Agneta Anders - Pleasurehouse 13.pdf - Agneta Anders - widez2

PLEASUREHOUSE 13

AGNETHA ANDERS

Nexus

First published in 1991 by

Nexus

338 Ladbroke Grove

London W10 5AH

Typeset by Phoenix Photosetting, Chatham, Kent

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

ISBN 0 352 32805 3

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or

otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the

publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

In an office sits a man who works. In this year of 2030, those few people who

work have Class One status.

In another office sits a man who provides pleasure. Pleasure providers have

Class Two status.

In walled cities sit the rest. They are the don't knows and the don't matters.

They have Class Three status.

And on a wild hill far, far away, nobody sits, until a woman called Ann begins

to change everything.

[1]

EVERYONE ELSE MIGHT be fucking themselves silly as per normal on a Tuesday, but

there was a nasty flashing spot of trouble on Twozec Salkeld's screen.

For normal instance - there was normal pigging, poking and contentment among the

Threes in City MK (as Milton Keynes was now called). The MK Threes were, as

normal, so bombed out and shagged out that they couldn't be bothered to make the

kind of waves which caused trouble on Salkeld's screen.

City HH was also calm. The last spot of bother in what used to be Hemel

Hempstead had been a year or two ago, when the Regional Centre computer sent in

double food but no alcohol. Everything went unstable for a day and a half, until

the computer system was fixed and the Threes of HH, whatever their turn-on,

could wallow continuously in it once again.

Tuesday's reports to Salkeld from the Pleasurehouses continued to indicate the

required percentage of full satisfaction with all the ad-lib sex, sport,

entertainment etc., etc., which it was Salkeld's business to provide.

Except, of course, this morning, 26 September 2030, there was that irritating

problem for Class Two Executive Salkeld.

A possible answer to his problem, even if he didn't yet know it, was currently

sitting naked in her kitchen about fifteen kilometres from Salkeld's office. She

was very beautiful, not tall but with the sort of body which often illustrated

downmarket reading matter. She was in a state of eager anticipation. Today was

her own private treat day. Her eyes glittered as she speculated gleefully on how

she would spend the next hour or two, and positively gleamed as she compared

that in her mind with the pallid, mechanical, missionary instant her husband

provided as a weekly passion allowance.

Up in the Berkshire Downs she sat, in the large, picturesque, period farmhouse

so typically favoured as a residence by Class One.

There she was, Ann, Salkeld's potential answer, splendid and solo, sitting on an

old oak chair worn glassy smooth by centuries, wearing it still more glassy

smooth with eager little squirms of her bottom. Her eyes were fixed on the

kitchen window, chin cupped in hands, elbows and glorious tits resting on the

kitchen table top at White Horse Farm. She was Ann Richmond, 36, not to mention

40, 29, 38. She wanted her heart's desire and got something like it when

Lancelot Brough, 17, arrived at the window and very nearly broke the glass with

his eyeballs.

Ann swung up and moved to the door with that certain special walk that female

dancers have, a sort of flat-footed duck walk yet a light and bouncy movement

with the lower leg thrown out from the knee joint.

Ann, the lovely Ann, got to the door and opened it standing behind, hidden from

view although there would be no-one to see. Having non-marital sex outside the

Pleasurehouse, even having a regular relationship with a student under full

privilege age, was not a destabilising offence. But probably it was against the

wishes of the Social Committee, so there would still be trouble if it came out.

Oh well. So bloody fucking shitting bloody what. The bored Ann took the risk.

Being a wife in these days meant being strictly non-working. You were supposed

to be a mother and homemaker only, when all the homemaking was done for you

anyway by the robot and the computer. It was not exciting.

In walked the boy with a fragile bearing of self-assuredness. Back at college he

was like a king, among other boys envious of the number of his conquests and the

size of his weapon, and among those girls who were keen to surrender their

sovereignty. But here he was a mere apprentice to a great sorceress and he

always felt a peculiar mix of sensations when he saw Ann - powerful desire,

wonderment at his good luck, and anxiety about what she might do.

'Don't speak, boy,' whispered Ann. 'Just pick me up and carry me.'

This superb woman had grey-green eyes, deep red hair just short of shoulder

length, and a mature, slightly aquiline, subtle and remote beauty that reminded

the boy somehow of days long gone by, of those actresses they used to call 'film

stars', or the legendary symbols of animal femininity like the Roman Empress

Messalina who outperformed the city's top prostitute. He carried her upstairs to

the attic bedroom she reserved for adventures.

He lifted her with her legs over his left arm and his right arm round her back.

Her left arm was round his neck while her right swung free, her fingertips

brushing ever so lightly against his thighs as he mounted the stairs.

He breathed more heavily than normal with the effort of carrying Ann, and he

inhaled her perfume deeply. Its reverberations filled his head. She wore

something quite unlike the sort of stuff the girls at college had. Their

perfumes' messages were unmistakable, as matter-of-fact and open as their

attitudes. With them the scent was either 'Miss Permafrost Discusses

Thermodynamics in the Refectory', or 'Fuck Me Sideways and Bring All Your

Friends'.

Ann's perfume, however, was from another world. It had all sorts of complicated

messages in the background, all kinds of depths and dark corners - and he could

smell her through it. Her smell was of hair, and skin, and excitement, and it

all mingled deliciously with those few drops of distilled essence which, if he

only knew it, came out of a little bottle, which came out of a fancy box, which

came out of a pack of six given to Ann in return for certain favours in Paris,

as long ago as 2012.

By the time he turned along the landing her palm was on his vital part. She idly

wondered if she could, from her current position, undo his zip, get his cock,

fit it between her cheeks and let it find its own way home.

She had the zip down anyway by the time he placed her on the blue duvet, so she

ordered him to stand still while she sat on the bed edge and lovingly extracted

the warm, soft as silk, hard as iron glory which, with the vigour of its youth,

could give her hours of delight. There was another side to youth, however, and

that was the initial overexcitement of, as it used to be called, the bull at the

gate.

Ann felt that surge of emotion within her as she held the boy up to her lips.

She wanted the first bed-shivering, sense-quivering moment, the first of maybe

four or five that she knew that thing in her hand could give her. She wanted him

pushing and shoving on top of her, in her, all over her, but she couldn't have

it yet.

Sure enough, the closeness of her face to his cock, the soft sensation of

brushing breath on it, the thought that any moment her tongue would run its

roughness along it ... all this proved too much for the lad. As she stroked the

sturdy scimitar she felt it begin to pulse inside her fist. Like lightning she

loosed the waistband fastenings of his trousers and whipped them and the tiny

briefs he always wore, down to below his knees. Her lips opened just enough as

she fed the boy's personal vibrator into her mouth.

Back and forth she went, pursing and sucking as he let go with the first of the

day. Fellatio was routine for her. She got no great pleasure from it, but she

knew it was a supreme feeling for him and so, like the artist she was, she made

certain she gave her best performance. She knew (from great experience) just how

to suck in rhythm with his spurts, just how to squeeze the most ecstatic

feelings for him so that he was soon looking down on her with an even more

devoted, ever-grateful and adoring expression on his young face.

He had quite a nice face, actually, thought Ann as she looked up, swallowing.

Sort of craggy, with scrubby blond hair, just a few freckles and a little snubby

nose. Little and snubby was soon a description equally apt for the item she held

in her hand.

'Come on boy,' she said. 'Shoes and socks ... off!'

This was their private cue, dating from the first time he'd had her, which had

been after a dinner at the college where Ann's husband Arthur Richmond was on

the Technical Committee and the senior boy Brough had been seated on her left.

She'd had her stockings round her ankles and her shoes on as she leant over the

back of the Founder's Chair on the stage of the school hall, and she had

wondered what on earth would be the reaction if the curtains opened onto the

port and cheese below. Now, whenever she said shoes-and-socks ... off, each had

to strip as fast as they could, and the last one to be naked was underling and

the winner was overlord.

The boy had got shoes, socks and trousers off before he twigged. The luxurious

wife Richmond lay, already without a vestige of clothing, as she had been since

before he arrived, a half-smile on her reflective red lips as she watched the

boy's frantic Pavlovian reaction.

'Caught you,' she said, as he completed his strip at a more leisurely pace.

'Now, I'm the big boss for the day.'

The boy Lancelot was hesitant, wondering where this all-knowing, never-fazed

woman would take him if he let her put him in too weak a position. So, he hoped

she would keep it to a little light trick or two, a token, just enough to add a

hint of spice.

Just a hint, thought Ann, as she rummaged through a drawer for the roll of

sticking plaster. Binding thumbs with plaster is hardly the real thing, but

still, can't have everything.

'Hands behind head, boy,' she commanded, 'and sit up.'

She quickly taped his thumbs together behind his neck, making sure to include

plenty of blond hair just in case he should think of bringing his hands forward

over the top.

'Lie back.' My, she loved this. Power gave her good sensations. It always had,

and issuing orders was fun, whether it was to a troupe of chorus girls when

she'd been captain and choreographer all those years ago, or to a muscular,

hard, youthful man who delighted her eyes and her most secret wishes right now.

In both cases, the chorus girls and the boy, she was in command because she knew

the most. Knowledge is power, she thought, and power is an aphrodisiac.

He lay back as ordered and, swinging her leg over him like mounting a bicycle,

she presented her divine red muff to his lips. At full stretch she could rub her

considerable saddlebags against his stomach, give his crossbar a little lick

and, while he was busy exploring her seat with his tongue, tape his big toes

together.

He tried to protest at this double securing, but he was really in no position.

The protest went unheeded and was largely unintelligible. Muffled, as it were,

thought Ann.

She gave herself two or three minutes of pivoting on his tongue but was careful

not to let herself slip too far. She had plans for young Brough.

Suddenly, lifting away and kneeling beside him, she kissed him on the lips. She

pushed her tongue into his mouth, tasting her own fluids and snorting her own

pheromones like a line of coke. Then -

'Back to that college next week, is it, Lancelot?' she whispered. 'Back to that

dreadful concentration camp of sadists and woofters?'

Colleges for future members of Class One were high-powered educational

establishments which naturally concentrated their academic efforts on computer

systems, programming languages, robotics and the like, but they retained much of

the philosophy and lifestyle of the old public schools.

'But,' continued Ann, 'you'll be a senior prefect now, won't you, Lancelot?

You'll be able to beat those naughty little boys and girls with your cane, won't

you, Lancelot?'

Since she was saying all this while fondling his assembly into a more riotous

state, Lancelot was a bit slow catching on, and was too relaxed to stop her as

she moved sharply, flipped him over like a nurse giving a bed-bath, and sat on

his calves. The small riding crop was behind her, hidden under the bottom of the

duvet, and the grin of complete amusement was on her mouth, and the glint of

purified lust was in her eyes.

Lancelot tried to lift her off with a kind of swimming butterfly kick as she

tickled his darkest little corner with the leather tab on the whip end, but a

quick and hard flicker of the whip across both buttocks stopped him dead.

'Now, Lancelot. What is it we're going to do to those little boys and girls?

What do you call them? Faggots?'

'Fags, Ann, fags. For goodness' sake, look, you know I'm not terribly keen on

...'

He stopped dead again, as she flicked that evil little tab across his white

buttocks, one-two, then thrust it into the crack at the top of his legs and

pressed it up hard against his balls. Go on, you big bastard, she thought as he

raised his hips from the bed and she raised herself slightly to allow his legs

to slide. You great big fucking machine, you with the strength and the biceps,

you do what I tell you - she almost spoke aloud as she pressed the whip up

harder to lift him further and further until he was kneeling, hands behind head,

forehead on the pillow, arse in the air, feet tied by toes, and Ann dismounting

as she slipped the whip from its position of ultimate power.

'Don't move.' She spoke matter of factly, as if the instruction were

unnecessary, to be taken as read, assumed. 'Now Lancelot, remember when you were

a fag thingy, and how you used to get a hard-on when the big boys beat you?'

Oh why did I ever let that out, thought the increasingly worried Lancelot.

'Well Lancelot, I'm now going to take you back in time, and I want you to

pretend that I'm just another big, big boy.' By all the gods above and stuff me

gently but I love this bit, she continued - to herself.

'Ow! Fucking hell!' cried Lancelot, as she thwacked him smartly right across

both cheeks.

'Language, Brough, language. I won't have such language in my class.'

Lancelot confined himself to sharp intakes of breath for the next three strokes,

while Ann paused after each to see if she was having the desired effect on his

member. She wagged it this way and that with the end of the whip, like an old

farmer she remembered seeing as a girl, moving a lamb's tail with his walking

stick to see if it had been castrated properly. No farmers now, she thought,

just Food Production Facilities and robots. But this little lambikins certainly

is no gelding ...

'Dear oh dear, Lancie baby. Dear dear dear. We shall have to beat you harder. I

can see that being nice to you isn't appreciated.'

And she gave him two real crackers, two full strength ones that had him arching

and yelping.

'Fucking bitch! Aargg!' he shouted as he brought hands, arms and a large tuft of

hair over his head then turned and grabbed the whip. 'I'll show you being nice!'

The two thumbs went together for her throat, and the fingers spread round and

forced her back on the bed. His knees moved up between her legs in short jumps

and he spread her apart as far as he could. His cock was bouncing hard now,

nodding its eagerness and swaying in its search for the spot. He collapsed onto

her, they met like an armour-piercing shell going up the spout, he flipped his

hands behind her head and kissed her fiercely.

Ann Richmond moaned and sighed. Lancelot Brough bounded and rebounded, hard and

regular, plain and deep. Ann Richmond, (36), ex-professional dancer, mature and

plentiful, let herself go. Lancelot Brough, (17), boy stallion, vigorous and

dedicated, went for the big fences.

They came together in a huge, panting, floorboard-squeaking, window-rattling

climax and when their breathing became regular and their heartbeats had slowed

to near normal, the pink plaster was snipped, their eyes closed and they slept.

Ten minutes or so later, Ann was awake. The boy slept on, his head in the crook

of her arm, resting on the universe's most comfortable pillow.

As she often did in quiet moments, Ann contemplated her life and in particular

her status as a Onewife. She'd had the choice, she knew, and if she'd chosen

correctly she'd have been a Two, probably not an Executive, probably just a

Local Unit Supervisor, but being a Twoloc was a hell of a lot better than being

a Onewife had turned out.

For the umpteenth time she let her mind tick back to the time of the Change.

When was it, 2018, or 19, she never could be sure. She'd been abroad with her

dancers, dashing between European capitals, rehearsing, performing, resting,

having a fantastic time. She never read the English papers, and there was very

little on the TV news in Europe about Britain since it'd been kicked out of the

Community.

Technology in Britain had become increasingly dominant. While the rest of Europe

was backtracking, deliberately making life more old-fashioned so as to preserve

a need for people to work, Britain had embraced one technical revolution after

another. By the middle of the second decade of the 21st century, the only people

who worked in Britain were the systems analysts and robotics engineers who

developed and maintained the technology which did absolutely everything.

Everybody in the country had all the consumable goods they wanted, so the

concepts of wealth and status began to change. Soon, the only people that

mattered were the technologists - and the entertainers.

This new superclass got itself organised. Elections were computerised, so that

the next election was fixed. Laws were swiftly passed and a new society was

created, entirely based on us and them.

'Us' were in two sections: Class Two consisted of pleasure-givers and pleasure-

providers for Class One, which consisted of those who worked to sustain the

plentifulness of everything. 'Us' wanted a spacious, elegant, aristocratic

lifestyle which necessitated the removal from the countryside of all those

scurrying crowds, hateful modern buildings and everything else vulgar.

'Them' were Class Three. They originated from every social stratum, from the

erstwhile rich and high born to the downtrodden and hopeless lowlife. But they

had something in common. None of them qualified as a technologist or an

entertainer.

Class One and their robots built a series of walled cities, rounded up the

Threes and told them they could do what they liked except leave the city they

were put in. So, they just consumed. They had everything they could possibly

want, except freedom.

The government then passed its last law, abolishing itself and placing all power

in the hands of a few committees of volunteers, and left the country to run

itself like clockwork - or more properly, electronic micro-circuitry.

This was the Britain Ann came home to at the end of her tour. Obviously she and

her girls were entertainers. Some kept on dancing, but Ann started a promising

career in pleasure management. One of her clients was Arthur Richmond, a quiet,

reliable sort, the year's top college graduate.

Agneta Anders - Pleasurehouse 13.pdf

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