A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (6 page)

She nodded and he unbuckled her from the bench. He held her by the elbows.

‘Everything,’ he said again.

She was looking up into his eyes and it was strange the way he bent forward and kissed her.

They crossed the room to the mirror. Greta turned to look over her shoulder at the tartan pattern decorating her bottom, the six raised pink weal marks above the darker blush from the strapping.

‘It’s rather pretty,’ he said and she smiled.

T
HIS COULD HAVE
been the longest week in the history of the universe but as she hurried for the tube that Monday morning Greta determined to make the most of it. Richard had taken her home in another Range Rover, a dark green one, and just as muddy, and she felt quite abandoned as she watched him drive away.

When she arrived at work, Madame Dubarry was sipping coffee with small hissing noises and listened distractedly as Greta explained that she was going on a riding holiday in the country and wanted to take her summer leave starting Friday. Madame Dubarry studied her through the steam rising in curls from her cup.

‘You had a... good weekend,’ she said, fluting her brow.

It was more a statement than a question and Greta swallowed the little lump in her throat and nodded.

‘Yes, yes I did.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘Well. You know...’

...
I was fucked senseless on the floor by a complete stranger, I was beaten with a belt, thoroughly buggered, I stood naked in public for all the world to see my striped bum and shameless breasts … oh yes, I had a glorious orgasm in an art gallery, I was strapped to a whipping stool for a good thrashing … and fucked mercilessly.

‘... just the usual things,’ she said with a little shrug and was sure Madame Dubarry could read her dirty mind.

‘Go. Go. You must make the most of every opportunity.’

‘Thank you, I will,’ Greta replied, and wasn’t aware of Madame Dubarry’s fingers rising to touch the spot where she kissed her powdered cheek.

The first customer of the day had entered the shop, a man with a leonine quiff of silvering hair and the brisk movements of someone who, while in no hurry, anticipates immediate service. Greta pulled in her tummy, straightened her shoulders and, just as Madame Dubarry had taught her, slid like a masked guest at a costume ball languidly towards him.

Being an extremely expensive shoe store there were very few shoes on display, the suggestion being that prized objects are rare and precious. The man was considering a brown suede loafer with a buckle across the instep.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she said.

She gave a little shimmy as he turned.

‘Indeed, they are,’ he replied, staring openly down her cleavage.

‘What size?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘My size?’ he repeated, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He glanced down. ‘Quite big,’ he added with a soft, Mediterranean rhythm to his English.

She sat on the low stool wielding the shoe horn as he slipped his long foot into a size 11, his eyes following the antics of her playful breasts as they reached like two puppies over the v of her black suit jacket. He strolled up and down the burgundy carpet, swept his hand over his hair as if to show her how lush it was and she sighed contentedly as he withdrew his Amex card from a snakeskin wallet.

‘
Buono. Buono
. Now we shall be well shod,’ he said in an oddly familiar way as he signed the slip.

Greta put the shoes in a bag. ‘Here we are,’ she said, but instead of taking the bag, he cupped her hand in his long fingers and stared into her eyes as if he were in search of her secrets.

‘I shall come and see you again. Soon,’ he said and Greta felt a tingle of fear run up her backbone. He squeezed her hand and she thought about Richard as she plunged into his hypnotic blue eyes.

‘
Buono
,’ she replied.

The lion strode out on his long legs and Greta unpopped the top button on her jacket as a young American entered with the look of someone lost on their way to Piccadilly Circus. She persuaded him to purchase a pair of black brogues for winter as well as the fawn slip-ons that had first caught his eye. When his map appeared from his pocket she accompanied him outside and pointed the way.

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’ And she thought it is so easy to please Americans. They are just like children.

The air smelled fresh, even in Bond Street, and Greta was overcome by a feeling of joy and optimism. Just one week and she would be going on holiday.

When she came back inside the store, Madame Dubarry nodded with approval and gave her bottom a friendly slap.

Mmm, that’s new, she thought.

Greta rolled her hips like a mambo dancer as she snaked down the narrow stairs to the stockroom. Something had happened to her. It was weird. Nice. But weird. Suddenly everyone wanted to touch her. Even on the Underground from Hammersmith that morning Greta had played a cameo role in a minor fantasy.

The carriage had been packed to bursting point, the wage slaves being shunted to work like farm animals to the abattoir, and there was a balding, middle-aged man with a bulging briefcase resting his hand gratuitously on her buttocks. It’s the usual game, the innocent hand holding the newspaper, his curled fist as if by some perverse fluke bridging the gap between them.

Greta had always made it apparent by pulling away and glowering that these sly advances were unwelcome, but after the experience with Richard decided to have some fun and gave her arse a tantalizing little wiggle. After all, Richard had told her to do everything her instincts told her to do.

The man’s breath stilled. His fist froze for a second, then he upped the pressure, his knuckles kneading the soft flesh of her tender bottom. It wasn’t until the lights flickered out between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner that he abandoned the paper and turned his hand to cup the swell of her cheeks in his open palm. They remained like that, as rigid as the marble sculpture at the Serpentine Gallery until she stepped out of the train at Green Park.

The hand was still mentally glued to her backside as she bent from the waist to pick up empty boxes, blushing as she planned to dress the next day in a shorter skirt. She mounted the ladder to reach the shoes on the high shelf. Greta was aware of her body’s every motion, as indeed was Madame Dubarry who watched her as people watch celebrities.

During her lunch break, Greta fought the urge to buy a packet of cigarettes.
Smoking is strictly against the rules
. She found a gorgeous little silk bra with teeny tiny panties like the wings of a butterfly and wondered why something quite so small should have quite such a large price tag. You only live once, she said to herself, parading through the store for everyone to see, and drank bottled water with her sushi at Pret.

In the tabloid she found on the table there were stories about hurricanes in Florida and blackouts in France and it all seemed far away and unimportant, a world that had nothing to do with her. Greta had been a reflection of other people’s desires and expectations. She had been moulded by her parents, by convention, by the nuns at Saint Sebastian.

As she sat watching the people streaming by like worker ants outside the window she was aware quite suddenly of her own individuality, her own sense of self. She felt renewed, free, young again. It was heady stuff and she understood that only when you have a firm grasp on your own identity do you bring that special quality to the stage. She had always set out to shape herself around the character, when a great actress will mould the character to herself. This was a revelation and Greta knew intuitively that whatever role she played in the future she would perform with unnerving passion.

She strolled back to work in the afternoon sunshine, the new underwear in layers of tissue in a shiny black bag, as big as her new purchases were small, another of their tricks, she thought, and when she smiled, people in the street smiled back at her.

There were customers waiting, two squat, turnip-shaped women with accents from Eastern Europe who bullied her with strident voices and whom she served with the charm and equanimity of the girl in the riding video until they parted with great wads of red £50 notes.

‘You have a gift,’ Madame Dubarry whispered, her tongue fluttering across her ear and Greta was sure it wasn’t selling shoes.

It’s really weird, but when you work hard time flies;
Tempus
Fugit
, as she’d learned in Latin at school, and was shocked when she noticed the big hand reach for six o’clock. She had sold 37 pairs of shoes in one day and that was a record.

No one reached for her arse in the tube back to Hammersmith but after the long day bending and stretching her panties, by the time she arrived home, were moist with girlie excretions. The aroma brought back memories of pony club, the feel of a throbbing warm animal between her stretched thighs, the piquant whiff of the stable, the girl in the video riding free, tanned and naked.

She took her knickers off, pressed the white cotton to her nose and ran the damp crotch over her lips. Greta liked her own smell and dropped back across the bed, the pearl of white cotton over her face, her fingers reaching for her pussy. The little nub of her clitoris was aching for some attention. She was so juicy down there she could feel the vibes of early orgasm and made herself stop, delaying pleasure in pursuit of greater pleasure. It was all very Shakespearean. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and in the bathroom her eyes lit on the economy-sized bottle of supermarket shampoo.

Just the job, she thought, teasing and tickling the mouth of her pussy as she stepped back across the hall into the bedroom. She inserted the rounded bottle top with a soft sucking pop as she fell back on the bed. She had forgotten to close the door and the thought of Tara strolling in at any time sent wild fantasies galloping like carousel horses through her dirty mind. You are such a slut, Greta May, such a slapper, you should be punished, smacked, strapped, whipped, beaten. She tasted the words and nearly wet herself.

She drove the bottle in deeper and remembered how Gustav had screwed the tripod handle slowly, patiently in and out of her wet pussy. The memory was delicious. Her free hand massaged her breasts, slipped down her side and under her bottom. She nursed the rubbery ring of her anus with its little muscle like a valve before sliding her index finger inside. She gasped for breath. Her right hand was pumping away on the bottle and the finger in her bum nursed the pattern of spiralling pleats and creases, all so neat and pretty like a snowflake. Her arms moved robotically and, as her legs arched, she pictured herself in a hazy black-and-white photograph depicting a disobedient maid bound to a whipping stool. She could still feel the sting of the whiplash across her backside, her insides were churning and as she reached her climax she levitated clean off the bed.

She collapsed down on the sheets and the shampoo bottle slid like a boat leaving shore from her well-oiled pussy. She sniffed the bottle and couldn’t quite work out the smell, and she licked at her own creamy juices and was unable to pinpoint the taste. She laid back, legs straight, and as she stroked her nut brown bush she imagined having sex on the tube train with hundreds of people moving like formation dancers to the beat of her urgent thrusts.

The door slammed at the end of the hall and she carried on stroking her sticky pubes even when Tara put her head around the door.

‘Greta...’ Tara’s mouth fell open.

‘Can I borrow your pink suit tomorrow?’ she asked in response.

Their eyes met. ‘Don’t you have anything to wear?’ Tara asked.

‘Not a thing.’

Tara giggled. ‘You are becoming such a pervert, Greta. What happened with that man on the train?’

She had to think for a minute. ‘Everything,’ she answered.

Her eyelids flickered and closed. She was still on a high from getting herself off and just as if she were scratching an itch on the end of her nose, a fingertip slid unconsciously to sooth the bud of her burning clitoris.

Greta was so ashamed with Tara watching but it was so much nicer than doing it on your own. Her legs lifted like two halves of a swing bridge, her hips rose from the bed and the little animal noises escaping from her were stilled unexpectedly by Tara’s pink lips.

Greta opened her eyes and smiled.

Tara’s head was the other way round, upside down, and it was awkward as her tongue slid into Greta’s mouth. They kissed. They kissed again. They kissed some more, so soft and sensual it was like being back at boarding school, the first tentative touch of her best friend’s lips, the first clumsy hand down her big cotton pants, her swelling breasts inflamed with new sensations. They changed positions and it was so much better than kissing boys with their sharp teeth and whiskers. Tara’s lips were full yet firm, soft and sweet, like a mango, or a juicy peach. Or a strawberry picked in the fields, smelling of sunshine. Greta licked her cheeks and kissed her eyes and fluttered her fingers in the air with loss and abandon as Tara rolled from the bed and landed on the floor. She tried to reach for her but Tara stood back.

‘Wait,’ she said, and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She unzipped her jeans and looked like an Indian dancer as she wriggled to get out of them. She unhooked her bra and ran her pants down her legs. Tara’s pussy was shaved clean and looked like a toy fresh from its box, a mysterious sea creature Greta wanted to savour and taste. An aphrodisiac. She was spellbound. Tara moved close to the bed and Greta ran the tip of her finger gently through the pale pink gash. It opened like a waking eye and leaked minute bubbles of oily liquid like tears, so soft and sensuous Greta was impatient to tend those tears with her tongue.

She slid her hand around the curve of her hips and drew Tara towards her. In one nimble movement she dropped back on the pillow with Tara’s vulva glued to her face, spread over her hungry mouth. She had tasted sperm a few times, not many, but enough to know that it has the slightly sweet-and-sour tang of lychees, but Tara was syrupy like sticky treacle pudding, so sweet and seductive you feel impelled to lick the plate clean. She cupped the globes of Tara’s bottom as Tara gyrated above her, then she stiffened and the spurts of Tara juice on her tongue were like little sneezes or kisses, precious as jewels.

Tara slithered down the bed into Greta’s arms, her silky lap-dancer body soft yet firm, ripe yet fresh, young and healthy and so eager, so wanton, Greta had the odd sensation as she touched Tara that she was touching herself. Their hands were explorers finding cheekbones and hipbones, shoulder blades and precise little knees, the swell of thighs, the pattern of ribs that Greta thought of as a musical instrument and Tara plucked at her strings until she sang. She sucked at her lips and made her sigh with new pleasures as her pointed tongue bathed the hollow of her throat, a neglected wee place that Greta was glad was finally receiving some attention. Tara moved slowly down and down until her tongue wormed its way through the damp undergrowth into Greta’s heaving sex.