Lust Under Licence (18 page)

Gossamer had
laid matters on the line. The recently established Primrose Court
had not found universal favour - which wasn't much of a surprise in
Claire's opinion, though she did not venture it. Too many of its
victims had been nonentities: middle managers with wandering palms,
dinosaurs on the verge of retirement who weren't worth reforming,
and so on. What was required, according to Gossamer, was the public
vilification of a youthful captain of industry. Put a man like
Glass in the dock, she had said, and you put The Primrose Court on
the map.

As things
stood they could probably stitch Glass up with no problems. However
there was no point in bringing to book a politically incorrect
business mogul when he had no memory of his crimes. 'We're not
Stalinists,' Gossamer had said when Claire had ventured to suggest
that it didn't matter what Glass remembered. 'We must expose the
whole man in all his ghastly chauvinism and force him to recant.
Then we'll make a real impact on the male bastions of power.'

This kind of
talk made Claire uncomfortable. She was just a pragmatic
policewoman and she'd go a long way to avoid starry-eyed idealists
like Gossamer. Unfortunately Gossamer had a lot of clout. A zealot
with power - just who you didn't want for a boss. And right now she
was demanding Tom Glass's nuts on a platter.

'So how much
does he remember now?' said Claire to Madeleine.

The doctor
consulted her notes. 'He's just taken over Chas Cross's company,
Euphoria, and become a millionaire at the age of twenty-four.'

'Blimey,' said
Amy, 'how did he manage that?'

'Shani and the
Shagbags had six number ones in a year and two platinum albums.
Euphoria had been in trouble and the company had such desperate
cash-flow problems they couldn't pay Glass his royalties on time.
Cross let Glass buy him out.'

'With his own
money?' said Claire.

'Basically,
yes. The real story was that Cross suddenly lost his grip. He
became besotted with one of the Shagbags and his business went to
pot. Glass took advantage. Here's Nurse Biscuit's report.'

Madeleine
pushed a folder across the desk. 'You could also look at the
videos.'

'What videos?'
said Amy.

'We've got
recording equipment in his room. So far there's about five hundred
hours of material. We can use it to corroborate Nurse Biscuit's
testimony and vice versa.'

'I wouldn't
mind looking at some of those videos,' said Claire.

'I see no
objection provided they are logged out.' Madeleine pointed to a
bookcase overflowing with cassettes. 'They're completely unedited.
You'll have to fast forward through a lot of, er, activity between
Glass and Nurse Biscuit.'

'Of course,'
said Claire. 'We'll ignore all that, won't we, Amy? It's of
absolutely no interest to us at all.'

Downstairs, in
Tom Glass's room, Nurse Eve Biscuit was oiling her big breasts
unaware that a concealed camera was watching her every move.

Tom was
watching too as she slowly poured aromatic flower essence onto the
upturned jellies of her chest and smoothed the lotion into every
pore. Tom stood by the bed, breathing hard, his cock twitching in
impatience as Eve's little fingers teased her nipples to firm peaks
and smoothed under and over the big rounds, setting the flesh
wobbling deliciously.

'Now you,' she
said, beckoning him closer and slicking the lubricant up and down
the broad spear of his distended penis.

He straddled
her chest and laid his cock in the valley between her pink and
glistening mountains. She grasped one in each hand and folded the
warm flesh over his aching member, squeezing her bosom in from the
sides until his barrel was completely enveloped. He braced himself
on hands and began to shaft up and down that delightful passage. On
the upthrust his empurpled glans speared up from her cleavage and
she bobbed her head to lick the gaping eye of the shiny helmet
before it slid back down her slippery valley.

The ritual of
the tit-fuck was well established between the pair of them.

As they amused
each other in this fashion they talked. It wasn't uplifting
conversation - in a general sense, that is, though they found it
stimulating. It concerned the pleasure they took in each other's
body - the shape, the size, the feel, and so forth. Comparisons
were made with others and, in particular, their suitability for the
precise activity in which they were engaged. Dr Madeleine Flint, it
was agreed, would be too slender of bosom to provide much comfort
for a lusty tool like Tom's; and Eve's last boyfriend, so she said,
had been so diminutive that his cock would have been lost forever
had they ever tried to do it this way.

As ever, when
discussing the matter, Tom would conclude that Eve provided the
most exquisite, the most perfect and probably the most unbeatable
tit-fuck in the entire world. This comment always pleased Eve and
led her to greater activity with her hands and tongue. The
whispered endearments became more obscene and less coherent. Soon,
in fact, Tom was unable to utter anything at all beyond 'Ooh' and
'Oh yes' and finally, 'I'm coming', at which point he inundated her
face and neck and chest with a river of spunk.

As always, Eve
rubbed the cream from his cock lovingly into her tits, soothing the
abused flesh, laughing up at him with a sparkle in her eye. And a
hunger, too, for it was her turn now and she was savouring what she
would have him do to her next.

And, unknown
to them both, the camera in the ceiling recorded every thrilling
moment.

Marianne arrived at The Mount Morris Grand in disarray. Her
face was flushed, her silver-blonde mane was uncombed and her
clinging black jersey sheath plainly showed that beneath it she
wore no underwear. Nevertheless she looked fabulous, she had the
air of a well-fucked woman - which she was. Every eye in the
cocktail lounge turned in her direction as she made her way to the
table occupied by Gerald and a lean, craggy-faced gentleman in a
dinner jacket - Sir Charles Mastiff. He elected to kiss her hand
while Gerald summoned a flunky to pour her champagne. Most of the
bottle had gone already, she noticed, but then she
was
half an hour
late.

'
Salut
,' she
gurgled and drained her glass in one thirsty gulp.

'Welcome,' said Mastiff in a bottomless gravelly voice, his
deep-set gaze boring into hers in an unnerving fashion.
'Congratulations, Gerald,' he continued without taking his eyes off
Marianne, 'I can see at once that I have underestimated the
potential of
Gravitas
. The nation will embrace arty-farty chit-chat as never before
just for the chance to look at Miss Matthews.'

Marianne
grinned happily at him and stifled a burp. The alcohol had gone
straight to her head and she felt suddenly and deliriously happy.
The reason for that was the wonderful French boy waiting for her at
home, whose caresses had made her rather late. Sex, of course, not
being of great importance to her, the impact he had made on her in
bed that afternoon had been significant. He was some kind of
physical trainer, she had discovered, who had studied a new method
of keeping fit through orgasm. My God, if this was the result she
was all for it. It had been hell leaving him behind, she even felt
a slight pang of guilt in saying she had to attend an important
business meeting and wouldn't be back till late.

And now she
was here, in opulent surroundings, being feted by two handsome men
who were about to buy her a most expensive dinner. And then - well,
no doubt they would want to take her dress off and subject her to
all sorts of physical indignities. But that was show business and
Marianne had her career to think of. At heart, she was a practical
girl and the practical thing was to just get on with it.

'Can we eat
soon?' she said to her two admiring companions. 'I'm famished.'

The meal
passed in a dream. Marianne ordered lots of bitty things like
caviar and asparagus while the men made serious selections across
four courses. Her appetite was assuaged by two quickly eaten bread
rolls and so she picked at her food. Though she knew where the
evening was destined to end, she wasn't sure about this bit. She
suspected her role was to look decorative while Gerald pitched his
pet projects at his chairman.

She noticed,
as did Sir Charles Mastiff - she could tell by the set of his jaw -
that each of Gerald's schemes was more obscure than the last and
involved an expensive overseas trip.

'There's the most fabulous little theatre company on the South
Pacific island of Kitongu,' brayed Gerald. 'Every year the
indigenous population has a festival of arts taking a landmark work
of western culture and adapting it to their own traditions. Last
year they performed the complete Ring Cycle in grass skirts and
coconut shells. This year, so I'm told, they're doing a stage
version of
The Magic Mountain
in a full-size native war canoe. I was thinking
that Marianne and I might embark on a little scouting mission to
evaluate the possibility of a half-hour
Gravitas
special.'

Marianne was
filled with horror. Though the thought of a jolly in the South Seas
was appealing, big-mouth Gerald was not the companion she would
choose. She stepped in swiftly. 'Wouldn't that be a little
extravagant? And Mann has such little relevance to the aesthetic
agenda of women today.'

Gerald shot
her a glance of pure venom but she had the chairman's attention and
that was what she was after.

'So what do
you think would be of relevance?' asked Sir Charles.

Marianne said
the first thing that came into her head. 'Orgasms.'

She had their
attention now all right. She continued, inspiration striking as she
seized her moment. 'There's a book about to come out here which
tells you how to keep fit by having more orgasms. I think we should
interview the author, examine her method, talk to people who've
tried it - you know the sort of thing.'

'But that's
not art,' howled Gerald. 'That's women's-page crap journalism. We'd
lose all our intellectual credibility!'

'And get a
top-ten rating, I shouldn't wonder,' said Mastiff, his face alight,
'especially if Marianne presents it in that dress. This is the kind
of creative input I like.'

Marianne
beamed. 'It's all very hush-hush at present,' she said, 'but I've
got an inside track to the author.'

The hunky Philippe and his magic tongue
, she thought to herself.

'Well, stay on
it.'

You bet!

'And keep me
posted.'

Gerald opened
his mouth, no doubt to pour scorn, but Mastiff cut him off. 'Don't
say another word about it, Gerald. You've made a brilliant
appointment in this young lady and she's told me all I need to
know. I'm very pleased with the pair of you.'

He snapped his
fingers at the head waiter, 'Coffee and champagne in my suite now,
please.' He turned to Marianne. 'You don't mind if we trespass some
more on your time, do you? I think we need to take this matter of
the orgasm a little further.'

'Whatever you
say, Sir Charles,' said Marianne, taking his arm as they left the
restaurant, 'I'm all yours.'

It was a short
journey to Mastiff's suite but an eventful one. By the time
Marianne stepped through the door the dress was half off her back.
The television executives completed the process and pushed her
straight into the bedroom.

'Are you sure this programme isn't called
Grab My Ass?
'; she protested but there
was no response. The time for joking was over.

She lay on the
bed face down, stark naked, listening to the slither and click of
two men swiftly pulling off their clothes. Whatever their
disagreements over programme policy, the pair knew how to work in
concert when it came to poking pussy.

'Kneel up,'
barked a voice, 'get on your hands and knees.'

Marianne did
as she was told, aware of the spectacle she made with her bum
pointing up invitingly and her breasts hanging down like ripe
fruit. For a woman who didn't much like sex she couldn't wait for
their hands to close on her hot and eager body. It had to be
Philippe's fault. What he had done to her that afternoon had her
senses singing. Not that she wanted to think about Philippe just at
the moment.

'I say!'
whispered Sir Charles. 'What a fabulous figure.'

'Indeed, sir.'
Gerald's voice sounded tight. 'Fabulous.'

'Exquisite.'

'Graceful.'

'Oh, for God's
sake,' the voice was Marianne's, 'cut the crap and fuck me,
please.'

'Look, she's
trembling, Gerald. Do you think she's cold?'

'I think she's
hot for it, sir. She's trembling because she's horny.'

'Please,'
yelled Marianne, 'please! Oh!'

There were
hands on her now, delicately touching her, smoothing over her
curves, gently caressing her limbs, stroking her flanks. The
bastards must have done this before.

'Fine tits,
Gerald. I find the way they elongate in this position very
satisfying.'

'Quite, sir.
And if you slap them just a little, like this, and set them
rippling back and forth...'

'Oh,
marvellous!'

Marianne made
a grab for Gerald's cock, which was bobbing before her face. But
Gerald stepped away and a hand crashed down on her right buttock
with a smack.

'Stay still!'
hissed Sir Charles and he hit the other buttock just as hard. To
her surprise, as the pain faded a warm glow seemed to spread
through her loins. She was dripping wet between the legs.