In Too Deep (19 page)

She hesitated
a moment, but then lifted a hand and closed her fingers around the
impressive erection, marvelling at its smoothness. He narrowed his
eyes and watched her efforts closely, and drew in a sharp breath of
pleasure. Emboldened by this, she rubbed with more confidence,
working the foreskin up and over his glistening helm.

And then his
hand clamped around hers and he whispered, 'I can't take much more.
I want to fuck you now.'

He lay with
her amidst the leather and his thumb skilfully found her clit. She
came quickly, consumed by pleasure so intense that she had to clamp
her mouth to his shoulder to smother the scream that threatened to
wrench itself from her lungs. As if this was his cue he positioned
himself between her thighs and filled her with one decisive stroke.
Her legs lifted around his hips and locked there, drawing him in.
She wanted to pull him closer, glorying in the smell of him; the
scent of his hair, aftershave and body lotion that barely masked
fresh sweat and the stronger odour of aroused male.

But he wasn't
Vincent Gabor, and no matter how she tried, it was he who held her
in thrall. Even as Marty Blake ground deeply into her and used her
harshly, intent on his own satisfaction, so she remembered each and
every detail of the time when Vincent Gabor took her virginity.

When it was
over Blake left her abruptly, and she wondered what would happen
next. She heard the shower, and soon he returned, drying himself in
a large towel.

'Time to go,'
he said matter-of-factly. 'I told Roberta I'd only be a couple of
hours. He'll have my guts for garters if I let him down.'

That was it
then. His attitude was almost rude, and certainly dismissive. That
was how he had treated Arlene at the Cloth Show. Such arrogance
matched Vincent Gabor's and Julia's heart went cold. She pulled
down her skirt and adjusted her top. 'May I use the bathroom?' she
asked, trying to appear unruffled and not to show her hurt at being
dismissed so casually.

When she had
cleaned up and refreshed herself, she realised that her panties
were now useless. She'd have to go back to the rehearsal
knickerless, and try to keep the hem of her dress discretely low.
She shrugged, ran her fingers through her hair and returned to the
lounge.

Blake was
fully clothed once more. 'All set?' he said.

'Yes, but I
did rather want to see your atelier,' she replied, putting on her
most appealing, little-girl-lost look.

'Sorry,
darling,' he answered as she picked up her bag and he strolled with
her to the door. 'Can't possibly disturb my workforce. Another
time, perhaps.'

Julia was
convinced he didn't want her poking her nose in. What, she
wondered, was he up to? She would have bet money that he'd got his
secret agents copying Arlene's dresses. However, it hadn't been an
entirely unsuccessful mission. She was confident that she'd
discovered a few chinks in his armour. Next time, she would get
into that studio if it killed her!

'I'm very
pleased with you, Julia,' Vincent Gabor said, in the dressing room
at the end of the day. They were alone, and he leaned over and
placed a kiss at the nape of her neck. She smelled delicious and
her skin was baby-soft. She melted into his arms. There was no
doubting the instinctive warmth of the girl or her welcome.

'How so?' she
asked, breaking free and idling her fingers through her curls. 'I
wasn't expecting you to be here. Grace said you were away.'

He drew up a
stool beside hers and, sliding a hand onto her knee under her robe,
started to move upwards, caressing her thigh all the way. He needed
her hot and malleable. 'I was able to return earlier than expected.
I've been talking to Marty, and he told me about your lunch
date.'

He was amused
and aroused by the way her cheeks reddened and the shy manner in
which she kept her eyes fixed on her hands folded in her lap. She
was feeling guilty, and he liked that. Contrite, she'd be all the
more eager to accept punishment for her unfaithfulness. His fingers
climbed higher and he parted her thighs, sliding over her wet cleft
and finding her bud. He felt her shiver, and strummed on her tiny
organ. Her labia opened like petals in the sun and her clit
enlarged.

'Don't worry,
Julia,' he continued, using his most persuasive tone. 'What you did
pleased me. I like you to be nice to my friends. You want to please
me, don't you?'

'Yes, of
course I do, Mr Gabor.' She lifted her eyes to his and they
sparkled with a clear sincerity that almost touched his conscience
- almost, but not quite.

He kept up the
pressure on her clit, bringing her closer and closer to orgasm. She
swayed on her seat, her face flushed, but timing it to perfection
he removed his hand from the warm dark valley between her thighs
before she had reached her orgasmic plateau. She moaned
frustratedly, leaned towards him, tried to keep his hand there
where she needed it most, but he calmly withdrew. His fingers were
coated with nectar. Its oceanic odour rose between them in a sweet
wave and his fully erect penis throbbed. He was sorely tempted to
take her, but had other matters to sort out first.

'Bearing in
mind your desire to please me, you will do whatever I command after
the showing of Marty's collection,' he said firmly. 'There will be
a formal party when it is over, and an informal one later on. I
expect absolute obedience, Julia, no matter what you're asked to
do.'

There was a
moment's pause, and then she answered, 'Yes, Mr Gabor, I
understand,' and then, despite loathing her weakness, she couldn't
prevent herself from reaching blindly for the bulge in his lap,
covering it with her small palm and rubbing through the immaculate
cut of his trousers, her robe falling open over her nakedness.

'Punishment
first,' he said quietly.

'Punishment?'
she asked, in a voice weak with consternation and frustration.
'But, what have I done now?'

'You hesitated
when I demanded that you obey me to the letter, without question,'
he told her sternly.

'I'm really
sorry, Mr Gabor,' she said. 'I really am. Don't whip me,
please.'

'I am prepared
to be clement,' he said. 'Not on you're account, however, but
because we don't want you marked in any way before the show.'
Placing his feet firmly on the floor, knees a little apart, he
pulled her to him until she was lying across his lap. The robe
tangled under her and he eased it away, running his hands over her
shoulders and back and buttocks, the feel of her unblemished flesh,
the helplessness of her position, making the lust rise urgently
within him.

He paused, to
excite himself further and let the tension build, and then, without
warning, his right palm smacked down across her bottom, making her
whimper and her hips bounce from the shock. He let the smart sink
in, and spanked her again, his hand burning with the sharp contact
of palm on rump. He did it thoroughly and for several minutes. At
first she protested and writhed in a futile attempt to make herself
a difficult target, but soon her response changed and he knew she
was awaiting each slap with anticipation, her bottom glowing red,
the heat no doubt spreading to her clitoris, making it pulse
greedily.

He loved
spanking a female and watching how it changed them - tamed them.
Chastising a female, and the inevitable sex that followed, was
almost - but not quite - as satisfying as concluding a business
deal - particularly if that business deal was at the expense or
ruination of someone else.

Julia pushed
her bottom up, silently begging for more. He slipped his free hand
under her belly and his probing fingers found her wet delta. He
buried it in her vulva and then withdrew, anointing her clit with
juice. He moved it up and down as he continued to chastise her, his
palm slapping down on her scarlet bottom cheeks.

Each blow
landed close to the former one, leaving a glow that her wriggles
and yelps told him were adding to her wanton pleasure. His finger
worked the hard button of her bud. Her lovely hair swept the floor
and she whimpered piteously. He changed pace, whacking three more
slaps across her cleft. He never relented in his brisk attention to
her clit and she gave a muffled scream, her convulsions announcing
that she had reached her crisis. She slumped across his lap and he
ceased his assault on her hinds, allowing her to lie there for a
moment, his hand gently cradling her mound.

'How on earth
am I going to get in?' Arlene raged, hands thrust into her wild
dark hair, green eyes as dangerous as a lioness's. 'It's tickets
only, isn't it? Top whack tickets, only available to the rich,
famous and influential. Just the kind of people I'd be brown-nosing
if it was my show instead of his. Which it should be if there was
any justice in this world.'

'I'm going, representing
Hi
Life
,' Will told her again, alarmed by her
bitterness. 'I've a pass as a member of the press. Why don't I say
you're with me... assistant photographer or something?'

'That's a good
idea,' agreed Eugene, obviously eager to smooth her ruffled
feathers.

They were seated at a table in the
Flying Goose
, awaiting the arrival of
Julia. Each was keyed up in his or her particular way. Marty
Blake's much-advertised event was taking place the following day.
It was early evening and the bar was filling, patrons beginning to
trickle in, dropping by for a pint on the way home from work, or
already making a night of it. Members of the pub team had
requisitioned the dartboard, and others were gathering for the
weekly quiz in the lounge bar.

'Could we get
away with it?' Arlene asked Will, crossing her slim legs in tight
stretch jeans and lighting up another cigarette.

'You could
wear a wig,' he said light-heartedly, and was rewarded with a
freezing glare. He was never quite happy in her company; she was
too fiery a woman for him, though she did remind him a little of
Denise.

'A wig,'
Arlene sneered scornfully. 'Blonde, I suppose, to convince the men
that I'm an empty-headed bimbo.'

'Julia's a
blonde,' Will pointed out, finding himself instinctively protective
of the sweet girl.

Arlene
shrugged and spread wide her hands, 'I rest my case,' she said.
'Julia's a darling and I love her to bits, but she's not exactly
the brain of Britain, is she? And she'd be the first to admit
it.'

'That's not
fair,' Will said, surprising himself at how determined he was to
fight her corner in her absence. 'She's very loyal and very brave.
It takes guts to do what she's doing right now.'

'Modelling?'
Arlene replied sarcastically.

'No, trying to
net a couple of suspected villains, and on your behalf, might I
remind you?'

'Okay, you
win,' Arlene conceded. 'So, I'm to wear a wig, change my style and
become your assistant - is that it?' she asked, moving the subject
away from Julia and back to the agenda.

'That's about
it,' Will said. 'Anyone care for another drink while you ponder the
idea?'

'Mine's a
pint, please, mate,' said Eugene. 'And is there any chance I could
come along, too - just to keep an eye on things, should they get
rough? If Arlene spots one of her gowns, which he's saying is his,
then I don't reckon much for his chances. She'll gouge out his eyes
and be done for assault.'

'I wish,' she
said darkly, then added, 'I'll have a lager,' and looked anxiously
towards the door; she would be on tenterhooks until Julia
appeared.

'Number twenty -
Springtime in
Paris
,' said the commentator, standing to
one side of the stage, microphone in her hand. 'Number twenty-one
-
Rio Carnival
.'
And so on and so on, as she continued to introduce a dizzying
procession, each model displaying a Marty Blake
creation.

The cameras
clicked, recording the girls' progress along the catwalk. At the
top each girl turned, revealing the whole of her outfit - the
patter of shutters and the beat of soul music an accompaniment to
her haughty stride. The tide of beautiful females wearing
outrageously new ensembles seemed to go on forever.

For two hours the audience, sitting on small gilt and red
plush chairs, watched the procession gliding by in burgundy silk
crêpe, cream grosgrain, quilted damask, a heady flurry of hot spice
and curry colours for the beach and tropical nights. There were
ballgowns and dresses for every hour of the day, or night, and a
sprinkling of male models outlandishly attired in kilts and
sarongs, and skin-tight trousers that left nothing to the
imagination. Hats, shoes, jewellery, even a new perfume
called
Body Talk
had all been designed by the maestro, Marty Blake.

'Isn't he just
wonderful
,' gushed a short, overweight
and overdressed American matron. She had a seat in the front, but
Arlene had managed to wedge herself to the fore, with the help of
the camera she hefted and the press badge she wore pinned to her
chest. It all seemed to open all manner of otherwise closed
doors.

'You know
him?' asked Will, her stalwart backup, his journalist's head glued
firmly in place. Eugene brought up the rear. Both of them wore
suits, and that in itself made Arlene all the more conscious that
this was a momentous occasion and one which would be remembered;
the start of Marty Blake's downfall, she thought, irritated by the
fat woman's drooling admiration of such a charlatan.

'Oh, yes, I've
been a customer of his for years. I'm Mrs Hooper-Jones, from the
USA.'

She levelled
Will a searching stare, taking in his press badge and adding, 'Are
you a newsman?'