Lust Under Licence (26 page)

Claire caught
Petra looking at her. Her hazel eyes flashed and she grinned. One
silky lock of hair had fallen across her face and she pushed it
away absent-mindedly as she said: 'So who was he meeting on the
night he fell off the balcony?'

Petra put down
her wineglass and took a deep breath. 'Whoever it was they
represented a company called Glass Tools of Glendrockit.'

'Tell me
more,' said Claire as she speared the bleu d' Auvergne. And Petra
told her.

'So,' said
Claire, still chewing, 'he bought this company without telling
anybody about it and then took a dive over the balcony with a pair
of knickers on his head.'

'I think he
was drugged and then pushed.'

'By the person
he'd just promised to pay five million quid? Wouldn't that scupper
the deal?'

'It doesn't
look like it. He signed an agreement that's binding. I've been
trying to get out of it ever since.'

'Has he got
the authority to do that?'

'Yes. He owns
the company, he can act on his own without reference to
shareholders.'

'I see. And
what do these Glass Tools people say?'

'They say,
"Where's our cheque?" Through their solicitors, that is. I haven't
met anyone from the company and there's no such place as
Glendrockit as far as I can tell, not unless it's in the Cayman
Islands.'

'An off-shore
shell company, you mean?'

'Yes. I
thought you ought to know about this as it puts Tom in a better
light, doesn't it?'

Claire raised
an eyebrow and said nothing. Obviously she didn't agree.

'I suppose our
best hope is still that he recovers his memory. I keep hoping every
time I see him that he'll be back to normal. Have you talked to him
recently?'

Claire
grinned. 'I saw him last night. When we took him into custody.'

Petra
screamed. The noise was involuntary, as was the jerk she gave to
the tablecloth which caused the half-full bottle of beaujolais to
somersault into her lap.

Petra wept in
the ladies' loo. She had wasted her time sucking up to the
Quartermain bitch when Tom was already in jail. The policewoman had
made her look like a complete fool. And her white silk suit was
ruined.

There was a
knock on the door. 'Come out, Petra,' said Claire.

'Go away,'
said Petra.

'There's no
point in you sitting in there.'

'Sod off,'
shouted Petra drunkenly.

'Now now, calm
down. It wasn't my idea to arrest Tom, you know. I just obey orders
like everybody else.'

'The Nuremberg
defence.'

'It's true.
Open up.'

'What are you
going to do? Rape me like last time? Fuck off, you Nazi.'

'Don't be
daft, Petra. Look, I've got a car upstairs, you'll be home in
twenty minutes. Maybe we can rescue that suit.'

'Was it really
not your idea to put Tom in jail?'

'Prosecutor
Hawk's express command. Honest.'

The door swung
open. A bedraggled Petra was slumped on the toilet seat.

'Come on,
darling,' said Claire with her sweetest, most ominous smile. 'Let
me get you home and out of those wet things.'

Outside The
Primrose Court the August sun was shining. It was a perfect
summer's afternoon. Inside, in the basement, there was no light or
warmth. In the darkness of Tom Glass's meagre cell it could just as
well have been December.

Tom drew the
thin blanket around his bare shoulders and shivered. The room was
damp, the bed was hard and there were chains around his ankles. A
tap dripped into a bucket somewhere out of sight. His stomach
grumbled and his bladder ached. No one had come near him for
fifteen hours - not since they'd thrown him in here at
midnight.

He'd always
feared it would come to this. His ordeal was just beginning.

A key turned
in the lock and a shaft of blue artificial light from the corridor
fell on his face. He blinked as a tall figure entered, carrying a
tray. The aroma of hot tea ravished his senses.

'Bet you
thought we'd forgotten you,' said a nasal Cockney voice. 'We
'adn't, we was just leavin' you to stew.'

Tom pulled
himself into a sitting position, the chains on his feet clinking as
he did so. His visitor had now turned on the light and he could see
she was more of a girl than a woman, a thin streak with ragged
blonde hair and a sulky face stretched into a malicious grin. He
was conscious that beneath his blanket he was stark-naked.

The girl
poured tea into a mug and set it on the floor by the bed. Tom
reached for it. 'Thank you,' he said.

The girl
grasped the blanket and pulled it off his body. Her small eyes
gleamed as she took in his broad chest, flat stomach, lean thighs -
and fat sausage of a cock. Tom sipped his tea, there wasn't much
else he could do.

'You're a cool
customer,' she said, 'I'll give you that. Some people go bananas
when they first come in here. Scream night long. Wet themselves and
everything. Then we give hell.'

'Really,' said
Tom. He couldn't help noticing that she was wearing a skirt no
longer than a pelmet.

'Of course,
they're in here to suffer anyway so it gets them off to a good
start. The sooner they suffer, the sooner they realise the error of
their ways. And get out.'

'I see,' said
Tom. The little witch really had the most fabulous legs.

'The way
you're going, mate, I reckon you'll be in here a very long
time.'

'I doubt it.
There's been a serious miscarriage of justice. I expect that heads
will soon roll, from top to bottom. I'd be interested to know your
name.'

'Fiona.'

'Just
Fiona?'

'Constable
Fiona Maybe. As in maybe I'll be nice to you and maybe I won't.'
And she took hold of his testicles and squeezed.

Later, in the
dark, Tom willed himself to go to sleep. His bladder was now empty,
his stomach full - and his face was covered in dried juice from
Fiona's pussy. She'd made him suck her off before she'd let him
pee. And after he'd eaten bread and cheese she'd shackled his hands
and left him with no means of relieving the bone-hard erection that
throbbed between his thighs. He was used to regular sexual release.
His body ached for the abundant flesh of Eve Biscuit.

At present his
mind was filled with images of Constable Fiona Maybe - of long pale
legs and a loose-lipped cunt and a sulky face with an evil grin.
And Fiona was just the advance guard, he realised, the storm
troopers would be following on behind. He would need all his
strength. He willed himself to sleep.

Tom dreamed of
New York. Of an apartment on the Upper East Side overlooking
Central Park where the winter sunlight sparkled on the crystal
goblet in his hand and picked out every crest and cavity of the
Jackson Pollock canvas on the wall. And glistened on the auburn
tresses of his colleague and lover, Meredith Rich, sitting by his
side.

Opposite them
reclined their host, the owner of this luxurious apartment where
servants glided across polished mahogany floors like phantoms and
the walls were adorned with enough priceless modern art to furnish
a small museum. Ralph Simons raised his brandy glass to Tom and
Meredith in salute.

'OK,' he said,
'you finally wore me out. You got a deal.'

Tom wanted to
shout with joy. He'd been trying to nail down the old sod and his
TV company for six months. Instead he stood and held out his hand.
Simons grasped it in strong bony fingers and clapped him on the
back.

'I tell you,
Tom,' said Simons, 'I wouldn't dream of getting into bed with you
guys if it wasn't for Meredith.'

'I'm glad she
finally won you over,' said Tom, beaming at the tall redhead.
'She's pretty persuasive, isn't she?'

'Yes, sir.'
Simons ignored the slender hand she was proffering and slid his arm
around her waist. 'I'm already thinking of changing my mind so she
can persuade me all over again.'

Tom laughed
but it rang a little hollow. He knew the kind of persuading
Meredith had been up to and he was far from happy about it.

Simons had
pulled the girl into his arms and was kissing her enthusiastically.
One hand was on her back, rucking up the peach silk of her blouse,
the other dug into the rounded flesh of her buttocks through her
skirt. She disengaged her lips for a moment.

'Take it easy
with my clothes, Ralph,' she said. 'You don't have to tear the
paper to get at the present.'

Ralph relaxed
his grip. 'Hey, that's smart. That's what I like about you,
Meredith, you not only got a great ass you got brains.' And he
laughed.

Tom's face
ached from the effort of holding his smile in place. He wanted to
kick the bastard in the nuts but Meredith's hazel eyes were
flashing him an unmistakable message: Don't blow it now.

'OK then,
little lady,' boomed Ralph, 'take off the gift-wrapping yourself.'
He sat back in his chair with a smirk his face. 'I bet Tom
appreciates a striptease as much as I do.'

'Come on,
Ralph,' said Tom, 'a joke's a joke.'

'It's OK,
Tom,' Meredith cut it. 'I don't mind entering the spirit of the
occasion.' She pulled her blouse from her skirt with one hand and
kicked off a shoe. 'Get up on the table,' commanded Ralph, 'and
make it sexy.'

She made it as
sexy as she could, considering she wasn't dressed for the activity.
She quickly peeled off her blouse and skirt and winter tights and
posed in a silk half-slip and matching panties. Her nipples were
clear points beneath the slip and her knickers were caught in the
cleft of her bottom. She stood above them, her face a mask of
indifference, and let them look.

'Take off the
rest,' said Ralph.

She pulled the
slip over her head and flung it at him, her bare breasts shimmying.
He caught the material and held it to his face, inhaling her
perfume.

'Now the
panties,' he said, his eyes big as he watched her tug the gusset
free of the chestnut curls of her pussy. He snatched the garment
and pressed it to his nose. 'You smell hot,' he said.

'You make me
hot,' she said, 'you filthy old goat.'

'Ain't I
just?' He reached up and ran his hand into her crotch. His fingers
probed her damp bush, seeking the entrance to her vagina.

Tom was frozen
with horror and lust. Meredith had told him that Simons was a
disgusting old lecher - now he was seeing for himself.

'Hey, Tom,'
Ralph said, one hand busy between Meredith's legs, the other prying
apart her buttocks, 'pay attention - I'm warmin' her up for
you.'

Tom looked at
Ralph without comprehension. He had been debating whether to slip
away and leave the pair of them to it.

Ralph's beady
glare was fixed on him, even as he palpated Meredith's tender
flesh. 'Take your pants off, son, and show an old boy how it's
done.'

'But... I...'
he was at a loss.

'Come on,
baby,' said Meredith, holding out her hand. 'Ralph wants to watch
us make love.'

'No,' said
Tom. 'Definitely, no.'

'I don't think
you mean that, son.'

'Please.'
There was a note of desperation in her voice.

'Look,
partner, you want this deal, don't you?'

What choice
did he have?

He unzipped
his pants...

Tom woke in
the dark, shivering not with cold but with lust. His stiff cock
sawed against the blanket in frustration. His memory of that day in
New York was crystal clear in his mind. He could taste the honey of
Meredith's breath on his lips, feel the taut kiss of her belly on
his - and see the gargoyle grin on Ralph Simons' face as he watched
the pair of them fuck for his personal pleasure.

It was not an
occasion that any man was likely to forget - and yet Tom had
forgotten it from the date of his fall until now. His pulse
quickened. It had been eight, no - seven - years ago. It was much
later than his dreams of Shani and Tina and Chas Cross. Maybe this
time his memory was really coming back!

His mind
turned to the events of seven years ago, when he had broken into
the cable TV business, the adorable Meredith Rich by his side. His
penis twitched in anguish on his belly. How he could do with
Meredith's adorable touch right now!

Petra cursed
her foolishness many times over as the police car cut a swathe
through the West End traffic on its way to her Primrose Hill flat.
The burly blonde driver in a TCD shell-suit - not, thank God, the
awful Sergeant Tooth - squealed corners on two wheels and zigzagged
through oncoming vehicles, siren screaming, as if answering an
SOS.

'This is an
emergency after all,' said Claire Quartermain, taking possession of
Petra's hand and squeezing it in a supposedly reassuring fashion.
'There's no time to lose if we're to save that suit.'

Petra said
nothing. She was drunk and she was scared. She had stupidly put
herself at the mercy of the one person in London she should have
avoided - the ghastly lesbian who now held Tom Glass under lock and
key. She held her thighs together as tightly as she could and
willed herself to resist the forthcoming ordeal. But she knew it
would be no good. Already she could feel her excitement lubricating
her vagina.

Claire bundled
Petra into her flat and dismissed the driver. 'Help me, darling,'
she said to Petra as she began to unbutton the spoiled jacket of
the suit. Like a robot, Petra stepped out of her skirt and handed
it over. Then she retreated to her bedroom.

She stripped
off her remaining clothes and crawled naked into bed. Her head was
spinning and her body was quivering. Outside she heard the sounds
of cupboards opening and water running.