Judge Sharp
turned Tom loose at once, even before she marched into court and
abandoned the proceedings. The tumult of surprise and
disappointment from the spectators overrode even the Judge's gavel.
Gossamer Hawk's face turned to thunder and Petra laughed out loud.
She knew that later, when she heard the reason for this unexpected
reverse, Prosecutor Hawk would also wear the face of fear.
The afternoon
party at Glass Mountain had not been planned but there was no way
to contain the explosion of excitement once Tom's appearance lit
the fuse. Even the most disgruntled employee was keen to piss the
day away, glass in hand, and contemplate the future now it was
evident the boss was free, sane and eager to get back to
business.
Petra had not
worried when Tom slipped out of the celebrations but later, when
his car was reported missing and he could not be found, she'd
become anxious. Then he called her and they talked for quite a
while. He'd finished by making her a suggestion that still made her
smile. She'd said yes, how could she refuse? No one had ever asked
her to be a best man before...
Now Petra sat in the invited
Gravitas
audience between her lover
and her best friend, though (she realised with a forbidden frisson)
the terms might equally well be applied to them both. Her body
shivered with excitement. Kelvin had come back to her like a knight
in shining armour to rescue her from peril and like a demon lover
equipped with new skills to drive her wild - as he had done most of
last night. She squeezed his thigh and grinned at Cassie on her
other side. She was going to remember this day for the rest of her
life.
The programme began with an introduction by Marianne dressed
in her clinging black sheath dress that emphasised as much as it
concealed. The topic was sexual self-help. There was a school of
thought, headed by Gerald Goldring, that held that such subject
matter was unworthy of a flagship arts programme like
Gravitas
. But the prospect
of some decent viewing figures had long ago swayed all judgements.
After all, what was the point of having a sexy new presenter like
Marianne if you weren't going to talk about sex?
So Marianne
began the lead-in to two filmed segments (of authors Timberland and
Honeydew) which was then to be followed by the meat of the
programme - the studio discussion.
'There's no
doubt we have sex on the brain,' she said in her sly gurgle of a
voice. 'Magazines, newspapers, even television programmes like
this, are full of sexual material. Our bookshelves are packed with
advice on how-to, when-to, and what-to-do-when-I-don't-want-to. But
are we actually doing it at all? Our programme tonight is about two
gurus of contemporary sexuality and their directly opposed
philosophies. Their books are battling it out at the very top of
the bestseller lists and they will shortly be in the studio to
fight it out in person - though not literally of course, we hope.
This is what they had to say when I spoke to them earlier in the
week.'
'Hunk-ee,'
breathed Cassie in appreciation as the rugged blue-eyed face of
Edward Timberland beamed out of the TV monitor just in front of
them. 'He's a beaut.'
'Relax,'
muttered Petra. 'He's the one who doesn't believe in doing it.'
'Be quiet,'
came an impatient whisper from the other side of the central aisle.
Petra had noticed earlier that the audience was divided. Around her
the watchers were for the most part female - smart attractive women
brimming with purpose. Across the aisle the seats were packed with
men, a nondescript bunch of all ages, none of whom had caught
Petra's eye. It was this section that sat, rapt, as Ted Timberland
espoused the virtues of self-reliance, life in the raw and
semen-retention.
'Shit a
brick,' muttered Cassie, 'don't ask me to date one those guys.'
'Will you
please be quiet,' said the same voice as before, an obnoxious
authoritarian bray. It came from a diminutive, pinstriped figure
who was glaring at them in the semi-darkness.
'That little
pipsqueak's getting on my tits,' said Cassie.
'Ignore him,'
said Petra. 'Look, here's Chastity.' There was a murmur of approval
from the women as the blonde Californian, dressed in work-out
clothes of skintight Lycra, appeared on screen. At the same time,
Petra became aware of a hiss of loathing from across the aisle.
'Jezebel,'
cried the pinstriped one as Chastity began to describe the pivotal
role of the orgasm in her work-out regime.
'Painted
whore!' shouted a hairy giant in an anorak.
The men were
shushed energetically by the women and some of Chastity's pearls of
wisdom were lost in the commotion.
Kelvin
chuckled. 'I see we're in for a lively studio discussion.
Petra squeezed
his hand in contentment, in her present mood she didn't mind one
bit.
'Are you sure
you want to watch this?' said Tom as Eve got out of bed to turn on
the television. Her rear view was delectable, the pale ovals of her
buttocks flexing and shifting as she moved. And when she bent down
to pick up the remote control Tom longed to freeze-frame her in
that position, just so he could savour the flowing outthrust of her
hips, the swollen curve of her cheeks - and the pouting lips of her
pink pussy smiling up at him in flagrant invitation. Though they
had done little apart from feast on each other's flesh from the
moment he had arrived, he was hungry for her again.
'Of course I
want to watch it,' she said as she turned back to the bed, her big
breasts billowing, the blonde thatch between her thighs winking at
him. Really, the view from the front was just as intoxicating.
'OK,' said Tom
as she climbed into the small bed beside him. 'Just as long as I
never hear you say, at any time in our future life, that on the
night of our engagement I made you watch my ex-fiancée on TV.'
She laughed
and snuggled into his arms. 'She's got nothing to do with it. I
want to watch Chastity Honeydew. I'm thinking of doing her
regime.'
Tom groaned.
'If you're going on some celery-and-wheat-germ diet with daily
aerobics the wedding's off. Now I'm at liberty I want to enjoy
life, I don't want some fitness fascist in my bed.'
Eve slid a
companionable hand around Tom's erection and gently slipped the
foreskin back and forth across the glans. 'That's a pity,' she
said, 'because I'm relying on you for support.'
'Hey, Fiona.'
Gloria Just was sitting at the reception desk in the basement of
The Primrose Court, flicking through the newspaper.
Fiona had her
head buried in her book. She looked up.
'Your
favourite writer is on the telly,' said Gloria.
'Who?'
'"Morticia Chekhov, author of
The
Piercing of Patsy Punishment
takes part in
a discussion about sexual self-help techniques" - that's what it
says here.'
'Ooh!' A
squeal of excitement broke from Fiona's lips. 'That's the one I'm
reading now!'
'I know that,
you dozy slut, that's why I mentioned it. The programme's just
started.'
'Quick, let's
watch it in the day room. There's nothing going on here.'
'Too true,'
said Gloria. It was a quiet night in the cells. In fact it wasn't
much fun at all now Tom Glass had gone.
She followed
Fiona out of the door, watching the twitch of her mini-skirt and
the eager swish of her long thin legs as she raced ahead. Quite why
she was in such a rush Gloria couldn't fathom. It wasn't as if she
had much to learn about sexual self-help. The way the girl
practised, she had to be an expert already.
In the Black
Raven studio, Marianne Matthews' moment had come. As the cameras
closed in on her sparkling grey eyes and sumptuous smiling mouth,
she bubbled with excitement. The stage-fright that had beset her
before transmission had melted into her blood, giving her a
transfusion of energy. This was her first important programme, she
was chairing a live discussion on a hot topic and the studio was
buzzing. She just knew this was going to be a night to
remember.
There were
four guests on the platform with her. On her right, the women:
Chastity and the novelist Morticia Chekhov. On her left, the men:
poet Garnet O'Dread and Ted Timberland. The warring writers sat out
on opposing flanks, facing their supporters; Marianne was in the
middle, orchestrating the discussion - such as it was. Each of the
speakers confined themselves to statements of their position that
allowed little room for dialogue.
'To be honest
with you,' Garnet was saying, 'I find nothing of any interest
whatsoever in either of these books. And the idea that they address
pertinent issues of our time is frankly laughable.' Marianne smiled
at him warmly and urged him to continue - which he did, rubbishing
all parties in his deadpan Irish drone as was his habit. He was on
every arty-farty talk show going, his function being to stick the
knife into the subject in question from a position of moral and
intellectual superiority. It was a very successful pose. He never
went out of fashion.
'But Garnet,'
said Marianne, deciding to throw a spanner in the works, 'where do
you stand personally on sex?'
'Basically I
think that the trophy-hunting philosophy in sexual matters, be it
in collecting orgasms or in stockpiling a semen bank—'
'That's not
what I meant,' interrupted Marianne. 'What I meant was, do you do
it?'
There was a
pause. For the first time in broadcasting history, the Irish poet
was silent.
'Perhaps I should put my cards on the table,' continued
Marianne. 'I, personally, do it lots, and if I haven't got a
partner I'll do it on my own. So what do
you
do?'
Garnet looked
from side to side, his eyes spinning in his head like marbles. It
was evident that he hoped, for once, to hear the sound of someone
else's voice. It did not come.
'Well, I,
er... I think this is a rather personal matter.'
'Surely not in
the context of our discussion,' said Marianne. 'I'm sure everyone
in our audience would be prepared to state their position.' She
turned to the audience. 'Wouldn't you?'
The shout of
'Yes' was deafening.
'You see.' She
smiled at him in triumph. 'Come on, Garnet. You wouldn't want your
reticence to be misinterpreted as intellectual cowardice, would
you?'
The blood drained from the poet's face. 'If you must know,' he
spat at her, 'I abhor all matters to do with the procreative
process. I think that sexual behaviour is the curse of creation and
I
personally
would
be happy to see the human race die out with my generation. I
particularly detest pretty perfumed women with their breasts loose
and bare under tight dresses who try and pollute the purity of my
thought processes.'
'Like me, you
mean?'
'Yes, yes. Just like you. Look at yourself, all flirty-flirty
eyes and swishy-swishy legs and your nipples poking through your,
dress. You're
disgusting!
'
Marianne
glowed with inner satisfaction. She'd got the little bastard. She
gave the camera her sultriest smile as she said, 'Now I think we
know where Garnet O'Dread is coming from. The great poet has just
revealed himself to be a complete wanker.'
'Gosh,' said
Eve, 'she's brilliant. And she's gorgeous. Why ever did you split
up?'
'Because she
didn't love me and I didn't love her,' said Tom. 'If you want to
turn it off that's fine with me.'
'Oh no, I'm
enjoying it. I want to hear what Chastity has to say. And take your
hand away from there, I don't want to be distracted.'
'I'm only
trying to help. I thought this was all about having lots of
orgasms.'
'Well, I
suppose so but, ooh, must you?'
'Yes. Slide
your beautiful bum onto my lap. If we're going to watch television
on the night of my liberation from a dank and dreary prison cell
I'd like to put my cock somewhere warm and comfortable.'
'In here?'
'Mmm yes.
That's exactly where I had in mind.'
'And what
about you, Morticia, what's your preference?' Marianne had switched
her attack to the novelist. She was really punching now, she
thought, nobody would ever again mistake her for a weather girl
after this.
Before she
replied, the writer removed her horn-rimmed spectacles and met
Marianne's gaze. The look in those almond-shaped eyes said that she
was equal to any challenge.
'Since you
ask,' said Morticia, 'I like to watch.'
'You mean
you're a voyeur?'
'Oh yes. All
writers are voyeurs in their way. As the author of erotic stories I
like people to perform for me sexually. It gives me great pleasure.
It's also excellent research.'
'And you
attain orgasm just by watching other people?' asked Marianne,
wondering just how far she should push things.
'Don't be
silly,' replied the novelist. 'I need proper stimulation in the
right quarters.'
'You mean
self-stimulation.'
'Not
necessarily, though I don't like other people to touch me.'
Marianne was
lost but she was determined to pin this superior bitch down.
'That doesn't
make sense.'
'Certainly, it
does. I'll show you. Just hold this.' Morticia placed the end of a
thin gold chain in Marianne's hand. It appeared to be attached to
the woman's clothing. 'Now just tug it gently. Mmm - ooh - that's
right. If you kept that up I assure you it would give me exquisite
pleasure.'