Lust Under Licence (23 page)

'Honestly,
Veronica, I don't recall—'

'You remember
Tricia, Charles - the PA with eyes like a cow and udders to match.
Was she a good shag?'

'Please,
Veronica - aahh!'

'Better than
me?'

'AAAHH!'

'Mrs Kite,
would you object if I put my hand on your husband's penis? We find
that, in conjunction with the pain, a little pleasurable
stimulation is conducive to reprogramming an offender's thought
processes.'

'Go ahead but
I'd wear a glove if I were you, you don't know where it's been.
Does she, Charles?'

'AAAAHHHH!'

These methods
were effective for most subjects though there were some for whom
the approach was counterproductive. At their weekly progress
meeting Gossamer Hawk and Claire Quartermain often discounted
action against executives with certain proclivities.

'There's no
point in bringing him in,' said Claire, looking at the file
Gossamer had just handed her. 'He pays through the nose for this
kind of treatment in Shepherd's Market every week. Why give it to
him for free?'

'Oh drat,'
said Gossamer with unusual emphasis. 'You'd better shop him to the
tabloids, then. We have to shift the old turd somehow.'

Claire made a
note. She was aware that, beneath the Prosecutor's habitual
delicacy of manner, impatience was seething. Suddenly there was an
outburst.

'Our work is
just not proceeding fast enough, Claire. British business is still
stuffed full of antediluvian old farts who think a woman's place is
on her back with her knickers round her ankles.'

'There's a lot
fewer than there were, Prosecutor. We've got the City running
scared.'

'Not scared
enough. Not the big boys. We've replaced some ageing middle men but
we haven't touched the real tycoons.'

Oh dear.
Claire knew where this was going - Tom Glass. She tried to head
Gossamer off.

'We're making
progress in the Glass investigation. It won't be much longer. Dr
Flint says—'

'I don't give
a flying fig about Dr Flint,' yelled Gossamer, puce in the face.
'That man's made a monkey out of her, Inspector, and I want him
arrested. Let's see how he responds to our kind of medicine. I want
him in the cells by tonight.'

Claire grinned
at her superior. This was more like it. She couldn't wait to tell
Amy Tooth.

Kelvin knew he was onto the biggest story of his life. A scoop
that was too hot for
Nouveau
- and too expensive, for that matter. He'd flog it
to the
Rabbit
or
the
Dog
or
the
Sunday Skunk
in
return for a ton of cash - or possibly a job. He'd make that prick
Ted Flinch curse the day he'd given him the boot. Which he had
done, some three weeks previously, when Kelvin had abandoned the
struggle to reconcile the demands of days at the office and nights
with Gossamer Hawk. Now his full-time devotion was to the cruel
Gossamer while he planned the coup that would relaunch his
career.

So, for the
moment, Kelvin was keeping his head down. Literally. Right now his
head was down below the desk of Naomi Picket, Opposition
spokesperson on Gender Discrimination and senior member of the
Corrections Committee of The Primrose Court. Kelvin was gently
tonguing her quim. For such an aggressive woman she had a dainty
little mollusc between her legs, prettily petalled and tasting of
the sea. His tongue burrowed into the heart of her open oyster as
his arms circled the substantial cushions of her buttocks and his
nose rubbed against the tiny pearl at the apex of her slit.

He heard the
quick intake of her breath as he pleasured her, coaxing her to her
four o'clock orgasm. 'A small indulgence in a life of
self-sacrifice,' she'd said, without discernible irony, on the
first occasion Gossamer had sent him round. 'It improves the taste
of my afternoon ciggy.'

Kelvin had no
doubt it did. After he'd finished between her legs she would smoke
two cigarettes on the trot. On one memorable occasion she'd smoked
three, it had taken her that long to recover from his attentions.
Now when she ordered him beneath the desk, she'd say, 'I want a
three-fag come this afternoon, slave. You'll not get off your knees
otherwise.'

It gave Kelvin
a perverse pleasure to be called 'slave', to wear a collar and
chain around his neck, to drink water from a bowl in the kitchen
downstairs like a dog. It answered a need in him that Petra had
never fed. To give up, for a few hours each day, the responsibility
of being uncertain, insecure Kelvin Priest and to be the property
of strong women like Gossamer Hawk and Naomi Picket was bliss.
What's more, it was going to make his name.

The phone rang
on the desk, the bell reverberating through the wood. As Naomi's
hand descended on his head Kelvin anticipated her needs and relaxed
his pressure on her throbbing genitals. The journey to orgasm could
wait.

'Lord Swankie,
how delightful to hear from you,' said La Picket in her smarmiest
tones. She was like a chameleon, Kelvin had observed, able to trim
her accent and demeanour to suit her audience. If she hadn't been a
politician she could have taken the West End stage by storm.

Lord James
Swankie was the chairman of a family-owned bank whose female
employees never rose above the rank of counter clerk and were
obliged to wear low-cut cerise blouses and matching mini-skirts
over fishnet tights. Lord Jim himself had a well-publicised liking
for field sports and blondes of an age half their bust size. As far
as Kelvin knew, he had not so far come to the attention of
Inspector Claire Quartermain of the TCU. Beneath the desk he
nuzzled the peachy skin of Naomi's inner thigh and pricked up his
ears.

'Now now, my
lord,' Naomi was saying, 'you know very well it would not be wise
for you and I to be seen in public.'

From her point
of view Kelvin knew this to be true, her party colleagues would be
aghast to find her socialising with a traditional chauvinist like
Swankie. He, on the other hand, was happy to be seen with a pretty
woman anywhere. What lay between her ears was of no account to him
in comparison with what lay between her legs.

And what lay
between Naomi Picket's legs was a delicacy to be savoured. Kelvin
began to lap the long curling pussy lips, sucking first one, then
the other, into his mouth. At first the hand on his head threatened
to push him away and then it slipped to his neck and hugged him to
her crotch. He began to French-kiss her cunt like a departing
lover.

'Look, make it
six-thirty here this evening,' said Naomi, wriggling in her seat,
keen now to concentrate on her pleasure. She put the phone down
with a bang. 'I wonder what that old lecher would have said if I'd
told him I was being sucked off under the desk. What do you think,
slave?'

Kelvin knew
better than to answer. Instead he pushed two fingers into the long
slippery tunnel of her cunt and circled her clit with the point of
his tongue. Her breath was expelled from her lungs with a hiss like
a steam kettle as she began to boil over. It wasn't always men,
Kelvin reflected as he manipulated her soft perfumed pussy, who
were predictable in matters of sex.

It was risky -
God knows what The Primrose Court harpies would do to him if he
were caught - but Kelvin knew he had to take a chance. He hid in
the downstairs sitting room to witness the meeting between Naomi
and Lord James Swankie.

He guessed she
would receive him there. It was a small room at the back of the
house with a sofa and comfortable chairs where Naomi liked to relax
with a drink after office hours. On occasions she had relaxed there
with Kelvin's cock in her quim but he suspected she preferred the
head-under-the-desk routine. He didn't mind much either way, in the
service of Gossamer Hawk he was content simply to satisfy.

He hid beneath
a small circular table whose mahogany top had been scarred by the
careless use of hot cups and discarded cigarette ends. As a
consequence it was now covered by a thick woven cloth with a fringe
that fell right down to the floor. Provided he didn't sneeze,
Kelvin thought he was pretty safe hiding beneath it. Naomi had
dismissed him, as usual, after he had performed his afternoon
service and she had no idea he was still in the house.

Just as he was
checking his cassette recorder he heard voices at the door. He
hoped his luck was in - it was too late to back out now.

Lord James
Swankie, it was evident, had turned up in a merry mood. He accepted
a drink with alacrity and requested another before Naomi joined him
on the sofa - Kelvin assumed they were sitting on the sofa from the
direction of their voices.

'I must say,'
boomed Swankie, 'that I thought this malarkey of yours was a bit
steep when you lot put the arm on me last year. But now I've seen
what's happened to some of my pals I think it was worth it.'

'I'm so glad
you take a positive point of view, my lord.'

'
Oh
, I'm
always positive. What's life if you can't have a bit of fun? All
the money in the world's no good if you can't persuade a pretty
totty to put your dick in her mouth.'

'Quite.'

'I don't shock
you, young woman?'

'This is a
private conversation, my lord.'

'I don't care
about that, though I dare say you do. I've considered spilling the
beans about our arrangement, you know.'

'Really? There
wouldn't be much point. As I'm sure you're aware, we're empowered
to levy severe fines for corporate misbehaviour. You would simply
end up paying much more. And the personal inconvenience that you
and the members of your board might suffer during the
investigation—'

'
Oh
quite,'
Swankie cut her off. 'I only said I'd considered it.'

Kelvin was
agog. He knew he'd been onto something and here was confirmation.
Swankie had bought off the court and the TCU!

'Besides, in
time I expect it to be an accepted part of our policy to issue
licences to businesses which will ensure their on-going
integrity.'

Swankie
laughed. 'Licences to fuck around you mean - a licence to lust!
That's rich. Give us another drink, there's a good girl. I adore
the way you stick your arse out when you bend down to get the
bottle.'

Kelvin held
his breath. To address Naomi Picket in this fashion was to risk
disfigurement. Emasculation at the very least.

Naomi
chuckled. 'You don't disappoint, do you, my lord? You're nothing
but a penis in a suit.'

'I can soon
remove the suit, my dear.'

'Give me the
cheque.'

'Give me the
licence.'

There was a
rustling sound, as of paper exchanging hands.

'Isn't it
usual to shake hands on a deal, my lord?'

'I intend to
shake more than that, my dear. Why don't you slip out of your skirt
so we can celebrate our arrangement we did last year.'

'Jim, you know
that was a mistake. I swore to myself it would never happen
again.'

'And I swore
that it was worth the entire sum of money I paid you at the time.
Drop your drawers, girl. A hundred grand buys me something,
surely.'

There came
more rustling noises, this time of clothing being removed.

'Satisfied?'
asked Naomi.

'Not yet. Turn
round. My, my - I declare you've got a little larger than last
year. I like it, mind you. There's nothing beats a big bum in
suspenders.'

'You're an old
traditionalist, Jim. And though that's not a point of view I hold,
I can appreciate any set of deeply held beliefs.'

'Appreciate
this then, you big-arsed trollop!'

There was a
smack, followed by a squeal and then silence. Silence as in an
absence of speech but not of movement. There was slithering and
scuffing, a hiss of breath and a rhythmic deep-throated moan.
Kelvin was transfixed. He had the information he needed and he knew
he must keep cool. The last thing he should do was to lift the
cloth which concealed him and peek.

Kelvin
peeked.

Lord Swankie
was a virile man of late middle years. At present his virility rose
from the fly of his handmade charcoal suit and disappeared between
Naomi Picket's pink lips. She was gumming the fat knob of his
pulsating cock with admirable skill at the same time as she fondled
the bulging sac of his testicles.

'Enough!' he
barked suddenly and threw her face down over his knees. At first
she laughed as he smacked the wobbling rounds of her fair white
bottom then, as the flesh turned a flaming scarlet, she burst into
tears.

Kelvin was
rigid with shock. This was the most extraordinary thing he had ever
seen. How he wished there was some way he could have filmed the
events that unfolded before him in that stuffy little room as his
cock wept into his pants and the mismatched twosome in front of him
ran the gamut of carnal pleasures.

Without visual
evidence, he reflected as the lush nude figure of the Opposition
spokesperson for Gender Discrimination prostrated herself on all
fours to allow the notorious reprobate Lord James Swankie to
penetrate the pretty pink dimple of her anus, nobody would believe
him.

A little of a person, Cassie Crow well knew, could go a long
way. Particularly when that person was unutterably gorgeous,
indisputably talented and unconscionably rich. And was sitting in
your office, behind your desk, having hijacked your entire
magazine. It had been two days since Chastity Honeydew and her
entourage had entered the offices of
Fragrant
- 'The indispensable
lifestyle bible for the independent woman that is YOU' - and Cassie
had never spent a longer forty-eight hours.