A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (4 page)

‘You have to try it on.’

‘What?’ she said. She couldn’t believe it...

‘Here,’ he said emphatically.

‘Richard...’

He folded his arms.

‘Don’t you remember,’ she whispered, ‘you ripped my knickers off. I’m not wearing anything.’

He held up his palm as if it were a paddle and showed how it could be put to good use. Greta looked around her.

‘There are like... loads of people.’

Sweat prickled her armpits. Her cheeks coloured. He wanted to see her naked in the busy market and the scary thought struck her that she wanted it too. She had a craving like thirst or hunger – or for nicotine – an irrepressible desire to expose her breasts that tingled, her moist pussy, her bottom with its pink stripes like a badge of obedience and humiliation. She wanted to take her clothes off in the market place just as she had done all those years ago in the garden.

Richard was staring into her eyes as she reached for the thin black straps and slid them one at a time over her shoulders. She hesitated. There were corrugations on his brow, a look of impatience about his lips. She continued, peeling the material from her breasts. She paused for just a second, pulled at the tie and let the dress fall shimmering about her ankles.

As Greta stepped away from the black pool of material she was overcome by a surge of contentment. The tingle that crossed her bottom as it was exposed to the air tempted a squirt of moisture from her lower lips and her flush turned crimson as she reached for the Little Miss Muffet costume. Richard was about to give it to her but suddenly changed his mind.

‘No, it’s not you,’ he said, and gave it back to the stallholder.

Greta was so disorientated by Richard’s ability to turn the normal world upside down, she hadn’t noticed the stallholder trembling slightly, his mouth ajar. A crowd had gathered as if they were at a slave market in ancient Athens and a few words from a play slipped into her mind: It’s not a woman’s beauty that bewitches, but her nobility, a line from Euripides, and she threw back her head and stood proudly naked for everyone to see.

Richard pointed at another dress hovering above on a wire coat hanger and she’d had her eye on that one all along. The stallholder lifted it down using a hook on a long pole and she remembered the sulky-eyed brunette as the soft cotton received her curves, the bodice tight, hugging her stomach, revealing the chasm between her breasts. The skirt was embroidered in the same pattern of fleurs-de-lys that decorated the ceiling in Richard’s bedroom and Greta couldn’t help wondering if this were more than mere chance, that the chain of events were like the links of a chain all connected and binding her to her true destiny.

As she stood straight again the silent audience spontaneously put their hands together in applause before merging back into the crowd.

‘There. That wasn’t difficult, was it?’

She shook her head and smoothed down the fabric.

‘One day, Greta, you’ll demand it.’

She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant but couldn’t ask. Richard considered her carefully before nodding to the stallholder. He took out his wallet and when the man folded her black dress, Richard waved it away before he could place it in a carrier bag.

‘She won’t be needing it,’ he said, and again she bit her tongue to stop herself asking why.

G
RETA FELT RATHER SMUG
as they wandered away from the stall. She would never have dreamed of taking her clothes off in a crowded market before, her breasts exposed, her pubic hair damp and faintly smelly, her bottom bare and criss-crossed with the geometry of her first thrashing.

She had a suspicion that Richard had a taste for corporal punishment and there would be more to come. The thought made her both shudder and tingle at the same time. She had reached the conclusion, at least subconsciously, that it was good for her. She was wet clay on the potter’s wheel. Each slap and spank was moulding her, making her, each strike of the belt turning her into something symmetrical and perfect.

Then, there was something else, something utterly amazing. After the strapping she had taken, her orgasm reached new heights, new depths, new tones and textures. Richard had burnished all the nerve endings in her little bottom, illuminated that mysterious dark place that her own fingertip had petted gently and buggered her mercilessly. Magnificently. She slowed for a second to consider the game, the sense that she was taking part in a theatrical casting, and wondered what the role really entailed.

Her hand was jerked and her heels drummed a tattoo as she hurried like a geisha to catch up.

Richard tightened the grip on her hand, not with affection, but as if he were a strict parent with a child, or a teacher with a disobedient girl. She knew there was no future with Richard... like in Richard & Greta, Greta & Richard, but what made the smile widen across her full pink lips was the realisation that she didn’t want to be a part of something, one half of a whole, the other shoe in a pair. She just wanted to be herself, explore her own potential.

Potential? The word came into her mind like an echo and she wondered where it could have come from.

‘Come along,’ he said.

Talk about a slave driver!

At the end of the market two plump girls in bondage were stepping from a taxi and Richard held the door for them before ushering her in.

‘The Serpentine Gallery, please,’ he said in his nice accent and the driver tooted his horn as he pulled rudely into the traffic.

Richard turned to take a close look at her. He removed her lip gloss from his pocket, redrew her lips and gave her a tissue to blot them. He straightened her hair with his fingers and then used the same tissue to flick the dust from the toes of her shoes.

‘They don’t really go, do they?’ he said and she couldn’t help feeling that she’d let him down.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured.

He sat back with a cross look. Greta almost asked what was troubling him but knew she mustn’t. Was it the black shoes? The worry lines creasing her brow? Was she looking like Medusa with her wayward coils of hair? The No Smoking sign on the glass partition made her desperate for a quick puff but her cigarettes had gone, even her lighter, and it had been a present from Tara. She felt a sigh rise through her bones and entwined her fingers in Richard’s hand for comfort.

‘How am I doing?’ she asked.

He fluttered his hand in an iffy gesture and she felt terribly disappointed. She was trying to be good and resolved to try even harder.

The taxi stopped at the gallery and she stood quietly to one side as he paid the fare.

‘Don’t let me down now,’ he said.

‘I won’t, I promise,’ she answered and really meant it.

He walked quickly ahead and she tripped along the path into the gallery. It was warm inside, the light softened. A few people were moving like dancers below the high domed ceiling. On display was a collection of mixed media sculptures, smooth voluptuous objects in wood, steel and stone, each form so seductive you wanted to reach for them and, so rare in a gallery, you were invited to do so. She ran her palm over sweeping curves of white stone, across fans of shiny copper, over stiff carved phalluses of grained polished wood.

She closed her eyes and all the little scenes from the coarse floor in Richard’s hallway to the hood being pulled over her head were joined as if by a film editor, the whirl of images warming the oils of her insides and she had an awful urge to touch herself.

They had reached the far end of the long chamber where the diffused glow from lights set in the floor embraced two figurative sculptures in two different shades of marble, pink and pale green, each locked like a lover to the other by reversed shapes of evocative forms, breasts, a penis, lips, a lock of hair. The artist had joined the figures into one form and together they resembled a curling heart.

Richard retreated behind the sculpture, his head visible in the v-shape between the raised shoulders of marble. She hurried to join him and he placed her where he had been standing.

‘Be good,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

He lifted the back of her dress. A finger slid into her pussy, then another, and she shuddered as hemanoeuvred them back and forth inside her. Sex in public. It was so rude. So cheeky. So fab. She was doing what nature had intended and realised with Zen-like awakening that she had never had sex before. Not really. The breathless grunts of Jason Wise had been as clumsy as a car running on three wheels, his little jack handle always trying to force its way up her bum. Those quick knee-tremblers with gauche boys, no sooner in than out with a syrupy splash of spunk on her belly. The rare glimpse of an orgasm like a soap bubble that vanishes the moment you reach for it. So fast. So furious. So disappointing. Boys just don’t know what to do and Richard wasn’t a boy. He was an artist and in his hands she perceived herself transforming into something divine and magical.

Greta was clenching her muscles, rolling with the movement, enjoying the sheer audacity of what they were doing when she noticed a man in the far corner filming her with a digital camera.

‘Richard...’

‘Be good now.’

He maintained the same steady motion and she gripped the marble carving for support. The man with the camera moved closer. She could see her face mirrored in the lens.

The people in the gallery were losing interest in the other exhibits and were stopping one after the other to watch and listen. Richard’s clever fingers were going faster, her pussy throbbing, all slippery and hot. The camera panned in on her open mouth. Greta was trembling, ready to come, and it was like the ripples on a pool stilling as Richard withdrew his hand, the feeling ebbing away and leaving her like a skydiver when the parachute opens and you fall gradually, unremittingly back down to earth.

‘Gustav,’ Richard said. ‘This is Greta.’

‘Agh, agh, agh,’ she sighed.

All that she had taken in was that Gustav was tall and broad like Richard with the same blue eyes, a thick wave of messy bronze hair, a pale linen suit and a striped shirt. He moved to the back of the sculpture and Richard placed his hand on the middle of her back to indicate that she should remain exactly where she was. Richard took the camera and continued filming.

Gustav was carrying a tripod with the telescopic legs folded away. The long rubber handle was ribbed in raised finger holds and was finished in a rounded tip that he flicked at the hem of her skirt. She felt the rubber handle run up her legs and pause at her pouting cleft. Greta was in new territory and felt uncertain. She knew she had to be obedient, but Gustav was a stranger, not Richard. Richard had become – what? What had he become? Greta wasn’t sure and clinging to her uncertainty shuffled her feet fractionally apart. God, she whispered to herself, I really didn’t know I was such a slut!

The handle was twisting one way, then the other as if Gustav was screwing and unscrewing the cap from a bottle, the head prying open the wet lips of her vulva before drawing the shaft smoothly up inside her. Her knees shook. She gripped the v of the sculpture so she could take more, and she wanted more, her drenched sex sucking on the hard rubber until she toppled over the brink into wild wanton frenzy, hips thrusting, head thrown back, a line of sweat like hot lava running between her breasts.

She thought at first that she was doing this for Richard, but she wasn’t. She was doing it for herself, riding the rubber so hard the sap drained from her, swimming down her thighs and calves. Her face flamed as he eased the handle up to the hilt and the crowd stood mutely, awed by her performance. The rubber cock, bigger than any man, teased and punished the swollen protruding lips of her oozing sex and she gasped as she bent her legs to absorb the last turn of the screw. Her hips were lifted high, her back slightly arched, and though she tried to be quiet, little sobbing groans left her parched throat, slowly building, growing in volume until she exploded in a dramatic crescendo, her sighs turning into a scream that shook the glass in the domed roof and traumatized the cracks in the veins of marble.

Gustav slowly unscrewed the handle from her sopping hole and she continued to cling on to the marble figure. She wasn’t sure if she could stand on her own two feet. Her breath came in snappy gasps and through the ringlets of hair veiling her eyes the people were motionless as if far away and lost in thought. However aesthetic in form and metaphysical in concept, she had brought life to the sterile carvings, her vast roaring orgasm giving the works on display the memorable quality the artist had no doubt set out to achieve.

Wow, she thought, I’ve had the biggest orgasm ever. And in public!

Greta took a deep breath to compose herself. Then, on shaky legs, as she followed Gustav out from behind the sculpture the most extraordinary thing happened. The people in the gallery clapped and she instinctively placed one foot behind her and bowed the way she’d been taught.

‘You’re doing OK,’ Richard whispered and she felt inordinately proud as he led her through the crowd back into the sunshine. She had been applauded twice in one day and that’s really something.

Gustav led the way to a red Range Rover, the sides coated in dried mud, and while he drove the short distance to Gloucester Road, Richard studied the film in the viewfinder.

‘Lighting’s not very good,’ he said.

‘It’s only a try-out,’ Gustav responded testily.

Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘I thought these things were state of the art,’ he continued, waving the camera about.

‘Perhaps it isn’t the quality of the camera?’

Richard closed the viewfinder and Greta sat dazed in the back, hands in her lap, knees together, her whole body one giant erogenous zone. Gustav watched her in the mirror. He wasn’t smiling. He was assessing her and she realised he resembled Richard, a little older, and just as tanned. She realised, too, that their little spat was a display of sibling rivalry but had no idea how competitive they really were.

Gustav lived in the same building as Richard, occupying two floors among an eclectic array of oriental rugs, chaises with high backs and drapes patterned with hunting scenes. Like the sculptures in the gallery, the large abstracts on the pale lemon walls were erotic and vaguely feminine. She looked at them all but her eyes kept returning to a square canvas with a simple grid of six brilliant red, randomly placed lines, one crossing the almost parallel arrangement of the other five, the edges bleeding into a plain of pale pink, the combination sensual and hypnotic.

She had sunk exhausted into a pale brown leather armchair, kicking off her shoes, and watched Richard and Gustav wire the camera into the television with the brusque impatience men have with electrical things.

When her image flickered on the screen her green eyes seemed brighter, wet and sparkling like algae in water. The worry lines that marked her face when she was on the tube had gone. Her skin was smooth and she looked so awfully young, a convent girl with the future spreading endlessly before her. Her features changed as the spasms began. She became anxious, breathless, greedy for each new assault on her senses. As her mouth fell open it was so embarrassing watching herself have multiple orgasms and it occurred to her that when you throw back your head to come it doesn’t look like you’re enjoying pleasure but enduring pain. Had the same thought gone through her mind this morning? Or yesterday? Time had taken on a new dimension. It had stretched, every moment growing as vibrant and surreal as the paintings on the walls.

The film came to an end and she lifted her shoulders in a modest shrug. Richard beckoned her out of the chair and took her hand so that she could stand on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. He gestured for her to remove her dress and she did so automatically. She was born to be naked, admired, fondled, fucked in every hole and in every way. Richard knew that. Gustav knew that. He was nodding, stroking his cheek. He turned her around as if he were inspecting an
objet d’art
at an antique market. He lifted a lock of her hair.

‘Natural?’ he asked, and she nodded.

He traced his fingers over the lines decorating her bottom. She bit her lips. The pain had gone but the sensation made her tingle and it was hard to stand still. His palm ran down her legs, feeling her muscles. She raised one foot at a time so that he could inspect each sole. He looked between her toes. Greta shivered and held her breath as two fingers journeyed down her spine and came to rest in the dimples in the small of her back.

He pressed, as if pressing two buttons, then told her to go down on her hands and knees. He motioned for her to lower her shoulders until her head rested in her cradled arms, exposing her in the most submissive way but it seemed perfectly natural and she didn’t feel humiliated at all. He inspected her bottom, her pussy, glistening still, always wet, the puffy lips peeled back to reveal the little shining star of her distended clitoris.

As Gustav looked at her various bits she closed her eyes and couldn’t help remembering the rubber handle on the camera tripod reaching new parts of her undiscovered universe. Her breasts hung low, abundant with their own weight, her nipples unashamedly erect. He tested them between his fingers and gave them a hard squeeze that sent little sprites of pleasure racing through her veins. Everything seemed to be in order. She sat cross-legged, opened her mouth as wide as she could and Gustav examined her teeth. She was pleased that she’d never needed a filling. He ran his fingers around the curve of her mouth, then pinched her bottom lip and kept squeezing until it swelled and drooped in a pout.