A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (7 page)

Tara lapped at her pussy like a pussy cat lapping milk, licking and sucking, a hot gooey puddle appearing beneath Greta’s bottom as the oils flowed from her. Greta spread herself as wide as she could. She wanted Tara to spiral up inside her body until she disappeared and they were one. Tara had manoeuvred her way in a circle and now clamped her naked pussy back over Greta’s lips. Tara’s syrupy dew trickled down her throat and Greta’s mind went back again to those pyjama parties at school when everyone took off their pyjamas and she recalled nostalgically that there is nothing like the taste of girls.

They sixty-nined until Tara went into spasm and when she climaxed once more Greta felt all the tension flowing from her friend’s stiff young body. She turned and they snuggled under the covers like two little animals in a basket. Tara had small, pert, pointed breasts with nipples that were hard and hot to the touch.

‘You needed that,’ Greta said.

‘And how.’ Tara licked Greta’s little sea shell ear and whispered. ‘I didn’t know you were like that?’

‘Aren’t we all like that?’

‘We are now.’

They kissed and giggled and played with each other’s breasts. Tara slid back down again below the duvet and drank like a pony from the well of Greta’s chalice. Greta shuddered and sighed.

‘That’s so nice.’

‘I’ve wanted to do it for such a long time,’ Tara murmured.

‘You only had to ask.’

‘But how was I to know?’

‘I would have thought it was obvious,’ Greta said.

‘Greta May, you’re getting so conceited.’

Greta thought about that, but quite the opposite was true. She’d been living in a daze, unconscious, unaware of her... potential. She stroked the top of Tara’s head and, when Tara had taken her fill, she slithered like a creepy crawly up Greta’s body and kissed her again, a long, silky soft kiss like only girls can. The room was hung with carnal smells, with girlie scents, with oestrogen, and Greta was suddenly starving.

‘Let’s eat,’ she said, and swung her legs from the bed.

She put some water on to boil and cooked spaghetti à la puttanesca while Tara ran out to the corner store for a bottle of Italian red. Greta didn’t bother to get dressed and enjoyed the cold air hardening her nipples as she reached into the refrigerator for sparkling water. She scratched her matted pubes while she stirred the pasta.

When Tara got back, the bottle of wine nearly slipped from her fingers. She screamed at the top of her voice and pointed at Greta’s bottom.

‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’

‘What?’ Greta turned. ‘Oh, that.’

‘Your bum, Greta. Has someone been hitting you?’

Greta nodded. ‘Twice, actually.’

‘Oh, no, was it that man?’

Greta licked the pasta spoon. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘And how.’

Tara looked confused. ‘Poor thing. It’s all red. Doesn’t it hurt?’

Greta nursed her bottom cheeks and then turned to take a closer look. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It does at the time, it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t last long.’

Tara bent to take a closer look. There were six crimson stripes evenly spaced across Greta’s cheeks, the first six from Richard’s belt fading as if they had been written with invisible ink. Tara sewed a row of kisses across her bottom and stood again.

‘But why, Greta, why did he do it?

Greta had to think about that. ‘Pleasure,’ she said finally.

‘That’s all very well, but what about you?’

‘I mean me,’ said Greta. ‘The greater the pain, you know, the greater the pleasure.’

‘I thought pleasure was all in the mind.’

‘I think pleasure’s a bit like unicorns. They don’t appear unless you believe in them.’

Tara stared sceptically back at her friend as she searched in the drawer for the corkscrew. She opened the wine with a lusty pop and poured two glasses. She drank hers down as if she needed it.

‘You will be all right?’ she said.

‘Course,’ Greta replied. ‘I’ll never do anything I don’t want to do... but I do want to do
everything
.’

‘I was right, you are a complete pervert.’

‘Oh, God. It’s true. I let a man touch me up on the train today.’

‘Another one?’ Tara screamed.

‘He was quite old and very bald.’

‘What did he do?’

‘You know, the old knuckle game.’ She demonstrated on Tara. ‘First the back of the hand, then, when he’s more confident, he cups your bum with his sweaty palms.’ She squeezed gently and Tara let out a tiny squeal.

‘Yuck. And?’

‘You’re getting into this,’ Greta said and swivelled round to lower the gas. She turned back and carried on with the demonstration. ‘Then he rubs his finger between your cheeks, digging into your arse...’

Her hand was up Tara’s short skirt and she was wet still.

‘Mmm?’ Tara said.

‘Quite nice, all in all.’

And they both burst out laughing.

Greta mixed the sauce with the pasta and put it back over the flame with a knob of butter. Tara had set the table. She lit a candle and they clinked glasses as they sat.

Greta watched her flat mate turn the strands of spaghetti in a neat cone on her fork and it occurred to her that all people really need is more sex. More excess. When Tara had arrived home from the LSE with her bag of books she was lined and grey, the world on her shoulders. Now, she was young and fresh, her brown eyes glowing with moons of candlelight.

Hot sauce dripped on Greta’s bare breast and the fiery moment of pain reminded her that she was naked, she was alive, she was being herself. Modesty was impractical, a handicap. She would cast it out like a devil and pursue sexual pleasure wherever it led her, however extreme.

‘Nothing succeeds like excess,’ she said, and Tara raised her glass to make that a toast.

‘You really should come to the club,’ she urged, her gaze focusing on Greta’s full breasts.

Greta shrugged. Her mouth was full and she had no intention of becoming a lap dancer. It seemed such a waste of energy getting men all excited when they were only allowed to touch the girls as they stuck money down their pants. Greta liked being touched. She wanted to be touched. She was a sculpture still forming on that potter’s wheel. A wet one.

‘I’m going to the country for a holiday,’ she announced, suddenly remembering. ‘With the man I met on the train.’

Vino trickled from Tara’s mouth as it fell open.

‘No. Not that one. The other one.’

‘The spanker?’

‘Mmm.’

Tara wiped her lips and leaned on her elbow. ‘What’s he like; I mean, what’s he really like?’

‘A bit scary,’ Greta answered. ‘I know he likes bottoms, and sex, of course.’

‘Does he like you, though?’

‘I think he does, but not in the usual way. He wants me to be myself.’

‘A complete tart, in other words.’

‘A complete something.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Tara, and they clinked glasses before downing the remainder of the wine.

After dinner while Tara got on with an essay, Greta washed the dishes. She took a shower to scrub away the day’s smells: other people’s feet, the tube, the lingering perfume of Tara Scott-Wallace. Thanks to the witch-hazel, even the second set of pink stripes on her bottom were fading and she missed them already.

In bed she opened one of her favourite books and came across a line highlighted in yellow:
The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

Oscar, of course. Who else?

And there was another line that jumped out at her:
There is no such thing as pornography, just bad writing
.

‘Absolutely,’ she said out loud, and if Oscar Wilde had been there that moment she would have kissed him, whatever his predilections.

The bedside lamp made a spider web on the ceiling and she was still reading when Tara appeared in the doorway with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate nut Chunky Monkey. She wasn’t wearing any clothes.

‘I’ve always had this ice cream fantasy,’ she said and Greta pulled back the covers.

T
HE BALD MAN
was waiting at the centre of the platform, briefcase between his feet, his gaze fixed on the entrance. Greta took this in with one sweeping gaze and was aware of the relief crossing his features.

She passed without looking in his direction again, and stopped with the pointed toes of her pink shoes touching the danger line. There was a voice on the speakers, a man who seemed to be gargling with water. The blast of subterranean air running over the silver rails was cold on her face and she listened as the tube raced like a screaming banshee from the dark heart of the tunnel.

‘Excuse me. Excuse me,’ she heard the man say as he barged his way behind her into the carriage.

They clung to the same pole, eyes never meeting, bodies swaying as the train lurched carelessly around the curves to Barons Court. He waited for the appropriate moment, a particularly violent lurch, and his palms slipped over the rounded domes of her arse.

To push back or not to push back. That is the question.

Greta pushed back, rolling her cheeks like an elephant having a good scratch against a tree. She was wearing Tara’s pink suit; they were the same height, but where Tara was lean and muscular, Greta was more shapely and slices of herself were erupting like ripe fruit from every fold and crease, her tummy from the skirt’s waistband, her breasts cupped in the new bra from the jacket, her long creamy legs that the bald man caressed. His hands circled her thighs under the skirt when the lights dimmed, only to fall away when they brightened again.

He edged to one side to let a woman pass with her shopping trolley at South Kensington and scurried back to his position as a fresh wave of travellers pushed into the carriage, young men with floppy hair and striped shirts like striped toothpaste squeezing back into the tube, the girls in grey suits reading the
Financial Times
with that anxious look people get when something sharp touches a raw nerve. Their mission was to succeed in a man’s world and Greta thought it much better to succeed in your own way, in your own world.

During the blackout as the train dawdled its way from Knightsbridge, Greta found two wet palms moving from the base of her thighs and up over the curve below her bottom where they came to rest.

It was only a bit of fun but the drips leaking into her panties were so sweet and intoxicating she was sure that if all the business girls would only dig down into their innermost fantasies, they’d revel in doing the same. She could see it in their eyes, in the melancholy twist about their tightly sealed lips. The City boys with their floppy hair were ready for anything and the business day would be far better served if the girls abandoned their attaché cases and dropped their hands down somebody’s trousers. It would be good for the economy. Good for the country. Greta wanted to spread the word like a missionary, not in the missionary position, actually, not as such, she wanted to be touched and used in every position and wanted her sisters on the train to get down on their knees for a great life-confirming gang bang.

The daydream made her giggle. The bodies swayed as the lights flickered and turned them into performers in a shadow theatre. Greta closed her eyes and gasped for breath as a lone finger stroked the swollen lips of her vulva. It was hot in the tube, the sun beating down through the pavement, the earth, the metal roof above her head. Sweat ran between her breasts. The wheels screeched and pounded. The train reeled, tearing the finger from her wet lips, their bodies asunder. The lights flickered again as if they were in a thunder storm and the man with hopeless fervour pulled her back against his caged erection, her thighs jabbed by a bulging sheath of cotton as the train slowed into Hyde Park Corner. He remained like that, immobile, locked in unfulfilled passion until she spilled from his grasp on to the platform at Green Park. Her stop.

Her taut bottom was damp through the crack and she was sure she could hear squelching noises as she clipped along Bond Street swinging her shoulder bag. The weather was lovely and she wished she had her mobile phone so she could call Jason Wise and tell him her knickers were wet.

Madame Dubarry had always been strict about her dressing in black as if the buying and selling of costly shoes was vaguely funereal, but didn’t say a word when she walked in all pink and breathless.

‘Coffee?’ she asked.

‘I’ve given it up,’ answered Greta.

‘Smoke?’

‘No. No thank you.’

‘No vices, Greta?’

Greta rolled her eyes and watched Madame Dubarry gazing at her breasts rising and settling with each cycle of breath, her nipples wantonly erect and pushing into the soft silk of her uplift bra. Stretched to breaking point, the top button on her jacket had given up the fight and hung on broken threads.

‘That looks untidy,’ Madame Dubarry said, pulling off the offending button, and Greta ambled out of the staff room to greet a woman dressed from head to toe in Burberry. An American.

She bought two pairs of summer sandals in tan and dark brown, like two shades of chocolate in a tub of Chunky Monkey, and while Madame Dubarry snapped her credit card through the machine two young men with the moist eyes of puppies followed her as she led them like a museum curator along the display of brown loafers, black loafers, the new blue slip-ons with a golden crest on the toe. They gazed spellbound up her skirt as she unpacked boxes and brought out shoes from their maroon cotton bags. She wriggled and jiggled and realised the ad-men were right, sex sells, the flash of her breasts and thighs like a personal guarantee that the young men were leaving the store shod to perfection.

By lunchtime Greta had sold so many pairs of shoes her head was spinning. She was too revved up to eat and caressed the curve of her empty tummy as she wandered into the winding maze that led to Soho. There was a man just in front of her, glancing over his shoulder, whistling as he walked, and she was sure she had seen him peering in the window a couple of times that morning. The man’s tune was oddly mesmerizing and Greta felt like one of the lost children being led by the Pied Piper from Hamelin. The streets became narrow, confusing, a maze of film companies and prostitutes, night clubs looking sordid in daylight, a neglected church in a garden of tombstones.

Boys in saffron were ringing cymbals and chanting, and outside the music store men with dreadlocks sat in the sunshine beating drums, the sound sensual and rhythmic. Greta felt hot in the pink wool suit. She passed through a warren of sex shops with their arrays of whips and latex costumes, crotchless knickers and uniforms. She saw in a window something called a ballgag and now she knew where Richard did his shopping.

Her feet took her into the pink neon interior and she tried to imagine herself dressed as a nurse, a school mistress, a dominatrix with metal tits and a devil mask over her face. She was trailing her fingers over the leatherwear when she sensed someone watching her. The man she’d unintentionally been following was studying her reflection in the mirror and she turned to meet his eyes.

‘A’right there, darling?’

She dropped her hand to her side. ‘Yes. Yes thank you,’ she replied.

‘Got some nice stuff here, ain’t they?’

‘Very nice.’

‘Like that sort of fing, do you?’

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she answered, although she thought she probably did.

‘What’s your name, then?’

‘Greta May,’ she replied.

He nodded knowingly as if her name were familiar to him and she wondered if he had seen it on a playbill.

‘I’m an actress,’ she added.

‘I bet you are. And I’m a set designer.’

‘Really?’

‘Bill Longman, innit,’ he declared, and looked Greta up and down as men do with horses and used cars.

She held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’ she said and he stared down at her extended fingers. He was scratching himself below the medallion lodged in the mat of dark hair on his chest and concluded these ministrations to take her by the wrist.

‘Not bad at all,’ he answered, and jerked her towards the door. ‘Listen, I fink we might have a little rehearsal. What do you reckon?’

She was going to reply but didn’t get the chance and pattered out of the shop, her legs driven by Bill’s unseemly confidence and by the notion that Richard would clearly approve. They turned into a narrow alley lined with horse posts, the buildings leaning drunkenly together and blocking out the sun.

‘Got a place here, dead central,’ he said with a sniff.

He ducked to enter a shadowy porch with innumerable bells and tawdry postcards with telephone numbers offering random services. She heard a key turn and followed him up a rickety staircase, the reek of lavatories and cheap perfume sliding under doors on each landing. She heard thumps and muffled cries, the distinctive snap of the whip, the urgent beat of colliding flesh.

Her back was clammy with fear. Greta was tempted to turn and run back down the stairs, but she had become the girl in the horror flick who hears noises in the night and goes out to investigate with a dead torch and nothing on but a nightdress and knickers. She was watching the movie and had to see it through to find out the ending.

The hollow sound of their footsteps made the hairs on the back of her neck rise as if from an electric shock and an icy tremor ran up her spine as Bill came to an abrupt halt. He jangled his keys and opened the door leading to an attic where half the space was taken up by a mattress covered by a stained rubber sheet.

Bill took something from his top pocket and tossed his jacket over a cane chair with a sunken seat. It was a roll of five £20 notes held by an elastic band. He showed her how much was there, re-rolled the money, put the elastic band back in place and stuck the £100 in her pink jacket.

‘Ooo,’ she said.

‘That’s just for starters, Greta May,’ he told her. He sniffed again and his tone changed. ‘Now, come here.’

He crooked his finger and she went obediently towards him. He undid the remaining two buttons on her pink jacket and it slipped from her shoulders to the bare wooden floor. Her full breasts were shuddering with the beat of her heart and he weighed them in his palms, nodding professionally.

‘Nice, very nice. Skirt,’ he said.

She unzipped her skirt and wriggled it down to her feet. She removed her little Cartier watch, a gift from her father at Christmas, and placed it on the window sill. She folded the skirt and jacket because they belonged to Tara and put them neatly on the chair.

When she stood before him again, Bill turned her round in her new bra and panties and she remembered being inspected by Gustav in his lovely apartment, so different to the attic with its smell of sewers and hospitals. The wallpaper had lost any sense of pattern and was held in place on the edges by packing tape and drawing pins. She could see glimmers of light through the roof tiles and the golden dust that hung in the air was the microscopic scales of dinosaurs.

Bill had finished his examination. ‘Down,’ he now instructed.

He reached up to take a clump of hair and forced her down on her knees. He unzipped his trousers, pulled his cock from his pants and pushed it unceremoniously between her lips. ‘Start slow and easy, you know what I mean, then build up to a climax,’ he told her like he was giving a violin lesson.

Greta bowed her mouth up and down the stretched rubbery skin, her taste buds assaulted by unwashed towels, the tip of her tongue flicking and tickling his cock, pressing down with her lips and teeth, slow and easy, just as he said, teasing the thing like a cat with a mouse. She thought with practice she could be really good at this.

Greta was aware of her own scent as vaginal fluids oozed from her, dewing her thighs. Sweat ran down her back and chest, her bottom was wet, her nipples throbbed and tingled. The ring of her anus popped gratuitously and she took the smelly cock deeper into her mouth, wrapping the meaty shaft in her curled tongue. She bobbed backwards and forwards, eyes pressed shut, oblivious to everything except that fleeting moment and it occurred to her that she was completely and hopelessly addicted. It was a drug. One fix and you’re hooked. I’m a sex addict. A nymphomaniac. How astonishing. How marvellous.

If the nuns could only see me now.

She smiled at the thought, and it wasn’t easy smiling in that position, and at that same moment she felt a tiny drop of liquid touch the roof of her mouth, just a speck, and he withdrew his throbbing cock, spraying her face with a thick frothy squirt of come, over her eyes and nose, back into her open mouth, the gooey stuff coursing down her chin to drop in globs on to her breasts. He was panting for breath.

‘Don’t move. Don’t move,’ he gasped.

He shook the last drop of semen from the end of his cock and it landed on the curve of her tummy.

‘Don’t you dare move,’ he said again.

He tapped his cock on her chin and cheeks as if he were playing a drum and she remembered the drummers in the street with their curling dreadlocks and lusty rhythms. He pushed out a pall of smoky breath and took a fresh gasp of air with a sigh. He then leaned back, legs apart, and an arc of hot beery urine splashed into her cleavage.

Greta remained motionless, unable to move, shocked and sickened and strangely thrilled, gripped by the very repugnance of what he was doing.

He changed the angle, the flow rising up across her chin, into her surprised mouth, in her ears and nose, across her hair and it ran in trickles over her shoulders and down her back, an endless cascade of steamy bitter-tasting piss that soaked her bra, seeped into her knickers and mixed a cocktail with her own flowing juices. This was disgusting, outrageous. She was beyond redemption and she adored her own sense of complete and utter abandon.

Bill shook off the last drips and stuck his shrinking cock back in her mouth. ‘Lick the tip,’ he said, and she ran her tongue scrupulously over the dimpled groove with its vinegary taste of stale lemons. When she had finished, he pulled out and stood back with a furious expression.

‘Look at the mess you’ve made here,’ he said. ‘You’d better get it cleaned up, then clean yourself, you dirty bitch.’