Lust Under Licence (17 page)

For me
, thought Marianne.
He's in that state all because of me!
She extended a slender arm and yanked down the
elastic waist of his briefs.

His liberated
tool branched upwards from his loins as firm and solid as the bough
of a tree. She grasped it with both hands and fed the glistening
head between her lips.

Philippe
grunted with surprise as she thrust as much of him as she could
into her face. He tried to switch his mind into Honeydew mode and
think objectively, to observe the nature of physical response when
the body is aroused. To consider the reactions of nerve endings as
merely connections in an electric circuit. To analyse
cold-bloodedly the cause and effect of sexual stimuli...

But it was no
good. The sight of that mop of silver-blonde hair bobbing against
his belly, the knowledge that this elegant grey-eyed beauty was
gorging on his cock and the feel of her hot lips on his pulsating
stem was too much. With a howl of joy he shot a river of spunk
straight down her throat. It was the first time he'd come inside a
woman for nearly a year.

Marianne
clamped her mouth over him tight as he exploded, drinking down his
cream, determined not to miss a drop. She reflected that this was
the second time that day she'd swallowed a man's load. Maybe she
was getting to like it after all. Today was turning out to be full
of surprises.

But the best
surprise of all was yet to come for Marianne Matthews, the girl who
regarded sex as one of life's necessary evils. When Philippe
pressed his dark-cropped head into the fork of her slender thighs
she discovered she was in the hands - and tongue and lips - of a
cunnilingual expert. She was already on her way to her first orgasm
when the phone rang.

'I have a call
for you from Gerald Goldring,' said a bored female voice.

Gerald who? wondered Marianne as small ripples of sensation
flickered through her belly. Oh
him
- the other guy she'd sucked off today. Her new
boss.

'Hello,
darling,' came his oily voice down the line. 'I've been thinking we
ought to meet up tonight.'

'Why?' said
Marianne, pulling Philippe's face closer into her crotch.

'I've been
telling Sir Charles Mastiff what a find you are and he's desperate
to meet you. Eight o'clock at The Mount Morris Grand. He keeps a
suite there when he's in town.'

Philippe's
tongue was like a warm and friendly snake. It was deep inside her,
titillating all the pleasure points on the way to ecstasy.

'Sorry,
Gerald, I can't. I'm not working tonight for anybody.'

A note of anger crept into Gerald's polished tone. 'Look,
Marianne, Sir Charles is the man who allocates the budget. I've
told him how sensational you are in all
sorts
of ways. No one says no to Sir
Charles.'

'Tom Glass
might,' said Marianne, getting irritated now. 'My husband-to-be, if
you recall.' Why couldn't this prat get off the phone and let her
concentrate on what Philippe was now doing to her clit?

'Well, Glass
might indeed but I hear he's off his trolley and out of commission.
Get real, Marianne, you can't afford to say no. Your contract's not
signed yet.'

Marianne
breathed an anguished sigh, the rising tide of excitement suspended
for a moment. Philippe sensed her change of mood. He kissed her
thigh gently and ran a comforting hand up her spine.

'OK,' she
said, 'I'll see you there.' She twitched her pelvis in the
Frenchman's face, urging him to resume his caresses. He began to
eat her out in earnest.

'Excellent,'
brayed Gerald. 'By the way, I hope you haven't forgotten your
promise.'

'What?' Why
wouldn't this idiot hang up? She couldn't hold back much
longer.

'Your pretty
little arse, my darling. I'm on fire already just thinking about
it. You'll let me fuck it, won't you?'

'Oh God!'
shrieked Marianne as the riptide of orgasm raced through her. 'Oh
yes, yes, YES!'

'I'll look
forward to it then,' said Gerald and hung up.

Philippe
crawled up the bed and wrapped her in his arms. He rocked her
gently and stroked her hair while she recovered her breath. By
reflex she put her hand on his penis. It was like an iron bar
stretching across his belly. 'So you're engaged to be married,' he
said softly.

'Philippe,
darling,' she said, absent-mindedly stroking his shaft, 'before we
get carried away, I think we should have a serious talk.'

Whatever the
rumours, and the tabloids were full of them, Tom Glass had not come
off his trolley - though sometimes he felt as if he might. It was
nearly a month now since he had fallen into the street and lost
control of his life. And though he was getting back to normal he
knew the whole process was taking too long. He was still unable to
run his business empire and he was the subject of some kind of
crazy prosecution by the fanatic females of the Sex Police.

Thank God for
Eve, he thought for the umpteenth time as he sipped his afternoon
tea on the patio of Spilling Grange. She had devoted herself to him
completely since his accident, sleeping by his side at the hospital
in London and accompanying him to this luxurious nursing home in
the Leicestershire countryside.

In front of
him stretched a green expanse of lawn laid out with croquet hoops
and beyond lay a meadow full of grazing sheep where bunnies romped
at twilight. Around the old house curved a rippling trout stream
which meandered away into thick woods crisscrossed with sun-dappled
paths ideal for the strolling convalescent with a few hours to
kill. It was idyllic but Tom wasn't fooled. Sooner or later each
path came to a halt at the fence, ten foot high and topped with
barbed wire. Guards with dogs patrolled at night. Every visitor was
checked in and out at a security barrier. This was Spandau Spilling
and Tom was Rudolf Hess.

So thank God
for Eve, he said to himself again as he watched her walk across the
lawn, a spray of freshly gathered wild flowers in her hand. She was
a tall, sturdy girl and she looked good in a country setting. The
starched white blouse of her nurse's uniform was stretched tight
across her jiggling bust and her strong firm thighs undulated
beneath the navy blue of her skirt as she strode towards him. He
knew, from the memories that had returned to him, that he wouldn't
have fancied her in his past life. He would have dismissed her as
too big and gauche, not 'sophisticated' enough for him. But now he
knew better. He appreciated every glorious inch.

Of course it
was all bound up in his returning memories. The process of
reclaiming his past was somehow all about sex. Each snapshot of his
personal history framed a woman in his bed or on the floor or in
the garden or, well, almost anywhere. And not just one woman,
either, there had been many, in all sorts of combinations. And each
of these encounters had plunged him back in time as if on some
erotic Tardis. The dreams had seemed more real than the first time
around - if that were possible. He didn't understand it. He found
it frightening. Particularly because he didn't much like the person
who was revealed to him this way. He told Eve as much, each time he
woke from a trip into his past. He'd cling to her and confess and
she'd absolve him with her understanding words, her loving smile
and her magnificent, opulent body. Thank God indeed for Eve.

'Oh Tom,' she
said as she arranged her posy of flowers amongst the tea-time
crockery. 'Look at you!'

He realised
she was looking at his crotch. He grinned a sheepish grin. His cock
was sticking out of the fly of his pyjamas, the stalk stiff, the
helmet gleaming red. 'You've been thinking about your old
girlfriends again, haven't you?'

'No,' he said
truthfully, 'I've been thinking about you. Come here.'

'Oh no, Tom,
not now,' she protested even as she stepped close enough to his
chair for him to slide his hand up her smooth thigh.

'You're not
wearing any knickers,' he said, parting the fluffy hair of her bush
with his fingers and exploring the frill of her labia.

'You asked me
not to.' She gave a little moan as his fingers circled her
clitoris.

'Why not?' He
lifted the hem of her skirt with his other hand so he could see her
pussy as he toyed with it.

'So you could
feel me any time, you said.'

Her cunt was
like a flower, he thought, lifting its head to the sun and opening
its petals. Her fragrance filled his nostrils. 'You're not wearing
a bra either, are you?'

'You know I'm
not. You forbade me. So you can watch my tits bounce, you said.'
His fingers were sticky with her juice now. They made a squidgy
sound as he slipped them in and out of her slick vagina.

'I was
watching them sway as you walked towards me across the field. They
seem to move about of their own accord. As if they've got a life of
their own.'

'They're too
big.' She was rocking backwards and forwards from the hips, as if
trying to capture his entire hand in her snatch. He held his
fingers still and watched her movements quicken.

'Take them
out,' he said. 'Take off your blouse so I can see them
properly.'

'Oh no, Tom,
please. Someone might be watching.' Despite her protests her
fingers were already unfastening the buttons. She slipped the
blouse from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. 'There.
Satisfied?'

They probably
were too big, Tom reflected, even for her substantial build. The
huge white globes quivered in the sunlight, slung halfway to her
waist. What made them seem even larger was the smallness of her
nipples, tiny rose-pink buttons thrusting out from the centre of
the dimpled saucers of her areolae.

'I think
they're magnificent,' said Tom, his voice hoarse with desire. 'Play
with them for me.'

'Tom!'

'Lift them up
and squeeze them. Wobble them around. You know what I like,
Eve.'

She did
indeed. Her cheeks flushed bright pink but she did as she was told.
She shivered her shoulders and set the great tits dancing from side
to side. She took a breast in each hand, cupping them, lifting the
weight of flesh upwards and then letting them fall in a pink and
white shimmer. Without being asked, she lifted first one breast,
then the other to her mouth, bending her head so that she could
suck and tease the tiny nipple into a scarlet point. And all the
while her pelvis thrust back and forth as she humped shamelessly on
Tom's fingers.

'God, Tom
Glass, you're a beast,' she hissed, pinching her nipples with her
fingers. 'You really bring out the tart in me.' Her bottom lip was
swollen and her eyes were half shut.

Her thick fair
hair had come loose from its ponytail and now danced around her
head in a blonde cloud.

'You're no
tart,' he said. 'You're a magnificent, horny woman. You do it
because you love it, don't you?'

'Oh yes,' she
cried as he leant forward and placed his lips over her vagina. She
thrust her loins onto his mouth. A plump buttock in each hand, he
lapped at her eager cunt. She ground herself to ecstasy on his
face, moaning, 'Oh yes indeed oh gosh oh Christ YES!!'

The orgasm
slowly drained away leaving her weak and delirious. She rested her
weight on his shoulders, his head still buried beneath her skirt.
She felt exhausted and light-headed - especially as she knew she'd
have little time to recover before he'd want to bury his burning
erection somewhere in her tingling body.

She supposed
he was right, she did love it. But she knew she was indeed a tart.
After all, someone - not Tom - was paying her.

'They're at it
like rabbits down there, guv,' said Sergeant Amy Tooth as she
looked towards the rear of Spilling Grange from a window in the
west wing.

Inspector
Claire Quartermain stood up from her seat across the desk from Dr
Madeleine Flint and joined her junior colleague.

'My, my,' she
said as she took in the sight of Nurse Eve Biscuit wriggling half
naked on the fingers of patient Tom Glass, 'they don't care, do
they?'

'They think
they're on their own,' said Dr Flint.

'Obviously,'
said Claire.

'Cor, look at
those knockers swing,' enthused Amy. 'If she belts him round the
head with those he'll never get his memory back.'

'That'll do,'
said Claire, administering a severe pinch to her subordinate's left
buttock out of Madeleine's sight. 'Though that would be a nasty
setback, wouldn't it, doctor? All of this is taking long enough as
it is.'

The doctor's
mouth compressed to a thin line. 'As you know, Inspector, you
cannot accelerate the healing process.'

'Can't you?'
The policewoman turned to face her. 'I thought that's exactly what
you were doing. You said you could speed up his recovery with your
wonder drug. You promised me you'd slip him some extra.'

Madeleine
Flint sighed. 'I did increase the dosage, it's true, but I'm not
sure the result isn't counterproductive.'

'What do you
mean?'

'I mean that
the more he takes, the more he remembers.

Instead of
just recalling the significant sexual moments of his life and using
them as stepping stones to recovery, he's now reliving many
insignificant encounters as well.'

Claire
Quartermain cursed. 'You mean he now remembers every time he got
his leg over with one of his pop singers fifteen years ago?'

'Not every
time.'

'Just as well,
eh, guv?' said Amy. 'We'll be drawing our pensions by the time he's
finished otherwise.'

Claire shot
her a look of pure venom. It was all very well for Amy to laugh,
she didn't have Gossamer Hawk breathing down her neck. Yesterday's
meeting with the Prosecutor was too fresh an encounter for Claire
to find the present situation amusing.