A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (11 page)

Vanlooch was breathing faster, growing impatient.

‘Now, lay down, lay down,’ he instructed and Greta did as she was told, stretching out beside the canvas, resting on her elbows so that she could see what he was doing. This was art and important.

He took a clean brush, sucked the tip and slid it into her pussy. It came out slicked and silvery, so thick in juice she was embarrassed as she watched him applying her oils to the canvas, embarrassed and frustrated because she couldn’t see the picture transforming, just his hand as he added highlights. He was an old-fashioned clerk keeping a ledger, her pussy an inkwell, dipping the brush in, teasing her fluids over the canvas and coming back for more. It tickled and she giggled. She lifted her bottom and opened herself wider. She was trying to draw the paintbrush up inside her, but the artist knew what he wanted and that was the milky sap that welled over her lips.

‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Nice and wet.’

Vanlooch was serious about his work. He teased the sticky stuff from her vulva and applied it pointillism style, stabbing the canvas with tiny dots, coming back for more. Greta became wetter, more animated. A long sigh escaped from her throat and, as she started to climax, Vanlooch loomed over her, eyes sparkling. He abandoned the brush and dipped his head between her legs. She trembled as she went into orgasm and he lapped at her pussy like a man finding water in the desert.

When the spasm ended, he grabbed a plastic cup and spat out her juices. ‘Delicious. Delicious,’ he said, rubbing his tongue over his teeth. He held the cup for her to see. ‘Now this is
very
important: spit, don’t swallow.’

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but it all became clear as he lowered his trousers and she found his little soldier standing rigidly to attention.

Spit, don’t swallow!

That’s a first, she thought. She took him into her mouth and he tasted faintly of talcum powder. He rocked back on his size 7 white shoes, his knees were shaking and she had to grip his thighs to make sure he didn’t fall over.

‘Don’t swallow,’ she heard him groan and she thought he must have been saving it for a long time because after just a few moments her mouth filled with hot sperm. He pumped away like he was filling a car and when he had shed the last little drop she dribbled it out into the cup that held her pussy juice.

‘We have created art, and art is life,’ he said breathlessly, and they gazed down at their pale milky fluids.

The painter returned to his work. He took a new brush, made a small puddle with their essence and added a touch of emerald green paint. He looked back at her and after adding a speck of yellow to the pool what Greta saw on the canvas was a mirror image, a single shiny eye, her eye with long brown lashes, a look of surprise but contentment, a look of trust and wonder. He added glossy highlights from the cup of sperm, instilled energy, life, a universe exploding, transforming, being reborn.

The light outside was fading. Vanlooch lifted the canvas and together they carried it to the windows. He stood the work in landscape on two easels and as Greta studied the painting she was speechless. She had been surprised to discover the figure of a girl among the swirls of paint. Now she was impressed.

The human figure was still there in shades of pink, as were the butterflies on angel wings, a reference to change, to evolution, the palm prints and footprints fading as if left behind on the sand as another figure takes flight amorphously across the canvas, a mythical creature at full gallop: a unicorn, she thought for a moment, but there was no horn on its brow.

Then she realised: it was a flying horse. That’s what Gustav had called her: Pegasus. And that’s how Vanlooch must have seen her: that was her potential, not to be earthbound, but to take wing and fly with the stars. Greta was totally in awe, as were the people who stood at the Royal Academy years later, moved by the work, unsure what it was exactly, what it meant exactly, but knowing deep down on some primitive level that the painting was iconic, spiritual, eternal and deeply mysterious.

‘It’s a masterpiece,’ she whispered.

‘It’s a start,’ he said. ‘Masterpieces take time.’

As Greta moved to one side to study the painting from a different angle, the glossy green eye followed her.

As she turned to Vanlooch, his mobile rang and he gave the machine straight to her.

‘It’s for you.’

‘Me?’

‘Hi, Greta.’ It was Tara.

‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘Guess who’s waiting for you at the club?’

‘For me?’

‘Richard and Gustav,’ she said breathlessly, and lowered her voice. ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Richard and Gustav, there?’

Tara didn’t answer. Richard came on the line and told her there was a car waiting outside and she had to come immediately.

‘But I’m covered in paint...’

‘What colour?’

‘What... pink and white and brown and yellow, oh and red and gold...’

‘A rainbow girl. Come as you are, Greta May.’

And at that he hung up.

That was the game. The rules. The pact. It was such joy to hear his voice. His commands.

She was sticky, spermy, sweaty and with paint all over her body she looked like a fragment taken from the canvas. She dressed, Vanlooch waved without taking his eyes from the painting, and a mini-cab zoomed back over the Albert Bridge taking her to Hades in Mayfair where the two-metre tall doorman took a step back as if he was about to be attacked by a wild Valkyrie.

Greta understood why when she was ushered through to the dressing room where Tara was waiting for her.

‘It suits you,’ said Tara as she ran the zip down the back of her dress and hung it on a hanger.

Greta stood motionless, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was golden and stuck out in points like the Statue of Liberty and every inch of her body was covered in pink graffiti. She was a message from another dimension. Actually, she was a mess.

‘You look like you’ve been having fun.’

‘I’ve been painted.’

‘So I can see,’ said Tara.

Tara then explained that two girls were off sick and they had a party of very important businessmen in from the EU. Tara unhooked Greta’s silver bra.

‘This is your chance, Greta.’

And the penny dropped. She was expected to dance, and she had never done it before.

‘No way,’ she said.

‘Richard suggested it.’

At that, Richard poked his head around the door and she was so pleased to see him.

‘Break a leg,’ he said, and left again.

‘But what have I got to do?’

‘Just wiggle about,’ Tara replied. ‘You dance around for a bit to get them excited, then you slip on to their laps and give them a good hard rub.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Don’t stay too long on each one. As soon as you get the money, you move on.’

‘Money?’

‘That’s why we do it, Greta. When they put the money in your knickers, that’s the time to escape.’

Greta sighed. She had stage fright. It always happened. ‘I can’t do it, Tara,’ she said

‘I can,’ Tara stressed in her competitive way and at that same moment Richard appeared back in the doorway.

He snapped his fingers. ‘It’s a go,’ he said.

The music had started. She heard the speakers crackle to life and followed Tara in a daze through the dark corridor backstage.

And tonight for your complete pleasure we are proud to introduce Greta May. Let’s give it up for our brand new performer, the beautiful, the adorable, the one and only Greta May …

Greta was blinded by the crisscrossing beams of spotlights as she stumbled on stage. She was aware that out there in the dark people were clapping, which was always nice, and she could see the brass pole fixed to the centre of the stage.

The music grew louder, filling her head, running like creepy crawlies down her arms and legs. As the applause grew louder the butterflies in her tummy lifted on angel’s wings and flew back to the canvas in Vanlooch’s studio. She moved slowly at first, gyrating her hips and shoulders, holding the pole like a lover, running her crack up and down the slippery metal. The music pounded. She was on stage. She was performing, taking flight. She sucked her fingers. She massaged her breasts and pinched her own nipples until they hurt. Pussy was wet again and she heard the crowd roar for more as she slid her hand inside her pants.

The lights changed, pulsing like heartbeats. She could see the audience now, rows of men proffering money, £20 notes, £50 notes and euros in every colour. As she moved away from the pole, Greta noticed Richard in the wings behind a video camera. She looked across stage; there was Gustav with another camera. She was trapped in the crossfire, her every movement captured and she knew it was immodest but Greta loved seeing herself on film.

She danced to the front of the stage and the eyes of the cameras followed. She remembered the way Marley Johnson had ripped her clothes off each night at the National and how the audience was always moved by the display. The lights were hot. She was bathed in perspiration. Her pussy was a lake. Her breasts were on fire.

And Greta couldn’t help herself.

She couldn’t stop herself.

She was a slut.

She wriggled out of her knickers and the men in the crowd came to their feet roaring and clapping as she discarded the little triangle of sopping cotton.

She was naked, covered in paint, sticky and sweaty. The men had fallen back into their seats, still waving their money, and Greta stepped into the arms of the first man at the end of the first row. He held her hips, he ran his arms up her sides and his cock sheathed in his trousers rammed at her slit. His eyes boggled. His throat opened in a roar and the next man was reaching for her, fondling her, touching her, grabbing her, wanking himself off. They were tossing their money on the stage like it was a tickertape parade.

Greta moved to the next man and the next, the first row, then the second. The lights were flashing as if it were a war zone, the music pounded hypnotically and the money kept raining down on the stage. One man with a big moustache and more innovative than his companions, turned her round and as he worked himself off against her arse she noticed the two cameras had moved like giant insects on tripod legs to the very edge of the stage and were capturing it all on film.

There must have been 40 men out there in Hades that night and Greta left them all with wet pants and suits covered in sweat, paint and pussy tears. Tara swept her money from the stage and Richard continued filming her as she retreated back into the dressing room.

Tara counted her money. There was £450 and €620.

‘That’s a fortune,’ Greta said.

‘That’s how I get through university,’ Tara told her.

The eye of the camera was moving between them, committing everything to film, and although subconsciously Greta was wondering why, what Richard and Gustav did with all that film, you are always high when you come off stage and it takes a long time to come down. During that time, Gustav appeared and the thought sailed from her mind.

Greta noticed Tara becoming all possessive. Gustav was smoking a cigar. He let out a plume of smoke and pushed his mop of bronze hair out of his eyes.

‘Very good,’ he said, studying Greta. Then he glanced at Tara. ‘Shall we,’ he added.

Tara gave herself a little shake as she tripped across the dressing room to join him.

Gustav looked back at Richard with a worried look suddenly clouding his blue eyes. ‘You’ll have to look after the shop for the next few days. The Americans are arriving and you know what they’re like.’

‘No problem,’ said Richard. ‘Go and do what you have to do.’

Richard glanced at Tara and Tara glanced at Gustav, and as Gustav glanced at her, Greta felt as if she was privy to a wonderful secret.

Tara flicked her hair over her shoulder as she span on her heels and followed Gustav from the dressing room.

‘Where are they off to?’ Greta asked Richard, although she had a very good idea.

‘Questions. Questions. Questions,’ he responded.

‘Ohmygod, I forgot,’ she said cheekily.

‘Come, I’ll take you home.’

‘I ought to have a wash...’

‘Don’t bother. I rather like you like that, all back to nature.’ He paused. ‘Are you a nature girl, Greta?’

‘Not half,’ she said, and he raised his eyebrows to heaven.

Greta dressed. They took a cab and Greta was thrilled when Richard agreed to come in.

He inspected the flat, tut, tut tutting continuously as he did so.

‘Looks like we’re going to have to give you a few lessons in tidiness,’ he said, and she felt ashamed because the flat was a disaster area.

‘Oh, absolutely, Richard. That’s
just
what I need.’

He glanced at his watch and Greta was bereft when she thought he was about to leave.

‘You will stay,’ she said.

‘Not for long, I’m afraid. There’s still masses to do.’ He took her arm. ‘Which little monkey house is yours?’ he asked, glancing from the narrow hall at the two bedrooms, one on each side.

Greta led him into her room and it was nice the way he turned her round and solemnly undressed her. He fondled her nipples and ran his hand over her stomach, checking to see whether she had lost those few pounds, which she hadn’t, of course, not with all the ice cream!

‘Have you been a good girl?’ he asked her, and she replied evasively.

‘Well, I have done as I was told,’ she said.

‘Excellent. Now, you go and take a shower.’

She turned away, then turned back again. ‘You will still be here?’ she said, and he gave her one of his rare smiles.

‘I’ll be here.’

Greta showered as quickly as possible. She slathered herself in baby oil and found Richard propped up in bed reading Oscar Wilde when she returned to her room.

He pulled back the cover and she fell voraciously on to his sturdy erection. She licked the full length of warm, satiny soft skin from his balls to the crown, up and down, up and down, then took it deep into her mouth, pausing for air half way, then taking the rest down, down until the bulging tip reached the hollow of her throat. She moved leisurely like silk in a slow wind, caressing the tissue fine skin, rising up the shaft until just the head filled her mouth, sucking it hard, then descending again like a marvellous machine. Greta thought that if she were a Greek maiden being punished by the gods she would like to be condemned to be doing this and just this from now to the end of eternity.