's someone else though who deserves some decent treatment from you.'
'I know.' In her hand, Tom's cock suddenly swelled. 'I think about Eve all the time.'
Petra gave the thickening shaft a squeeze. 'You'd like her to be doing this to you, wouldn't you?'
Tom gave a sheepish grin, his red-tipped shaft bounding shamelessly in her hand.
'Close your eyes. Imagine Eve's here, with her big pink titties in your hands—'
'Oh yes!'
'—her wet mouth on yours—'
'Yes, yes!'
'—and her tight warm pussy round your cock!'
As Petra pumped the big tool in her fist, her other hand stole under her skirt. She wouldn't mind a little fun with the blonde nurse herself. Putting her head up her skirt and baring that pretty pink pussy and sliding her tongue up and down the plump-lipped notch. Sixty-nining with Eve on a bed and feeling those big succulent breasts press like hot pillows into her stomach as the nurse kissed her cunt and licked her clit and made her—
'OH!' yelled Tom.
'Oh yes!' screamed Petra.
—come...
Petra removed her hand from beneath her skirt, the fingers sticky with pussy juice; her other hand was sticky with spunk.
Shame flooded over her. She couldn't believe she had behaved like this in such a place! But Tom's smiling face washed away all other emotions. She was glad for his sake they had done it. She'd bring him off again if they got the chance. The poor man didn't have much else to look forward to - apart from his trial.
Five - Tried and Found Wanton
Chapter 44
'Makes you sick, doesn't it?' said the woman next to Marianne. They were standing in an overcrowded bookshop in the City, observing an author's signing session. Marianne had already conducted her interview for Gravitas with the man of the moment, Edward Timberland, author of Uncaging the Beast. Now she was watching a phenomenon she had thought extinct, a writer receiving homage from an adoring public.
'I love you, man,' said a youth in an anorak as he hesitantly pushed forward his copy of Beast for signature. The author, a rugged blond giant in a plaid shirt, rose to his feet and embraced the boy to applause from the queue, which now snaked out onto the pavement and round the block.
'Puke,' said Marianne's neighbour with a yawn of distaste, 'I've got another four days of this. Cystitis would be preferable.'
Marianne looked at her more closely. She couldn't have been much over twenty-five but she wore the world-weary air of one ten years older. She had remarkably pretty features, with beech-brown eyes and a neat turned-up nose, but her hair was in a tangle, her blouse was creased and her fingernails were bitten to the quick.
'I work for the publisher,' she said in response to Marianne's unspoken question. 'I'm handling Tree-Top Ted's publicity. God help me.'
'Surely it can't be that bad? He's a great success.'
'That's easy for you to say. You don't have to be by his side every waking hour - which includes a dawn work-out in the park so he can commune with nature. Not to mention fighting off his weedy fans. Would you believe that inside every one of these nerds there's a caveman trying to get out?'
Marianne surveyed the crush of admirers pushing around the table where Ted was autographing copies. They were all ages, some greying and flabby, others pink with adolescent acne. They wore grungy T-shirts and grubby jeans and suits shiny with daily use. Apart from the bulky copies of Ted's book clutched in their hands they had just one thing in common. They were all male.
'Just look,' said the publicist, 'two hundred men standing right in front of me and I don't fancy any of them.'
Marianne could see her point. Amongst the sea of squints, naff beards and receding hairlines there wasn't a face which stirred a flicker of interest in Marianne's libido. Except one...
'What about Ted? You're glued to his side all day, couldn't you stick a little closer at night?'
The girl shot Marianne the kind of look that suggested she'd hit a nerve. 'What's the point? His whole philosophy is based on conserving his vital juices.'
'I know,' said Marianne. 'What a waste.'
Marianne had Gerald Goldring to thank for the addition of Ted Timberland to her first Gravitas programme. It was officially listed as 'an investigation into the sexual self-help phenomenon' but known throughout Black Raven as 'the wankers' special'. At first Marianne had resisted Ted's inclusion on proprietorial grounds - i.e. she hadn't thought of it herself. The influence of Chastity Honeydew - whose cooperation had somehow been guaranteed by Philippe was, she maintained, sufficient to sustain the entire programme. But when Gerald had told her about Ted she had made a graceful retreat, earning approbation from Charles Mastiff as a 'team-player'.
What attracted Marianne's interest in Ted's beliefs was not his assertion that inside every bloodless, pre-programmed modern man there was a wild, hairy savage longing to ride into the sunset with a naked woman slung across his back. She was also indifferent to his all-male breast-beating session in the
woods when accountants and dentists threw off their uniforms of conformity and straddled tree trunks starkers, howling at the moon. As far as she was concerned guys on their own could freeze their balls off and behave like prats provided she wasn't obliged to attend. Which she wouldn't be, since her very female presence - so the Timberland philosophy went - would threaten the essential male fluids from which derived man's strength.
It was this aspect of Ted's thinking that intrigued Marianne. He believed that man drew mental and physical inspiration from hoarding his sex juices. His was a no-spunking regime. No sticky patches on the sheets, no sodden wads of Kleenex in the toilet bowl, no stained men's magazines under the bed. More to the point, there was no shooting off down a woman's throat or over her shaking tits or even - incredible to think - deep within the tight warm suction-valve of her pussy.
In Marianne's observation, this was a mode of behaviour completely foreign to every man she had ever known. Except Philippe. He had told her that, for the year before he had met her, he had conserved his sperm. Nowadays, of course, with his happiness in her hands, Philippe's juice spurted like oil from a well. 'It's fortunate you used to bank it, darling,' she'd say as she coaxed another gusher from his loins, 'you must have been saving it all up for me.'
The notion of Ted and his acolytes conserving their essential juices fascinated Marianne - intellectually, that is. She was not, after all, much interested in sex. But from the point of view of the presenter of Gravitas, there was no doubt the Timberland philosophy represented a rigorous intellectual challenge.
She took up the gauntlet with Gerald.
'So you've turned into a tree-hugger, have you?' she said as they stood in the queue in the Black Raven canteen. 'I can just see you out there under the stars in your loincloth dancing in the embers of the camp fire.'
'Ha, ha,' he said without mirth. 'I've had all this from my wife. You'll belt up if you know what's good for you, Marianne.' And he plonked a low-fat yoghurt on his tray with some venom.