Lust Under Licence Read online

  LUST UNDER LICENCE

  by

  NOEL AMOS

  Lust Under Licence first published in 1995 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.

  ISBN 9781780800356

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Noel Amos. The right of Noel Amos to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover image by Barbara Jensen.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Contents

  One - A La Recherche Des Bonks Perdus

  Two - Shagged Rotten

  Three - Arse for Art's Sake

  Four - Banged Up

  Five - Tried and Found Wanton

  The women meet in a sunny conservatory. They sit round a glass table on padded cane chairs and drink iced mineral water from tall glasses. Some make notes on leather-backed pads, one takes minutes on a laptop portable. A female observer would approve of their style, in particular the elegant cut of their summer suits and dresses. A male observer might be tempted to look further than the packaging and imagine exploring the delectable flesh within.

  But there are no observers to this meeting. Its concerns are secret and only the palms and ferns swaying in the cool down draught from the ceiling fans are witness to its deliberations. The Corrections Committee of The Primrose Court is going about its weekly business. That business is the regulation of sex. And the prosecution of men.

  'What are we going to do about this,' says a willowy brunette as she pushes a thick folder into the middle of the table, 'in the light of recent events?'

  'I thought that gentleman might get a mention,' says the chairwoman, a well-preserved blonde of indeterminate years.

  'Nail the bastard now,' says a woman in a thin skinny-ribbed top.

  'I agree,' says another, her short black hair as stylishly cropped as a French mannequin. 'Let's get him while public opinion's on our side.'

  The chairwoman sighs, the mood of the gathering is plain. Very well,' she says. 'Pass the file to Prosecutor Hawk.'

  One - A La Recherche Des Bonks Perdus

  Chapter 1

  The patient woke on the third day. A woman was bending over him and his first impression was of the view down the neck of her candy-striped blouse as she adjusted his pillows. A shaft of sunlight shone from a window onto the pale skin of her cleavage which gaped, milky and warm, inches from his face. The aroma of chocolate and perfume rose from her dimpled flesh. On the sumptuous cupola of her right breast was a name tag.

  'Nurse Biscuit,' he said.

  The woman leapt backwards as if she'd been stung. A shilling-sized circle of scarlet blazed on each cheek and her blue eyes were wide with alarm.

  'Golly!' she cried. 'You're awake!' She giggled and put a band to her mouth. 'I'll just fetch - oh!'

  She gave up the struggle to finish the sentence and ran from the room with a squeak of laughter. As she did so the patient couldn't help noticing that, for a nurse, her skirt was distractingly short.

  He looked around the room. There were swagged floral curtains on the high windows and Matisse prints on the wall. The carpet was thick. Opposite his bed was a large television set and on top of it a card offering a choice of movies. Next to a writing desk stood a small teak cabinet labelled 'Minibar'. Only the bed on which he lay and the bank of instruments that surrounded it, some with tubes which snaked beneath the sheets, indicated that he was in some kind of medical establishment. From behind his head, in the room next door, came the thump of rock music and raised, cheerful voices.

  'Where am I?' he said to the woman in a white coat and granny glasses who now entered the room accompanied by a more composed Nurse Biscuit.

  'Partridge Place,' she replied, taking a clipboard of notes from the end of the bed.

  The patient thought for a second. The catch phrase from an advert came into his head: 'The Exclusive Care Facility for Exclusive People,' he said.

  'You won't get better care elsewhere,' said the woman, failing to add 'or more expensive' - it went without saying.

  Her fingers were cool and firm as she took his pulse. Like Nurse Biscuit, she too wore a name tag. She saw the direction of his gaze.

  'I'm Madeleine Flint,' she said, 'the consultant in charge of your case.'

  'But who am I?' said the patient. 'And what am I doing here?'

  This time Nurse Biscuit could not control her laughter.

  They brought him the papers to read and left him alone, though he heard plenty of stifled whispering at the door. He had the impression he was being observed. He soon forgot about it as he turned to the front page of the Daily Dog.

  CITY PLONKER TAKES THE PLUNGE

  Mystery of nude tycoon

  Millionaire businessman Tom Glass, the City's Mr Cool, fell off his pedestal yesterday when he survived an embarrassing freak accident that landed him in hospital. Theatre-goers emerging from The Gryphon Theatre discovered Glass half naked in a builder's skip in the road outside his office at 10.30 last night. It is assumed that Glass fell from the balcony of his penthouse on the tenth floor.

  No trousers

  'When I left the theatre I saw a man lying in a pile of rubbish,' said Randolph Sutcliffe, 43. 'At first I thought he was drunk. He was wearing stockings and suspenders but no trousers and he had a pair of ladies' knickers on his head. He looked like he'd been having a high old time. What's more, he was still up for it, if you know what I mean. My wife's in shock.'

  On the job

  Last night Glass was recovering in a luxury hospital reserved for the nobs. Staff at his company, Glass Mountain, were tight-lipped about the activities of their owner and Chief Executive. 'As far as I know, Tom was working late,' said a company spokesperson. 'We're all praying he'll soon be back on the job.' Mr Glass's fiancée, Marianne Matthews, Badger TV's weather girl, was not available for comment.

  The other papers, in their various styles, were no less gleeful. The Daily Blizzard made the incident the subject of a centre-page comment:

  The Blizzard finds it shameful that one of our best and brightest young entrepreneurs should be guilty of gross impropriety in public on the same day that the business community launches its New Leaf campaign to reinforce moral values in the office environment. Such conduct undermines all the good work put in by right-thinking male executives and is a calculated insult to the increasingly powerful female voice in the business world. Tom Glass has been dead lucky this time but we suggest that he cleans up his act fast - even fat cats can run out of lives.

  The patient stared at the pile of newspapers. There were three days' worth and the story even rumbled on in the most recent. It didn't make a lot of sense to him. He couldn't remember any of it. He jabbed his finger onto the red alarm button by his bed. Nurse Biscuit appeared at the door instantly.

  'Get me a mirror,' he demanded before she had set foot in the
room. His voice was deep and authoritative. The sound comforted him. 'What are you waiting for?' he yelled and the rosy-cheeked nurse vanished, returning with a hand mirror a moment later.

  He studied the photographs in the papers and compared them with his reflection: straight nose, cleft chin, a shock of dark hair falling over the brow. It was the same man.

  Nurse Biscuit was looking at him closely, fear and curiosity written on her pretty face.

  'What's your first name?' he said.

  'Eve.'

  He held out his hand and took her small one in his grasp. 'It seems mine is Tom. Sit down, Eve, and tell me all you know about me because, believe me, I haven't got a clue.'

  She hesitated, her hand still in his. He wouldn't let go.

  'It's all right, Eve,' said the voice of Dr Flint as she advanced on the bed holding a hypodermic needle. 'You can stay and chat to Mr Glass after he's had his injection.'

  'What's that for?' said Tom, suspicion in his voice, as his sleeve was raised and Madeleine Flint aimed her weapon.

  'Relax, Mr Glass, you're not lording it over your business empire now.' And she slid the needle into a vein.

  'What business empire?' Tom shouted. 'Don't you understand - I can't remember who I am!'

  'Trust me,' said Madeleine, emptying the syringe into his arm. 'I promise you'll soon remember things you never knew you knew.'

  Chapter 2

  Gossamer Hawk rose at six every day to take a leisurely bath. As she luxuriated in the warm soapy water she sometimes heard the screams and bellows of her two toddling offspring as they rampaged on the floor below. If they were too noisy she would reprimand her husband, Peregrine, over breakfast. Gossamer needed tranquillity first thing in the morning to prepare her mind and body for the rigours of the day ahead.

  After milkless tea, wholemeal toast and a quick skim of the newspapers she watched Perry herd Annabel and Pasco into the family Volvo to ferry them off to nursery school. Then she made a list of house-husbandly tasks for Perry to accomplish during the day: 'Iron my turquoise blouse, fetch the dryclean, return P's library books, do Sainsbury's and don't forget Blenkinsops are coming for dinner - asparagus soufflé rack of lamb would be nice. I'll try to be back by eight.' At last, with the satisfaction that comes from unselfish delegation, she whisked her scarlet Honda Prelude out of the garage and plunged into the traffic heading for central London. Prosecutor Hawk was ready for business.

  Gossamer's appointment to The Primrose Court had taken newspapers by surprise. What was a little-known barrister, a mother-of-two with an inane giggle and a schoolgirl vocabulary, doing at the cutting edge of sexual correction? To outsiders, this rangy English rose with unruly fair hair and disarming milky-blue eyes seemed lightweight. But those who had seen her operate - such as her former colleagues in chambers and her opponents in court - knew that the rose had thorns.

  Gossamer was a great believer in the clear-desk policy. First thing in the morning her in-tray groaned with paper; by the end of the day not a scrap would be visible. The rapid assimilation and processing of material was one of her strengths. She had once been the school swot - it was the foundation of her success.

  Today she beavered at her in-coming paper pile with customary zeal. She had an interview with a journalist scheduled for eleven and she aimed to clear her desk by then. Soon she was down to just one item, a thick yellow file bulked out with newspaper cuttings. She read the name scrawled in black felt-tip on the cover and settled down to read with glee. For once she was going to take her time.

  An hour later Gossamer was interrupted by the arrival of Kelvin Priest of Nouveau, a modish magazine for thinking men - or so it claimed. Giving interviews to the press was not Gossamer's favourite task, particularly to such a small-beer publication. But selling the business of The Primrose Court to the thinking man was part of her job.

  She had no objection to Kelvin, however. She had a soft spot for broody English types - they never gave her any trouble.

  'Speaking as a male,' he was saying, 'how do I know when my thoughts need correcting? I mean, if I see an attractive woman in the street and I think to myself, well, something overtly sexist like—'

  '"Cor, get a load of the arse on that"?' Gossamer's tinkling tones enunciated every syllable and brought a blush to Kelvin's cheeks.

  'Yes, that kind of thing.'

  Gossamer beamed at him and pushed a lock of thick honey-hued hair from off her forehead. 'Well, Kelvin, that is an obvious misdemeanour and you should be ashamed of yourself.'

  Kelvin looked suitably ashamed but persisted.

  'But suppose I'm walking behind this woman, thinking about something else, and I can't help staring at her, um, figure even though my mind is elsewhere.'

  'You mean the way you're staring now.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'I have no doubt, Mr Priest, that you are a conscientious journalist and that your sole concern in interviewing me is to faithfully interpret my remarks for your readers, however...'

  'However?'

  'You haven't taken your eyes off my breasts since you sat down.'

  Kelvin's face was crimson. It was true that his glance had strayed once or twice to the divide of Gossamer's cleavage, prettily exposed in the vee of her open-necked blouse. He opened his mouth to deny it but no sound emerged. There was a degree of intensity in her big blue eyes that prevented him. They bored into his like a searchlight on a black night. Not many men, in or out of the dock, found it easy to lie to Prosecutor Hawk.

  'Don't worry, Mr Priest, I know you are just doing your job as best you can,' she said with a deprecating smile. 'After all, the male of the species is a rudimentary organism at best and it would be unreasonable of me to expect a lusty young man like you to be able to rise above the imperatives of his genitalia. Just so long as you understand that when you contemplate stripping off my blouse and manhandling my breasts then you are simply rising to the siren song of lust that men have answered down the ages. Inside every man in a suit and tie is a shaggy-haired barbarian longing to rape and defile and thrust his hard brutal flesh into a woman's soft and yielding femininity. Believe me, Mr Priest, in my line of work I know. Would you like some coffee?'

  Kelvin nodded. He couldn't speak, he didn't trust himself to be coherent through the tangle of emotions that currently overwhelmed him. He was intimidated by Gossamer's eloquence and ashamed of his masculine inheritance. Yet the urge to manhandle her, now it had been openly acknowledged, had not diminished. Far from it. Somewhere in his mind, he was speculating on the size, the shape, the weight, the actual feel of her tits. He couldn't help it.

  'Alberto, sweetie,' said Gossamer to a slim Latin fellow who had appeared in the doorway, 'pop out and get us a couple of cappuccinos, there's a love.'

  Alberto flashed a toothy smile and swivelled on his Cuban heels. His black trousers were cinched at the waist and pulled as tight as cellophane across the hard round peach of his bum.

  'My new assistant,' explained Gossamer. 'He'll run to the Italian cafe over the road. The coffee in this place tastes like pee.'

  'He looks like a waiter,' ventured Kelvin.

  'He used to be one - his father owns the cafe. Now he's a computer whizz. Can't spell for toffee but can boot up and download all night long, if you get my drift.'

  Kelvin didn't think he did but he smiled all the same. Seconds later Alberto was arranging cups on the desk, a gold necklace dangling from the open neck of his sparkling white shirt.

  'What kept you, sweetheart?' said Gossamer. 'I suppose you were drooling over Maria's melanzane again?'

  Alberto's face froze in a pantomime of horror.

  'Miss Gossamer, how could you say that? You know there is only one woman in my life,' he paused, his handsome face inches from Gossamer's, 'my mother.'

  The pair of them laughed fit to bust and Alberto turned to go. As he did so he looked at Kelvin and rolled his eyes to heaven.

  'Alberto, you're a wicked boy,' said Gossamer to his twinkling buttocks
as he glided from the room.

  Kelvin sipped foam from his cup, quite bemused.

  'Lovely man,' said Gossamer. 'A complete pussy-hound, of course. He'll be off as soon as he's piddled on all the lampposts round here, worse luck.'

  'But, Prosecutor Hawk—'

  'Kelvin, please. Any man who admires my breasts as much as you obviously do, must call me Gossamer.'

  'Gossamer, the man's a classic macho male, a gigolo, a pimp - surely he represents everything you wish to change in the male sex?'

  Gossamer laughed, a long-drawn-out peal of high-pitched merriment that set her substantial titties atremble.

  'Poor Kelvin,' she said at last, 'you really don't understand, do you? Perhaps you'd like to take me to dinner some time and I'll raise your awareness.'

  The moment the confused Kelvin had picked up his notes and gone, Gossamer summoned Alberto with an urgency born of pent-up desperation.

  'Quick, take them down.'

  'But, Miss Gossamer—'

  'Shut up. I want your thick dick in my hand in thirty seconds or you're back on the dole queue.'

  Alberto shrugged and dropped his pants, he knew there was no point in arguing.

  His long curving Latin prong did not share its owner's reluctance. As he stood beside her desk it waved in the Prosecutor's face like a truncheon. She plunged her mouth over the broad brown tip like a starving woman.

  'OH!' he groaned in pleasure and pain as sharp fingernails dragged his scrotum downwards.