A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (14 page)

T
HE PINK LIGHTS
at Jasmine’s made everyone look younger except Jason Wise, she reflected in a rare moment of malice. Show business was the ultimate vanity and at 42 he still hadn’t been invited to direct his first film.

But of course I wouldn’t, darling, even if they asked me.

Jason was standing away from the bar stroking his goatee with one hand, rolling his wine around the glass with the other. There were wisps of grey at his temples and the early signs of a paunch. The three men with him were leaning forward as if to gather in his words like desert people collecting the dew. Sitting on a stool swigging beer from a bottle was Marley Johnson, his black skin shiny as polished shoes, his face as open as a secret at boarding school. The other two were toffs in pastel shirts, the word
actor
spinning about their floppy haircuts in invisible haloes.

Jason turned as if with some sixth sense towards the entrance as she snaked her way through the amorphous throng towards them.

‘Ah, the Fairy Queen has deigned to delight us with her presence,’ he said and nearly spilled his spinning wine. ‘God, darling, what have you done? You must be on the monkey glands.’

‘I must be 19,’ she corrected.

‘How perfectly dreadful. White wine?’

She nodded and went to kiss Marley’s cheeks. He gazed appreciatively at her long legs below the tartan kilt, up over her cotton blouse with the Peter Pan collar, and when he reached her eyes, his brow furrowed as if he had a faint recollection of having seen her before but was unable to place where. There were lots of young actresses but there was only one Marley Johnson. He playfully flicked the strap on her satchel.

‘So, girl, have you come from school or a casting?’ he asked

‘She’s come from a shoe shop,’ said Jason and Marley looked confused.

‘Is that a new show?’

‘No, it’s where she sells shoes.’ Jason gazed down at his own new loafers to make the point.

Greta turned her back and focused again on Marley. ‘So, how are you? It’s been ages.’

‘It seems like forever. Even longer,’ he boomed and the toffs laughed.

Marley dropped a big arm around Greta’s shoulders. He pulled her closer and she was embraced by the peppery cologne of his aftershave. Greta had a special feeling for Marley. After all, he had stripped her naked every night through 60 performances of
Let Thunder Roar
. It was like he was her first lover and you always remember the first. That honour had fallen in fact to a 16-year-old in the back garden one summer. It had lasted precisely two-and-a-half desperate minutes and had left Greta wondering what all the fuss was about.

Jason introduced the floppy hair cuts: Alex and Gregory, actors indeed; each kissed her perfunctorily and as Jason handed her a glass of wine she was reminded of the exhausted feeling that hits the company backstage after an uninspiring performance.

Men who mattered smoked cigars and did the business while girls perched on the arms of leather chairs like bouquets of flowers. Marley was assessing her with big doggy eyes and she found herself doing the same, watching his sensuous lips as he spoke, the muscles expanding and contracting under his white shirt. He glanced round at the girls fluttering their petals. There were corrugations lining his brow.

‘So, you’re not an actress then?’ he asked and shot an accusing look at Jason.

‘Marley, I was the girl you stripped naked every night at the National for six weeks.’

‘And now you’re all grown up,’ he said. He gazed at her breasts pushing against the thin cotton of her blouse as if to revive his memory. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What are you in?’

‘She
works
in a shoe shop,’ hissed Jason.

‘Temporarily,’ she said.

‘Try saying that after a bottle of crème de menthe,’ Jason added and the haircuts laughed again.

It was one of those conversations typical of Jasmine’s. People wanted to know everyone else’s business but were usually too busy to listen, and much too eager to tell everyone their own business. Jason refilled her empty glass.

Greta was dying of thirst and asked for sparkling water, drinking it down, one glass after another. Marley kept his strong arm about her and the boys talked the talk, the TV slot just missed, the soap that was coming up, the new casting agent, their headshots and long shots, the reading at Pinewood next week.

They fell silent and all heads turned as if in reverence for royalty as Tyler Copic strode in with a tall, thin donnish man ‘from the Film Council’, Gregory whispered, his voice rising like a ringing bell from the depths of his chest.

Tyler Copic threw up his hands as he ambled towards them.

He spoke in a low voice, deadly serious, a California accent.

‘Two guys are sitting at the bar and one says to the other: listen, buddy, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I went by your house yesterday and your wife was in bed with your agent.’

‘
What
?’ says the other guy. ‘You mean
my
agent
went
to my house!’

They roared with laughter.

‘Tyler, you old wanker,’ said Jason, grinning, raising his glass. ‘Wine?’

‘Later, Simon hasn’t got a lot of time,’ he said, glancing at the don. ‘Listen, what do you know about Lorca? My manager’s reading that play, what’s it called,
Blood Wedding
?’

‘Not exactly your cup of tea. It’s as old as the hills for one thing,’ Jason told him.

Tyler shrugged. ‘Sammy’s an asshole. I just wish I’d get home early one day and find him in bed with my wife,’ he said and they all roared heartily once more. He glanced at Greta. ‘Catch you later,’ he added and combed his hair back with his palms as he followed Simon into a vacant booth.

‘Very good friend of mine,’ Jason explained and Alex gave himself a little hug.

‘I adored, just adored
Pay To Play
,’ he said.

‘What about
Streets
?’

‘Wow.’

They fell silent and sipped their drinks like guests at a wedding after the newlyweds have driven away. Tyler Copic directed edgy, menacing films that people had heard of. His presence had given them a sense of identity. Greta had shared those feelings once and was glad she didn’t have those feelings any more. She glanced again at the flower girls perched on chair arms and table tops and knew instinctively that you don’t get work as an actress by hanging out, by showing your tits. You work when you know your craft.

The barman plunged another bottle of wine in the ice bucket and they raised their glasses in a toast.

‘To...’

Jason couldn’t decide what and they all stood there playing statues.

‘Well?’ Gregory demanded.

‘To fucking.’

Marley roared and sprayed beer over Alex’s pink gingham shirt.

‘Bastard.’

Ghosts of blue smoke crossed the ceiling and Greta suddenly remembered that it had been a whole week since she’d smoked a cigarette. Well, except for that one puff. She made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t break the rules again and, at that moment, while she was feeling contrite, she was sure she saw Richard at the top of the stairs, just a movement, a shadow, and he was gone. She swallowed her wine in one long gulp.

‘I have to pee,’ she announced and hurried towards the stairs.

The club was a maze of rooms like Russian dolls one leading to another, one inside the other, narrow corridors curving into flights of stairs that led like a drawing by Escher in circles to nowhere. The bar on the ground floor gave no indication of the size of the premises above and, as Greta turned into yet another corridor she imagined she must have walked the entire length of Dean Street. She was Alice spiralling down the rabbit hole and realised she was completely lost.

Richard was just a trick of her imagination and when she heard the sound of someone on the stairway behind her it was only Jason Wise.

‘Ah,
there
you are,’ he said.

Marley was following and the two young actors were looking nervous like first-nighters before the show.

Ohmygod, they’re going to do me, she thought.

‘I have to pee,’ she said again.

Jason squeezed by her and opened the end door. She glanced in.

‘You’re not serious?’ she said.

‘Greta May, I have never been more serious about anything in my life.’

He beckoned and she entered the men’s lavatory, a white tiled space with the smell of pine and bleaching lights that gave her four companions the look of gargoyles with grinning carnival masks.

‘You know, girl, all my life I’ve been looking for that mouth,’ said Marley. ‘That’s one big mouth you got.’

‘And no fillings,’ she said.

‘She’s got a sense of humour.’

‘That’s not all she’s got,’ said Jason and the boys laughed again.

To complement her large mouth, Marley produced from his Levi’s a large cock, not of the dimensions of Count Ruspoli, of course, but big in the normal scheme of things.

Greta watched with cold detachment. If you’re going to get done, she was thinking, you may as well make the most of it. She’d had a sneaking suspicion when Jason Wise made her promise to meet him at Jasmine’s that fate was being tempted.

Marley was rocking on the heels of his Cuban boots, his cock bouncing jauntily, and Greta was drawn to the shiny purple thing like a moth to the flame, a wave to the seashore, and ran her warm palm up its length to the big fiery head. The others giggled.

‘Not so fast, girl. Not so fast.’

She had got carried away, drawing the loose skin over the shaft, watching mesmerised as the head vanished and re-emerged with each thrust. Marley eased down his jeans and jockey shorts and shuffled backwards into a narrow cubicle. He lowered the lavatory lid and sat, his cock rising like a pole over large hairy balls. Her school blazer was pulled from her shoulders. The floor tiles were hard on her knees.

‘The tip,’ he said. ‘Slow now, there’s no hurry.’

He pulled the tails of his shirt aside and made himself comfortable. Greta studied her subject for a few seconds and as she whisked her tongue over the fine indentation she realised that the top of his cock was the shape of a tiny bottom, the taut mauve skin rigid around two fine openings the size of the holes in a button. She flicked her tongue like a whip across the groove until the large hand buried in her hair guided her mouth down the pole, her hot saliva greasing the way. Greta went slowly up and down, up and down, keeping her lips slack, the movement of her tongue bouncing it playfully against the roof of her mouth.

Marley groaned. ‘Get on down, girl. Get on down,’ he cried, and held the side of her head in his hands, locking her there so that she became a machine, an air pump blowing him for all she was worth.

It was a relief on her poor knees when the weight was removed from them. Her tartan skirt had been pulled up around her waist. She went up on her toes, her feet left the ground and her smelly knickers were brusquely removed. She kept pumping away, slurping and sucking. She wiggled her arse because she had such a pretty little arse. She was so ashamed she was such a slut and pictured herself in the toilet cubicle sucking cock with three men looking up her pussy and the thought made her fidget even more.

She heard someone spit. She felt the moisture run through her cheeks of her bum and felt the pang of want course like an overflowing river from her lips gripped about Marley’s cock to her dripping cunt. Her legs were raised, and one of them, Alex, or Gregory more likely, shoved into her wet slit with a careless thrust that took the wind out of her sails.

As she was lifted higher, Greta was forced further down the trunk of Marley’s throbbing monster. Slowly like session musicians they found a rhythm, one pushing, the other pulling, and a stray thought struck her consciousness and what she thought was it was so much better being up here performing than down there in the bar talking about it.

Marley’s purple helmet thrust her tonsils aside and she gagged as the silky head lodged at the base of her throat. She was jiggling her tongue, gasping for air, and the boy at the back was riding her like a jockey. Marley was thrusting his thighs up from the lavatory lid as he reached down into the deepest wells of his being and started to come.

The jockey must have felt the vibration at the other end like a charge of energy from Marley’s exploding helmet, the hot spunk erupting like molten lava down her throat, through all the channels that led to her vaginal passage to engulf the eager prick prodding at her sopping entrails. Marley’s come was like a frothing tidal wave, a come that just kept coming and coming, filling her mouth, her throat, her tummy and prodding at her swollen bladder.

Marley had drawn deep in the well and, before he finished, he withdrew from her inflamed lips to scribble his signature over her face, the creamy jism coating her cheeks, dripping from her gaping mouth, and falling in dollops to her white breasts below her blouse.

‘You’re the champion,’ he said. ‘You can suck cock for England.’

She didn’t have time to say thank you. She was gasping for air as the actor bringing up the rear shot his wad and she tingled with an exquisite little spasm as her clitoris savoured a warm upsurge of pleasure.

Greta’s cheeks burned under the coating of sperm. Her earlobes were scorched by friction, her knees were sore as she settled down on the white tiles. She didn’t try to stand, or even look round. Alex in the gingham shirt sat on the seat Marley had vacated, his trousers about his ankles, his little pink sailor standing upright for inspection. She ran her large salty tongue down its length and his whole body shook as if from a shot of adrenaline. It was tiny after Marley’s colossus and she rolled it around her mouth like a lump of toffee. He was jigging about, but stopped suddenly.

It was the voice of God.

‘Hey, you guys, is this gang busters, or what?’

It was Tyler Copic and they all laughed as if it were the funniest thing that had ever been said.

Alex carried on and she wiggled her little bum. Now, there were four men standing there scrutinising her dripping parts, the lips of her vulva rolled back like the peel of an exotic fruit, ripe and delicious, and she realised as her hand reached between her legs that she hadn’t actually climaxed. Not really. A little spasm, nice though it is, isn’t a full-on, wow kind of orgasm. With a long finger she stroked the flowering nib of her clitoris.