A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 6

  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.

  Tara lapped at her pussy like a pussy cat lapping milk, licking and sucking, a hot gooey puddle appearing beneath Greta’s bottom as the oils flowed from her. Greta spread herself as wide as she could. She wanted Tara to spiral up inside her body until she disappeared and they were one. Tara had manoeuvred her way in a circle and now clamped her naked pussy back over Greta’s lips. Tara’s syrupy dew trickled down her throat and Greta’s mind went back again to those pyjama parties at school when everyone took off their pyjamas and she recalled nostalgically that there is nothing like the taste of girls.

  They sixty-nined until Tara went into spasm and when she climaxed once more Greta felt all the tension flowing from her friend’s stiff young body. She turned and they snuggled under the covers like two little animals in a basket. Tara had small, pert, pointed breasts with nipples that were hard and hot to the touch.

  ‘You needed that,’ Greta said.

  ‘And how.’ Tara licked Greta’s little sea shell ear and whispered. ‘I didn’t know you were like that?’

  ‘Aren’t we all like that?’

  ‘We are now.’

  They kissed and giggled and played with each other’s breasts. Tara slid back down again below the duvet and drank like a pony from the well of Greta’s chalice. Greta shuddered and sighed.

  ‘That’s so nice.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to do it for such a long time,’ Tara murmured.

  ‘You only had to ask.’

  ‘But how was I to know?’

  ‘I would have thought it was obvious,’ Greta said.

  ‘Greta May, you’re getting so conceited.’

  Greta thought about that, but quite the opposite was true. She’d been living in a daze, unconscious, unaware of her... potential. She stroked the top of Tara’s head and, when Tara had taken her fill, she slithered like a creepy crawly up Greta’s body and kissed her again, a long, silky soft kiss like only girls can. The room was hung with carnal smells, with girlie scents, with oestrogen, and Greta was suddenly starving.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ she said, and swung her legs from the bed.

  She put some water on to boil and cooked spaghetti à la puttanesca while Tara ran out to the corner store for a bottle of Italian red. Greta didn’t bother to get dressed and enjoyed the cold air hardening her nipples as she reached into the refrigerator for sparkling water. She scratched her matted pubes while she stirred the pasta.

  When Tara got back, the bottle of wine nearly slipped from her fingers. She screamed at the top of her voice and pointed at Greta’s bottom.

  ‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’

  ‘What?’ Greta turned. ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Your bum, Greta. Has someone been hitting you?’

  Greta nodded. ‘Twice, actually.’

  ‘Oh, no, was it that man?’

  Greta licked the pasta spoon. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘And how.’

  Tara looked confused. ‘Poor thing. It’s all red. Doesn’t it hurt?’

  Greta nursed her bottom cheeks and then turned to take a closer look. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It does at the time, it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t last long.’

  Tara bent to take a closer look. There were six crimson stripes evenly spaced across Greta’s cheeks, the first six from Richard’s belt fading as if they had been written with invisible ink. Tara sewed a row of kisses across her bottom and stood again.

  ‘But why, Greta, why did he do it?

  Greta had to think about that. ‘Pleasure,’ she said finally.

  ‘That’s all very well, but what about you?’

  ‘I mean me,’ said Greta. ‘The greater the pain, you know, the greater the pleasure.’

  ‘I thought pleasure was all in the mind.’

  ‘I think pleasure’s a bit like unicorns. They don’t appear unless you believe in them.’

  Tara stared sceptically back at her friend
as she searched in the drawer for the corkscrew. She opened the wine with a lusty pop and poured two glasses. She drank hers down as if she needed it.

  ‘You will be all right?’ she said.

  ‘Course,’ Greta replied. ‘I’ll never do anything I don’t want to do... but I do want to do everything.’

  ‘I was right, you are a complete pervert.’

  ‘Oh, God. It’s true. I let a man touch me up on the train today.’

  ‘Another one?’ Tara screamed.

  ‘He was quite old and very bald.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘You know, the old knuckle game.’ She demonstrated on Tara. ‘First the back of the hand, then, when he’s more confident, he cups your bum with his sweaty palms.’ She squeezed gently and Tara let out a tiny squeal.

  ‘Yuck. And?’

  ‘You’re getting into this,’ Greta said and swivelled round to lower the gas. She turned back and carried on with the demonstration. ‘Then he rubs his finger between your cheeks, digging into your arse...’

  Her hand was up Tara’s short skirt and she was wet still.

  ‘Mmm?’ Tara said.

  ‘Quite nice, all in all.’

  And they both burst out laughing.

  Greta mixed the sauce with the pasta and put it back over the flame with a knob of butter. Tara had set the table. She lit a candle and they clinked glasses as they sat.

  Greta watched her flat mate turn the strands of spaghetti in a neat cone on her fork and it occurred to her that all people really need is more sex. More excess. When Tara had arrived home from the LSE with her bag of books she was lined and grey, the world on her shoulders. Now, she was young and fresh, her brown eyes glowing with moons of candlelight.

  Hot sauce dripped on Greta’s bare breast and the fiery moment of pain reminded her that she was naked, she was alive, she was being herself. Modesty was impractical, a handicap. She would cast it out like a devil and pursue sexual pleasure wherever it led her, however extreme.

  ‘Nothing succeeds like excess,’ she said, and Tara raised her glass to make that a toast.

  ‘You really should come to the club,’ she urged, her gaze focusing on Greta’s full breasts.

  Greta shrugged. Her mouth was full and she had no intention of becoming a lap dancer. It seemed such a waste of energy getting men all excited when they were only allowed to touch the girls as they stuck money down their pants. Greta liked being touched. She wanted to be touched. She was a sculpture still forming on that potter’s wheel. A wet one.

  ‘I’m going to the country for a holiday,’ she announced, suddenly remembering. ‘With the man I met on the train.’

  Vino trickled from Tara’s mouth as it fell open.

  ‘No. Not that one. The other one.’

  ‘The spanker?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Tara wiped her lips and leaned on her elbow. ‘What’s he like; I mean, what’s he really like?’

  ‘A bit scary,’ Greta answered. ‘I know he likes bottoms, and sex, of course.’

  ‘Does he like you, though?’

  ‘I think he does, but not in the usual way. He wants me to be myself.’

  ‘A complete tart, in other words.’

  ‘A complete something.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Tara, and they clinked glasses before downing the remainder of the wine.

  After dinner while Tara got on with an essay, Greta washed the dishes. She took a shower to scrub away the day’s smells: other people’s feet, the tube, the lingering perfume of Tara Scott-Wallace. Thanks to the witch-hazel, even the second set of pink stripes on her bottom were fading and she missed them already.

  In bed she opened one of her favourite books and came across a line highlighted in yellow: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

  Oscar, of course. Who else?

  And there was another line that jumped out at her: There is no such thing as pornography, just bad writing.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said out loud, and if Oscar Wilde had been there that moment she would have kissed him, whatever his predilections.

  The bedside lamp made a spider web on the ceiling and she was still reading when Tara appeared in the doorway with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate nut Chunky Monkey. She wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  ‘I’ve always had this ice cream fantasy,’ she said and Greta pulled back the covers.

  Chapter Seven – Dirty Bill

  THE BALD MAN was waiting at the centre of the platform, briefcase between his feet, his gaze fixed on the entrance. Greta took this in with one sweeping gaze and was aware of the relief crossing his features.

  She passed without looking in his direction again, and stopped with the pointed toes of her pink shoes touching the danger line. There was a voice on the speakers, a man who seemed to be gargling with water. The blast of subterranean air running over the silver rails was cold on her face and she listened as the tube raced like a screaming banshee from the dark heart of the tunnel.

  ‘Excuse me. Excuse me,’ she heard the man say as he barged his way behind her into the carriage.

  They clung to the same pole, eyes never meeting, bodies swaying as the train lurched carelessly around the curves to Barons Court. He waited for the appropriate moment, a particularly violent lurch, and his palms slipped over the rounded domes of her arse.

  To push back or not to push back. That is the question.

  Greta pushed back, rolling her cheeks like an elephant having a good scratch against a tree. She was wearing Tara’s pink suit; they were the same height, but where Tara was lean and muscular, Greta was more shapely and slices of herself were erupting like ripe fruit from every fold and crease, her tummy from the skirt’s waistband, her breasts cupped in the new bra from the jacket, her long creamy legs that the bald man caressed. His hands circled her thighs under the skirt when the lights dimmed, only to fall away when they brightened again.

  He edged to one side to let a woman pass with her shopping trolley at South Kensington and scurried back to his position as a fresh wave of travellers pushed into the carriage, young men with floppy hair and striped shirts like striped toothpaste squeezing back into the tube, the girls in grey suits reading the Financial Times with that anxious look people get when something sharp touches a raw nerve. Their mission was to succeed in a man’s world and Greta thought it much better to succeed in your own way, in your own world.

  During the blackout as the train dawdled its way from Knightsbridge, Greta found two wet palms moving from the base of her thighs and up over the curve below her bottom where they came to rest.

  It was only a bit of fun but the drips leaking into her panties were so sweet and intoxicating she was sure that if all the business girls would only dig down into their innermost fantasies, they’d revel in doing the same. She could see it in their eyes, in the melancholy twist about their tightly sealed lips. The City boys with their floppy hair were ready for anything and the business day would be far better served if the girls abandoned their attaché cases and dropped their hands down somebody’s trousers. It would be good for the economy. Good for the country. Greta wanted to spread the word like a missionary, not in the missionary position, actually, not as such, she wanted to be touched and used in every position and wanted her sisters on the train to get down on their knees for a great life-confirming gang bang.

  The daydream made her giggle. The bodies swayed as the lights flickered and turned them into performers in a shadow theatre. Greta closed her eyes and gasped for breath as a lone finger stroked the swollen lips of her vulva. It was hot in the tube, the sun beating down through the pavement, the earth, the metal roof above her head. Sweat ran between her breasts. The wheels screeched and pounded. The train reeled, tearing the finger from her wet lips, their bodies asunder. The lights flickered again as if they were in a thunder storm and the man with hopeless fervour pulled her back against his caged erection, her thighs jabbed by a bulging sheath of cotton as the train slow
ed into Hyde Park Corner. He remained like that, immobile, locked in unfulfilled passion until she spilled from his grasp on to the platform at Green Park. Her stop.

  Her taut bottom was damp through the crack and she was sure she could hear squelching noises as she clipped along Bond Street swinging her shoulder bag. The weather was lovely and she wished she had her mobile phone so she could call Jason Wise and tell him her knickers were wet.

  Madame Dubarry had always been strict about her dressing in black as if the buying and selling of costly shoes was vaguely funereal, but didn’t say a word when she walked in all pink and breathless.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve given it up,’ answered Greta.

  ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No. No thank you.’

  ‘No vices, Greta?’

  Greta rolled her eyes and watched Madame Dubarry gazing at her breasts rising and settling with each cycle of breath, her nipples wantonly erect and pushing into the soft silk of her uplift bra. Stretched to breaking point, the top button on her jacket had given up the fight and hung on broken threads.

  ‘That looks untidy,’ Madame Dubarry said, pulling off the offending button, and Greta ambled out of the staff room to greet a woman dressed from head to toe in Burberry. An American.

  She bought two pairs of summer sandals in tan and dark brown, like two shades of chocolate in a tub of Chunky Monkey, and while Madame Dubarry snapped her credit card through the machine two young men with the moist eyes of puppies followed her as she led them like a museum curator along the display of brown loafers, black loafers, the new blue slip-ons with a golden crest on the toe. They gazed spellbound up her skirt as she unpacked boxes and brought out shoes from their maroon cotton bags. She wriggled and jiggled and realised the ad-men were right, sex sells, the flash of her breasts and thighs like a personal guarantee that the young men were leaving the store shod to perfection.