Lust Under Licence

by Noel Amos

  Her big beautiful breasts were bare in his hands now and he stroked them with reverence, savouring the rolling weight of their familiar mass.

  'God, I've missed your kind of nursing, Eve,' he breathed as he lowered his mouth to take a stiff puckered nipple between his lips.

  'So that's what you're after,' she said, feeding her breast to him and stroking the hair from his brow.

  He lifted his head. 'That's not all,' he said, his fingers now busy at the zip on her jeans and tugging the thick denim over her hips. She found herself clawing at his belt.

  'What else then?'

  Her jeans were down her thighs now, her knickers too. They hung from one foot then dropped to the floor.

  'I need round the clock care. Twenty-four-hour personal attendance.'

  His shirt was unbuttoned, his trousers kicked off, his briefs yanked down to spill his cock and balls into her groping hands.

  'You don't want a nurse,' she panted as, breathless with want, she jammed the big purple head of his penis into the welcoming mouth of her vagina.

  His hands reached beneath her, found the full creamy smooth orbs of her buttocks, and thrust.

  'OH!' she cried.

  His pulsing tool was deep within her, her legs wrapped around his waist, their bodies wedged together in the small space as close as they could get. Their hips undulated together, their pelvises danced, their pubic bones rub-rub-rubbed in urgent need.

  She unglued her lips from his. 'You don't want a nurse,' she repeated, 'you want a body slave.'

  'Could be,' he said, now slowing the pace and spearing into her deliberately. 'What I'm really after is a wife.'

  Eve went rigid. There was a rising tide in her veins and bells began to hammer in her head.

  'You've got a wife,' she breathed, 'or will have. Haven't you forgotten Marianne?'

  'I sacked her today.' His cock thrust faster and faster now, driving them to the edge. 'The situation's vacant.'

  'Oh God,' she groaned, as the first ripples of orgasm washed over her.

  'So will you take the job?' he whispered.

  Her loins spasmed out of control as the wave broke and carried her away and the words came tumbling in a stream from her lips.

  He smiled as he came too, the sounds of her excitement echoing from far off.

  'Yes oh yes oh yes,' she cried. 'Yes, Tom, YES!'

  Chapter 54

  Petra was euphoric as she took her place amongst the audience in the Black Raven studio. So far it had been a fabulous day.

  That morning the confrontation with the Judge at The Primrose Court had gone more smoothly than she could have hoped for. As the first echoes of Kelvin's secret recording rang round her office, Lady Harmony Sharp's face was a picture. Disbelief, outrage, embarrassment - these were all evident but one other emotion burned brightest of all. Fear.

  Judge Sharp turned Tom loose at once, even before she marched into court and abandoned the proceedings. The tumult of surprise and disappointment from the spectators overrode even the Judge's gavel. Gossamer Hawk's face turned to thunder and Petra laughed out loud. She knew that later, when she heard the reason for this unexpected reverse, Prosecutor Hawk would also wear the face of fear.

  The afternoon party at Glass Mountain had not been planned but there was no way to contain the explosion of excitement once Tom's appearance lit the fuse. Even the most disgruntled employee was keen to piss the day away, glass in hand, and contemplate the future now it was evident the boss was free, sane and eager to get back to business.

  Petra had not worried when Tom slipped out of the celebrations but later, when his car was reported missing and he could not be found, she'd become anxious. Then he called her and they talked for quite a while. He'd finished by making her a suggestion that still made her smile. She'd said yes, how could she refuse? No one had ever asked her to be a best man before...

  Now Petra sat in the invited Gravitas audience between her lover and her best friend, though (she realised with a forbidden frisson) the terms might equally well be applied to them both. Her body shivered with excitement. Kelvin had come back to her like a knight in shining armour to rescue her from peril and like a demon lover equipped with new skills to drive her wild - as he had done most of last night. She squeezed his thigh and grinned at Cassie on her other side. She was going to remember this day for the rest of her life.

  The programme began with an introduction by Marianne dressed in her clinging black sheath dress that emphasised as much as it concealed. The topic was sexual self-help. There was a school of thought, headed by Gerald Goldring, that held that such subject matter was unworthy of a flagship arts programme like Gravitas. But the prospect of some decent viewing figures had long ago swayed all judgements. After all, what was the point of having a sexy new presenter like Marianne if you weren't going to talk about sex?

  So Marianne began the lead-in to two filmed segments (of authors Timberland and Honeydew) which was then to be followed by the meat of the programme - the studio discussion.

  'There's no doubt we have sex on the brain,' she said in her sly gurgle of a voice. 'Magazines, newspapers, even television programmes like this, are full of sexual material. Our bookshelves are packed with advice on how-to, when-to, and what-to-do-when-I-don't-want-to. But are we actually doing it at all? Our programme tonight is about two gurus of contemporary sexuality and their directly opposed philosophies. Their books are battling it out at the very top of the bestseller lists and they will shortly be in the studio to fight it out in person - though not literally of course, we hope. This is what they had to say when I spoke to them earlier in the week.'

  'Hunk-ee,' breathed Cassie in appreciation as the rugged blue-eyed face of Edward Timberland beamed out of the TV monitor just in front of them. 'He's a beaut.'

  'Relax,' muttered Petra. 'He's the one who doesn't believe in doing it.'

  'Be quiet,' came an impatient whisper from the other side of the central aisle. Petra had noticed earlier that the audience was divided. Around her the watchers were for the most part female - smart attractive women brimming with purpose. Across the aisle the seats were packed with men, a nondescript bunch of all ages, none of whom had caught Petra's eye. It was this section that sat, rapt, as Ted Timberland espoused the virtues of self-reliance, life in the raw and semen-retention.

  'Shit a brick,' muttered Cassie, 'don't ask me to date one those guys.'

  'Will you please be quiet,' said the same voice as before, an obnoxious authoritarian bray. It came from a diminutive, pinstriped figure who was glaring at them in the semi-darkness.

  'That little pipsqueak's getting on my tits,' said Cassie.

  'Ignore him,' said Petra. 'Look, here's Chastity.' There was a murmur of approval from the women as the blonde Californian, dressed in work-out clothes of skintight Lycra, appeared on screen. At the same time, Petra became aware of a hiss of loathing from across the aisle.

  'Jezebel,' cried the pinstriped one as Chastity began to describe the pivotal role of the orgasm in her work-out regime.

  'Painted whore!' shouted a hairy giant in an anorak.

  The men were shushed energetically by the women and some of Chastity's pearls of wisdom were lost in the commotion.

  Kelvin chuckled. 'I see we're in for a lively studio discussion.

  Petra squeezed his hand in contentment, in her present mood she didn't mind one bit.

  'Are you sure you want to watch this?' said Tom as Eve got out of bed to turn on the television. Her rear view was delectable, the pale ovals of her buttocks flexing and shifting as she moved. And when she bent down to pick up the remote control Tom longed to freeze-frame her in that position, just so he could savour the flowing outthrust of her hips, the swollen curve of her cheeks - and the pouting lips of her pink pussy smiling up at him in flagrant invitation. Though they had done little apart from feast on each other's flesh from the moment he had arrived, he was hungry for her again.

  'Of course I want to watch it,' she said as she turned
back to the bed, her big breasts billowing, the blonde thatch between her thighs winking at him. Really, the view from the front was just as intoxicating.

  'OK,' said Tom as she climbed into the small bed beside him. 'Just as long as I never hear you say, at any time in our future life, that on the night of our engagement I made you watch my ex-fiancée on TV.'

  She laughed and snuggled into his arms. 'She's got nothing to do with it. I want to watch Chastity Honeydew. I'm thinking of doing her regime.'

  Tom groaned. 'If you're going on some celery-and-wheat-germ diet with daily aerobics the wedding's off. Now I'm at liberty I want to enjoy life, I don't want some fitness fascist in my bed.'

  Eve slid a companionable hand around Tom's erection and gently slipped the foreskin back and forth across the glans. 'That's a pity,' she said, 'because I'm relying on you for support.'

  'Hey, Fiona.' Gloria Just was sitting at the reception desk in the basement of The Primrose Court, flicking through the newspaper.

  Fiona had her head buried in her book. She looked up.

  'Your favourite writer is on the telly,' said Gloria.

  'Who?'

  '"Morticia Chekhov, author of The Piercing of Patsy Punishment takes part in a discussion about sexual self-help techniques" - that's what it says here.'

  'Ooh!' A squeal of excitement broke from Fiona's lips. 'That's the one I'm reading now!'

  'I know that, you dozy slut, that's why I mentioned it. The programme's just started.'

  'Quick, let's watch it in the day room. There's nothing going on here.'

  'Too true,' said Gloria. It was a quiet night in the cells. In fact it wasn't much fun at all now Tom Glass had gone.

  She followed Fiona out of the door, watching the twitch of her mini-skirt and the eager swish of her long thin legs as she raced ahead. Quite why she was in such a rush Gloria couldn't fathom. It wasn't as if she had much to learn about sexual self-help. The way the girl practised, she had to be an expert already.

  Chapter 55

  In the Black Raven studio, Marianne Matthews' moment had come. As the cameras closed in on her sparkling grey eyes and sumptuous smiling mouth, she bubbled with excitement. The stage-fright that had beset her before transmission had melted into her blood, giving her a transfusion of energy. This was her first important programme, she was chairing a live discussion on a hot topic and the studio was buzzing. She just knew this was going to be a night to remember.

  There were four guests on the platform with her. On her right, the women: Chastity and the novelist Morticia Chekhov. On her left, the men: poet Garnet O'Dread and Ted Timberland. The warring writers sat out on opposing flanks, facing their supporters; Marianne was in the middle, orchestrating the discussion - such as it was. Each of the speakers confined themselves to statements of their position that allowed little room for dialogue.

  'To be honest with you,' Garnet was saying, 'I find nothing of any interest whatsoever in either of these books. And the idea that they address pertinent issues of our time is frankly laughable.' Marianne smiled at him warmly and urged him to continue - which he did, rubbishing all parties in his deadpan Irish drone as was his habit. He was on every arty-farty talk show going, his function being to stick the knife into the subject in question from a position of moral and intellectual superiority. It was a very successful pose. He never went out of fashion.

  'But Garnet,' said Marianne, deciding to throw a spanner in the works, 'where do you stand personally on sex?'

  'Basically I think that the trophy-hunting philosophy in sexual matters, be it in collecting orgasms or in stockpiling a semen bank—'

  'That's not what I meant,' interrupted Marianne. 'What I meant was, do you do it?'

  There was a pause. For the first time in broadcasting history, the Irish poet was silent.

  'Perhaps I should put my cards on the table,' continued Marianne. 'I, personally, do it lots, and if I haven't got a partner I'll do it on my own. So what do you do?'

  Garnet looked from side to side, his eyes spinning in his head like marbles. It was evident that he hoped, for once, to hear the sound of someone else's voice. It did not come.

  'Well, I, er... I think this is a rather personal matter.'

  'Surely not in the context of our discussion,' said Marianne. 'I'm sure everyone in our audience would be prepared to state their position.' She turned to the audience. 'Wouldn't you?'

  The shout of 'Yes' was deafening.

  'You see.' She smiled at him in triumph. 'Come on, Garnet. You wouldn't want your reticence to be misinterpreted as intellectual cowardice, would you?'

  The blood drained from the poet's face. 'If you must know,' he spat at her, 'I abhor all matters to do with the procreative process. I think that sexual behaviour is the curse of creation and I personally would be happy to see the human race die out with my generation. I particularly detest pretty perfumed women with their breasts loose and bare under tight dresses who try and pollute the purity of my thought processes.'

  'Like me, you mean?'

  'Yes, yes. Just like you. Look at yourself, all flirty-flirty eyes and swishy-swishy legs and your nipples poking through your, dress. You're disgusting!'

  Marianne glowed with inner satisfaction. She'd got the little bastard. She gave the camera her sultriest smile as she said, 'Now I think we know where Garnet O'Dread is coming from. The great poet has just revealed himself to be a complete wanker.'

  'Gosh,' said Eve, 'she's brilliant. And she's gorgeous. Why ever did you split up?'

  'Because she didn't love me and I didn't love her,' said Tom. 'If you want to turn it off that's fine with me.'

  'Oh no, I'm enjoying it. I want to hear what Chastity has to say. And take your hand away from there, I don't want to be distracted.'

  'I'm only trying to help. I thought this was all about having lots of orgasms.'

  'Well, I suppose so but, ooh, must you?'

  'Yes. Slide your beautiful bum onto my lap. If we're going to watch television on the night of my liberation from a dank and dreary prison cell I'd like to put my cock somewhere warm and comfortable.'

  'In here?'

  'Mmm yes. That's exactly where I had in mind.'

  'And what about you, Morticia, what's your preference?' Marianne had switched her attack to the novelist. She was really punching now, she thought, nobody would ever again mistake her for a weather girl after this.

  Before she replied, the writer removed her horn-rimmed spectacles and met Marianne's gaze. The look in those almond-shaped eyes said that she was equal to any challenge.

  'Since you ask,' said Morticia, 'I like to watch.'

  'You mean you're a voyeur?'

  'Oh yes. All writers are voyeurs in their way. As the author of erotic stories I like people to perform for me sexually. It gives me great pleasure. It's also excellent research.'

  'And you attain orgasm just by watching other people?' asked Marianne, wondering just how far she should push things.

  'Don't be silly,' replied the novelist. 'I need proper stimulation in the right quarters.'

  'You mean self-stimulation.'

  'Not necessarily, though I don't like other people to touch me.'

  Marianne was lost but she was determined to pin this superior bitch down.

  'That doesn't make sense.'

  'Certainly, it does. I'll show you. Just hold this.' Morticia placed the end of a thin gold chain in Marianne's hand. It appeared to be attached to the woman's clothing. 'Now just tug it gently. Mmm - ooh - that's right. If you kept that up I assure you it would give me exquisite pleasure.'

  Marianne looked at the chain in her hand. 'You mean the other end of this is attached somehow to your body?'

  'That's right, my dear. It runs directly to the pins pierce my nipples.'

  'Aah!' Marianne shrieked and dropped the chain. There was a gasp from the audience and some nervous laughter.

  Chastity reached across Morticia and took hold of the sparkling gold links. 'Allow me, honey,' she purre
d, 'us sophisticated women have to stick together.'

  Marianne stared glassy-eyed at the thin glinting chain which, she could now see, ran from Chastity's fingers into the dark shadows of cleavage revealed in the bodice of the writer's black jacket. In that alluring ravine shone more metal and Marianne's stomach lurched. She was turned off and turned on all at once.

  But now was no time to dwell on her feelings, she had to remain in control.

  'Let's get this clear,' she said. 'If Chastity pulls on that chain will it excite you sexually?'

  'Oh yes!' breathed Morticia, her eyelids half shut, her bosom rising and falling as Chastity set up a gentle sawing motion on the golden thread. Marianne could picture long dark nipples, engorged and erect, skewered through with a long gold pin...

  'Look at this degrading exhibition!' boomed a voice from the other side of the platform. Tree-Top Ted had broken his silence at last. 'See what corrupt and immoral behaviour these perverted females are capable of! Beware, you men, of the lascivious exhibitions of whores!'

  'Hear, hear!' called out Pinstripe.

  'Filthy tarts!' yelled Anorak.

  Other cries of protest rose from the men in the audience while the women hissed and called out in turn.

  'Belt up, wimps!' shouted a tiny blonde in front of Petra.

  Her friend, a more substantial girl with freckled shoulders in a thin summer frock, pointed across the aisle and cried, 'Wankers!'

  Throughout the tumult Marianne was aware that, by her side, Morticia was breathing heavily, her eyes shut, her face turned upwards, her mouth agape. Suddenly she gasped out loud, 'OH!' and 'OH - OH - OH!' in a breathy, rhythmic shout.

  In the audience the commotion died. All eyes were on the novelist as she whinnied and snorted, shaking her long dark hair from side to side, her bosom rising and falling. The thin gold chain was stretched taut from her swollen cleavage to the slender hand of Chastity Honeydew. Tug, tug, went the chain, 'OH - OH!' cried Morticia. Then 'OHHH!' as her entire body shook and her upturned face was wreathed in beatific release. The novelist had come off on camera. She leaned over to Chastity and kissed her on the cheek.