Lust Under Licence (15 page)

Jimbo bulled
into her without mercy, taking his broad stubby cock all the way
back and then plunging into her again, his strong hands ransacking
the cheeks of her arse, using them as a lever to thrust and power
his lust into her. He didn't keep going long either but that didn't
matter to Cassie. She shrieked as he shot deep inside her, taking
her over the edge.

She lay back
on the pillows between the two of them while they recovered. She
held a limp cock in each hand and her big breasts heaved in time
with her short breaths. Ally was gazing with longing at her swollen
raspberry nipples and she pulled his head down to suckle at her
chest. His penis was once more erect.

'What now,
lover?' she said to Jimbo, whose thick cock was also showing signs
of recovery.

'I'm going to
teach my young friend here how to suck pussy,' he replied, sliding
down Cassie's body until his head rested on her upper thigh. He ran
an exploratory finger through her auburn-haired bush and between
her swollen pink labia. The touch was surprisingly gentle and sent
an electric tingle echoing through her loins.

'Now see
here,' he said to a wide-eyed Ally, 'this is what's called the
clitoris and if you just tickle here with your tongue, like
this...'

'Oh yes,'
muttered Cassie between clenched teeth, regretting some of her
earlier disparaging thoughts about the male sex. Maybe these
cretins knew a thing or two after all.

For a smart woman, Marianne Matthews was sometimes a bit slow
on the uptake. And so, when she once said to a girlfriend, 'To me,
sex is just a tool,' and the friend burst out laughing, Marianne
was perplexed. To her, sex
was
just a tool, a means to an end. True, she often
enjoyed it and she subscribed to the theory that regular orgasm was
good for the health, like a daily bowel movement, but she didn't
much like doing it unless she had good reason.

For one thing,
it was often inconvenient. Why spend hours selecting an outfit,
putting on make-up, arranging the hair just so - when five minutes
of furious body contact with a man with no appreciation of these
things left you looking like an unmade bed? For two pins, Marianne
wouldn't have bothered in the first place - especially when it left
you riding the lift in the Black Raven Television skyscraper with
what felt like half a pint of spunk running out of your
knickers.

But there were
always reasons why she had to spread her legs for a man. She wasn't
so fabulously good-looking or intellectually devious that the
important doors in life would open for her otherwise. She was a
pretty girl with a throaty voice and slim hips who came from a
middle-class home in Ruislip. Her father was an overweight
accountant with a firm hand on the till who had lectured her about
self-sufficiency even as he refused to help her with her maths
homework. The young Marianne knew that if she was to have a flat in
Knightsbridge, a wardrobe full of designer clothes and a red
Mercedes runabout then she would have to stand on her own two feet.
Or lie on her back.

Of late she
had lain down much less frequently and, another gratifying factor
in her recent success, with more attractive patrons. When she had
first stepped out from drama school (daddy had paid for that - 'And
it's the thing I'm paying for,' he'd told her) she'd wasted a lot
of time bonking the wrong types: penniless actors and seedy
directors who lost interest once their cocks had crowed. She'd had
to fall back on one of her father's colleagues for the deposit on
her mortgage. And though Uncle Harry was pasty and gross he was
pitifully generous - he had no choice, Marianne would have had no
qualms about telling her father. Then she bedded a senior producer
at the BBC, earned some exposure on children's programmes and she
was on her way.

Her capture of
Tom Glass last year after a TV awards dinner was her crowning
achievement - she'd given him a blow-job behind a potted palm in
the hotel ballroom and then refused his calls for a week. It had
been a high-risk strategy but it had paid off and now she only had
to foreclose on his promise of marriage and she could start
thinking in terms of mansions in the country, custom-made Versace
outfits and a Ferrari or two in the garage.

So why was it
she had allowed Gerald Gin-sling, or whatever his name was, Head of
Arts Production at Black Rave to put her over his executive desk
and mess up her fine silk underwear? Though he was slim and
stylish, with clever lips and hands, it couldn't have been his sex
appeal - she knew herself too well. There had to be another reason.
Such as insurance.

The fact was
that this bloody accident of Tom's had thrown all her plans into
the melting pot. Every time she went to see him, first at the
hospital and now at this country nursing home, she had the feeling
he didn't know who she was. They made love, of course - these days
he was randier than ever - but there was something funny about him.
And about that blonde slut of a nurse who was always by his side,
her cow eyes following his every move. Marianne knew what that look
meant. And though she didn't much care if Tom fucked her fat arse
to pass the time, she did care if her rich and powerful fiancé had
conveniently forgotten his existing commitments.

Even more
worrying, suppose he was brain-damaged? He could turn into a
cabbage at any time. And if he became a vegetable before she popped
a wedding certificate into her deposit box then she really would
need some insurance.

She took a
paper tissue from her handbag and dabbed at a dribble of spunk
beneath her skirt. God, that Gerald had been a bull! Her pussy was
still throbbing with the size of him.

She couldn't
deny that Tom had kept his promise to put in a word for her with
Black Raven. When Marianne had first encountered Gerald the
previous week he was obviously unhappy about it. As a decisive
young executive with a mind of his own he didn't like to be told
what to do. Yet the word had come down from on high: the Badger TV
weather girl had to be taken seriously. And as an ambitious young
executive who knew where his next expenses cheque was coming from,
he did as he was told. It didn't stop him being snotty.

'You do realise that
Gravitas
is an
arts
programme, don't you, Miss Matthews? It's not a
sing-song for kiddywinkies or a weather forecast. This is an
eyewitness report of cultural trench warfare. A bulletin from the
cutting edge. Who's in, who's out, what's hot, what's going to
define the aesthetic map for the thinking man and woman in the
weeks ahead. Forgive me, Miss Matthews, but it seems to me that we
need someone with more
weight
than your CV suggests you possess.'

Marianne had
smiled at him. She had a very effective smile. 'I'd heard you were
thinking of Henrietta Suckling,' she said throatily.

'In my
opinion, Henry has just the right mixture of intellectual
credibility and professional skill to cut across boundaries and
subject the arts community to the microscope of rigorous critical
scrutiny.'

'If you ask
me,' said Marianne, though he hadn't, 'she's been around the block
too many times. And if you want weight just look at her thighs.
Mine, as you can see, are half the size.'

Maybe that was
the point at which sex crept into the interview. Marianne should
not really have played the sex card, it was unnecessary. On the
other hand it was all she knew and it worked. Gerald's pale blue
eyes had dropped to her lap and her long slender legs. They had
strayed there on a regular basis throughout that first meeting.
Nevertheless he had continued to do his best to resist her.

'Really, Miss Matthews, don't you think those kind of personal
observations are a trifle
de trop?
We are appealing to the life of the intellect
here. We need a presenter who can command respect from every corner
of the aesthetic spectrum.'

'So why choose
one who's best known for chocolate commercials? Look, Gerald,' and
here Marianne leaned forward to place a small elegant hand on his
knee, 'it seems to me that you need a fresh approach. You want fast
finger-on-the-pulse stuff with lots of action and - I hate to say
it - sex appeal. Henrietta was great in her day but her tits have
gone.'

'What!' Gerald
was outraged.

'It's true.
Don't say you haven't noticed. Her neck's got all scrawny and her
boobs have slipped. Look at her on screen.'

Gerald
regarded her with a tight little smile. 'You're a tough cookie,
aren't you, Miss Matthews?'

Marianne
grinned. She liked her qualities to be recognised. She took a
folder from her briefcase. 'I thought you might like to see a few
of my ideas. Issues, discussion topics, studio guests - that kind
of thing.'

Gerald meekly
took the folder. Somehow they were going to proceed on her agenda.
'Just don't forget, Gerald, if you want youth, drive, ideas - and
tits that are self-supporting - that's what I'm selling.
Right?'

And Gerald,
his eyes now glued to the points of her nipples pressing through
the cornflower blue silk of her blouse, muttered, 'Absolutely.'

That had been
a week ago and things had moved on swiftly from then. Marianne had
taken part in a studio run-through and been introduced to the
company hierarchy. How much was down to Tom and how much to her own
charms she wasn't sure but she knew she was in. Lunch and the
afternoon session with Gerald had confirmed it. It hadn't been
absolutely necessary to let him stick his big penis into the
hairless clam between her legs but she suspected that she owed him
one. Wherever else he might now be inserting his truncheon she'd
bet it wasn't between the plump thighs of Henrietta Suckling - not
any more.

Actually,
fucking Gerald had passed an enjoyable hour, considering it wasn't
one of her favourite pastimes. She'd sat on the edge of his vast
desk and he'd knelt at her feet, licking upwards from her toes,
nibbling and tickling the soft skin on the inside of her long white
thighs.

He'd gasped in
awe at the sight of her denuded pussy, the pretty pink lips spread
invitingly, the candied interior bubbling with juice.

'How divine,'
he'd cried and Marianne had quickly jammed his lips down into her
crotch before he could embark on one of his claptrappy speeches
about worship and goddesses. He'd worshipped at the sticky shrine
all right, drinking down her juice and licking her from clit to
anus and back again until she screamed and came on his face until
she felt quite faint.

Even though she'd had enough by then, she could hardly refuse
him the pleasure of revealing what lay behind the big bulge in the
trousers of his Paul Smith suit. To be truthful, she'd been quite
impressed by the sight of the swollen shaft he'd pulled from his
pants and pressed into her small hand. She'd taken the big red head
between her lips and sucked on it a bit to show willing. And when
he'd shot off unexpectedly she'd swallowed all his come juice as
fast as she could to avoid tasting it, even though it was something
she never did. Now she was the presenter of
Gravitas
, Black Raven's flagship arts
programme, she knew she could hardly afford to appear
squeamish.

Since Gerald
had come so unexpectedly without the benefit of sliding his tool
into the hairless nook between her long legs and since she'd
promised him, more or less, that she wouldn't leave until he'd done
so, she let him strip her to the waist and suck on her firm
pear-shaped breasts until her pointy nipples stuck up like bright
red thumbs. To hurry things along, she'd placed his thickening tool
between her soft white orbs and rubbed and rocked him till it
looked like he was about to shoot all over her chest. In fact he
was keen to do it but she'd said 'No, next time, right now I want
it up my cunt!' which was really just for his benefit, to get him
worked up he'd put it in her and get it over quickly.

In fact it had taken quite a while, he must have been holding
back, savouring this unique opportunity, and so she'd had to talk
to him a lot, whispering a string of obscenities into his ear about
how she loved big cocks, especially
his
big cock, he could put it in her
any time he liked, up her pussy and her mouth and between her tits
and maybe if he was good, and she was sure he would be, up her
arsehole which would be
so
tight around his fat cock that he'd spunk spunk
and spunk inside her. And then he had and she'd come off again too,
just to keep him company, and here she was leaning against the lift
door with that same spunk dribbling down her legs, wondering how
she was ever going to make it to the street to find a
taxi.

'Excuse me,
mademoiselle
, but are you all right?
You are looking very pale.'

The man was
looming over her, his chest as broad as the door, it seemed,
threatening to burst out of his jacket and tie. He wore
tortoise-shell spectacles and an expression of touching concern.
But it was his French accent that instantly captivated Marianne,
wiping all thought of Gerald from her mind.

How wonderful
it would be, she thought, to collapse into those big strong arms.
So that's what she did.

Cassie was
delighted. Thanks to the efforts of her two lusty builders she had
made up her arrears on the Honeydew regime and, so she calculated,
was now turning her orgasm account into the black. If she could
just manage a few more decent comes then she'd be ahead of
schedule.