Lust on the Loose (32 page)

The car was
moving fast in the outside lane of the motorway, the world flashing
by in a blur through the tinted windows. Cocooned in the
air-conditioned interior, drinking in the musk of Melissa's
perfume, Sebastian felt suddenly liberated. The daily politics of
his four current productions, the sniping of his ex-wife and the
nagging of his present one, all vanished from his mind. In this
brief time-capsule with the exotic goddess of his dreams at his
side he felt blissfully free.

The coat was
now gaping, offering tantalising glimpses of creamy flesh. A firm
thigh in a sheer stocking breached the fur on her lap. Seb was
tumultuously erect.

'That doesn't
look like a fake fur,' he said.

'Of course
it's not. I have a wardrobe full of furs. Real ones. I love the
touch of fur on my body. I have a real tiger-skin rug, too. I keep
it to make love on.'

'You'd better
not tell Candy Kensington.'

'Don't try to
change the subject, Sebastian. I want to talk about you.'

The coat was
now unbuttoned, it fell open sufficiently to set Seb's imagination
running riot. The most famous bosom in opera, celebrated throughout
the world on album covers and posters, spilled out of a peach satin
half-cup bra. The shadow between these magical globes promised a
ravine of cleavage into which Sebastian longed to plunge. He stared
agog at the great right breast, so close to him, which threatened
to burst free from its support, its milky upper reaches billowing
over the edge of the undergarment.

'You see,' she
said, 'you are staring at my teats like you have never seen a woman
before in your life. I know you are a wicked man in your mind.'

'Melissa,'
panted Seb, 'any man would feel wicked looking at you right
now.'

'OK, but let's
talk about this music you have written for me. I know what it
means. It is saying come and make fuck with me, yes?'

Seb gulped.
'Actually, it's a tonal poem.'

'Maybe, but
the poetry says come fuck with me. Like a lady cat in her season
calling the male cats. Tonal poem - pah! That's what the music
professors say. You are not that, you are from the guts - yes?
That's why you are such a big success.'

Sebastian
flushed with pleasure. Though he was used to compliments, to
receive them from this quarter was thrilling.

Melissa began
to sing a phrase from his composition; in a hypnotic purring tone
that filled the small space and sent a message of pure joy down his
spine.

'I am right,
yes? This is a song of a cat on heat.'

It was true,
it had seemed appropriate given the Poor Pussy cause but it was
inspired by the overwhelming feeling of lust she stirred in him and
- he'd bet on it - every red-blooded male who had ever heard her
sing.

'That is why
there are no words, yes? Just sounds.'

'Do you like
it?' he asked nervously.

She threw back
her head and laughed. Seb's thirsty gaze drank its fill of her
shaking bosom. 'It's not a matter of like,' she said. 'It is
perfect for me. Shall I show you?'

Seb
nodded.

She began to
sing very softly. The notes rose and fell, controlled and soft then
suddenly harsh and loud. There were indeed no words, just sounds,
pure and liquid, wailing and guttural. Her eyes were closed, her
feet were planted firmly on the floor and the sound flowed up from
her belly, twisting and spiralling around Sebastian as he sat,
enthralled.

As she sang
her bosom seemed to flex in her bra as if it were seeking to burst
out and her hands rose to her breasts and began to make little
circles round the satin cups.

Then the music swelled and she poured out a torrent of naked
emotion, as if she were stripping herself bare.
She's right
, he thought,
it's just an outright plea to be fucked!
And he was aware his cock was pulsing in his
pants, threatening to poke a hole clean through the
material.

Now it was as
if she were in pain, some terrible bowel-wrenching pain that she
could not contain and the sound she made drowned out the throb of
the engine, the rush of the wind and the sound of the wheels on the
road. He watched completely mesmerised as, almost of their own
accord though her fingers must have released them, her fabulous
breasts burst from their prison. Breathtaking hills of flesh, still
stupendous in her middle years, they shifted outwards and
downwards, their turgid chocolate-brown nipples erect and
inviting.

And as Seb
stared at these bounteous glories unveiled for him alone and her
voice hit the long concluding top note that only the truly blessed
could ever hope to reach, he had the most blissful orgasm of his
life.

'Sebastian,
are you all right?' asked Melissa long moments later.

He stirred
slowly from his prone position on the seat and opened his eyes to
see that she was holding her arms out to him. He allowed himself to
be pulled into the exotic warmth of her embrace and pillowed his
cheek on the magical flesh of her bosom.

'You see?' she
said triumphantly. 'I shall have a great triumph. I shall make them
all come in their pants!' And she stroked the composer's curly hair
and delicately fed a big brown nipple into his mouth.

In the front
seat the bewildered chauffeur drove on, plucking at the material in
his crotch as it lay in a sticky mess over his slowly deflating
penis.

'I don't care
what you say, Billy, I don't want anything to do with him.' Tracy
Pert looked thoroughly indignant. As indignant as anybody could
look wearing tight leather shorts and a long furry snake between
her legs.

'I understand
how you feel, Tracy. By any normal standards the guy behaved like a
pig. But he's normal, he's a superstar.' Billy edged to the side of
her in the cramped confines of the tiny dressing room and peered at
her rear. 'What is that thing sticking out your bum?'

'It's my
tail.' Tracy presented her derriere to him and shook it saucily.
The woolly growth projecting from between her buttocks flipped from
side to side. 'It's part of my costume - do you like it?'

'To be honest,
Tracy, I don't see why you want to dress up as a monkey.'

'I'm not a
monkey, you berk, I'm a cat. Poor Pussy Rescue - get it?'

'And what goes
with it - whiskers and a flea collar?'

'Oh, fuck off,
Billy Dazzle. And tell Brick Tempo to fuck off, too.'

'Calm down,
Tracy, it was only a joke. You look fantastic in those sexy shorts.
You'll knock 'em dead.'

Tracy's
murderous expression turned instantly to one of anguish. 'Billy,
I'm so nervous. I'm going to muck it up, I know it. My song's going
to seem so silly amongst all this ballet and stuff. They're making
fun of me already.'

Her ravishing
blue eyes suddenly swum with tears and she fell into Billy's
outstretched arms.

'Who's making
fun?' he asked, not slow to cup her perky bum cheeks in the palms
of his hands.

'Those little
bitches next door. Marion Mucus and her dancing snotbags. They were
giggling about my boobs. One of them asked me if they were
real.'

'Envy,' said
Billy, 'there's not a tit worth touching up amongst the lot of
them. And they'll take you seriously when you sing with Brick
Tempo.'

'What?'

'It's
difficult to explain, Tracy. Believe me, he wants to sing with you.
He's changed since you first met him.'

'But that was
only yesterday morning!'

'Nevertheless.
Anyway, he asked me how he could make it up to you and we hit on
the idea of a duet. He's writing it now.'

'Are you
having me on?'

'Come and talk
to him. He's down by the river. He says it inspires him.'

'Billy Dazzle,
if you're joking I'll rearrange your private parts.'

'When you're
around, Tracy, they do that of their own accord.'

'There's Billy
Dazzle,' said Betsy, 'the guy with the blonde heading across the
field.'

'That
figures,' said Sophie, 'from what I've heard about him.'

They were
looking out from a room on the second floor of the Manor itself.
Arnold and Betsy were to use it as a bedroom.

'Do you want
to meet him? Shall I call him over?'

'No. I just
need to be able to identify him. Besides, it looks like he's
busy.'

Sebastian Silk
was an averagely endowed fellow. Better than average, according to
his wives and girlfriends, if they were of a mind to be honest.
However, as his limo approached Bedside Manor, Sebastian was
kneeling on the floor between Melissa Melone's vast white
columnar-thighs feeling utterly inadequate.

'You see,
cara?
I warned you,' said the diva. 'It is not possible for you to
satisfy me with a staff such as you possess. I am built on a grand
scale, only a truly outsize penis can fill me as I need to be
filled.'

It was true.
Between her long strong legs was a cavern in which Seb rooted
ineffectually. He felt as if he were stoking a fire with a
toothpick.

'Don't worry,
my darling, it is not your fault. I arouse lust in others but
cannot satisfy it in myself - that is my curse and my gift. It is
the reason I am such a big success.'

'No, Melissa,
you sing like an angel—'

'Ssh,
Sebastian, we are nearly there. You must come to your climax at
once.' And she closed her mouth over his, her big mysterious eyes
staring deep into his as her hands clasped his buttocks and pulled
him into her. Sebastian was lost. He felt as if some great sea
current had swept him away and he was powerless. A finger suddenly
penetrated his anus, pushing deep inside him in a hideously skilful
caress that had him bucking and moaning and shooting his spunk into
the depths of her as the car purred slowly up the drive of Bedside
Manor.

Tracy was
enjoying herself; for once someone was taking her seriously as a
performer. Brick was fingering his guitar, explaining his new song
and demonstrating where she should join in. He was a clever player,
the melody flowed effortlessly and he soon coaxed Tracy into
passable harmony. It was a seductive tune, Tracy threw herself into
it and he smiled encouragement, his craggy face crinkling with
warmth. Billy was right; he was a changed man from the day
before.

Only one thing
puzzled her - the words to this new song. 'How I long to roam your
valleys/And paddle in your creeks/To dabble in your bushes/And lay
my head between your peaks.' But why should she worry?

'You're not
such a bloody awful bastard after all, Brick,' she said
cheerfully.

'Why, thanks,
ma'am,' he replied, 'does that mean you'll come up and sing with me
tonight?'

'OK, why not?
What should I wear?'

'Anything that
shows off that gorgeous body of yours.'

'Don't worry,
I know what my main selling points are.'

Sophie was
feeling quite pleased with herself. Arnold had fixed her up with a
ticket for the performance and Betsy had supplied an evening gown.
To be more accurate Betsy had bullied, cajoled and flirted her way
into the Opera Company wardrobe. There they had selected a low-cut
cocktail dress in jade green which clung to Sophie like a second
skin and was set off by a necklace of artificial pearls.

'Wow! You look
fabulous; said Betsy enthusiastically. 'Isn't it a bit tight? I
feel like I'm going to burst out of it.'

'Women have
always had to suffer in the cause of glamour. You know that,
Sophie.'

'Well, I don't
see how anyone could sing in this.'

'Just thank
your stars you're not Melissa thing. She'd never stuff her Melones
into a smart little number like that.'

Then, having
arranged to change in Betsy's room before the performance, Sophie
inspected the premises. No one bothered to ask her what she was
doing, they were all too busy. She ambled the grounds and spotted
Billy, Brick and Tracy sitting on the river bank. She poked her
head into the marquee on the lawn where Arnold's army of caterers
were setting up the buffet tables. She even ventured into the
auditorium but retreated swiftly, not wishing to be involved in a
screaming match between a statuesque Italian woman and a harassed
electrician.

The sun shone,
the setting was idyllic and the excitement of the evening's
performance was infectious. Sophie was rapidly coming to the
conclusion that Ambrosia was right. Danny Fretwork would not show.
This was a world far removed from villains of his ilk. Even if he
had discovered Billy's whereabouts he'd never follow him here. Not
even Danny Fretwork was crazy enough for that.

At that moment, on a train leaving Victoria Station, a burly
man took his seat amongst an elite throng. Like many of his fellow
travellers he wore a dinner jacket and black bow-tie - though from
the way he tugged at his collar this was obviously not his
accustomed garb. He was on his own but it soon transpired he was a
sociable fellow, something of an expert on Spanish property values
and Scuba diving if a little shaky on the staging of
Aida
at Verona. Contrary
to Sophie's expectations, Danny Fretwork fitted in rather
well.

The evening's
entertainment began slowly. Murdo Cameron, the Scots baritone, was
not known as the most exciting of performers. Candy and Imogen had
been at a loss where to hide him on the bill but had concluded he
would do least damage if he came on first before anyone had had
time to get bored. Fortunately, his Wagner solo and arrangements of
Celtic folk songs were over while the audience were still
eyeballing each other.