Sexy as Hell Box Set (6 page)

Outside, the bite to the air soon sorted me out, blowing away all thoughts of any empathy I might have given Victor. I settled my mind on my work shift that evening and decided to mix things up a bit. I’d been bored with my usual routine lately, and meeting Victor had given me the boost I needed to try something different. Oh, I’d stick to the basics but fancied adding some little extras. After all, it wouldn’t do to have clients straying because I’d become predictable. There were those, of course, who liked everything the same, but they’d just have to suck it up and accept a new show from me.

I hopped onto a bus, having forgone using my car this morning, and let my mind idle while the double decker took me to my destination. Once again Victor had been positively fuming, yet I’d managed to placate him within a few minutes. I suspected it was the lack of control he couldn’t handle, things being taken out of his hands and put firmly into mine, but if he wanted to be taught new things, he’d have to get used to it. Would want to get used to it, if only to see where I took him, what I showed him. I thought of
Lovisa and Halsten then, the sex-crazed Swedes, and it reminded me to check whether they were working this week. It might be fun to push Victor’s boundaries faster than I’d originally intended. Watching him watching them would be a sight and a half.

The bus lurched to a stop. I got off and walked down the alleyway to my work’s front door. I knocked, glanced up at the hidden camera situated above the lintel, and smiled. The door lock snapped, and I pushed inside.

“Hey, Fifi,” I said to our other receptionist, closing the door then going up to the desk.

Fifi
gave me a knowing smile; her lips were painted almost black, a stark contrast against her neon red hair. “Heard you brought a virgin in last night, you naughty girl.”

I laughed. “I did, and what a virgin he is.” I sighed dramatically. “Which reminds me, are
Lovisa and Halsten on this week?”

Fifi
glanced at the rota in front of her. “They are indeed. God, are you bringing your virgin back to watch them? So soon after his first time? I heard you startled the shit out of him with Julie. That is
so
bad for a newbie. Talk about not easing him in gently.”

“He needs shocking,” I said. “Thinks he knows it all. Well, he did, until he met me.”

“Poor bastard. I don’t envy him. You’re ruthless, anyone ever tell you that?”

I shook my head. “No need. I already know it. I intend to open his eyes. Widely.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve already done that. You’ll give the man a heart attack if you’re not careful. Silver-haired at the temples, so I’m told. You’d better watch his ticker doesn’t give out on you, the amount of shocks you’re giving him.”

I dismissed her words with a wave of my hand. “Oh, behave. He’s fine. And it’s fun, teaching an older dog new tricks. More fun than I thought it would be.”

And it
was
fun. I just had to make sure I didn’t get used to it.

Or him.

I said a cheery tarra to Fifi and headed for the dressing room. Along with a change of routine, I thought I might switch my get-up a bit. It was all very well wearing a black PVC all-in-one most days, but I fancied showing a bit of skin before I stripped. Just enough to whet their appetites. A promise of what was to be revealed. I shuffled through the outfits on the rail, discarding some immediately, umming and ahhing over others. What would I want Victor to see me in? He’d already copped an eyeful of me naked, but for men, or so I’d been told, a woman dressed in just the right outfit drove them wilder than an instantaneous show of bare skin.

I spied a sleeve poking out from between a wedge of clothing.

Hmmm. Yes, I believed I’d found the perfect item.

Fuck it. Two gulps of a caffeinated espresso and my heart behaved like it was on a damn trapeze.

I stared dumbly out of the window at Edgeware Road and tried to steady my breathing. People raced around, unaware of the beating of their hearts, untroubled by vixens who stopped by their place of work to give them impromptu blowjobs, and unscarred by a whipping show they’d witnessed the night before.

Scarred, yes, that was how I felt. Not physically, but the spectacle had definitely left a mark on me. It was a fractured line no one but I could see. A new streak in my brain, my psyche, that was full of what if’s, how, why?

Why?

Curiosity was a funny thing. I’d always been an inquisitive bloke. I liked to know how things worked, the chemical composition of materials, the physics of a structure. But desire, desire for pain, that was a new one on me. I wasn’t sure the science I usually relied upon to quell my thirst for understanding would be any use to me. Who would want pain? It was the body’s alarm system. Most people spent their lives avoiding it.

Why did Julie thrive on it? How the hell could a thrashing make her come? And what did it say about me that it had got me so hard and horny that I’d allowed that witch, Zara Watson, to feed me into her mouth and then make me come with three sharp sucks?

It was a question with an answer I didn’t have. Not even the first straws of a clue to figuring out. But I suspected my teacher, my sexy, infuriating, sly teacher, would be only too willing to explain it in detail. She’d no doubt gloat all over again about the fact that I didn’t know everything.

Who the hell did?

Mary looked slightly panicked when I finally returned to the office. And that wasn’t surprising; she was used to me arriving at seven and staying through till eight p.m. most days. Nipping out for lunch or even a coffee just wasn’t part of my routine.

“Are you okay, Mr Partridge?” she asked, wringing her hands as she stood in my office doorway.

“Yes, I’m fine thank you.” I sat down, placed my palms, fingers spread, on the desk.

“Can I get you anything?” She tilted her head and studied me. Her glasses slipped down her hawkish nose, and she slid them back up the bridge.

For an awful moment I imagined her standing, like that, in the doorway to my office earlier. When Zara had been enjoying my cock as her breakfast. It could have so easily happened. Mary knocked
as
she walked in, there was no pause. And why would she hesitate? She’d never had reason to suspect that I might be receiving oral sex from a harlot and might need a moment to tuck myself away and drag said harlot up from the floor before she entered.

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know.” Mary reached for the door handle. “Mr
Sherbourne has a one o’clock appointment. Until then you’re clear.”

“Oh, do I know him?”

“Only from a telephone conversation. This is his first visit to Partridge and Partners.” She paused.

I tried not to look confused.
Sherbourne?

“He has an old primary school he’s hoping to convert into apartments,” Mary said with a frown.

“Ah, yes, I remember speaking to him.” I nodded seriously. “That’s great, thanks.”

Mary shut the door, and I tried to recall a conversation with Mr
Sherbourne. Normally I was shit-hot at details like that, discussions about new, existing and old projects indelibly stamped on my mind. But it seemed that had changed. I couldn’t for the life of me bring to memory the primary school we’d discussed let alone the budget, spec or brief.

I sighed, tapped my password into the Mac and opened Safari.

What the hell was that club called last night? Did it even have a name? No, I didn’t think it did, but it did have a number six on the door. I remembered that. Wasn’t six the devil’s number?

I pressed my fingers to my temples, tried to visualise the drive there in Zara’s Mini. What was the name of the street? In my mind I could see bedroom windows with scruffy, drawn curtains. I’d slunk down the seat a little. Not the kind of area I liked to be heading into in the dark. The bowels of London’s Soho were not my normal territory.

Eden Street. It came to me. I’m not sure why, perhaps because it struck me as paradoxical. Wasn’t the Garden of Eden supposed to be beautiful yet full of temptation? Eden Street certainly hadn’t been beautiful. Tatty red-bricked buildings, a few boarded-up windows and
Axel is a gay slag
scrawled beneath the elevated road sign. But full of temptation. Well, that was up for debate. Depended if you thought getting whipped and flogged, made to feel powerless and small, was a temptation.

Clearly some people did.

Hastily I typed in Eden Street. Hit search. It came up with a college, a gym and a record store. No mention of any type of sex theatre. And certainly no listings of a nine o’clock showing featuring a tall, Barbie-like beauty flagellating herself to orgasm.

Frustrated, I stood, walked to the window and stared out at the grey London day. The sun barely showed itself this time of year, it was as if a sudden bout of shyness had struck it. Many times, like today, it was hard to even discern its position in the sky. Just a flickering glimpse of a pale orb when the wind blew a thinner patch of cloud over its light.

I gazed at the shiny, wet rooftops and wondered where Zara was now. What she was doing, who she was with.

Did she have a regular job? Perhaps in a call centre, or Starbucks, maybe even in a library. I smirked. Library, no way. She didn’t have one quality a librarian needed. She was loud and crass, she pushed boundaries, delighted in shocking, and I couldn’t imagine for a minute she would read anything that wasn’t about fucking.

Not to mention her clothes. What kind of librarian wore PVC that showed the gusset of her knickers?

My cock stirred. Damn it. I hadn’t wanted to find her so sexy in her slutty clothes and trashy damp panties. But it had appealed to me. I thought I liked nice girls, in pretty white bras and lacy underwear. Seemed I had another side to me that liked the dirty, come-fuck-me look. Girls who flaunted their wares, took what they wanted, and weren’t scared to ask for it.

Who’d have thought?

My mobile rang and, willing my cock to behave, I answered it.

It was my financial advisor wanting to discuss the tax forms.

This would be a long, heavy conversation. Brain ache a guaranteed outcome.

I’d toyed with the idea of being late to pick up Zara. Just to piss her off. But when it came down to it, I was early. So early that I had to sit around the corner for ten minutes so I didn’t appear too eager.

Because I wasn’t eager. Not at all. In fact, I was only keeping my word because that’s the sort of man I liked to think I was. Though if I’d had any choice in the matter I would have stayed at work drawing up the first draft of Mr Sherbourne’s construction. I’d just got into the flow, managed to rid my head of ridiculous sexual scenarios with Zara and in their place see the walls, the lines, the angles of the roof and the practicalities of the rooms. It had been a relief, those hours of forgetting, of not wanting, of not wondering what the hell she was going to do next to shock me, which ultimately seemed to be her goal.

Nine on the dot, I pulled up outside her place and beeped the horn. I wasn’t about to leave the Porsche. This neighbourhood wasn’t as ropey as Eden Street, but I was no risk-taker when it came to the car.

She made me wait for a whole five minutes before she sashayed towards me. She wore a tiny purple skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on and the paint was still wet. She’d teamed it with thigh-high black boots, silver buckles, and a faux-fur leopard-print jacket. Her hair was scraped back, harshly, and a long ponytail hung from the highest point of her head.

She dropped into the passenger seat, long, sexy legs filling the
footwell, chilled air gushing in with her.

“Hi, honey, did you have a good day at the office?” she said with a grin then leaned across and pressed a kiss to my cheek. The tip of her nose was cool.

I swiped at the sticky red lipstick I knew would be printed there. “It was different,” I muttered, revving the engine. The meaty tones rumbling through my body gave me a sense of power. I was in control here, I was driving. “Where are we going?”

“I have to work. I’m due on stage in half an hour.”

“What?” So why the hell had she insisted on seeing
me
if she was working?

She raised her eyebrows and pouted. “I thought you might enjoy my show, Victor.”

A knot wound tight in my stomach. It was bad enough that she’d made me watch Juliette, or Julie or whatever her name was, at that place last night. Did she really think that I wanted to watch her beat the living crap out of herself until she orgasmed?

She rested her hand on my forearm.

A tickle in my cheek told me that a nerve was flicking there.

“Hey,” she said. “I promise it’s nothing like last night’s show. That’s not my thing at all. You saw my back when you did the zipper of my dress. Not a single mark or scar.”

I clamped my jaw tight. It was good to know I wasn’t going to be watching Zara getting hurt, but still, I knew enough about her by now to know it would surprise the hell out of me.

“I promise you’ll like it.” She leaned closer, sliding her hand up my arm, over my shoulder, then resting it on the base of my neck, pressing the collar on my leather jacket. “Victor, I promise it will turn you on. Not only that, it will tell you something about yourself that you never suspected lay in the deepest, darkest part of your soul.”