Lust Under Licence (6 page)

'
Si, si!
,'
muttered Elvira into the sheets as Tom began to ram with urgency
into the velvety pillows of her broad buttocks. 'Give it to me,
Tomas. Shoot your hot spunk inside my ass!'

The real
purpose of Elvira's foreign sojourn was to improve her English.
That she had succeeded in broadening her bedroom vocabulary was a
matter in which Tom took pride. He did not, however, kid himself
that he was her only teacher.

He pushed
himself up on both hands to get a good view of his thick stem
see-sawing in and out of her bottom hole. The white shaft made an
exciting contrast with the pink mouth of her elastic anus and the
delicate sheen of her brown buttock flesh.

It was amazing to him that he could fuck her up the arse, that
she would want him to do it to her that way. In truth, it was the
only way she would let him penetrate her - apart from in the mouth.
She had left Italy a virgin, she said, and she would return
intacta
between the legs
or her father would kill her. But between the bum cheeks was
another matter, she had to have some way of paying for her bedside
English lessons. Besides, so Tom had concluded after a couple of
visits, she just loved to be poked in the butt. It drove her
wild.

'Ah, ah, ah!'
she squealed, wriggling back onto his prong, trying to ram every
centimetre of available cock flesh up her fundament, her own
fingers now busy on her clitoris. 'Yes, yes, I'm coming! I'm
coming!'

And so was
Tom, there was no denying the honey-sweet suction valve between her
cheeks and the fleshy kiss of her creamy moons on his belly as he
pumped and banged and finally shot off deep into her hungry
bowels.

'God, Elvira,'
murmured Tom into the coal-black tangle of her curls now spread
across the pillow, 'that was fantastico.'

She just
grunted and a moment later, as Tom had anticipated, her breathing
deepened and she cradled her head in her arms. Tom slipped from the
bed and pulled the covers over her. She had made it clear the last
time they made love that she liked to be left to recover alone in
her small bed. He had pretended to be sorry about it but in fact it
suited him well.

He dressed
quickly and slipped down the stairs. The house was quiet. He
presumed that Lionel's wife was out and the kids were at school. A
good time to snoop in the Professor's study.

The study was
on the first floor at the front. Tom had been there several times
that summer term for tutorials and once, in his first term, for a
freshmen's cocktail party. Tom knew his way about.

He knew, for
example, that Lionel kept the key to the filing cabinet by his desk
in a pretty china cup on the mantelpiece next to the framed
photographs of his children. He opened the cabinet and soon found
what he was looking for.

The
Professor's study was large and well appointed. Lionel preferred to
work in its airy luxury than in his stuffy room in the English
Department. In a corner of its book-lined splendour stood a
photocopier. From Tom's point of view, the arrangement could not
have been handier. Tuesday mornings were turning out to be a piece
of cake. Get up late, stroll to the Prof's, sneak in the garden
door, fuck Elvira senseless, sneak into the study, find the text of
last week's lecture and copy it. Simple.

It helped that
Professor Slack was a creature of habit. His lectures were finely
honed - as they should be, he'd been giving the same ones for
nearly ten years. Now they were scripted down to each significant
pause and impromptu aside. The scripts were neatly typed and filed
in order, ready to be pulled out at the appointed time in the
academic year. Fortunately Tom didn't have to sit and listen to
them. He had discovered a short cut.

He had
discovered other things of Lionel's too. For example, his mark
book. It was Lionel's practice to return a student's essay after
scrupulous evaluation and to record its worth in a green directory.
Once returned, of course, there was no way Lionel could check that
the mark on the essay and the mark in the green book remained the
same. Using the red fountain pen that the Professor kept by his
book - fussy old fart - it was a simple matter for Tom to subtly
amend his past performances. It was surprising how many essays of
Tom's improved with time. He soon had better marks than any other
student on the course, despite the fact that he rarely appeared at
lectures.

Tom was
feeling pretty cocky today. After making his copies, he began to
flick through the correspondence in the Professor's in-tray. It was
boring stuff but he couldn't tear himself away. A fortnight earlier
he'd come across a letter from his own father urging Professor
Slack to treat him with particular sensitivity because of his feud
with his elder brother. Tom had laughed at that.

Right at the
bottom of the tray he struck lucky. There were seven or eight
Polaroid photographs in a brown envelope. They were very explicit.
Despite lousy lighting and red eye, Elvira looked pretty good, Tom
thought. Good enough to set his cock twanging like a tuning fork
even though the Italian minx had drained him dry less than twenty
minutes earlier. Here was Elvira lying naked, playing with her
bush. Elvira bending over and spreading her buttocks in invitation.
Elvira holding herself open with one hand and aiming a vibrator
with the other. Then, even more interesting, there was Elvira
sucking cock - taken at a distorting angle as the suckee pointed
the camera downwards. Then - Good Lord - there was the suckee
himself with his head on Elvira's thigh, tongue extended towards
the spread lips of her honeypot. The suckee was Professor Lionel
Slack.

Tom's heart
hammered in his chest. The revered man of letters was dipping his
nib in the Italian inkwell in the attic, just like Tom himself. And
making a record of his extra-curricular activity. How bizarre.

Tom knew this
discovery had to be to his advantage though quite how, as yet, was
not clear.

He heard the
sound of the front door opening on the floor below. Shit!

Without
thinking, he pocketed a photo, one that clearly showed Lionel in
contravention of his matrimonial commitments, and replaced the
envelope at the bottom of the in-tray. He grabbed one of the
Professor's own scholarly works on Shakespeare from the shelves and
stuffed inside it the sheaf of papers he had copied. Then he
marched smartly into the corridor.

At the bottom
of the stairs, looking up at the sound of his descending footsteps,
was a slender girl in a baggy brown school uniform. Tom knew who
this was from the framed pictures on Lionel's mantelpiece -
Christina, the eldest daughter. She was older than in the pictures,
though. And despite the ugly shapeless clothes, it was clear from
her porcelain-perfect complexion and almond eyes that she was a
beauty.

'Hello,' said
Tom, more heartily than he intended. 'I'm one of your father's
students. The au pair let me in. I came by to get a book your
father promised to lend me.'

All of this
was true and he met her curious gaze with as much sincerity as he
could muster. Her eyes were caramel brown and her blonde hair hung
in a single braid down her back like thick rope.

'He says that
one's his best.'

For a moment
Tom was bemused. Then he realised she meant the book. He almost
laughed out loud. She didn't suspect a thing.

'Got to rush,'
he said, pushing past her still form and striding for the front
door. 'I'm late for my next lecture.'

He ran down
the front steps aware that those beautiful brown eyes were burning
into his back.

Tom woke up
suddenly. It was as if someone had flicked a switch and pitched him
forward twenty years in the blink of an eye. He had reclaimed
another segment of his past and the taste of it was in his
mouth.

Two women
stood by his bed, looking down at him. One was about forty with a
tired face, wearing a light summer raincoat and holding a scuffed
briefcase. The other was taller and younger with peroxide curls,
pink lipstick and a sulky expression. She was dressed in a
rainbow-coloured shell-suit with stripes on the sleeve - could it
be some kind of uniform? She looked mean.

'Thomas
Glass?' said the weary one.

'Yes?'

'I'm Inspector
Claire Quartermain of the TCU and this is Sergeant Tooth. We'd like
some of your time.'

'Police?'

'The TCU, Mr
Glass.'

'What's
that?'

'The Thought
Correction Unit.'

'I still don't
understand.'

'Tell him,
Amy,' said the inspector and slumped into a chair.

'The Sex
Police,' said the sergeant. 'You're on our list, Mr Big-shot. We're
going to eat your bollocks.'

'What do you
mean - "eat my bollocks"? This is outrageous!' Tom used his power
voice - it had worked for him so far - and reached for the alarm
button by his bed. A small but firm hand captured his before he
could summon help.

'There's no
need to be alarmed, Mr Glass,' said Inspector Quartermain. 'Amy
sometimes jumps the gun. This is only a preliminary chat so we can
get to know one another.'

'I demand to
see Dr Flint,' said Tom, only half mollified. Amnesiac or not, he
knew these two were trouble.

'Of course you
can see Dr Flint. But there's no point. We're here with her
blessing. She's always most cooperative.'

The wind was
now almost gone from Tom's sails. 'Well, make it quick. I'm still
not feeling well.'

Claire
Quartermain smiled. Her eyes were bright and quick, like those of a
small rodent. Her smile did not reassure Tom in the least.

'Excellent,'
she said. 'Perhaps we can start with your version of events last
Friday evening. Why don't you tell us what happened?'

'I don't
remember. I've just spent three days in a coma. I'm surprised Dr
Flint didn't mention it.'

'So you have
no recollection of how you came to be exposing yourself in the
street in full view of the audience leaving a London theatre?'

'You tell me,
Inspector. I trust you are investigating what seems like an obvious
assault on my person. And when you find who is responsible let me
know. If you don't prosecute, I'll sue.'

The
policewoman seemed unimpressed.

'For someone
with no memory of the events in question you seem very sure of
yourself, Tom.'

'Mr Glass to
you, Inspector.'

An awkward
silence descended. Tom blustered on, aware he was making an enemy
of this woman but unable to stop himself.

'Why do you
assume that I'm in the wrong? I'm the injured party here. I fell
ten storeys into the street and it's a miracle I'm alive. Now I'm
stuck in hospital unable to run my business. I've lost my memory.
And every day I'm pilloried in the newspapers as if I'm some filthy
pervert! It's not fair!'

'Oh dear,'
said the inspector, 'I can see we've got off on the wrong foot. I
know how to cheer you up, though. Amy!'

The blonde
sprang to attention. 'Yes, guv?'

'Get out your
goodies. Let's put a smile back on Mr Glass's face.'

'Excuse me,
guv, but I don't know that I want to. He is a pervert, you can see
for yourself.' And Amy pointed to the sheet bunched over Tom's
loins. It was not bunched sufficiently to conceal the tumescent
column of flesh that reared without apology between his thighs.

How could Tom
explain that since he had regained consciousness he had been in an
almost permanent state of sexual arousal? That he had been plagued
by sexy nurses and importunate fiancées and that his dreams had
been peopled with naked, cock-happy conquests from his lurid
past?

A steely hand
shot out and grasped Tom's bed sheet. Claire Quartermain jerked the
cover from his body and suddenly his penis was laid bare,
stretching from crotch to belly button in unrepentant glory.

'Blimey,' said
Amy, her features now animated, 'what a salami!'

'Precisely,
Sergeant Tooth. The sausage that stopped the West End. The
subversive weapon that undermined an entire business community.
Exhibit number one for the prosecution in The Primrose Court, I'll
be bound.'

'Oh for God's
sake,' shouted Tom. 'It's my penis, you stupid harpies, and what I
do with it is my own affair—'

A shriek of
high-pitched laughter rang out from Amy Tooth, cutting across Tom's
protest.

'My, my,' said
Inspector Quartermain, 'maybe you really have lost your memory.
Either that or you are sorely in need of retraining. I can see that
we have a serious investigation on our hands, Sergeant. Stop
tittering and do your duty.'

Tom watched in
dumbfounded astonishment as Amy Tooth unzipped her hideous
shell-suit from throat to navel and emerged from it like a
butterfly from a chrysalis. He gulped at the sight of two
grapefruit-sized breasts packed tight into a shiny gold satin
brassiere that lifted and separated, offering to his fevered
imagination a feast of succulence. Her creamy midriff was bared to
shiny black PVC shorts, cut high on the thigh and tight across the
bulge of her pouting mons veneris.

Her legs were
long and fleshy, the skin of her thighs smooth and white above
gleaming leather boots that encased her up to the knee. She was a
cock-stiffening dream-come-true - even for a man like Tom whose
cock needed no further stiffening. It jerked on his belly in
salute.

Amy turned to
rummage in her bag, bending at the waist to do so, thrusting out
her gleaming posterior in heart-stopping provocation.

Inspector
Quartermain observed Tom's interest with satisfaction. 'She's got a
hell of an arse, hasn't she? I thought that might be to your
taste.'