A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (13 page)

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Greta said.

‘You don’t have to say anything.’

‘But it’s so... so big.’

‘It is a family conceit,’ he confessed. ‘An indulgence.’

Greta studied the fruit salad, an architect’s model, moving slightly as the slices of fruit slid from position, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten all day and was just dying to jump in which, she realised, was probably the point.

‘It’s hard to know where to start, I suppose,’ the count said.

‘It seems a shame to mess it up.’

‘But lots of fun.’

He smiled and his whole face came to life. Greta thought Count Ruspoli was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen. His eyes were as blue as the summer sky in Italy and sparkled with little stars of light; his nose was long and forceful and Greta could imagine that nose getting up to all sorts of mischief; he had a square chin that balanced his lush sweep of hair, and faint shadows below prominent cheekbones. It was hard to pinpoint his age. He could have been 50, or much more, or much less. He was ageless, timeless, a figure from another time and place, the renaissance, the Middle Ages, the crusades.

‘I’m going to jump in,’ she said.

‘As one should in all things.’

Greta undressed where she stood and the count held her clothes for her like an assistant in a shop. He folded everything neatly and placed her things on a marble shelf. He stood back to consider her body and Greta had the feeling that she was being appraised by a true connoisseur, an authority, an expert. There was nothing prurient or vulgar in his study. She could have been a painting by Rembrandt, a sculpture by da Vinci, a diamond at Tiffany’s. He took her hand and she turned.

‘
Buono, buono, buono
,’ he mumbled.

If this had been a test, she thought she had probably passed. Greta’s nipples were tingling and she rolled them wantonly through her fingers. The count drew her hair over her shoulders to get a better view and she was overwhelmed with an odd mixture of shame and elation. She felt utterly at ease being naked, being assessed in this way. She liked it. She craved it. In fact, being naked seemed to be more natural than being dressed. Hadn’t
homo sapiens
run around for millions of years without any clothes on? Had some rebel gene crept through from that time corrupting her hopelessly? A warm feeling ran up her spine and her tummy rumbled. She was starving.

The count took her hand and she stepped down into the hillside of greengages at the edge of the gardens. When she sat, the entire edifice wobbled and the multi-coloured fragments of fruit washed over her thighs. She slid a slice of kiwi into her mouth.

The count left the room and returned with a chair that he placed beside the bath. Greta noticed that he was wearing the brown suede loafers he had bought earlier in the week. ‘Would you like a spoon?’ he asked her. He had settled back comfortably in his chair and it seemed a pity to disturb him.

‘I think I can manage,’ she replied and popped a strawberry between her lips.

While Greta stuffed herself on fruit salad, the count watched with a delighted expression on his carved features.

Count Ruspoli was a man who had come to appreciate women
of a certain kind
, he told her, after a lifetime amusing women of
every
kind. He paused for a moment’s reflection and Greta’s green eyes were filled with wonder. She adored his voice and was content to listen as he unfolded the curious tale of his peripatetic and curious existence.

It had all started, he said, lowering his voice, at the age of 12 when the housekeeper’s daughter hopped into his bed at the Villa Mangia Baldini to verify the legend that, like his father and grandfather, like Ruspolis through time, he was endowed as few men are endowed with a penis worthy of the epithet Il Duce. It is, he said modestly, as a tower, a lighthouse, a beacon in the dark ages, a wonder of the modern world.

As he was about to change after breakfast that day, the housekeeper came to his room in the tower and stripped him of his nightshirt as she had done many times when he was a child. Unlike her daughter, who had shown the natural reserve of a girl just turned 13, the mother was there that bright spring morning to pay homage to Il Duce, this genetic quirk, as he put it, this rose headed, marble column that, like a secret or an heirloom, had been passed down the generations. The housekeeper fell to her knees, took his growing erection into her mouth and sucked at the firm flesh until, the second time that day, his essence overflowed from a hungry orifice. Had she once serviced his father in the same manner? Undoubtedly. It was like the quest for the Holy Grail. Like being inducted into a clandestine sect.

The scullery maids and under-maids, the cook and her assistants, women from the village and distant villages, their sisters and cousins and nieces from neighbouring towns, their daughters, mothers and wives, grandmothers in black and girls in pigtails from near and far found justification day after day to make a pilgrimage to the villa to worship at this unending fount of elixir. It was believed among those simple people of Southern Italy that the count’s sperm warded off the evil eye, cured infertility, soothed melancholia and restored youth. He was privileged that long summer to spread joy and jism among the womenfolk in the boot of Italy and was relieved at the age of 13 to be sent to the military academy in Rome.

Greta slid a piece of ripe mango between her lips during his brief pause and the count then continued in a softer tone. The legend of Il Duce was soon to follow him to the capital. Young girls would scale the academy walls to warm his bed with their perfumed flesh. Generals’ wives and daughters, the titled ladies of the aristocracy, the matrons of the haute bourgeoisie and the female staff in every grand house were eager to pay their respects and, being a man of noble birth, he was obliged to acquiesce to their caprices.

‘Noblesse oblige,’ said Greta.

He nodded sadly. The count was pursued across Italy. He went to France to complete his studies, and on to Belgium, Holland, Germany and Hungary. He found no peace among the strict Catholic girls of Southern Spain and, once in a convent in Cadiz, the Mother Superior shed her habit and, bald as an egg, begged him to take her cursed virginity. He stayed at the convent of Our Lady of the Southern Cross for three long days and serviced 47 celibate nuns, the Mother Superior on six separate occasions. The last he heard, she had left the calling and was working behind a bar in La Calle de Los Pecados in Cadaqués, a fishing hamlet in Catalonia.

Upon sailing to America, like the Statue of Liberty, his reputation preceded him. Driven by the limp failings of their husbands, by that new world craving for old world debauchery, those Mayflower princesses and Southampton socialites cast off their bible belts and chastity belts to pay homage to his legendary appendage. Like the idol the carpenter carves from wood then bends down to worship, one touch of a woman’s hand and Il Duce would rise like a deity to receive due veneration.

The count had left his DNA in 10,000 women and sired many of the sons of the noble families across the continent. In the next generation, he said with a dark smile, there will truly be a European Union. ‘When you are born with great wealth and position, you can either devote yourself to gossip or set out to leave your mark on the world.’

His voice brightened as he explained that it was on this fair isle of England with its seaside vulgarity and a fear of the foreigner that he was given the respite that allowed him to keep his vow and never again enter the orifices of another woman.

Greta had a lump in her throat.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that does seem a pity.’

‘If a man cannot keep his word to himself, then he is not truly a man.’

That sounded quite profound and Greta nodded thoughtfully. She couldn’t help feeling a little sulky for she was as eager as those 10,000 women across the world to take a glimpse of Il Duce.

Count Ruspoli was silent now, one foot crossing the other, his long legs stretched out beside the jacuzzi.

‘Why don’t you hop in and join me,’ she said. ‘It really feels nice.’

‘Would you like that?’

‘Very much,’ she replied.

He smiled and came to his feet. When he slipped out of his shoes, Greta told him to put them to one side so they didn’t get splashed.

‘Very wise,’ he said.

He carried his shoes across the room and placed them on a shelf. He removed his clothes with his back to her and Greta admired his tall athletic frame, his wide shoulders and small waist, his round bottom. When he turned she held her breath. The legend was everything she had imagined. Il Duce was in repose, bobbing between his muscular thighs like a lion resting before the chase.

Count Ruspoli stepped in beside her. He slid forward and his big feet crushed the Villa Mangia Baldini, the pineapple slices went flying and a wave of strawberries and cream swept up her legs. Greta gathered up a scoop from the mixture and remembered that although the count had vowed not to enter his women, he didn’t say anything about denying his divine creation from their mouths. She coated Il Duce in pink cream and it grew and grew as it slid down her throat. She stopped for breath, licked it all over like a giant lolly and looked up into his eyes.

‘Delicious,’ she said.

‘You’re very good at it,’ he remarked.

‘I’m still learning.’

The count drew her up closer and ran his fingers over her lips. ‘You have the most generous mouth I have ever seen,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘You didn’t tell me why you made a vow not to enter any more women,’ she said, and he smiled back.

‘It ruins them for the future. Their husbands and lovers will never satisfy them and they spend their lives lost in memory.’

They were quiet for a moment. Greta was dreamily sliding the skin up and down the great rod of his penis. It was like a meditation, oddly comforting. It was like climbing to the top of a mountain and staring out at the universe. You know you are going to have to go down again, but that moment of being there is worth all the effort of the climb. As Greta studied Il Duce, she noticed around the base lots of scars as if someone had taken an axe to a column of marble and tried to chop it down.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Women have taken pleasure in leaving their mark with their teeth, some, as you can see, drew blood and left small wounds, a mark of pride, I believe.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘There is no pleasure without pain, Greta May.’

‘I know,’ she said, and they nodded like two conspirators who have found each other.

She looked closely at the marks. Some had only made it six or seven inches down from the tip. Others were much further, nine and ten, and she dearly wished she had her wooden ruler from geometry for one set of teeth marks she thought was a good 11 inches down the column.

Greta climbed between the count’s legs. The attention had made Il Duce grow and it poked at her like a cannon from a castle wall. She scooped up a handful of cream and coated the beast before taking the head between her lips. She sucked it for a few moments like a sweetie then took a breath before sliding her teeth down the shaft. She stopped again, wetting the mast with her tongue, taking a deep breath and going down, down, the cream easing the prodigy deeper into her throat. She thought she was going to gag, but stopped again and took air through her nose until the feeling passed.

The count remained motionless. This was her crusade, her joust with the eternal. She rocked slowly backwards and forwards, easing the head beyond her tonsils and down to the hollow of her throat. The grip she had on the base of the column told her there was still a lot more to go.

Greta took several deep breaths through her nose. She placed her palms flat on the marble outside the count’s knees, she wedged her feet against the back of the jacuzzi and, spiralling slightly, she lowered Il Duce down to the base. When she could go no further, when there was no further to go, and she had taken it all down her gullet, Greta bit the warm skin as hard as she could. She felt the count wince with pain but he didn’t move. Greta kept her teeth locked down and only when she was sure that she had left her mark did she push back up on her arms in order to slide the sweet creature from her mouth.

They studied the marks together. The count had a look of astonishment and Greta couldn’t help feeling proud.

‘You have a divine mouth, my dear,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

‘I have the distinct feeling, Greta May, that you are going to be a winner.’

‘A winner in what, though?’ She was puzzled.

‘Success, my dear, is the meeting of preparation and opportunity. The opportunity will come. You must be prepared for it when it does.’

Greta had the word
wow
in her mind but managed to stop herself saying it. She held Il Duce in her two palms and watched the tip growing fiery red as she nursed the great column up and down, up and down. She felt it throbbing as if it were about to burst and then it did burst in a vast creamy gush that covered her face and ran into her mouth and the count tasted gloriously of fruit salad.

G
RETA WOKE EARLY
that morning feeling refreshed and irrepressibly excited. She was naked as always under the duvet, the sun flooding the room and turning everything golden. She enjoyed nursing the slopes of her protruding hips and thought if she were a sculptor she would make marble mountains of her favourites parts, hip bones and shoulder blades, her plump sulky lips.

Her tummy was almost completely flat in this position and she caressed the indentation of her belly button because belly buttons are terribly neglected. Her pussy was waking, hungry for attention, but Greta decided it would be a good idea to make her wait. She was
so
demanding. Greta grinned and wriggled her toes and ran her palms up over her rib cage to cup her breasts. Her little pink nipples were fizzing and she squeezed them until they hurt.

There, now be good.

It was like the last day of school and after a shower she decided to dress accordingly. She pulled her old school uniform from the back of the cupboard. She beat out the creases with the flat of her hand and thought the blouse looked awfully sweet with its little Peter Pan collar. She looked at the green tartan skirt and thought: Greta May you are
such
a slut. ‘You deserve a good smack.’ Greta adored the word smack and said it again and again as she smacked her bare bottom: ‘Smack. Smack. Smack.’

She held the skirt up to the light. Throughout the fifth year two things had been taking place simultaneously behind the backs of the nuns: as she and her friends were growing taller, surreptitiously each month they turned up the hems of their skirts. Greta was still growing. She was five feet eight-and-a half-inches in her bare feet and the tartan band of fabric barely covered her round bottom as she put it on.

She chose pink panties, a matching satin bra with plenty of lift and thrust and was absolutely certain the designers didn’t make such gorgeous things not to be seen. Her white blouse barely met the waistband of her skirt and she almost gagged doing it up to her throat. The gagging feeling made her feel proud and wistful. Thousands of girls had left their marker on the count’s column but none had done better than her.

Greta found a pair of white knee socks, pushed her feet into flat shoes and wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t do up the top button on her blazer. Hats like shoes create character and, when she popped her straw bonnet on her head, in the mirror’s reflection was everything the neat clean schoolgirl ought to be.

She squeezed orange juice and was standing up at the kitchen counter eating a strawberry yoghurt from the tub when Tara wandered in all bleary eyed and wrapped in a mammoth dressing gown. She took one long look at Greta.

‘You
are
debauched,’ she said

‘Thank you,’ Greta replied and it made Tara smile. ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ve got to write an essay on divorce and the rights of women.’ She waved her hand through the air as if at a bothersome fly. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to know.’

Greta put the tub down and Tara approached shaking her head. ‘Come here,’ she said, and as Greta lowered her face Tara licked yoghurt from the corners of her lips, her pointy tongue darting between her teeth. She pulled Greta’s bottom lip out with her teeth. She sucked it until it was gorged with blood and Greta remembered Count Ruspoli praising her generous mouth. Greta ran her finger around the inside of the yoghurt pot and manoeuvred her way through the folds of Tara’s dressing gown. Tara had nothing on underneath and her sticky finger wormed its way between the pleats and folds of her hot vagina.

‘We’re going to have to have a big tidy-up, you know.’

‘Why,’ asked Tara petulantly.

‘Richard said so. He’s very strict.’

‘So’s Gustav,’ Tara responded and blushed.

‘Did he...’

‘I’m not telling you, Greta May. And don’t stop, that’s lovely.’

Greta turned her finger in a spiral. Tara was rocking back and forth, getting wetter, her face contorting. She went up on her toes and the big dressing gown slipped from her shoulders as she went into spasm. Greta ran her free hand over Tara’s bottom and could feel the raised welts left from a thrashing.

‘Did you like it?’

Tara was sighing through her tiny orgasm. ‘It was lovely.’

Greta slapped her bum. ‘No, that?’ she demanded.

‘No... Yes... No.’ Tara had to think about it. ‘I quite liked it when it was over. Everything sort of glows inside and when Gustav, you know, did it, my whole body melted and the pain went away.’

‘I wish they’d told us about it at school.’

‘You’re getting totally gaga,’ said Tara. ‘What are you dressed like that for, anyway?’

‘For fun. That’s what life’s for. That’s what Aristotle said. Are you seeing him again?’

‘Who?’

‘Dhaaaa!’

‘He gave me his phone number and told me I should call him this afternoon at
precisely
two o’clock.’

‘Are you going to?

‘Depends... depends on how my arse feels.’

Greta turned Tara around and her friend let her study the six rosy pink lines that striped her bottom. Greta bent and when she planted a row of kisses on her cheeks she tasted of chocolate.

‘I’m going to be left all alone,’ Tara said. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Stock up on Chunky Monkey,’ Greta said and they laughed.

At least it was
her
turn to wash the sheets! Tara had been propped up in a bank of pillows reading a great big leather book when Greta arrived home gorged on fruit salad. Naturally, she had to tell her
everything
and Tara got so wet as Greta described the genetic flaw that runs through the Ruspolis she abandoned the law to feed her ice cream fetish.

Greta glanced up at the clock. It was time to go. Time was always in such a hurry and you have to rush just to keep up with it. She gave Tara’s bum a slap, grabbed her satchel and ran out the door.

The builders in the white van were parked outside the same house and one of them dropped the bag of cement he was carrying as she passed.

‘Fuck me! That ain’t legal,’ he said...

... and his mate replied: ‘It is if you don’t get caught...’

... and Greta had no idea what they were talking about.

Mr I Don’t Know Who & Don’t Want To Know Who was waiting at the end of the platform and his eyes bulged as she tripped along the concourse swinging her satchel. He was wearing a smart suit and had abandoned his briefcase for a silver case of the sort that photographers carry. Greta would soon find out why.

The train burst on to the platform, hissing and sweating, the doors opened and she followed the man to the far back corner. She remained with her back to him and the moment the train pulled away he lifted her skirt, took the sides of her knickers and eased them down from her bottom. His short fingers teased back the firm elasticity of her cheeks and a finger worked its way into her pussy. He was really taking the initiative and carried on manoeuvring his finger back and forth, making her wetter, even when the doors fizzed open at South Ken.

The stern girls and striped shirts rustled their papers, the carriage rocked, the lights flickered and the bald man wedged his silver case between her feet. Did he know it was her last day at work? The last day she would take this train? Perhaps ever! He must have prepared for it, planned his strategy. He climbed up on his case, giving him several more inches, and she felt his plumb sausage poke between her thighs.

Greta bowed her legs, moved up and down, up and down, the choreography of their movements allowing the little chap to pierce the mouth of her pussy and slip into the damp cavern within. She heard a slurping noise over the screech of the train wheels. She noticed the City gent in the bowler hat across the sea of people and could tell by the melancholic cast in his eye that he knew exactly what the bald man was up to and wished he had tried it on days ago. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and stared down once more at the
Financial Times
.

For Greta, this wasn’t sex. It was just a bit of fun. She was being naughty and silly, dressed as a schoolgirl, a stranger’s little cock sliding over her pink knickers and up her crack. At Knightsbridge the lights went out. He gripped her hips and jolted back and forth with gathering fury. She felt a dribble run down the back of her neck and a dribble slip down her thigh as he shot his load and withdrew exhausted.

Green Park. Mind the Gap.

Greta pulled her knickers up and the spunk leaked into the gusset.

‘Thank you,’ she heard him say, the only words he had ever said, and she stepped out of the carriage on to the platform.

Sticky stuff seeped over the insides of her legs as the elevator rose through the grey miasma underground and it was always a pleasure seeing the trees in the park opposite when she left the station. She was getting lots of lusty stares but pretended she wasn’t as she strolled along in her school uniform. It was such fun being a schoolgirl again.

Greta remembered that last year at Saint Sebastian when they all went out on Saturday into the town dressed to kill in their skimpy clothes. The local girls with their piercings and bloated bodies, chain-smoking, eating chips for comfort, would go green with envy, their skinny boyfriends spitting and shouting vulgar things that made the convent girls shake their bony hips and look even prettier. It was curious to Greta that all the rich people she knew were thin and all the poor people she saw were fat.

It was when she was turning 16, during that last year at school, that she began to be aware of the boys in town gazing at her, measuring her breasts, the length of her legs, her tiny waist that she showed to best effect in skinny shirts and slippery hipsters. She had been picked for the lead in a Noel Coward play at the drama society and it was probably the combination of being on stage and being ogled by the chavs in town that persuaded her that her future was in the theatre.

Something had gone wrong.

And it was
all
her
own
fault!

It had probably been a mistake to move in with Jason Wise. He did make promises he didn’t keep, that was true, it was true of everyone in the business, and although she had conveniently blamed him for her stalled career, she knew deep down that he wasn’t responsible. Jason had actually managed to get her put up for several suitable roles and the fact that she was rarely asked back for a second reading she could only blame on herself, on her lack of presence, a lack of vitality, a lack of that essential, illusive, indefinable
je ne sais quoi!
And she didn’t know what
je ne sais quoi
meant, not exactly, but she knew that at those castings she didn’t have it. She had been too timid, too self-conscious. She had gone to play a role. Now she knew the trick. You just have to be yourself.

That’s the secret.

Be yourself and try to be happy. But first be yourself!

Greta could hear squelchy noises as she tripped along Piccadilly swinging her satchel. She was shamelessly pleased with herself. She was certain every girl had fantasies about having sex with a stranger, having sex in public, having sex on the tube. She had lived all those fantasies at the same time and just loved the feel of the sticky liquids oozing out of her wet pussy as she turned into Bond Street. It was so great to be 19 in a new age when everyone was finally free to be and do whatever they wanted.

Madame Dubarry sniffed the air with appreciation when she entered the shoe shop and Bach was playing a sonata.

‘Greta, how fetching.’

‘It’s not too short, is it?’

‘Not for me it isn’t.’

Madame Dubarry was wearing trousers for the first time ever. They were very tight across her pert bottom and fell in a saucy flare mid-calf. She wore a white blouse that was open sufficiently to reveal a good portion of her breasts peeking out saucily from a lace bra.

Friday was always busy and that morning they spent so much time on their knees they could have been penitents at Easter. They cooed like birds of paradise as people slipped into new shoes and fluttered their plumage whenever someone showed a second’s doubt. They were whipped along on by Wagner and Mahler trumpeting from the speakers, the credit card machine pinged and the till kept up a ringing percussion.

Being secretly conservative, Greta at lunch chose carrot juice and sushi because that was the tradition at Pret and then went on a long walk through Soho like a criminal visiting the scene of the crime. The Rastas were drumming and the Hari Krishnas were beating cymbals.

Hari Krishna. Hari Krishna. Hari Hari.

She half expected to see Dirty Bill when she peered into the pink aquarium of the sex shop but there was only a crowd of girls giggling as they poked each other with the electric dildos. She turned right and left and left and right but she never found the narrow street with the horse posts and the houses all leaning drunkenly together. She still missed her watch.

That afternoon they worked just as hard and that day they sold a record 137 pairs of shoes. Madame Dubarry looked watery eyed as the clock struck six and the last customer marched out with a red bag on long handles swinging from her shoulder.

‘It’s going to be so dull without you, Greta, what am I going to do?’

‘Don’t you have a new girl coming?’ Greta said and Madame Dubarry patted her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘That’s true.’

‘You’ll soon beat her into shape,’ Greta added and they both smiled.

Madame Dubarry became unusually coy. ‘Greta, there’s one thing I’m simply dying to ask, and it’s so bad mannered...’

Greta shrugged. ‘I don’t mind...’

‘Count Ruspoli...’ Greta waited. ‘Is it true?’

She nodded her head. ‘It’s true,’ she said, and Madame Dubarry closed her eyes and abandoned herself to her imagination.