After Hours: Black Lace Classics (3 page)

‘Wow, that’s sexy,’ he murmured, and moved in close to her, one beefy hand reclaiming a breast with a wince-making grip while the other went lower to push his full, aching penis down and into the little runway the moist lips of her cunt provided for just that purpose.

‘Do you like that, Venny?’ Bill rubbed himself back and forth against her, each time slipping deeper, each time pushing harder.

God, I don’t think I’m ready for this, Venny thought in panic. Relax, she told herself sternly. Get into it. ‘Yes, I like it,’ she murmured, kissing the salty-tasting skin of his shoulder. His skin was smooth with heavy ill-defined muscles moving beneath it. Suddenly, she felt about as likeable as Lady Macbeth. She was using him.

Yes, but wasn’t he using her too?

And anyway it was too late to pull back. Far too late. Bill’s mad pushing was taking an upward turn, and she felt the big stiff head of his cock nudging at her opening, felt his hands going under her buttocks, lifting
her, while his legs pushed between her thighs, opening her up even wider.

Venny found herself sitting on the steel counter. She nearly yelped when her bottom struck the cold metal, and nearly yelped again when his thigh caught hers against the metal in a neat little crushing movement that caused her a brief but intense flash of pain. But there was pleasure too, and she fell back onto her elbows across the wide counter and gazed up at him, hearing her own panting breaths mingling with his.

Bill was staring fixedly at her heavy, lolling, naked breasts as he fumbled the head of his penis into her. Goodness, it was thick. But her own juices were flowing fast and hard now, and he slipped his big cock into her with remarkable ease, pushing it right up into her in one smooth movement that wrenched a cry from her.

‘All right?’ he panted hopefully. ‘Not too big?’ He was half-smiling, half-grimacing with the effort of not coming off in two seconds flat, she could see that. He was a nice man. Considerate.

Venny shook her head and lay back, idly toying with her clit. Maybe if she just closed her eyes he’d get on with it, get it over with. She closed her eyes. And oh, yes, it felt good. He was chugging away at her now, pushing, pushing, pushing, and every hard thrust he made took his cock deep into her, touching her where she was most sensitive, most responsive. She felt her orgasm begin to tweak at her as she relaxed into the feel of Bill’s energetic fucking, and she thought, yes, this is great, and then he came.

He just came.

He came with a lot of noise too. He grunted and groaned and Venny opened her eyes in disbelief to see his face screwed up as if in pain. The bastard was coming already! Forced back onto both elbows, Venny desperately tried to move against his emptying cock, tried to maintain her own stimulation, but she knew it was a losing battle. And why hadn’t he touched her? Wasn’t every modern man supposed to know that you were supposed to touch a woman to get her ready to orgasm, not just shove your cock in and hope for the best?

‘Sorry,’ Bill muttered, and leaned forwards with his shaft still buried up to the hilt in her and started lapping with his tongue at her nipple in a half-hearted sort of way. Venny felt anger building instead of desire. To think she had even felt guilty about doing this.

‘We make good partners,’ he slurred against her breast, interrupting her line of thought. ‘Don’t you think we do, Venny? We could be good partners both in and out of bed, what do you say?’ And he gazed at her with puppyish appeal, while his cock wilted inside her.

Venny closed her eyes again. The anger was very strong now. Partners! Unwittingly, Bill had hit on the one thing guaranteed to enrage her. She pushed against his shoulders and he drew back in surprise, groping for a hank of kitchen roll as his penis came free. Venny hopped down from the counter, and while he was busy drying off she yanked her skirt on and, not bothering with the body, pulled on her jacket and buttoned it
securely. Her body hummed like a strummed guitar, and her legs felt as secure beneath her as unset jelly.

‘That was good, huh?’ Bill asked, dropping the used tissue into the pedal bin. ‘So what do you think, Venny?’

He turned to her, his cock at half-mast, and his eyes widened in surprise to find that she was already dressed.

‘I’ll tell you what I think, Bill,’ said Venny icily. ‘I think you’re fired.’

When Venny got home to her Camden flat it was raining heavily. Lucky she’d brought the car today. Not that the flat was very far from the restaurant, but she didn’t really like schlepping around London at night, and particularly not in the middle of a summer storm.

And this was some summer storm. Lightning strobed and needle-sharp flashes speared the sky, then thunder rolled into the vacuum behind the lightning strikes and blasted her ears like exploding mortar shells. The pavements were black and slick as patent leather, rain pummelling against them so hard that the heavy droplets bounced back into the air. Really, the weather matched her mood.

She parked the car in her precious permit-holders-only space and went inside. The next-door flat in the converted Victorian warehouse where she lived was no longer tagged with its sold sign. Well, these were good flats; they sold fast. They had loads of historical ambience, with the lock being right beside them. Barge
owners had stored their cargoes of timber, coal and wood in these buildings, and now after a long time rotting as derelict hulks they were in full use again and the property developers were having a ball. And the warehouses were not only being renovated as flats. There were shops too, and craft studios, and live jazz and rock nearby, and the market for bargains. The canal permeated the place, wafting freshets of soft moisture and strong diesel into the air all around it. Trees, their shadowy branches dancing in the breeze, crowded on its banks like suicides about to jump.

Now why had she thought of suicides? Venny wondered. Bill was tougher than that. People moved in and out of jobs all the time, in and out of short contracts, in and out of appointments that had seemed rock-solid secure, for that matter. Like Bill Thompson’s before she fired him.

He hadn’t taken it very well.

In fact he had taken it spectacularly badly, and inevitably there had been the painful post mortem. Was it something he’d said or done? No. Was it his cooking? Well, yes. He wanted to cook just Italian, nothing else, while she favoured serving a more broad-based fusion-food line. And he didn’t even cook good Italian. And there was his attitude, of course, although she didn’t want to get into that, and flinging accusations at this point was unlikely to prove helpful, didn’t he think so?

Bill clearly didn’t agree.

Bill had gone right ahead and flung a few accusations.

Like, he couldn’t believe what a cold ball-breaking bitch she was.

Like, she had used him tonight and then given him the finger.

All true. Venny had to admit that. He had shouted and, even worse, he had stood there without a stitch on while carrying out his harangue, his deflated cock bobbing away in counterpoint to his angry words, which just made him look ridiculous. Venny was sure she had had more embarrassing encounters, but she was damned if she could remember when.

On Monday she would have to phone the employment agency and dig herself out of the shit. She wasn’t a chef. Microwaving ready meals taxed her culinary expertise to the limit. Her ignorance of food production was total. She didn’t know whether the Barnsley black sausage was superior to the French
boudin noir.
She didn’t care about bento boxes or
nuoc mam.
Opening a cereal packet was, frankly, an effort. As for the rest of the staff, they were just servers and choppers; none of them had the knowledge needed to command kitchens.

So this was the picture. She had bookings for covers she could not provide. She had an unbearable sexual itch. And she was going to have to crawl to her bank manager for a bigger loan.

But the only way was up, right?

Over the noise of the receding storm and Shania Twain blasting out on the stereo, Dani heard Venny come
crashing into the flat. Dani was in the high-ceilinged kitchen. It had exposed brick walls and a big half-moon window underneath which cutting-edge fittings had been grafted on. She was working, but she was having fun too. Dani was dedicated to having fun. That, and country and western.

‘Hold on a minute,’ she said to the empty room, and turned Shania down.

She opened the door a crack and peered out at Venny through hanks of choppily cut dark hair. Where Venny had hung back from body piercing, Dani had embraced it with almost missionary zeal. There was a ring through her eyebrow, twin studs on her neat little nose, a row of silver skull-and-crossbone death’s-heads parading up the lobes of both dainty ears, and Venny knew that her nipples, her navel and even her labia, under their little coat of dark fur, had all been pierced. All this, and a penchant for cowgirl boots and fringed buckskin jackets, marked Dani down as eccentric in Venny’s eyes. But they suited each other, like the odd couple. The sober and the wild, thought Venny sourly. The daring and the dull.

‘Thought it was you,’ said Dani. ‘Either that or a very noisy burglar. Bad day at the office, dear?’

‘I fired the chef.’ Venny dumped her bag on the hall table.

‘Excuse me?’ Dani half-turned and giggled as if someone had goosed her from behind. Shania was turned up again. ‘Why?’ she shouted, turning back to Venny.

‘Because he’s a lousy chef; because he’s got an attitude problem,’ said Venny. ‘And he wanted to form a partnership, can you believe it? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.’

Dani cast about for something to cheer Venny up. Almost immediately, she found it. ‘Hey.’ Dani’s chocolate-brown eyes shone with delight in her sharply defined little face. ‘There’s a flat-warming bash next door on Tuesday. It’s going to be a vampires and virgins theme party. You coming?’

‘Tuesday?’ Venny echoed dismally. ‘I thought Tuesday was your line-dancing night at the Electric Ballroom?’

‘It is, but I can skip one week.’

Venny shook her head doubtfully. ‘I’ve got Monday to get through first.’

Venny yanked the door shut and walked on along the hall and into the bathroom. Dani shook her head. This was Venny’s other problem – apart from the control-freak thing. She was always so uptight.

Not like her.

Easy come, easy go, that was Dani. Privately schooled and pot-smoking only child of rich parents, she had emerged from a superior education with a lust for life and a cut-glass accent which she had quickly dumbed down. She had grown up with everything being handed to her on a plate – and the plate was silver. She expected things to be cool, and somehow mostly they were.

Dani’s parents had helped finance her mobile catering business. Parties, meetings and receptions. They’d
bought her a van. Sometimes when things were tight they even helped with the rent.

And it didn’t stop there.

Because of her parents she was well connected. Because she was well connected she was fully booked, with work coming out of her ears.

But she didn’t have to work. She worked for fun.

She was having fun now.

‘Where was I?’ she asked herself dreamily, closing the kitchen door, tapping her booted foot along to ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’.

She eyed the big circular cake that stood in front of the sink. It was three feet high, and a metre wide at the base. It was pretty, too. Sugar pink scalloped with white. It had taken her a troublesome hour with the tissue paper and stapler to get it looking that good.

‘Surprise!’
she shrieked.

The top of the cake sprang back on a hinged flap.

A blond and naked man with an all-over bottle tan sprang up from the cake and flung his arms apart with a grin. His cock bobbed over the lip of the cake, semi-aroused.

‘Now look,’ Dani tutted. ‘What do I have to do to make this thing stay up?’

‘Strip?’ suggested Jamie.

Which was an appealing suggestion, but Dani knew that once they got going down that road she’d never get all the rest of the work finished.

But still.

Maybe if she just played along.

Whatever, she decided that she wasn’t going to let him put it in, not tonight. She wasn’t even going to let him cop a feel. She was a fun girl, but she had a sort of honour; when you booked a job, you made damned sure you got the thing done to the best of your ability. She had that much in common with Venny.

‘OK, OK.’

Dani peeled her beige top over her scruffy dark hair and stepped out of her floral trousers. She kicked off her boots. She was left wearing a scrap of burgundy silk around her crotch, and Jamie thought she was still overdressed. She had cone-shaped breasts with edible dark-cherry nipples. Jamie was salivating like Pavlov’s dog when the bell went.

‘More?’ he asked.

‘Oh, OK.’ And of course Dani was enjoying this, too; it was making her feel horny as hell in fact. She tossed aside her knickers. The hair on her mound was black against her velvety, white skin. Jamie’s cock reasserted itself.

‘Better,’ she praised, and reached out to fondle his cock thoughtfully. ‘Now, how do we keep this rock-hard on Saturday night when you jump out of the cake at the hen party? I can’t be standing there in the buff then.’

‘You could,’ said Jamie.

‘No, I couldn’t. I know. Keep a men’s magazine and a torch in there with you.’

‘Like what? Motorbike monthly?’

Dani tweaked the tip of his cock.

‘Ow,’ said Jamie.

‘Well take this seriously, will you? Damn! It’s going down again.’

‘Your fault for pinching it,’ accused Jamie.

‘This is the dress rehearsal,’ said Dani sternly. ‘It’s got to be right. God, it’s hot. Drink?’

Jamie nodded. Dani got two tins out of the fridge, popped the pulls and gave him one. Jamie downed the whole tin, tipping his head back and gulping it down like the guy in the Diet Coke ad.

Dani sipped hers and watched him. She liked a bit of rough, and Jamie fitted the bill just fine. Sometimes she wondered if he was just a tiny bit too hot to handle, but still she considered him one of her best discoveries. She’d spotted him months ago when she’d done a dinner for the art college. There she’d been, dishing up the baby pink salmon mousses, the bloody red slices of beef, profiteroles dripping with chocolate and cream, looking prim in her black dress and white apron. More wine, sir? Red or white?