Star Slave (12 page)

‘Someone might come, my lord,' she gasped, her fingers twining in his silvery locks and holding him firmly to her bosom. She blushed at his deep chuckle, and her unintentional ambiguity.

‘Not yet, surely?' he said, his voice muffled in her perfumed cleavage. ‘Don't worry, my dear, we won't be disturbed.' His hand left her breast, and he was now dealing with the button and the zip fastener of her jeans, with such success that they quickly gaped open and the white triangle of her cotton briefs showed. His thick fingers negotiated their elasticated waist and delved from above. They teased at the curls of her pubic hair, then slipped lower, to the damp and yielding softness of her mound and the pout of the divide, which was throbbing with arousal. She squirmed, and suddenly she slid off his knee as he rose, dragging his hand with some difficulty from its nest within her underwear.

He gathered her under her arms and lifted her onto the splendid polished surface of the long conference table, and she lay• back among the tooled leather pads and the blotting paper squares, her legs dangling over the table's edge, the hard wood cold on her bruised bottom. Which was soon on view as he eagerly manipulated her tight jeans and cotton knickers down off her hips until they clung in an undignified manner around her knees.

‘A lovers' tiff?' he chuckled. ‘Never mind, I'm delighted. Whoever was responsible, I'm glad to know that you understand discipline.'

The craggy head dipped and his hands pushed her top up from her flat stomach. The tip of his tongue dipped into the shallow little recess of her navel, trailed across the quivering skin, over the tufted rise of her pubic mound to the now distinctly moist divide beneath, and her tangled legs kicked helplessly. His fingers delicately parted her labia to give him access to the glistening inner folds, their slipperiness betokened the height of her arousal.

There was an agonising pause while Lord Burnopside wrestled with her recalcitrant ankle boots. She lay with one arm crooked over her eyes, shivering and whimpering with desire, and eventually he managed to tug them free. Impatiently, he wrenched jeans and knickers together off her feet, which he left encased in the thick brown woollen socks. At last she could raise her knees and spread herself wide, opening to his devouring mouth, his hands pushing at her thighs, the noise of his lapping loud over her ragged sighs. Her belly began to lift and her bottom bunch in rhythmic urgency.

His fingers played along with his working lips at her running flesh, sought out her beating clitoris, and she was soon crying frenziedly, about to come, pulling at his silver hair and begging for release. For an instant she felt an overwhelming despair as he left her, but only to straighten and to claw his rampant prick from its tight concealment. It jutted, red and engorged, eager for fulfilment. He seized her feet, tucked her legs under his arms and, pulling her to the very edge of the table, drove deep into her pulsing sheath.

Felicity started to come before his rigid manhood had bored fully home.

 

‘Where the hell is she? What on earth are you doing here?'

John could tell at once that Michael had been drinking, from his dishevelled appearance and his slurred speech. It was also indicative of his emotion that he should speak in such an abrupt manner, so divorced from his characteristic friendliness. He looked careworn, his eyes reflecting his disturbed state.

‘You'd better come in,' John said, stepping aside. The taller figure entered and stared around at the familiar setting of Felicity's flat. ‘Can I get you anything?' John asked pointedly. ‘Coffee?'

Michael slumped in the' nearest armchair. John felt a deep sympathy for his obvious confusion and distress. Again, he was struck by the contrast between the seated wreck and his usual suave appearance and polished behaviour. He repeated his question, and Michael blinked up at him.

‘Eh?' the drunk mumbled. ‘Oh, coffee, please. Black.' He stood, wobbled through to the bedroom, stared at the unmade bed and the untidiness of the scattered clothes and shoes. He weaved over to the dressing table and picked up a pair of Felicity's satin briefs, held them against his face, feeling their cool caress, breathing in their fragrance, and then dropped them hastily, blushing in embarrassment. John was watching him from the doorway.

‘She asked me to flat-sit the place for a bit,' John explained.

‘Where is she? Tell me. Please!' John recognised the desperation in the deep voice. ‘I've been ringing for days. I've rung the studio... everywhere. Can't get in touch with her. You must know where she is. You're so close to her.'

John answered gently, ‘I honestly don't know, Mike.

She wouldn't say. She'll be back soon, I'm sure. As soon as she shows up I'll tell her.'

Michael sat down on the bed, elbows on knees, his head in his hands. He groaned. ‘She's told you about our row? It was terrible. But honestly - it was all such a shock. Those awful things in all the papers. On the bloody telly morning noon and night. I just couldn't take it. And since then I just haven't been able to get near. She won't even talk to me.' He glanced up at John, his gaze pleading. ‘Is it really true? Margot - a lot of people - are saying it's all just a publicity stunt. To promote that sodding film. I can't believe she would...'

John looked down at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘Would it matter if she did?' he said. ‘She's still your lover, isn't she? I guess it doesn't alter how she feels about you, even if she has got the hots for Stella Priest. Anyway, maybe it's just a one off thing. Maybe it'll wear off now they've finished working together.'

Michael stared up at him in horror. ‘But... how can she? She can't love me and... and...' He shook his head hopelessly, and John felt a sudden stab of impatience with his squareness. He had a strong urge to tell him the truth: Your beloved likes to fuck around with a good number, ducky, including yours truly, a six foot dyke, and a white-haired peer of the realm. But he couldn't be that cruel. He suddenly realised that poor old Mikey would never be a good match for his mercurial cousin, and he felt even more sorry for him. The poor sod was way out of his depth.

‘Let's have something a bit stronger,' he suggested. ‘You're well pissed now. You can kip here if you like. She might ring later.'

This last argument was the clincher, and Michael morosely agreed. They went through and sat in the cosily lit sitting room with a whisky bottle between them.

Michael lost on all counts, John thought compassionately, for he couldn't even hold his liquor too well, though, to be fair, he must have had quite a skin-full before he arrived. Soon his dark blond head was nodding as though too heavy for his neck muscles, his eyes blinking slowly and deliberately, and his speech even more disconnected and rambling than it had been earlier.

‘I just can't... I love her, John. You know that?' His face was red and slack. He frowned, trying to concentrate, then smiled. ‘You know - you're really like her, John. You two - you're a helluva lot alike. Twins, almost.' He shook his head, which sagged even lower.

‘Come on, old son,' John said. ‘I reckon we'd better get you to bed. Sleep it off and hope you feel better in the morning.' He tugged at Michael's arm, persuading him to stand. Michael almost collapsed against the slighter figure, who just managed to steady him. Arm in arm they made staggering progress through to the bedroom. The bed crashed as Michael fell headlong upon it. He buried his face deep in a pillow and breathed heavily, inhaling the faint trace of her perfume.

‘Oh God!' he moaned, fighting to choke back the tears. ‘I love her, John. I love her.'

‘Yes, of course you do. Now come on. Help me, for Christ's sake!' John pulled and tugged, succeeded in getting the jacket off, and then the tie and shirt. The shoes and socks were easy. though the long limbs were a dead weight. Then came the problem of the trousers.

Michael giggled helplessly. ‘You're undressing me,' he muttered into the soft pillow.

‘Trying,' John gasped, struggling to roll the heavy weight over. He undid Michael's trousers and, by dint of some serious tugging and pulling, he fought them down off hips and flanks, and finally succeeded in drawing them off the sturdy legs. A fetching pair of briefs was the sole garment remaining. John stared down at the tempting swell of the tight genitals hidden snugly beneath the taut white cotton. Michael was floundering, like an inexpert swimmer under water, as John drew the sheets down and helped him to negotiate the bedclothes.

‘You're all right, John,' Michael murmured, eyes already closed. ‘Good chap. You look like her, you know. Helluva lot.'

‘Goodnight,' John said, and then went back into the living room. He sat and poured another measure of whisky. He was feeling a little pissed himself, he acknowledged with a wry smile. He stared at the comfortable settee on which he was stretched. Here was a turn up for the books, all right. He and Mikey kipping in Feely's flat, both of them horny as hell for her, and she nowhere to be seen. One thing was for sure, he reasoned, the smile broadening, she wouldn't be feeling as frustrated as they were right now. She was down in the country, safely hidden at Burnopside Hall, where there was plenty to distract her. That six foot wonder woman, as well as a host of other delectable girlies, and, if that palled, there was always the randy old dandy himself, or one of his aristocratic chums.

As he drank his way further down the bottle a wicked thought crept into his mind, and stayed buzzing with increasing irritation, like a fly trapped in a bottle. He recalled the feel and the smell of Mikey's helpless body, the vulnerability of that toned frame as he pulled it back and forth, and its clean-cut manliness. Soon his prick was erect, pushing up against the restriction of his clothing with maddening insistence.

Another glass of whisky and a few minutes later, he made his mind up.

Michael's snores filled• the darkened bedroom. His exciting aroma overlaid the subtle traces of the feminine scent of its usual occupant. Tingling in every nerve, John silently stripped and slipped naked into the bed. He fitted himself to the warm back next to him and slipped his hands under the inert anus, his fingers stroking the tiny nipples and pectoral swells they found. Very slowly and carefully he let his hand slide down over the smooth stomach. He encountered the broad elastic band of the underpants, and slid his fingers delicately beneath it. Below the coils of pubic hair the waiting penis was thick, warm and satin smooth. He felt the thick rim of the foreskin shrouding the helm, and felt the length quiver and stir into life.

Michael whimpered and stirred in John's anus, their legs spooned together. ‘What? Who... what?' The drugged voice drifted up through the layers of sleep.

John clung to him. His hand, in the tight nest of the briefs, massaged firmly, skilfully, and he felt the prick stiffen and elongate mightily until it strained against its confines and stretched his fist. Michael gave a startled gasp, consciousness slowly returning.

‘There,' whispered John, his lips touching the earlobe.

He planted small kisses on the smoothness of the neck, where it met the shoulder, and he felt the form against him give a responsive shudder. ‘There there, Mikey,' he whispered again. ‘I've got you, baby. Just relax.' There was another quiver of the warm body, then came the sound of muffled weeping. The tense muscles gave way and the crying increased, while, unseen in the dark, John's hand worked its rhythmical magic of release. John could feel the body twisting, the buttocks flexing, the movements mirroring the helpless little groans and whimpers. John's hand-strokes grew faster and more deliberate, stretching the dampening material. The elastic waistband slid down and the rigid penis thrust above it, rearing in its newfound freedom. The briefs were now tight around the hairy balls. John knew what was coming, and wasn't surprised when the frame to which he clung shuddered convulsively. There was a muffled cry and he felt the violent surge as Michael's come jetted thickly between his fingers and onto the sheets.

 

Felicity wondered if she were dreaming. She had wanted to escape, to flee from the intolerable pressures that had been brought to bear on her; the nightmare that meant she couldn't go home without running the gauntlet of a horde of voracious reporters. They loitered permanently outside with cameras trained on every window, so that she had to keep the curtains drawn and lived in a twilight or electric world. And on top of all that her own private life was shattered, smashed to fragments, thanks to that golden-haired beautiful bitch who'd seduced her. The row with Michael had been closely followed by another, with the chief author of her misery.

‘You can fuck off!' she had screamed, harpy-like, mascara streaming. ‘It doesn't matter any more! You've succeeded, you bitch! He's dumped me, just like you wanted. Except that you've lost me, too. I'll never go with you again!'

Her satisfaction at delivering this verbal broadside was short-lived. ‘You need cooling off, kiddo!' Stella had replied, and the next thing Felicity knew her hair was seized in a vice-like grip, and she was dragged across the room to the toilet, where her captive head was forced painfully down the bowl and the cistern flushed on her, drowning out her screams of protest. She came up blinded and spluttering, her hair plastered over eyes and face, which seriously hampered her in the attack which followed. She did her best to defend herself and even strike some blows of her own. But as she had always known, she was no fighter, and within minutes she was lying on the floor of the dressing room, her shirt in shreds and her vest a tattered strip around her neck. Stella was well on the way to stripping her altogether, in spite of the skintight jeans, when a posse burst in on them and saved Felicity from further degradation, not to say physical harm.