A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (8 page)

He kicked a filthy towel across the room and she patiently crawled over the hard floor on her hands and knees to wipe away the puddles of pee. She wrung out the towel in the loo, and when she went back to start again it felt as if she were in a play yet to be written but she could visualise the scene clearly on stage at the National. When she had done a thorough job she stepped into the bath. There was no hook for the shower and she sat under the meagre trickle of water holding the shower head. Bill put the lavatory lid down and scratched his grizzled chest as he sat.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Greta May, going to set you up in a little flat, Hackney, somewhere up and coming, or Brixton. Somewhere with a bit of class.’

Greta just listened. She knew Bill was enjoying his fantasy even more than he’d enjoyed pissing over her. She ran the water through her corkscrew curls and when she took off her knickers her pussy was so sticky it took all her will to resist nursing the throbbing little rosebud aching to be touched. The hot piss when it had first touched her skin had come as a surprise, a bit like the slap of Richard’s leather belt, but there was no aftershock to enhance the sensation, no follow through, just a glorious sense of decadence and not altogether unpleasant.

She dried herself as best she could on a threadbare towel. She washed her bra and wrung it out with her knickers. She didn’t have a bag and put them on wet. She dressed in the pink suit and slipped into her pretty pink shoes.

‘Well, I really ought to go,’ she said.

‘Go? Go? What you talking about?’

‘I have to get back to work.’

‘Work? You’re going to be working with me now. We’re partners, ain’t we.’

‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I can’t. I’m going on holiday Saturday, and if I don’t get back to work I won’t have a job when I come back.’

‘Do what? You mean…’ His voice trailed off. He was shaking with anger. ‘You snotty bitches are all the same, coming down here, leading me on. You’ve taken my money under false pretences.’

At that he leaned over and grabbed the roll of £20 notes from her pocket.

‘Ooo,’ Greta said. She’d thought that was going to come in handy for her holiday money.

‘Now bugger off. Go on.’ Bill opened the door and shouted at her as she clopped her way down the narrow stairs. ‘Coming up here, pissing me about. I feel like a right berk, I can tell you. It’s all a big con.’

Greta wasn’t sure why Bill was so angry. I mean, she hadn’t pissed all over him!

‘I’ve been done up like a kipper...’

His voice reverberated down the stairwell, his words sounding as if they were from a script, from the same mystery play, and he was improvising, finding the poetry in his role.

She wove her way around the horse posts and hurried back through Soho, the drummers steadily drumming, the boys in saffron chanting, Bill’s gruff voice ringing in her ears. She had allowed herself to be humiliated with such ease she couldn’t help wondering how far she may have let him go, how far she wanted him to go. Is there a limit, she asked herself, and answered readily that she really didn’t think there was. She had been repressing her natural instincts for so long she was like a coiled spring about to be sprung, a rocket primed and ready to fire. She glanced up as if in search of herself flying across the heavens. The sky was pure blue like a sheet of silk, the day sweltering, and she arrived back in Bond Street sweaty, hot and 20 minutes late.

She rushed off to the lavatory, hung her soiled undies on a hook and that feeling that had come to her when she stood naked in Camden Market came to her again as Madame Dubarry watched her climb the aluminium ladder in the basement in search of a size 7 summer lace-up that was on the stock list but had vanished amongst the untidy shelves.

‘We’re going to have to stay behind and sort this out,’ Madame Dubarry said and Greta noticed as she looked down that Madame’s carmine lips had been freshly painted.

The short man requiring a size 7 was to be disappointed but he grinned from ear to ear as Greta leaned forward and let his nose slip for a moment between her warm breasts.

She steadied him on his shaky legs. ‘Why don’t you try again tomorrow,’ she whispered. He nodded like a bird dipping its bill into a lake and Greta thought it’s so easy to make other people happy and, when you make other people happy, you feel happy yourself.

She discovered during the course of the afternoon that if she went down on her haunches, instead of sitting on the low stool, her customers had a much better view up her legs. If they wavered, she opened her thighs until they could see the pink fruit nestling in the fleece of her pubic hair and, mesmerised, they reached like Pavlov’s dogs for their credit cards.

By the time the clock reached six, Greta had sold 48 pairs of shoes, a new record. She checked the time with her wristwatch and realised it wasn’t there and she would never be able to find her way back through the labyrinth to Bill’s sordid attic.

Madame Dubarry locked the door with a decisive click and Greta followed her down to the basement. You would think that the more shoes you sell the easier it would be to find the sizes you need, but the very opposite occurs. The boxes topple over, you hurriedly put browns in with the blacks, a 9 mismatched with a 10, and if you don’t sort them out you get into a terrible muddle.

Greta didn’t wait to be asked and mounted the ladder. She reached for the untidy boxes, passed them to Madame Dubarry who in turn made sure they were correctly labelled before placing them in neat piles on the floor behind her. The work was slow. It was hot in the basement. Greta climbed further knowing she wasn’t wearing any knickers and felt such a tart.

She was a slut, a slapper, a slag.

She savoured all the words beginning with an s: sexy like a spider, a snake, a serpent, so sensuous as she stretched up on her toes. She could feel Madame Dubarry’s warm breath running up her legs to the pouting cleft of her wet pussy. The lips were rudely open, a glossy eye winking lasciviously down over the rungs of the ladder. She cleared the second shelf. Her skirt rose up over her back as she climbed on to the top shelf and found the missing size 7 lace-up, the cheeks of her bottom pushed out like a white flower around the velvet whorls and pleats of her puckered arse.

Once all the shoes had been sorted, Madame Dubarry passed the boxes back up to her and Greta descended the ladder with the sense of a job well done. There was a single chair in the stockroom and Madame Dubarry made herself comfortable before gently tapping her lap.

‘You were late back from lunch, Greta. What are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know, Madame Dubarry.’

‘What happens when girls are disobedient?’

There was that word again: disobedient; obedient. It was such a catch-all, such an invitation. It was like saying are you still beating your wife? The question implies the answer.

‘They have to be punished,’ Greta said, and it sounded like a line from a film by Luis Buñuel.

The other woman nodded as if the obvious had been clearly established and Greta approached, dropping her head to one side as she came to a stop. Madame Dubarry slipped the two big pink buttons on Greta’s jacket from their hasps and pulled at the sleeves until it fell to the floor. The sound of the zip on her skirt being lowered was loud in the confined space and Greta swivelled her hips obligingly until the little item of clothing dropped away. Except for her shoes, Greta was completely naked, her underwear drying still on the back of the bathroom door, and she raised her hands to cover her breasts because forbidden fruit she knew tastes sweeter and that’s what she would have been told to do on stage.

Madame Dubarry sat back to study Greta’s heaving breasts, her ribcage that fluttered as if a little bird were behind the bars. She ran a fingertip down between her breasts to her pubic bone, then patted her lap once more. Greta took a deep breath and, as she stretched herself over the woman’s knees, it seemed as if this were really the proper position for a naked girl to be in, her white bottom open like a Faberge egg with its surprises and secret gifts. She wriggled and pushed out her bottom as if it were just one of a multitude of bottoms and she was anxious for it to be the one selected.

‘Just as I thought,’ Madame Dubarry said, inspecting the fading stripes that ran in parallel lines over her soft, smooth flesh, an inquiring fingertip tracing a path along the length of each stroke.

She slipped her inquiring finger into the wet cavern of Greta’s open vagina, then turned her finger in a spiralling motion like a corkscrew. Greta turned with the motion and was most put out when it came to an end. Madame Dubarry removed her sticky digit and Greta heard a slurping sound as she slipped it between her lips. She began stroking her perfectly rounded cheeks. The ring of her anus like a dark eye was winking crudely up at Madame Dubarry, and she answered the message by shoving her finger deep into Greta’s arse where it performed the same churning dance around the soft clinging walls.

Greta sighed and arched her back, thrusting out her bottom in readiness for the first slap of Madame Dubarry’s hand and, when it came, the sting made her leak like a hose full of holes, tears welling from her eyes, warm liquids escaping from the wet gash of her pussy, everything glistening, the plump juicy lips of her vulva open and pink like a healthy dog’s nose. She wriggled and felt ashamed as she pushed her bottom up further and a firm hand rested on the small of her back to prepare her for the next slapping whack that was harder and louder and echoed over the bare walls. Greta opened her legs wider and a searching hand gathered the oils from her pussy and that same hand came cracking down once more on her bare arse.

‘That’s three,’ said Madame Dubarry, the breath caught in her throat. ‘Three more, I think.’

Greta was curious why six was the standard. Why not five? Or ten? Or seven – lucky for some, like Richard’s phone number. She thought it was probably just tradition and girls had been taking six of the best since time began.

Madame Dubarry rested long enough to get her strength back and put all her effort into the next one.

‘Number four,’ she announced and the pain shot up Greta’s spine and made her grip the legs of the chair more tightly. A small screech left her throat and she bit her lips until the sweet coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. Her body was damp and slippery. Madame Dubarry’s skirt had ridden up and she felt like a freshly-caught fish slithering over the woman’s bare legs.

Greta braced herself against the side of the chair. She pushed up, ready for number five, and it came down like a flash of lightning, the sound resounding off the walls, the aftershock sending fire crackers fizzing over her back and thighs. Her breasts prickled with pins and needles and she reached up to nurse her pink nipples, squeezing, soothing, tormenting, rolling the fine, tender flesh between her tingling fingers. Greta didn’t know why she adored being smacked but she did. Some people don’t know why they adore chocolate and no matter how hard they try they cannot stop themselves popping it into their mouths. She liked chocolate, too.

Madame Dubarry paused once more, building herself up for the final triumphant parade across her little bottom and used the moment to explore more thoroughly between her legs. Greta stretched her feet wider and rocked on her toes.

‘Stop wriggling, girl.’

‘I’ll try,’ she replied but she couldn’t promise.

Greta had opened herself completely, and Madame Dubarry’s slender fingers slowly parted the brush of her brown triangle of hair before peeling back the curtains of her swollen labia. Greta could sense the salty tang of her own arousal and panted for breath as those clever fingers slid through her oily excretions to the magic button of her sex. She sighed as if her whole body were a singing, stinging, hopelessly needy clitoris.

She rocked back and forth, biting her lips, and it seemed as if all the day’s odd encounters had led as if preordained to her being stretched naked across her boss’s knees in the basement below the purring strips of neon, her bum being spanked. Madame Dubarry dipped her fingers back into the reservoir of creamy discharge and Greta bobbed anxiously, the magic button demanding attention. The padded tip of an index finger slipped back under the hood, worked its way into the sensitive grooves of her hot sex and, with a sudden rush of pressure, the feelings itching between her legs snatched the air from her throat.

Tears filled her eyes. She was coming, coming, reaching down into the wells of her body. It was like a serpent was sleeping inside her and when it was awoken it would spit out spurts of her precious juice. The creature had opened its eyes. Not yet. Not yet. She gasped breathlessly, her mouth gaping, the beat of her heart making her breasts swell and she squeezed her nipples until they stung. Sex and pain. It was a drug. She wanted more. Waves of pleasure surged through her, from her burning buttocks, up her backbone, down through the looping crevices and cracks of her sopping pussy. She was being spanked and fingered. Finger fucked and spanked. She was naked, legs spread, everything slimy and slippery. The waves grew stronger. She was approaching her climax and just then Madame Dubarry extracted her hand and brought it down with a mighty crack that ricocheted over the walls and Greta exploded, screaming in glorious orgasm, the sound making the shoes rock and tremble in their boxes on the shelves.

They remained motionless, Madame Dubarry trembling a little as she began to stroke Greta’s bottom and Greta realised that there wasn’t any pain, just a warm, spoiled, comfy feeling like when you sit in front of a log fire.

‘There now. Is that better?’

‘Mmm,’ said Greta and she could have stayed there for ever being coddled and spanked.

She pushed herself up on her feet and Madame Dubarry held her sides and ran her tongue over her belly button.

‘You will go...’ she whispered, ‘... as far as you want to go.’

Greta dressed and they turned out the lights, set the alarm and entered the warm London evening. They were silent now, unsure what to say to each other, but it didn’t matter because Greta only had one word in her mind and she yelled it at the top of her voice.