The Ninety Days of Genevieve (9 page)

She remembered Georgie. Was this how Georgie had felt when her dyke friend up-ended her? No wonder she went back for more. As each hand landed her vagina clenched and unclenched. Her moans took on a new urgency. Finally she gasped: 'Make them stop.'

'I thought you were enjoying it?' He sounded faintly mocking, pretending surprise.

'Just stop,' she groaned. She knew she could not bear this mounting sexual tension for much longer.

'You want fucking, lady?' He might have been asking her if she wanted a drink. His voice was suddenly hard. 'You want it, you ask for it. Properly.'

The young men changed over. New hands gripped her ankles. A new palm left its stinging imprint on her bottom. Her body jerked and quivered.

'I've asked/ she said. 'I've asked already.'

'Wrong words/ he said. 'I want it plain and simple. I want it basic. I want to hear that snooty boardroom voice of yours begging for it.'

'Please/ she said.

'Try again.'

'Fuck me/ she moaned. 'Please.'

'And again/ he ordered. She repeated the request, more urgently this time. 'Not bad,' he said. 'You sound as if you mean it.' He touched the external speaker. 'Playtime's over, gentlemen.' They stopped at once, standing back. 'Now it's my turn.' He straddled the bike behind her. His leather gloved hand smacked her behind. 'Straighten up.'

She jumped with surprise and did as she was told. Was he going to untie her? She heard the zip of his trousers opening and the next moment he had leaned over her, his hands slid under her armpits and captured her breasts. His erect cock pressed against her bottom as he fondled her. As she wriggled she felt it growing even harder from the friction she was providing.

She found it intensely stimulating to be bent forward, hands tied, and used like this. The fact that he was fully dressed in his black leathers added to her pleasure. His gloves were tight fitting. The leather gave his fingers a sensual smoothness. Her nipples were already aroused by the spanking. When he rolled them between his finger and thumb the sensations shuddered down to her clitoris.

He entered her easily. She was so wet she felt she could have taken a cock twice as big and twice as long. Not, she remembered, that there was anything small about his.

Rhythmically he began to thrust. She let her head fall forward and saw the reflection of his hands massaging her in the chrome petrol tank. The image excited her. It made her wonder what she looked like, half-naked, being taken from behind by an anonymous man in leathers.

It was then, as the sensations mounted, that she realised the four men were still watching. Instead of embarrassing her it added spice to her predicament. And they could not see her face. They had never seen her face. The helmets guarded them both from recognition. She could be as wanton as she liked. The thought encouraged her to try and control her partner's orgasmic thrusting. When she felt him speeding up, felt his body trembling with imminent release, she moved away from him and nearly broke contact.

Angrily he grasped her thighs and pulled her close, pushing into her again, filling her. She teased him with quick vaginal contractions and was delighted to hear him groan with pleasure. Her apparent compliance fooled him into thinking that she was going to let him have his own way. He relaxed his grip and she immediately pushed forward again.

But this time he grabbed her more roughly. She heard his breath rasping in the confines of his helmet, coming clearly through to hers. His superior weight pinned her down on the bike. Her knees bent and her high heels slipped on the ground. His hands held her close. He thrust deeply, pulled back, and thrust again until she began to match him with her internal muscles and the smooth pumping of her own hips.

'Thaf s better,' he said softly in her ear.

His fingers slid round to her clitoris. He rubbed it lightly and thrust faster. The clitoral stimulation was so intense that she felt herself coming and could not control it. She cried out: 'Yes, now! Please!' Her legs kicked and her feet slipped and it was only his hands round her waist that kept her in position as they both climaxed together in a violent spasm of delight.

The men had gone. Sinclair took off his helmet and unlocked one of the garage doors. Inside there were two chairs and a table. She sat down and felt the chair's padded PVC seat cool against her skin. It reminded her of the saddle of the motorbike.

'Not a very glamorous venue, I'm afraid,' he apologised. 'But it doesn't get used very often.'

'You don't bring all your girlfriends here?' she asked, extra polite.

He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned unexpectedly. 'You're the first. I arranged this just for you.'

She wanted to believe him. She was tempted to mention Jade Chalfont's name but instead she allowed herself to feel both flattered and fulfilled by the knowledge that he had taken all this trouble to provide what had been an exciting, revealing and sexually satisfying experience. She knew that while he had undoubtedly enjoyed every minute of it, he had always intended her to enjoy it too. She guessed instinctively that Sinclair was not the kind of man who got his kicks from forcing a woman to do something against her will.

He went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of white wine, two glasses, a large cardboard box and a mobile phone. He poured her a glass of wine then opened the box. Inside was a full-length fur coat.

'Put this on,' he said. 'I'll call a taxi.' His eyes ranged over her, amused. 'You're in no fit state to ride back with me. You look as if you've been gang-banged.'

'Well, that's more or less how I feel,' she said. She took the coat dubiously. 'I hope this is fake fur. I hate the idea of animals being killed for fashion.'

'So do 1/ he said, surprising her. 'Don't worry, it's fake, but it cost almost as much as the real thing and you'd have to be an expert to tell the difference. Keep it. I might want you to wear it again.'

She stood up. She knew she looked tantalising and sexy with her leather skirt split to her waist and her blouse open. He watched her, enjoying the view with undisguised delight. She could not remember when a man had last looked at her that way. It made her feel powerful.

She took the coat, standing with her feet apart, and swung it elegantly over her shoulders like a cloak. Twisting, she shifted her body provocatively as she

pushed her arms into the silk-lined sleeves. His eyes followed every move she made but he didn't make any attempt to touch her. She sat down, swathed in the soft weight of the fur, stretched her legs out and crossed them. Then she picked up her glass of wine. He sat opposite her.

'Who were those men?' she asked.

'Friends of mine. We share similar interests. We help each other out/

'And the man in the car? Another friend?'

He laughed, relaxing in his chair. 'No. Just a lucky punter. A bonus for us both.'

'A bonus for me? Being touched up by a stranger?'

'You loved it,' he said, 'and so did he. He'll be telling his mates about it for years, and they won't believe him.'

If I told my friends about it they wouldn't believe me either, she thought.

'If only you could have seen yourself,' he said suddenly, 'tied to the bike and wriggling about, getting more and more frustrated. It was the greatest kick ever, watching you. Do you know, some idiot former colleague of yours told me he thought you'd got a low sex drive. He should have seen you out there on the saddle. He'd have certainly changed his mind.'

'Whoever was that?' she asked.

'Harry Trushaw.'

'I thought he'd be retired by now,' she said. 'He tried for years to get me into bed.'

'Why didn't you oblige him?'

Because I didn't fancy him, she thought. Lecherous old sod, never looks at your face, always stares at where he thinks your nipples are. Aloud she said: 'Mr Trushaw never offered me anything I wanted.'

'Like a good business deal?' Sinclair's dark eyes were serious now. 'That's why you're doing this, isn't it? If s purely mercenary.'

'Dead right,' she agreed. She finished her wine.

He picked up the mobile phone and called her a cab.

'Has this taught you anything?' he asked her. 'Anything about yourself?'

She knew that it had, but she was not going to admit it to Sinclair. 'Only that I'll obviously go further than I thought to get our deal closed,' she said.

'You'll go further yet,' he said. 'You'll learn more. Believe me.'

A week ago she would not have believed him. Now she did. 'You'll be hearing from me,' he said. 'Soon.'

The next day a small parcel was delivered by courier to her London apartment. It contained a model black and chrome motorcycle and a neatly printed card enquiring: MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS? She smiled, and stood the model next to her bed.

Chapter Three

G
enevieve saw Mike Keel, the assistant manager of the sports centre, coming towards her and deliberately walked faster. Mike ran. Knowing that if she ran too it would look unkindly obvious, Genevieve stopped and turned. 'No,' she said.

Mike grinned. "That's what they all say.'

'I haven't time.'

'You could make time/ he said, teasing now. 'For me. You won't regret it. I can promise you an experience I'm sure you've never had before.'

Well, Genevieve thought, I doubt that. Even though I imagine you're only talking about squash. 'Ifs not fair on the others in the league/ she said. 'I can't help missing games when I'm busy.'

'Who's talking about the league?' Mike asked innocently. 'Are you trying to tell me you can't spare an hour on one solitary Saturday afternoon? And for charity too?'

'It's not one of those awful sponsored press-ups? I'll give you a donation but I'm not doing a single press-up.'

'Nothing like that.'

'I'm not doing a two-legged race round the grounds either/ Genevieve said, remembering a previous sponsored event which had a variety of people tripping over each other and falling into the flower beds.

'For heaven's sake/ Mike said. 'All I want you to do is demonstrate some squash moves while an audience of admiring men stand and watch.'

Genevieve stared sat him in surprise. 'You're joking?'

'I'm not. Don't you read the main notice board?'

'Well - sometimes.'

'That means never. I don't know why I bother to put any information up there. If you
had
stopped to read my nice posters occasionally you would have seen that we're having an open day in a couple of weeks time. Basically we want people to explain their particular sport so that anyone interested can get some idea of what it's all about, and in some cases maybe try it. The entrance money will go to the local hospice fund.'

'What about the admiring audience? Is that guaranteed?'

'If you'd be willing to wear a bikini, it would be.'

'No way!'

'Well, I'll come and admire you, anyway/ Mike offered, gallantly.

'What exactly do you want me to do?'

'Whatever you like, really,' Mike said. 'Just give the audience the feel of what squash is about. You can do a bit of coaching. Demonstrate some shots. Answer questions. John Oldham said he'd come and help. The whole thing needn't take long. We just want visitors to see as many sports as possible, even though most of them will probably be coming to watch the demonstrations.'

'What have you got?'

'Ladies in sexy lycra doing aerobics. Trampolining. The kids are doing a gymnastic display. And we've got karate, aikido and even kendo. It should be good.'

'I didn't know we did kendo here?'

'We don't,' Mike said. 'But one of our new members does. Apparently she's well up in the sport. She teaches in London, and she's agreed to arrange something for us. If there's some interest she might start classes. I think her name's Chalfont.'

'Not Jade Chalfont?' Genevieve asked.

'Sensei Chalfont/ Mike agreed. 'Thafs right. Do you know her?'

'No. Well, not really.'

'You know her but you don't like her?' Mike guessed. 'I agree, she is a bit - overpowering.'

'I don't know her personally,' Genevieve said. 'She works in advertising, but not in my agency/

'A rival?'

'I suppose so,' Genevieve shrugged. 'But then anyone who doesn't work in my agency is a rival. Advertising is a competitive field/

She agreed to help out on the open day and found herself wondering about Jade Chalfonf s demonstration. Kendo was a fairly unusual sport but she thought it suited the self-confident Jade. It was easy to imagine her as a warrior.
Sensei
Chalfont, she thought. I bet she just loves strutting about waving a sword, turning on all the men who like dominant women.

And James Sinclair? Would it turn him on to see a woman fighting like a samurai? Perhaps he had seen it already? Maybe he also practised kendo? She realised that she had no idea what he did in his free time - apart from arranging sexual fantasies and playing them out. Perhaps he listed sex as his hobby? He was certainly good at it.

She tried to visualise him wielding a sword. It wasn't difficult. He had the kind of panther-like elegance that made it easy to imagine him indulging in any sport. She went through a series of costumes. Polo, with its tight, white trousers and glossy boots lingered in her mind. She already knew what he would look like in motorcycle racing leathers.