A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 7

  By lunchtime Greta had sold so many pairs of shoes her head was spinning. She was too revved up to eat and caressed the curve of her empty tummy as she wandered into the winding maze that led to Soho. There was a man just in front of her, glancing over his shoulder, whistling as he walked, and she was sure she had seen him peering in the window a couple of times that morning. The man’s tune was oddly mesmerizing and Greta felt like one of the lost children being led by the Pied Piper from Hamelin. The streets became narrow, confusing, a maze of film companies and prostitutes, night clubs looking sordid in daylight, a neglected church in a garden of tombstones.

  Boys in saffron were ringing cymbals and chanting, and outside the music store men with dreadlocks sat in the sunshine beating drums, the sound sensual and rhythmic. Greta felt hot in the pink wool suit. She passed through a warren of sex shops with their arrays of whips and latex costumes, crotchless knickers and uniforms. She saw in a window something called a ballgag and now she knew where Richard did his shopping.

  Her feet took her into the pink neon interior and she tried to imagine herself dressed as a nurse, a school mistress, a dominatrix with metal tits and a devil mask over her face. She was trailing her fingers over the leatherwear when she sensed someone watching her. The man she’d unintentionally been following was studying her reflection in the mirror and she turned to meet his eyes.

  ‘A’right there, darling?’

  She dropped her hand to her side. ‘Yes. Yes thank you,’ she replied.

  ‘Got some nice stuff here, ain’t they?’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Like that sort of fing, do you?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she answered, although she thought she probably did.

  ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Greta May,’ she replied.

  He nodded knowingly as if her name were familiar to him and she wondered if he had seen it on a playbill.

  ‘I’m an actress,’ she added.

  ‘I bet you are. And I’m a set designer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Bill Longman, innit,’ he declared, and looked Greta up and down as men do with horses and used cars.

  She held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’ she said and he stared down at her extended fingers. He was scratching himself below the medallion lodged in the mat of dark hair on his chest and concluded these ministrations to take her by the wrist.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ he answered, and jerked her towards the door. ‘Listen, I fink we might have a little rehearsal. What do you reckon?’

  She was going to reply but didn’t get the chance and pattered out of the shop, her legs driven by Bill’s unseemly confidence and by the notion that Richard would clearly approve. They turned into a narrow alley lined with horse posts, the buildings leaning drunkenly together and blocking out the sun.

  ‘Got a place here, dead central,’ he said with a sniff.

  He ducked to enter a shadowy porch with innumerable bells and tawdry postcards with telephone numbers offering random services. She heard a key turn and followed him up a rickety staircase, the reek of lavatories and cheap perfume sliding under doors on each landing. She heard thumps and muffled cries, the distinctive snap of the whip, the urgent beat of colliding flesh.

  Her back was clammy with fear. Greta was tempted to turn and run back down the stairs, but she had become the girl in the horror flick who hears noises in the night and goes out to investigate with a dead torch and nothing on but a nightdress and knickers. She was watching the movie and had to see it through to find out the ending.

  The hollow sound of their footsteps made the hairs on the back of her neck rise as if from an electric shock and an icy tremor ran up her spine as Bill came to an abrupt halt. He jangled his keys and opened the door leading to an attic where half the space was taken up by a mattress covered by a stained rubber sheet.

  Bill took something from his top pocket and tossed his jacket over a cane chair with a sunken seat. It was a roll of five £20 notes held by an elastic band. He showed her how much was there, re-rolled the money, put the elastic band back in place and stuck the £100 in her pink jacket.

  ‘Ooo,’ she said.

  ‘That’s just for starters, Greta May,’ he told her. He sniffed again and his tone changed. ‘Now, come here.’

  He crooked his finger and she went obediently towards him. He undid the remaining two buttons on her pink jacket and it slipped from her shoulders to the bare wooden floor. Her full breasts were shuddering with the beat of her heart and he weighed them in his palms, nodding professionally.

  ‘Nice, very nice. Skirt,’ he said.

  She unzipped her skirt and wriggled it down to her feet. She removed her little Cartier watch, a gift from her father at Christmas, and placed it on the window sill. She folded the skirt and jacket because they belonged to Tara and put them neatly on the chair.

  When she stood before him again, Bill turned her round in her new bra and panties and she remembered being inspected by Gustav in his lovely apartment, so different to the attic with its smell of sewers and hospitals. The wallpaper had lost any sense of pattern and was held in place on the edges by packing tape and drawing pins. She could see glimmers of light through the roof tiles and the golden dust that hung in the air was the microscopic scales of dinosaurs.

  Bill had finished his examination. ‘Down,’ he now instructed.

  He reached up to take a clump of hair and forced her down on her knees. He unzipped his trousers, pulled his cock from his pants and pushed it unceremoniously between her lips. ‘Start slow and easy, you know what I mean, then build up to a climax,’ he told her like he was giving a violin lesson.

  Greta bowed her mouth up and down the stretched rubbery skin, her taste buds assaulted by unwashed towels, the tip of her tongue flicking and tickling his cock, pressing down with her lips and teeth, slow and easy, just as he said, teasing the thing like a cat with a mouse. She thought with practice she could be really good at this.

  Greta was aware of her own scent as vaginal fluids oozed from her, dewing her thighs. Sweat ran down her back and chest, her bottom was wet, her nipples throbbed and tingled. The ring of her anus popped gratuitously and she took the smelly cock deeper into her mouth, wrapping the meaty shaft in her curled tongue. She bobbed backwards and forwards, eyes pressed shut, oblivious to everything except that fleeting moment and it occurred to her that she was completely and hopelessly addicted. It was a drug. One fix and you’re hooked. I’m a sex addict. A nymphomaniac. How astonishing. How marvellous.

  If the nuns could only see me now.

  She smiled at the thought, and it wasn’t easy smiling in that position, and at that same moment she felt a tiny drop of liquid touch the roof of her mouth, just a speck, and he withdrew his throbbing cock, spraying her face with a thick frothy squirt of come, over her eyes and nose, back into her open mouth, the gooey stuff coursing down her chin to drop in globs on to her breasts. He was panting for breath.

  ‘Don’t move. Don’t move,’ he gasped.

  He shook the last drop of semen from the end of his cock and it landed on the curve of her tummy.

  ‘Don’t you dare move,’ he said again.

  He tapped his cock on her chin and cheeks as if he were playing a drum and she remembered the drummers in the street with their curling dreadlocks and lusty rhythms. He pushed out a pall of smoky breath and took a fresh gasp of air with a sigh. He then leaned back, legs apart, and an arc of hot beery urine splashed into her cleavage.

  Greta remained motionless, unable to move, shocked and sickened and strangely thrilled, gripped by the very repugnance of what he was doing.

  He changed the angle, the flow rising up across her chin, into her surprised mouth, in her ears and nose, across her hair and it ran in trickles over her shoulders and down her back, an endless cascade of steamy bitter-tasting piss that soaked her bra, seeped into her knickers and mixed a cocktail with her own flowing juices. This was disgusting, outrageous. She was
beyond redemption and she adored her own sense of complete and utter abandon.

  Bill shook off the last drips and stuck his shrinking cock back in her mouth. ‘Lick the tip,’ he said, and she ran her tongue scrupulously over the dimpled groove with its vinegary taste of stale lemons. When she had finished, he pulled out and stood back with a furious expression.

  ‘Look at the mess you’ve made here,’ he said. ‘You’d better get it cleaned up, then clean yourself, you dirty bitch.’

  He kicked a filthy towel across the room and she patiently crawled over the hard floor on her hands and knees to wipe away the puddles of pee. She wrung out the towel in the loo, and when she went back to start again it felt as if she were in a play yet to be written but she could visualise the scene clearly on stage at the National. When she had done a thorough job she stepped into the bath. There was no hook for the shower and she sat under the meagre trickle of water holding the shower head. Bill put the lavatory lid down and scratched his grizzled chest as he sat.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Greta May, going to set you up in a little flat, Hackney, somewhere up and coming, or Brixton. Somewhere with a bit of class.’

  Greta just listened. She knew Bill was enjoying his fantasy even more than he’d enjoyed pissing over her. She ran the water through her corkscrew curls and when she took off her knickers her pussy was so sticky it took all her will to resist nursing the throbbing little rosebud aching to be touched. The hot piss when it had first touched her skin had come as a surprise, a bit like the slap of Richard’s leather belt, but there was no aftershock to enhance the sensation, no follow through, just a glorious sense of decadence and not altogether unpleasant.

  She dried herself as best she could on a threadbare towel. She washed her bra and wrung it out with her knickers. She didn’t have a bag and put them on wet. She dressed in the pink suit and slipped into her pretty pink shoes.

  ‘Well, I really ought to go,’ she said.

  ‘Go? Go? What you talking about?’

  ‘I have to get back to work.’

  ‘Work? You’re going to be working with me now. We’re partners, ain’t we.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I can’t. I’m going on holiday Saturday, and if I don’t get back to work I won’t have a job when I come back.’

  ‘Do what? You mean…’ His voice trailed off. He was shaking with anger. ‘You snotty bitches are all the same, coming down here, leading me on. You’ve taken my money under false pretences.’

  At that he leaned over and grabbed the roll of £20 notes from her pocket.

  ‘Ooo,’ Greta said. She’d thought that was going to come in handy for her holiday money.

  ‘Now bugger off. Go on.’ Bill opened the door and shouted at her as she clopped her way down the narrow stairs. ‘Coming up here, pissing me about. I feel like a right berk, I can tell you. It’s all a big con.’

  Greta wasn’t sure why Bill was so angry. I mean, she hadn’t pissed all over him!

  ‘I’ve been done up like a kipper...’

  His voice reverberated down the stairwell, his words sounding as if they were from a script, from the same mystery play, and he was improvising, finding the poetry in his role.

  She wove her way around the horse posts and hurried back through Soho, the drummers steadily drumming, the boys in saffron chanting, Bill’s gruff voice ringing in her ears. She had allowed herself to be humiliated with such ease she couldn’t help wondering how far she may have let him go, how far she wanted him to go. Is there a limit, she asked herself, and answered readily that she really didn’t think there was. She had been repressing her natural instincts for so long she was like a coiled spring about to be sprung, a rocket primed and ready to fire. She glanced up as if in search of herself flying across the heavens. The sky was pure blue like a sheet of silk, the day sweltering, and she arrived back in Bond Street sweaty, hot and 20 minutes late.

  She rushed off to the lavatory, hung her soiled undies on a hook and that feeling that had come to her when she stood naked in Camden Market came to her again as Madame Dubarry watched her climb the aluminium ladder in the basement in search of a size 7 summer lace-up that was on the stock list but had vanished amongst the untidy shelves.

  ‘We’re going to have to stay behind and sort this out,’ Madame Dubarry said and Greta noticed as she looked down that Madame’s carmine lips had been freshly painted.

  The short man requiring a size 7 was to be disappointed but he grinned from ear to ear as Greta leaned forward and let his nose slip for a moment between her warm breasts.

  She steadied him on his shaky legs. ‘Why don’t you try again tomorrow,’ she whispered. He nodded like a bird dipping its bill into a lake and Greta thought it’s so easy to make other people happy and, when you make other people happy, you feel happy yourself.

  She discovered during the course of the afternoon that if she went down on her haunches, instead of sitting on the low stool, her customers had a much better view up her legs. If they wavered, she opened her thighs until they could see the pink fruit nestling in the fleece of her pubic hair and, mesmerised, they reached like Pavlov’s dogs for their credit cards.

  By the time the clock reached six, Greta had sold 48 pairs of shoes, a new record. She checked the time with her wristwatch and realised it wasn’t there and she would never be able to find her way back through the labyrinth to Bill’s sordid attic.

  Madame Dubarry locked the door with a decisive click and Greta followed her down to the basement. You would think that the more shoes you sell the easier it would be to find the sizes you need, but the very opposite occurs. The boxes topple over, you hurriedly put browns in with the blacks, a 9 mismatched with a 10, and if you don’t sort them out you get into a terrible muddle.

  Greta didn’t wait to be asked and mounted the ladder. She reached for the untidy boxes, passed them to Madame Dubarry who in turn made sure they were correctly labelled before placing them in neat piles on the floor behind her. The work was slow. It was hot in the basement. Greta climbed further knowing she wasn’t wearing any knickers and felt such a tart.

  She was a slut, a slapper, a slag.

  She savoured all the words beginning with an s: sexy like a spider, a snake, a serpent, so sensuous as she stretched up on her toes. She could feel Madame Dubarry’s warm breath running up her legs to the pouting cleft of her wet pussy. The lips were rudely open, a glossy eye winking lasciviously down over the rungs of the ladder. She cleared the second shelf. Her skirt rose up over her back as she climbed on to the top shelf and found the missing size 7 lace-up, the cheeks of her bottom pushed out like a white flower around the velvet whorls and pleats of her puckered arse.

  Once all the shoes had been sorted, Madame Dubarry passed the boxes back up to her and Greta descended the ladder with the sense of a job well done. There was a single chair in the stockroom and Madame Dubarry made herself comfortable before gently tapping her lap.

  ‘You were late back from lunch, Greta. What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Madame Dubarry.’

  ‘What happens when girls are disobedient?’

  There was that word again: disobedient; obedient. It was such a catch-all, such an invitation. It was like saying are you still beating your wife? The question implies the answer.

  ‘They have to be punished,’ Greta said, and it sounded like a line from a film by Luis Buñuel.

  The other woman nodded as if the obvious had been clearly established and Greta approached, dropping her head to one side as she came to a stop. Madame Dubarry slipped the two big pink buttons on Greta’s jacket from their hasps and pulled at the sleeves until it fell to the floor. The sound of the zip on her skirt being lowered was loud in the confined space and Greta swivelled her hips obligingly until the little item of clothing dropped away. Except for her shoes, Greta was completely naked, her underwear drying still on the back of the bathroom door, and she raised her hands to cover her breasts because forbidden fruit she
knew tastes sweeter and that’s what she would have been told to do on stage.

  Madame Dubarry sat back to study Greta’s heaving breasts, her ribcage that fluttered as if a little bird were behind the bars. She ran a fingertip down between her breasts to her pubic bone, then patted her lap once more. Greta took a deep breath and, as she stretched herself over the woman’s knees, it seemed as if this were really the proper position for a naked girl to be in, her white bottom open like a Faberge egg with its surprises and secret gifts. She wriggled and pushed out her bottom as if it were just one of a multitude of bottoms and she was anxious for it to be the one selected.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ Madame Dubarry said, inspecting the fading stripes that ran in parallel lines over her soft, smooth flesh, an inquiring fingertip tracing a path along the length of each stroke.

  She slipped her inquiring finger into the wet cavern of Greta’s open vagina, then turned her finger in a spiralling motion like a corkscrew. Greta turned with the motion and was most put out when it came to an end. Madame Dubarry removed her sticky digit and Greta heard a slurping sound as she slipped it between her lips. She began stroking her perfectly rounded cheeks. The ring of her anus like a dark eye was winking crudely up at Madame Dubarry, and she answered the message by shoving her finger deep into Greta’s arse where it performed the same churning dance around the soft clinging walls.

  Greta sighed and arched her back, thrusting out her bottom in readiness for the first slap of Madame Dubarry’s hand and, when it came, the sting made her leak like a hose full of holes, tears welling from her eyes, warm liquids escaping from the wet gash of her pussy, everything glistening, the plump juicy lips of her vulva open and pink like a healthy dog’s nose. She wriggled and felt ashamed as she pushed her bottom up further and a firm hand rested on the small of her back to prepare her for the next slapping whack that was harder and louder and echoed over the bare walls. Greta opened her legs wider and a searching hand gathered the oils from her pussy and that same hand came cracking down once more on her bare arse.