A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (3 page)

When Richard rolled off her, Greta instantly missed the weight holding her down. He removed the hood and pushed his head under hers so that he could rub the tips of their noses together.

‘Do you like having things in your mouth?’

She nodded.

‘And in your butt?’

She nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously.

‘Are you going to be obedient?’

She nodded again and she thought he’s such a tyrant, just like Jason Wise at the National.

I
N THE CAB
taking them to Camden Market the driver had already admitted that he was
infatuated
with Margaret Thatcher and was now drawing an improbable connection between rude cyclists and failings in education.

‘Bring back the bloody birch,’ he hissed in well-oiled alliteration.

Richard made informed comments but she could tell that he had no interest in politics at all. She had no idea what interested Richard – well, that’s not true, she had an inkling; she had six perfectly spaced pink lines across her bottom and a feeling that she was finding the role nature had craftily intended.

Strangers on a train. She had never done
anything
like this before and it was liberating. She had hungered for adventure. That’s why she had left her friends behind and gone to drama school in the first place. Acting had been her passion since she was little but it did grow tiresome always being typecast.

When she looked at herself in the mirror she saw clear, sparkling green eyes, a wide mouth with sulky full lips and neat features framed by a curtain of chestnut brown hair, a shoe-in for
A Midsummer’s Night Dream
. She had, full dome-shaped breasts (designed for lap dancing!), wide shoulders, long slender legs and a little tummy that pouted in a saucy curve.

It must have been the mirror’s cruel trickery that in her reflection Greta perceived the leading lady while the casting agents and directors saw the girl who is forever being slapped and smacked and tied in chains. She had never quite understood why and appreciated now that those agents and directors had been rather more astute than she’d cared to realise.

She flicked through
The Stage
Richard had brought back with the pizza. There was simply nothing for leading ladies! It was amusing for a moment to consider giving Jason Wise a call. After all, her old boyfriend had only craved what Richard had roundly taken. A buzz zinged through her as she pictured herself being lashed to his bed, her bottom mooning up to meet his belt, her silky flesh being thrashed.

I’ve been thrashed and buggered. Well and truly buggered. She just adored this word. It rolled off the tongue. It was like smack. I’ve been smacked and buggered. Buggered and smacked. Gagged and hooded, stretched like a starfish and taken a big throbbing cock deep into my cute little arse. Mmm. She wriggled and leaked and remembered she wasn’t wearing any panties.

Now, what was she thinking about?

Oh, yes. Jason Wise. Jason who was all mouth and trousers, or a lack of them, all promises that never came to pass, the part that never happened, the LA director who never appeared. He was the dust on a bookshelf, a relic from the past best left undisturbed. To escape his clutches she had left working in theatre but it was only temporary. On a journey it is the diversions that make life interesting.

Greta turned to look out the taxi window. The sun was putting a sheen on the shop windows and she had an intuition that the drive across London was taking her into the future, not to a minor role, but something bigger, more important, that everything until that moment had just been a rehearsal.

The road was bumpy. She bobbed up and down, the slaps against her buttocks giving her the same warm coddled feeling that she’d had when she sank into Richard’s blue bath. He held her still, his calming hand moving up her thigh and she felt her blood grow warm, the breath catch in her throat. She was leaking still and the pungent aroma that rose from under the hem of her black dress made her blush. She slid forward as his hand vanished into the valley between her legs. A finger parted her labia, stroking the swollen petals in a beckoning motion, and she was disappointed when his mobile buzzed and he pulled away to answer.

‘Gustav,’ he said brightly. ‘You’re in town?’

Pause
. For some reason, Greta was holding her breath.

‘Listen, I have found something with a
lot
of potential.’

Pause
. He was rolling the goo between his thumb and first finger like a gardener with the earth. She was fertile soil waiting to be ploughed and sown.

‘Young. A bit ungainly, you know, the usual.’

Pause
.

‘They always need training, Gustav. This one’s a quick learner.’

It sounded to Greta as if they were talking about a racehorse and she thought Richard was probably a trainer and spent a lot of time outdoors; he had a sun tan already and it was only June. While he was listening, he slid his sticky finger into her mouth and the taxi driver was watching in the rear-view mirror as she sucked it.

‘... OK, we’ll be at the gallery,’ Richard said finally and glanced at his watch. ‘Say 12 o’clock.’ He paused again. ‘Yes, that’s an idea. Bring it along.’

He closed the phone and turned to her. ‘Good,’ he added with a thoughtful expression.

‘Who was that?’ she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and rubbed the end of her nose with his wet finger. ‘Let’s play a game,’ he suggested. ‘It’s fun.’

‘I like games,’ she said and really meant it.

‘OK. Listen very carefully: you must do everything – everything I say. And not ask why.’

‘That doesn’t sound like much of a game to me.’

‘But there’s a prize.’

Her eyes brightened. ‘What?’

‘You mustn’t ask,’ he said.

‘Meany.’

‘Or it won’t be a surprise.’

She tapped her bottom lip with a finger. ‘But what if it’s not a very good prize?’ she asked.

‘The best prizes are like unicorns. They don’t appear unless you believe in them.’

That didn’t make much sense to Greta so she just shrugged.

‘A deal?’ he asked.

She pretended to think about it but she had already made up her mind. ‘A deal,’ she replied and they shook hands.

The streets were crowded as they stepped out of the cab. The sunshine was warm on her bare shoulders and the air smelled of ripe peaches. Richard reached urgently for her wrist and dragged her in a mad dash to the last available table at the street café on the corner beating two other couples in the process.

‘You’re quick,’ she said breathlessly.

‘You’ve got to grab
every
opportunity,’ he told her. ‘Grab it and hold on tight.’ He was holding her two hands across the table, he squeezed hard, then let go to snap his fingers for the waiter.

The morning croissants had been tipped down the waste grinder and Greta was starving. She reached for the menu, wincing as she changed positions on the metal chair, a blush colouring her cheeks and neck. She was learning new things about herself and knew that, of all knowledge, it is self-knowledge that matters most. If she were cast now in
Macbeth
or
Titus Andronicus
she would willingly submit her flesh to the ravages of madmen. She admired excess in others and was discovering an untapped well of excess in herself. She even liked the word excess. It was like sex only backwards.

Richard ordered a full English breakfast.

She looked up from the menu. ‘I’ll have the same.’

The waiter ignored her and Richard glanced at her with raised eyebrows as he continued the order. ‘And the lady will have the wild oats with strawberries.’
Oats
, she was thinking, as the waiter wrote it down. ‘Two fresh orange juices and a double espresso.’

We’re already playing the game, she realised. ‘You can never be too rich or too thin,’ she said with sarcasm when the waiter had gone.

‘Or too obedient,’ Richard added.

Then he smiled and it occurred to her that she liked this game, whatever the prize. She was going to ask Richard if he trained racehorses but it was more fun not knowing anything, his job, his surname, his hobbies.

She focused on his blue eyes. ‘People hate being looked at on the tube,’ she remarked.

‘Not everyone.’

‘Everyone,’ she said emphatically. ‘How many girls have you given your number to?’

‘Very few as it happens.’

‘I bet that’s not true.’

‘They are always
very
carefully selected.’

She didn’t really believe him but was pleased anyway. ‘I was chosen?’ she asked.

He tapped the end of her nose. ‘Questions. Questions. Questions,’ he said, and he wasn’t smiling.

She tucked into her oats and strawberries. It was surprisingly good and it seemed as if even her taste-buds had had awoken like Snow White after a long interminable sleep. She glanced up. He was studying her, watching her lips.

‘Selected,’ she said, and he wiped milk from the corners of her mouth. ‘Even I didn’t know I was going to call you.’

‘Saturday evening and you’re looking at the TV listings in the paper.’

‘All the boys my age are so boring.’

‘You’re... 20?’

‘Almost.’

‘What kind of school did you go to?’

She didn’t answer.

‘A boarding school. A convent,’ he suggested and she frowned because he was right. ‘With nasty little nuns.’

‘Vicious, actually.’

‘You miss the discipline, Greta May,’ he said. ‘It is the secret of being a great actress.’

‘That’s what they said at drama school.’

‘And they were right.’

He carried on eating and Greta thought back to the brief conversation when she was in the bath; she’d had a feeling as Richard was leaving to get the pizzas that he knew exactly who she was, that they weren’t strangers who had met by chance on a train. She’d thought it then and she thought it now. She had been selected, as he put it, chosen for a role and, if that were so, she intended to give the best performance of her life.

Greta wriggled in her chair and the lightning flash across the marks of discipline made her wriggle even more.

The two couples they had beaten to the table were still waiting, each glaring at their partner, blaming them for the delay, and when she thought back to those months when she’d lived with Jason what had lodged in her memory was the pettiness of it all, his reprimands
to make her better
, his smelly socks, the sink full of saucepans and grey stubble in her toothbrush.

In a relationship there is always tension but with a stranger all those pressures are forgotten and you can just give in to your fantasies. Her mind stretched back over the three years since she’d left school and what she recalled most was doing things she didn’t really want to be doing, learning her craft with dull repetition, reading for parts that rarely came, the incessant ennui. She wasn’t exactly sure what ennui meant but it was from a play by someone wicked like Jean Genet or Guy de Maupassant and she knew it was something intolerable.

Richard stirred his espresso.

‘Why didn’t you get me one?’

He didn’t reply and she remembered she wasn’t supposed to ask.

‘Coffee bleaches the calcium from young bones,’ he then said.

‘What about my cigarettes?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Ah, yes.’ He had insisted that she leave her bag at his flat, she didn’t need money or her mobile phone, he explained, and carried her Camels in his pocket. He gave them to her and she slipped one between her pouty lips. It waggled as she spoke.

‘Do you have my lighter?’

He took it from his pocket and held it up between two fingers, but instead of giving it to her, he pushed the ashtray across the table. ‘Take the cigarette out of your mouth and break it into small pieces.’

The cigarette froze.

‘What?’

‘I don’t need to repeat myself, do I, Greta?’

The game, she thought, and reluctantly did as she was told, breaking the back of the Camel and discarding it.

‘Now take them all out of the packet, one at a time, and break them into the ashtray.’

She sniffed haughtily but it was for her own good she realised and obeyed his instructions. He watched the pile of ruined cigarettes fill the ashtray and then crushed the empty packet.

‘Smoking is strictly against the rules,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know there were other rules as well.’

‘Then you must learn, mustn’t you,’ he said firmly and she nodded tamely because she knew he was right. Richard pushed the ashtray to one side. ‘Come on,’ he added, ‘you need a new dress. That’s for evenings.’

He paid the bill and the girls who had been waiting for the table gave her a dirty look as they passed. Richard took her hand as if it were a part of him and they crossed the road to wander among stalls of glittery tops and turquoise jewellery, healing crystals and flak jackets. She slowed to watch a cartoonist drawing sketches but Richard tugged on her hand and she trotted along like a pony, clip-clopping in her backless black suede shoes behind him.

She could smell Indian spices and ice cream, the sharp tang of petrol as the fire-eater blew streams of flame from his blackened lips. Richard tossed her lighter into his hat. Everything was going, going, going. She had left
The
Stage
on the table at the restaurant. She didn’t need to search for a part. She already had her role.

Boys were taking off their T-shirts and tucking them into the backs of their jeans and girls were wearing less and less and she thought one day a clever designer would come up with the ultimate design and dress them in nothing at all.

As they moved into the heart of the market the crowd was more dense and people were staring at her as if they knew her from somewhere but couldn’t quite recall where. It puzzled Greta that she was getting so much attention and decided not to think about it and just enjoy it. She was seeing herself as if from outside herself, her aura faintly glowing. Like her bottom.

She gave it a little wiggle and at that moment her line of vision was struck by a sulky brunette in a silver dress, her body moving amorphously, her velvet eyes as she lowered her dark glasses full of energy and secrets. She ran her tongue over her lips and there was something carnal in the way she slid her fingers across Greta’s bare arm as they crossed.

Greta straightened her shoulders and swung her hips. Richard was still holding her hand when they stumbled upon the perfect stall where white cotton dresses swayed above on a line like clouds in the breeze. They went through the rail and Richard found a Little Miss Muffet outfit with puffy sleeves and a high neck. It was truly awful. She pulled a face and then shrugged when his stern look reminded Greta there was a prize at stake.