Lust Under Licence (4 page)

Tom's mind was racing. He took in the fuchsia-pink summer
jacket that Silver-blonde was slipping off her shoulders and noted
the insignia on the breast pocket. The report of his accident in
the
Dog
came back
to him. This must be the Badger TV weather girl. His
fiancée.

'Marianne,' he said, holding out his arms.
I must be fucking her!
he thought with
glee.

'Darling,' she
cried and fell into his embrace.

Nurse Biscuit
edged out of the door.

'Thank God, you're all right,' murmured Marianne into Tom's
neck as she gave him small perfumed kisses. 'I mean, you
are
all right, aren't you?
You still have lots of wires and tubes and things sticking into
you.'

She
disentangled herself from him gently as if suddenly aware he was
fragile.

'Well, I did
fall ten storeys,' he said. 'I can't say I'm back to normal. I'm
having trouble remembering things. I don't know how I fell, for
example, or anything that led up to it.'

'How
convenient.' The smile had slipped from Marianne's face.

'I know the
papers are still stirring things but that's their business. Those
bastards are out to shaft everybody.'

'Quite.' Her
penetrating grey eyes had moved from his face and were now focused
elsewhere on his body. He had the feeling that she was making her
own assessment of the damage he had sustained.

'Why,' she
asked at length, 'have you got a hard-on?'

It was a good
question. The tower between his legs was plain as a pike-staff
beneath the cotton sheet.

A dream bubble
burst in Tom's head, bringing with it a vivid impression of Rosie's
silky thighs muffling his ears and the coral pink folds of her fig
in his face. But he said the only thing that was acceptable in the
circumstances.

'I'm just
pleased to see you, Marianne.'

'Are you
really? I was beginning to think you weren't. You haven't asked one
thing about me.'

It was at this
point, Tom realised later, that he could have come clean. He could
have told her the reason for his distracted manner. But how do you
tell your fiancée that you don't recall ever seeing her before in
your life? Especially when she's sitting on the side of your bed
running her fingers over your thunderously erect tool.

'God, it's
enormous,' said Marianne, pushing the sheet down his thighs to
bring his cock and balls fully into the light. 'I don't remember
ever seeing it quite so big.'

'Really?' Tom
wanted to ask her precisely when she had last seen it and what they
had done together. Were they a long-standing partnership joined by
a well-established intimacy? Or a hot new liaison who fucked like
rabbits whenever they got the chance? It was an intriguing
situation.

Marianne had
both hands on him now, rolling his balls in her palm and slicking
his foreskin back and forth across the purple helmet of his glans.
She lowered her long and graceful neck and slipped her cool lips
over the burning head of his prick.

'Mmm yes,'
breathed Tom and thrust his pelvis upwards into her face.

She raised her
lips from his straining tool and licked him. 'Have you,' she said
between licks, 'thought any more about the Black Raven arts
slot?'

Tom stared at
her. Her long pink tongue trailed cunningly across his knob,
teasing him, promising more.

'Well?'

'I'm sorry,
Marianne, I told you I was having a little trouble remembering
things.'

'I don't see
how you can have forgotten something so important to me, Tom. You
know I've had it up to here with being a weather girl. I've got
much more to give the TV world than my sunny smile and perky
manner. It's like being a fucking Barbie doll. And I'm pissed off
with wearing pink.'

She was
getting worked up, Tom noted with alarm. Her long red fingernails
were digging into the tender skin of his scrotum just this side of
pain.

'What's Black
Raven?'

'Black Raven,
Mr Mogul, is a television company that you happen to own. They need
a presenter for their new arts programme and, apart from being your
wife-to-be, I'm bright, I'm beautiful and I'm sure-as-hell
available.'

There was a
silence after this outburst. Marianne had withdrawn her hands from
Tom's loins and his cock lay twitching in frustration on his belly.
He was fed up. He rather fancied wielding some of this power he was
supposed to possess. Starting now.

'OK,
Marianne,' he said, 'I shall talk to Black Raven within the next
twenty-four hours. Your career is at the top of my agenda.' That
sounded good at any rate.

'In the
meantime,' he continued, noting with satisfaction a softening of
her expression, 'I'd like a demonstration that you really are
available. If you don't melt down my erection within the next ten
minutes you can return to Badger and spend the rest of your
professional life predicting ridges of high pressure.'

Marianne's face set hard and for a second Tom thought those
scarlet talons of hers were about to fence for his cheek. Then she
clapped a hand to her mouth and made a low gurgling sound, like the
rattle of pebbles in the rushing water of a brook. It was a most
seductive laugh. She probably
was
wasted on the weather.

'Very good,'
she said at last. 'You really had me going for a moment. I love it
when you pretend to be a ruthless tycoon. It turns me on.'

She got off
the bed and kicked off her shoes, unzipped her skirt and threw it
on the chair. Below the waist she wore just a scrap of thin
turquoise material. The prominent mound of her pubis bulged against
the cotton. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her
panties and lowered them an inch.

'Shall I?' she
breathed. 'Do you want to look, darling?' Tom's cock was beating a
tattoo on his stomach in an agony of frustration. He tried to keep
the impatience out of his voice.

'Time's
running out, Marianne. Drop your knickers or it's back to Badger
for good.'

'Oh you sod,'
she said and pushed the thin strip of cotton down her thighs,
laying bare the long slit of her vagina just six inches from Tom's
face.

Perhaps it was
the slimness of her hips or the length of her elegant body but the
pouting sex delta at the junction of her smooth thighs seemed
enormous. Or maybe it was because between her legs she was as
hairless as a clam. At any rate, the outer lips of her pussy were
unfurled to reveal a glistening succulence within and at the top of
her crack her swollen clit seemed to sit up and beg. The breath
caught in Tom's throat. This was a cunt in need of serious
attention.

Marianne took
a small step forward, pushing her pelvis into Tom's face. He
flicked out his tongue. She groaned. He sank his hands into the
apple-cheek rounds of her bottom and pulled her onto his mouth. She
made a throaty noise as his lips found her clitoris and dropped a
hand to his groin.

For two
minutes there was no conversation, just moans and grunts and the
rude slick-slick of fingers and tongue on slippery genitals and the
agitation of Marianne's feet as they squirmed on the polished
wooden floor. She came with a sharp cry on Tom's tongue and then
again as he pushed a finger between her buttocks and up into her
arsehole.

'Christ,' she
muttered, breaking away from his embrace, 'it's no good, I've got
to have it up me.'

She climbed
onto the bed and straddled his loins, carefully avoiding the tubes
still attached to his flesh. There was a metal hoist above the bed
and she took hold of it with one hand while the other aimed his
swollen member at the hungry nook between her thighs.

The hoist
could have been specifically designed for this very activity. Given
the nature of the exclusive medical facilities supplied by
Partridge Place this would not have surprised either Tom or
Marianne. But for the moment they were only concerned with the
friction of cock in cunt, with the jostling of slim white thighs on
muscular hairy ones and with the approaching moment of release as
the spunk gathered in Tom's balls and Marianne's hairless pussy
wept in anticipation.

At the door,
her face pressed tight to the small crack which afforded her a
perfect view, Nurse Biscuit gazed on in wonder.

And in a dark
room on the floor above, a thin-lipped Dr Flint made notes in a
small black book. In front of her, among a bank of television
monitors, flickered the image of an ambitious TV weather girl
suspended on a well-known businessman's cock.

Petra was not
much of an expert with a video camera.

'It doesn't
matter,' said Cassie. 'Just get an establishing shot of what we're
up to and then zoom in on my face when things hot up. You press
this little red button here.'

Philippe was
not happy about the filming. He lolled against the doorframe
dressed in a purple tracksuit with a towel round his neck. Petra
had often admired the size of Cassie's luxury kitchen but somehow
Philippe's presence seemed to shrink the room. He was so big his
head looked like it might graze the ceiling if he stood up
straight. His black hair was cropped to his scalp and his jaw was
square like a comic-book hero. Tortoise-shell spectacles gave him a
professorial air - a professor of muscle.

'You will keep
my face out of ze shot,' he said to Petra.

'Don't worry,
Philippe,' said Cassie, 'this is just for my personal use. I've
asked Petra to film the exercises so Chastity can provide an
insight into my reactions.'

Philippe
didn't look altogether mollified, thought Petra, but the mention of
Chastity's name put an end to his objections.

'OK,' he said,
flinging off his tracksuit to reveal an awe-inspiring physique
barely contained by a canary-coloured singlet and blue jockey
shorts. 'Let's get to it.'

'Don't you
find him a bit intimidating?' muttered Petra as she followed Cassie
out of the room but her friend did not appear to hear. It was
evident she was under his spell.

Petra had
expected the action to take place in Cassie's bedroom but to her
surprise she found herself in another room which was kitted out as
a gym. A rowing machine and an exercise bicycle stood in one
corner, dusty from disuse she noted, and a large rubber mat lay on
the floor. Cassie and Philippe took up positions facing one another
and, to the blare of a disco beat, began what looked like a series
of aerobic exercises.

'
Allez, allez!
' yelled Philippe as Cassie bounced up and down, her red hair
flying and her substantial breasts jingling.

Petra aimed
the camcorder and filmed a few feet. There didn't seem much point
in continuing, however - surely Cassie didn't want a record of
this?

Then the music
slowed and the pair of them began to stretch their limbs in a
languorous fashion and make balletic arabesques.

'
Ah, oui
,'
growled Philippe, 'more slowly now. Ze blood it is flowing and we
must listen to ze needs of ze body.'

Petra had
trouble stifling a laugh but Cassie's rapt expression reminded her
of her obligations. The redhead looked a trifle daft, twirling
around on one foot in her bra and pants, but there was no doubt she
was giving her all.

In one
surprising movement Philippe seized Cassie around the waist and
lifted her off the floor as if she were a two-year-old. He reversed
her in mid-air and suddenly she was upside down clinging to the
solid trunk of his body. Petra pressed the little red button - this
was more like it.

In this position, Cassie's legs were around the Frenchman's
neck and her arms encircled his waist, both of them nose to crotch
in a standing
soixante-neuf
. 'How appropriate,'
thought Petra, now finding her attention fully engaged.

Beyond holding
a half-naked eleven-stone woman upside down, Philippe didn't appear
to be doing much. But below his waist his pupil was busy and, as
she glimpsed the thick wand of cock flesh that thrust from his
briefs into Cassie's face, Petra felt a stab of desire. Not that
there was any chance of her friend passing this particular baton -
half of it was already down her throat.

Up top,
Philippe was now using his mouth on the pantied crotch in his face.
Petra marvelled at the way he first sucked Cassie through the
material and then eased aside the sodden gusset using just his lips
and tongue. Was this part of the famous Honeydew technique? she
wondered, or simply innate Gallic flair? Whatever it was, she knew
that it would be beyond her lover, Kelvin - more's the pity.

The pair of
them had now subsided to the floor and Philippe was teasing
Cassie's exposed pussy lips with his tongue, licking the length of
her long, auburn-haired slit and then probing the tip into her
gooey depths.

'Oh God,'
Petra heard Cassie groan as she responded to this treatment. 'I'm
going for my first - ah! Oh yes!' and her creamy buttocks began to
quiver in Philippe's broad hands. Cassie's legs opened and closed
in agitation around the Frenchman's neck. A lesser man would surely
have wilted under the pincering of those strong thighs but Cassie's
wild throes had no effect on his gentle lick, lick, licking along
her swollen labia. 'AAH!' screamed Cassie and twitched to a
climax.

They rolled
apart and Petra was amazed to see that Cassie was consulting her
watch and scribbling on a piece of paper.

'Have to keep
a record,' she explained to Petra as she shucked off her wet
panties and threw off her bra. Her breasts were full and pendulous,
with long scarlet points that stood up like loganberries. Petra had
never seen nipples like those before. What would they taste like?
she wondered, shocked that she would think such a thing. But shock
seemed an inappropriate reaction given the circumstances.