In Too Deep

by Roxane Beaufort

  IN TOO DEEP

  by

  ROXANE BEAUFORT

  In Too Deep published in 2001 & 2011 by Chimera Books. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.

  ePub ISBN 9781907976094

  mobi ISBN 9781780800240

  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 Roxane Beaufort. The right of Roxane Beaufort 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.

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

  Chapter 1

  'So you want me to try and get photos of Theona Blue, preferably flagrante delicto?' said Will Denton, staring across the desk at his editor-in-chief. The leather upholstered swivel chair creaked at the slightest movement of his big-framed body and long legs.

  'Not try, succeed,' Denise Spalding answered brusquely. Talented, confident and glamorous, she ruled supreme, an iron fist in a velvet glove.

  Will pulled a wry face. 'She's a tough nut to crack,' he reminded, 'is allergic to the press, and surrounded by heavies.'

  'I know all that. This is why it's essential that Hi Life get to her first. Our readers expect the latest low-down on the rich and famous. We must get her before any other magazine does. You can do it, Will.'

  He glanced at her from under his strongly marked eyebrows, aware of his cock hardening as it always did when he was near her. Power was an irresistible aphrodisiac, and Denise was very powerful indeed. She was one of the sexiest ladies he had ever met and, while a confirmed bachelor, he was something of an expert. Concealed by her prestigious mahogany desk, he surreptitiously fondled his balls and caressed his prick through his trousers.

  Denise had always been a great lay, and she was a genuine redhead, too. The foxy triangle at the apex of her thighs matched her fashionably short, flicked-back hair. Bill ached to see it. If he pleased her by promising to get the gen on the famous rock-singer, then maybe she'd let him fuck her again, perhaps right now. They'd had an on-off relationship from the beginning, when she first started working for the magazine. That had been five years ago. But she was capricious. He never knew where he stood with her. Now approaching forty, a craggily handsome man with unruly brown hair, he had already been an ace reporter when she started out as a rookie with a college degree in media studies.

  It had hardly seemed just that because of this diploma she had been made editor instead of him. But, as he had philosophically concluded, who ever said life was going to be fair? The powers that be who owned the magazine wanted a young woman, a modern thinking woman, with a finger on the pulse of today's happenings. He, on the other hand, had worked his way up through the ranks of journalism. He'd seen it all, been there, done that, got the T-shirt, but she had netted the job.

  He'd not resented it, and could have moved had the situation proved too irksome, but after a while he'd had to admit that she was the right choice - as modern as tomorrow with an eye for trends and attitudes, attuned to popular opinion.

  'Okay, you shall have Miss Theona Blue served up on toast,' he vowed, giving her the full benefit of his wide smile.

  Denise rose, tall and graceful in a tailored skirt and silk blouse. 'Good,' she said, and came over to him, leaning against his shoulder. 'I knew you'd agree.'

  'Have I ever let you down?' he asked, breathing in that gorgeous aroma of French perfume mixed with her own personal essence. His nose twitched as he caught the hint of something else - that of female arousal. Undoubtedly her fiery bush would be dampening.

  'Not since that furore about your exposé of the private life of country and western singer, Delia Eddy. It was an audacious piece of investigative journalism, but you fouled up, Will, and Delia sued Hi Life and won her case. It cost the magazine plenty and the bosses weren't amused. They wanted to fire you, but I put in a word.'

  'Why?' he asked, slipping an arm round her pliant waist, male pride dented because it was she who had got him off the hook.

  She looked down into his face and smiled. 'Because you're a good writer and a first-class fuck.'

  'What I said about Delia was true,' he averred, reaching up to feel her breasts through the silk, testing their weight and fullness and if she was wearing a bra, letting his thumbs revolve over the hardened nipples.

  She didn't resist, gasping with pleasure, then saying huskily, 'I know.'

  Will started to work open the buttons, absorbed in his task, but continuing to state his case. 'There was Delia, pretending to be a homespun, girl-next-door type, and in reality shagging every manager and band member on the circuit. I didn't pull any punches.'

  'You never have done,' she whispered as he unfastened her blouse and then fondled her breasts through the cream lace, underwired cups. They were within an inch of his lips.

  'I can't help it,' he went on, blowing gently on her nipples, his erection tenting the front of his trousers. 'That's how I am; I hate bull-shit.'

  'Did you have to be quite so sarcastic?'

  Will slipped a finger into the top of her bra, finding one rosy teat and teasing it into an even more needful peak. 'Sarcastic? I'm that all right. We Brits have a warped sense of humour, haven't we? Something to do with the climate; how can we be other than ironic when we can have a heat wave in March and snow in April?'

  'Keep it under control when you interview Theona,' she advised, but her voice was unsteady as one of his hands left her breasts and wormed its way up under her skirt, encountering stockings, and a smooth area of thigh between a garter belt and the edge of her panties.

  He brushed it aside, thrilling at the feel of crisp pubic floss, then the delicate silkiness of her sex-lips. The copious juice betrayed her excitement, and the throbbing in his groin increased. He put a hand behind her, palming her rounded buttocks and wondering yet again what she would do if he put her across his knee and spanked her. The thought of seeing those round globes turning scarlet under his blows almost made him come in his pants.

  Would she get off on it? He rather thought she might; a woman in control of her business life relinquishing her will to a masterful man. He had never spanked, whipped or caned anyone, though it was one of his fantasies and he often masturbated while looking at photos of bound and gagged girls, naked and ready for beating.

  She relaxed, parting her legs slightly to make his invasion of her secret female parts that much easier. Will lost his nerve, deciding not to attempt to chastise her - not this time. He didn't want anything to put her off, dipping a finger into her moist vulva and massaging her swollen clitoris. Feeling her shiver and wanting to delay her orgasm, he stood up, his hands at her waist now, bending his head and finding her mouth. His tongue entered its honeyed depth, and her own responded with fierce little jabs. She moaned, low in her throat, and he held her tight, pressing her pubis to the bulge straining behind his fly, letting her know how much he wanted her.

  'I've told my secretary I'm not to be disturbed,' she said, dragging her mouth from
his. 'There are condoms in the drawer.'

  Spring sunlight streamed through the plate glass windows of her splendid office, with its view over London's Chelsea Harbour. It struck across the red velvet couch that was a part of the impressive equipment, like the state of the art computer, the fax machine, the drinks cabinet. Many a time that settee had provided them with a place on which to fornicate.

  Denise lay back on it and closed her eyes and Will hovered over her, hearing the muffled sounds of traffic passing far below, and the distant buzz of the people, machines and organisation needed to produce a glossy magazine like theirs. But all was muted, sounding like the sea pounding on some far off shore.

  He knelt by the couch almost reverently, as if he was before an altar. In his own way, he adored this woman, with her sharp mind and lithe body. Her face was fashionably made up, yet her beauty seemed timeless. There was a touch of wantonness about her that contrasted tantalisingly with the smart, strictly functional clothes she wore to work, giving a hint of the real woman within.

  He lifted her skirt again, and then held her hips, raising her bottom so the material would not ruck and cause her discomfort. She opened her hazel eyes and stared at him raptly, as if waiting for him to touch her. He dipped down and tongued her thighs between the taut white suspenders. She spread her legs wider, gripping his head in her hands, guiding him. He nosed her panties aside, running his tongue over her cleft before taking them off. He brought them to his mouth, inhaling the fragrance of her sex that clung like incense. Then he stared at her, seeing the russet, neatly trimmed wedge, the plump mound displaying its darkly enticing slit.

  Denise tossed her head from side to side and her hands clasped her breasts, scooping them from the bra cups and playing with the red-brown nipples, pulling them, rolling them between her fingers. Will leaned nearer and bent her legs at the knee so that her thighs fell apart, the avenue widening, pink labia unfurling, crowned by her engorged clit.

  He controlled his lust, but relieved his cock by unzipping. It shot out, long and sturdy, it's naked helm shiny with jism. Denise grabbed at it, running her silver lacquered fingernails up and down the stalk, examining the purplish dome, tracing each ridge and prominent vein. Knowing he couldn't hold on much longer he slipped a digit into her snatch, wriggled it around and then smoothed her moisture across her labia and over the needy bud.

  He massaged it firmly, but when her jerking hips and gasping breath told him she was on the edge he reduced the pressure, delaying orgasm.

  She lay still now, her eyes glazed, her lips as wet and lustrous as her labial wings. She placed her hand over his, whispering, 'Make it last. Give me a johnny and I'll put it on for you.'

  He found the packet, handed it to her, heard her tear it open, and watched as she rolled the flesh-coloured rubber over his dick, her touch magical, his climax just around the corner.

  Prepared now, he wetted her slit with a dribble of saliva. He licked her and she cried out with pleasure, then his fingers took over again, trailing back and forth across her delta.

  'My clit!' she muttered fiercely. 'Rub it now!'

  He did just that, no longer gentle but subjecting it to strong friction. She moaned, her hips lifted, her head snapped back and he felt her throb against his finger. He held her, widened her quivering cunt and sank three fingers into her hot wetness. Not his prick. He wasn't about to distract her from her moment of bliss. But, as the tension released, he kissed her mouth and enclosed her sex in his hand. Then, as she moved to lie full-length on the couch, he eased himself into her welcoming sheath, pushing his phallus in deep.

  She heaved against him and he felt her inner muscles clamping round his cock. He braced himself on straight arms, trousers tangling round his legs, his movements frantic as he spurted into the condom.

  'I want you to take Julia Jones with you on the Theona Blue job,' was the first thing she said as they lay on the couch afterwards.

  This roused him from the sleepy euphoria that follows sex. 'Julia? Why her? She's green as grass and hopelessly naive. A pain in the arse, to be exact.'

  'She needs experience. She's bright and enthusiastic and has that special quality about her which is so attractive to men and women alike. Don't tell me you haven't wanted to shag her.'

  'She's a blonde bimbo,' he grumbled, taking off the rubber, knotting it and dropping it into the wastepaper basket. 'More of a liability than anything else. She's always losing things; notebooks, cameras, items of clothing. I can't see it working out.'

  Denise shot him a cool glance, once more in charge. 'You'll take her with you. It's not up for debate,' she said decisively.

  Julia was surprised when she was summoned to Denise Spalding's sanctum next morning. She had just come into work, expecting to cope with the usual tedium of being a junior reporter where nothing much exciting happened.

  She could hardly believe her ears when she and Will were given their brief. Denise was everything Julia aspired to be: worldly, glamorous, knowing the trade inside out, captain of the good ship Hi Life. Julia was flabbergasted to learn she'd been considered worthy of going on an assignment with Will, a senior newshound of renown.

  They'd left at noon, heading west in Will's Peugeot. He'd been conversational on the way, but once they had booked in at a hotel near Penzance he had been decidedly abrupt. She wondered if it was because she had misdirected them several times, finding map reading confusing. Then she thought it might be because they had separate rooms. Will had been trying to seduce her ever since she joined the team. Maybe he imagined this would be an ideal opportunity, but though she respected his skills, and was flattered by his attentions, she wasn't about to jump into bed with him. Her career was of paramount importance.

  The five-star hotel was old and picturesque. It had once been a coaching inn and gleamed with antique brass, panelling, low-beamed ceilings and open fireplaces. Denise had booked them in there because it was not far from the palatial cliff-top retreat where their prey was allegedly staying. Julia was overawed. She could never have afforded such a place, but the magazine was paying.

  On arrival in her room she spent some time simply prowling around, admiring the carpets and fittings and the en suite bathroom with its little tablets of lavender-scented soap and sachets of shampoo, provided for the guests and completely free. There was a phone, a television, a small fridge containing miniature bottles of alcohol and cartons of fresh milk, and a breakfast bar with a kettle and tea, coffee and drinking chocolate. The curtains were chintz, the leaded windows affording a view of the sea. The double bed had brass posts and a canopy draped in lace, and the secretaire was provided with writing paper, envelopes and pens bearing the hotel's logo, and a What's on in Cornwall guide, complete with a roadmap.

  'Wow!' she exclaimed, bouncing on the springy mattress. 'I wish Arlene were here. She'd go mental over all this!'

  She and Arlene went back a long way, one-time college students and now house sharing in London. Julia had chosen to go into journalism and Arlene was an up and coming dress designer. They were as different as chalk and cheese; Arlene vivacious and beautiful, with a stream of lovers; Julia pretty, keen, gauche, and a virgin.

  Much as she was curious about sex, she was an incurable romantic, had been hurt by boyfriends several times, dumped because she refused to go the whole hog with them, and was looking for Mr Right. Arlene voiced the opinion that she was barking. No such creature existed. She had added cynically that all men really wanted was to get into a girl's knickers, and it was up to women to use them and abuse them in return.

  Julia had watched a succession of personable men pass through the house, pausing in Arlene's bedroom for a spell, then given the elbow by that forthright young lady. Julia wished she had her insouciance, embarrassed to bump into one or other of them on her way to the lavatory. Sometimes they were naked or had a bathrobe on, or had stopped to don boxer shorts. She peeked at them, seen well-developed chests, pecs and legs, looked at rumpled dark hair, or fair or even ginger. Occasion
ally she'd been given a flash of a semi-erect penis surmounting a pair of balls, swinging in their hairy sac. She'd always blushed, stammered and passed on.

  'Don't be daft,' Arlene had chided. 'You're fine. The chaps fancy you rotten, but you always scurry away like a frightened mouse. What's wrong with you? Don't you like any of them? Are you a lesbian?'

  Julia wasn't and said as much, but she was unsure of herself, still experimenting with her naturally blonde, wavy hair, and trying out various styles of clothes. Arlene used her as a model, and encouraged her to show off her curvaceous figure, praising her pert breasts, slender waist and shapely bottom. Julia wished she was taller, perching herself on high heels or thick-soled trainers to add a few inches.

  She stared at her reflection in the pier-glass, wondering what to wear for the evening's adventure. Will had told her he intended to reconnoitre as soon as they'd had dinner. He'd obtained a map of the area and knew precisely where Theona Blue was hiding, and the layout of the house and grounds. But Denise had ordered them to look inconspicuous, as if they were a couple of tourists.

  Julia rooted through her grip-bag, pulling out her one good dress (a present from Arlene). It was a flimsy slip, with a short flaring skirt and camisole bodice brief to the point of immodesty. Blush-pink and resembling silk, it added colour to her cheeks as she held it up against herself. This would do for dinner, and she'd take along the matching bolero jacket for later.

  Thrilled by her surroundings, she couldn't wait to take off her jeans and vest top, white bra and panties. Then, naked and feeling somehow wanton and hedonistic, she headed for the shower stall. The tiles had a floral pattern, the chromium shone, and she found a tube of chestnut smelling gel, spun the tap and warm water jetted over her. In these movie-star conditions her thoughts turned to sex; disturbing thoughts that made her nipples peak with more than contact with the spray. She stood with her legs apart a little, massaging the gel over her breasts, seeing the small avalanche of foam gliding into her dimpled navel and out again. It mingled with her golden pubes and disappeared into her cleft. Her hand drifted down to part the wet, silky hair and press on her clitoris.