A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (2 page)

This is what she had always imagined, always wanted, not a quick shag in the back of a car with some boy who couldn’t control himself, not making love like in a story, but the real thing, a good and thorough fucking. She tasted the words: a good fucking. He’s fucking me. I’m being fucked. Gloriously fucked. She pushed back, the sound of slapping flesh and oily gurgles reverberating over the walls, the creamy juices gushing from her sopping crack, warming her quivering thighs.

Richard was slowing, stretching the seconds, holding on to something that can’t be held. A door was about to unlock inside him and she wanted to keep that door securely bolted. She slid forward on her hands and knees, towing him with her. He gripped her hips more tightly, but she wriggled from his grasp and rolled on to her back, drawing him wet and slippery over her body and taking his steamy cock into her mouth. He sighed as it glided like silk into the soft pink tissue of her throat, her wide curling tongue wrapping it in an embrace. Greta closed her eyes, sucked long and hard on Richard’s cock and was overcome by a feeling of complete contentment.

His come exploding across the roof of her mouth was warm and frothy like cappuccino and as he withdrew the sticky warm goo stretched in a trail over her chin and down between her breasts. She savoured the taste, and she pushed her bottom up, supporting herself with her hands, opening herself fully, and his cock was still hard as it slid back into her throbbing sex.

Greta rolled her hips. He tugged at her thighs, thrusting in deeper, and her body became a river as she began to climax, a gushing, tumbling stream of sheer ecstasy, pure sensation, flooding her dripping pussy, completing her, rewarding her, and she knew she’d played her finest role. She gasped and shouted. Richard grew harder, drilling into her, up and down, up and down, and finally came again with a violent jerk that left him spent and exhausted.

Now that he’d finished she imagined he was going to open the door and toss her back out again. But that didn’t happen. He did something she had not been expecting. He kissed her cheek. He then lifted her awkwardly into his arms and carried her through to the bathroom.

‘You’ve got to lose a few pounds,’ he said, and when she considered the remark a few minutes later in the bath she thought it sounded like a commitment, a promise that there was more to come.

Richard turned on the taps, filled the big bath and added blue crystals to the flow. She was reaching for the hook on her bra automatically, her fingers doing the thinking for her. He turned off the taps and she stepped out of her shoes into the foaming blue water.

He was about to leave the bathroom, but leaned back through the door: ‘What kind of pizza do you like?’ he asked.

‘What about that spaghetti?’

‘Takes too long.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Spinach with an egg.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, you can get this week’s
Stage
at the newsagents.’

He smiled. ‘An actress in search of a role?’ he said, and she thought he might be making fun of her.

‘Greta May,’ she announced and realised with shame that she’d actually had sex with a man who didn’t even know her name.

He closed the door and lying there in the bubbling blue water, Greta reached two conclusions: she was at the beginning of an extraordinary journey, and her travelling companion was totally weird.

W
IDE BLOCKS OF SHADOW
like the carriages of a slowly moving train slid over the pale green walls. The sun gave the room’s far corners a golden glow. Greta could see her dress abandoned on the back of a chair and recalled with a little smile how much care had gone into choosing it.

She was spoiled and sticky, every nerve ending humming. It was as if something sleeping inside her had opened its eyes and was seeing the world for the first time. Her skin, pulsing faintly beneath her long fingers, was as soft as the petals on the roses on the dresser, and like the flowers she had been designed to give pleasure to the eye, the tongue, the nose, to all senses and desires.

Greta ran her palms over her breasts, across her stomach, down to the gooey pool between her legs. She adored being cosy and warm. She was a bubble of mercury that could take any shape, bow and bend to any position. She arched her back and stretched her long legs. The years of tap and tango and ballet classes had shaped and smoothed her limbs. She took a deep breath. She felt as if she had taken some marvellous drug that made you feel that you had become exactly what you were meant to be. I am Greta May. I am me. And it’s... luxurious.

She glanced towards the windows. It was the beginning of June and through the half-opened curtains she could see wisps of white cloud high on a pastel sky. She had slept like a baby and was fully awake, a feeling she realised that slowly withers with each dull journey to work, with each stranger’s foot wedged into a stiff new shoe. Now every line and detail was clear, every object solid, the dresser with its carved gilt handles, the wardrobe, the leather belt coiled like a snake on the chair with her dress.

Greta had been playing roles since she was little. That’s what actresses do. You get caught up in the character and your own personality slips through the cracks a bit at a time. Now all the bits had reassembled. She was herself again. Greta giggled. One good servicing and she had become a poet. How silly I am, she whispered, and her voice seemed far away. It’s back to selling shoes first thing Monday on the eight-o-something. It’s back to being the same old me again.

She snuggled down in the enormous bed, queen-sized, king-sized, it was a downy island, humid and musty, the nub of the starched sheet scratchy against her nipples as she wriggled. She loved being naked in the pale green room with the scalloped ceiling embossed with fleurs-de-lys, the light crisscrossing in prisms as it angled through the leaded windows.

It would be very easy to get used to this, she decided. Luxury. Comfort. Pampering. Richard brewing coffee. She could smell it floating down the hallway, merging with the sweet perfumes wafting up from down under.

Her hands roamed over her body as if she were feeling the wrappings in a game of pass the parcel, over her hips and up to her breasts. I do declare. They have grown bigger overnight. Her fingertips traced circles around her dimpled pink areolae and the pressure made her nipples sizzle and ping. Her ribcage was a musical instrument, a harp, perhaps, where practised hands could coax from her the dulcet tones you would hear in old churches rich with polished wood and dappled by coins of sunlight.

She twiddled her toes, so far away and neglected at the foot of the bed, and decided that her ribcage wasn’t a harp at all. It is a keyboard where virtuosos will compose triumphant marches. Greta imagined young soldiers in their multitudes stamping by six abreast as she stood on a high podium quite naked inspecting the parade.

Naked! She liked that word. It was so... so raw, so rude, so exposed. When Greta was little, the summers were hot and she would run through the big garden without anything on. Her mother would usually be drawing in a pad, sketches for paintings she never completed. She was cool and aloof in ivory kaftans embroidered with moons and stars, long and flowing to protect her pale skin. Mother would watch her from the shade of the apple tree and sometimes she would slip from her clothes, become a child again, chasing Greta through the sea of daisies that patterned the grass, two naked nymphs in a secret garden. Greta would jump in the fish pond and her mother would slide into the slimy water laughing at her own foolishness. Mother had studied art, she wanted to be a painter, but something held her back and Greta didn’t know why. When Greta decided at 16 to go to drama school her father had his doubts but her mother had seemed quietly pleased.

Greta was far away in that other world as her fingers vanished into the hollows below her ribs. They crawled ponderously across her tummy to the silky forest of her pubic hair, lush as the grass in the garden at home. A naughty finger popped into her pussy like a dormouse popping out of a hole and had a quick look around. Mmm. Very pretty. All glossy and wet, a place for everything and everything in its place, as the house matron used to say. That naughty finger slid back the hood guarding her clitoris and the bud blossomed into a flower. Her eyes closed involuntarily, her knees moved into an arch and she didn’t hear Richard arriving with the coffee brewed and warm croissants with that toasty smell that made her think of Paris.

‘You bad girl. You started without me.’

Greta felt as if she’d been caught cheating in an exam at school. ‘Oh dear...

‘And naughty girls have to be smacked.’

Greta wasn’t sure what to say and did what a director named Jason Wise at the National once told her to do when in doubt and that’s say... ooo, yes please.

‘Ooo, yes please,’ she murmured.

Richard placed the tray on the mahogany dresser and in his expression as he opened the top drawer was the look of someone doing mental arithmetic. She watched with eyes growing bigger as he withdrew a blue silk scarf that just kept growing longer and longer, an endless blue river of shiny fabric that he passed through his hands like a fisherman at sea and she thought he was probably a magician in his spare time and could do all sorts of enchanting tricks. As he moved away from the dresser the scarf spiralled behind, skipping and dancing over the wooden floor.

He paused and stood motionless for a moment beside the bed and she had a feeling that he had finished doing his sums. Their eyes met and remained locked as if by magnets as in one swift movement he pulled back the sheet, the linen cracking like a yacht sail as it gusted across the room. Greta had straightened her legs, her arms were at her side in a pose that in role playing she had been taught was contrite, obedient. Her mind was a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on.

He slipped his hands under her back and thighs and gently rolled her over. She felt the soft touch of silk as he tied the scarf around her right wrist.

‘Have you been a naughty girl?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘And what happens to naughty girls?’

‘They are disciplined.’

‘And how are they disciplined?’

‘They have to be smacked.’

She knew the right lines. It was the sort of thing you do in improv.

As they were speaking, Richard had somehow moved the scarf under the bed and was tying her left wrist with a slip knot that grew tighter if she struggled. Not that she had any intention of struggling. She could roll about if she wanted, but only as far as her bonds would allow and it was such a relief to be lying there without having to think about anything at all. It was like being a baby. Or a pet pussy cat and she purred as he bent to kiss her shoulder blades.

Richard tied her left ankle with another pale blue scarf that he took from the drawer and she thought that was typical. Richard liked everything to be neat, coordinated. She studied his shapely bottom in boxer shorts as he bent to pass the scarf below the bed to tie her right ankle.

Her head was buried in the pillow. She felt Richard straddle her. The boxers had gone. She could feel his hard cock bouncing over her back. He ran his tongue up her spine. He kissed her neck and the spot tingled he was such a good kisser. Her mouth had fallen open and she was surprised to feel it being filled with what seemed to be a rubber ball about the size of a ball on a pool table. Weird, but not unpleasant. The ball was clearly attached to a strap and she could feel Richard dextrously buckling it up at the back of her head. She tried to speak and it came out as gobbledegook, like the sound of water draining from a bath, bubble, bubble, bobble, gobble.

Ohmygod, now what?

Greta realised that a stiff covering was being pulled over her head and it was dark and strange with the morning light suddenly extinguished. She had known Richard for... what, less than 12 hours, and here she was tied to his bed hooded and gagged and instead of being afraid she felt the blood beating in her nipples, a dewy dampness between her spread thighs.

Swish. Swish.

She heard the crack of what she assumed was his leather belt across her bottom before she felt the pain. And when she felt the pain, like a bee sting from a really big bee, it was too late to scream, not that she could have screamed, and anyway, another crack had followed the first and the air had fled from her lungs.

She panted and gasped. Her skin was damp with sweat. The pain was like a jolt of electricity that shot through her and made her feel more alive than she had ever felt and the feeling was like being a child on those summer days when she jumped into the fish pond.

Swish. Swish.

Her bare flesh fizzed like a firework and it occurred to her that in pain there was pleasure as in all pleasure there is asoupçon of pain. She thought this was probably profound and she should write it down on that blank sheet of paper when her hands were free.

Swish. Swish.

She groaned. She was quivering, wet with unknown pleasure.

Richard gave her six of the best and as she lay there with her poor little bum sizzling it occurred to her with sudden horror that what she really wanted most was six more. They didn’t come and Richard spent an eternity licking away the pain, his salty tongue dabbing in gentle lines across the weal marks. That clever tongue found its way between the cheeks of her bottom and slipped inside her, in and out like a piston, and she had never realised that this dark illicit passage was alive with such scurrilous sensations.

Richard’s tongue moved deeper inside her, an explorer seeking out all her undiscovered parts, and she sucked on the rubber ball like a baby suckling the teat. When he withdrew, she remembered something from Shakespeare – parting is such sweet sorrow, and then he returned, not with his briny tongue but with a small battering ram to beat down the walls of her castle.

Actually, he didn’t need a battering ram. The walls had been breached. She had raised the portcullis, lowered the bridge in welcome and like a brave soldier slipping out from the Trojan Horse, the warm head of his cock began to probe her soft centre. Her hips were pushed up, her bottom hole winking lewdly and curious. The head of his cock nestled against the tight ring of puckered flesh and all the nerve endings through her back passage lit up like fireworks and sent shivers of strange pleasure racing up her spine.

He pushed a little harder and she remained quite still. She was holding her breath and sighed as the rounded head of his cock forced its way with a faint pop into her bottom and she felt as if she had been opened like a bottle of wine. The fine delicate skin of her anus was stretched as he marched on and on, deeper and deeper, just slowly, and Greta realised that she did not know Greta at all. There was a whole array of Gretas like the paper people you make from folding a sheet of paper, drawing a silhouette and cutting out a row of figures all the same and all subtly different.

With her head covered and her limbs stretched, her bottom was the focus of her whole body, the star, centre stage, and the very thought of being buggered like this, bound to the bed, arse wriggling, made her dizzy with erotic pleasure and... something else, something she was beginning to grasp like a stray thought or a new concept... and then it struck her: she was dizzy with a sense of erotic humiliation as well. She had let a strange man tie her down, gag her and pull a hood over her head. He had beaten her with his belt and she had leaked liquid bliss to oil his way deep into the tight tiny hole of her arse. Wow.

It occurred to Greta at that second that this was a first, her début. She was an ingénue, a virgin. He had popped her arse cherry and she was sloppy and wet, her pink crease slippery with her own creamy excretions, the sac of his balls slapping between her smeared thighs, and even through the hood she could hear a slurping sound as his cock stirred her sticky liquids. I’m being fucked up the arse. Fucked and sodomised. Abused and humiliated. I’m a little whore, a slut, a slag, a tart. She was mumbling incoherently to herself, sucking at the ball in her mouth, her nipples rigidly at attention, her skin bathed in perspiration.

Richard had vanished inside her. Her bottom stung from the beating and her bum hole was filled. She felt complete. He drove into her and she pushed back, forcing her pelvis from the bed, meeting his every thrust. Slap. Slap. The sound of flesh striking flesh in constant rhythm made the same sound as her cheeks sucking on the rubber ball, steady and hypnotic, and again she had a feeling that she was a musical instrument designed for symphonies and choirs of angels.

He has filled my mouth and he has filled my arse. I am a very fulfilled girl. Her pussy was sopping and her clitoris from pure friction was ready to burst. Greta did wonder for a moment if Richard might be drilling to find something lost and precious, myrrh perhaps, or ambergris, but then he froze in mid thrust and went rigid. Rigid Richard. And Grateful Greta. His cock erupted and she felt his orgasm bloom into a bouquet, whitewashing the walls of her well used arse.

He shimmied and shivered across her back, a fish out of water, and it felt to Greta as if there had been a terrible yearning inside him and now it was purged. She had done that and she was proud to have such a wondrous gift. He slithered out on a gushing tide of creamy come. It swelled through the crack in her bottom, slurped warmly down into her pussy, and at that moment the force building up for so long inside her finally did explode and she quaked sobbing through a long rippling climax.