A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (9 page)

‘Taxi!’

A cab with the yellow light burning was cruising Bond Street and she stepped in the back with a little wave over her shoulder. Greta May liked being luxuriated. She thought it would be very easy to get used to it and had no way of knowing that quite the opposite was being prepared for her in the not-too-distant future.

A
LINE OF SUNLIGHT
was creeping through the curtains to put a fresh perspective on the print of Dali’s
Persistence of Memory
, a gift from someone and Greta laid there all warm and sticky trying to remember who.

Tara was making sleepy noises at her side and in the air was the musky smell of a thoroughly spoiled girl. Two thoroughly spoiled girls. Greta grinned as she breathed in the aroma. Along with the tang of girlie juices was a hint of raspberry ripple. It was smeared on Tara’s forehead and cheeks, there was a smile on her faintly parted lips and a shiny glow on the tip of her nose.
You are a clever little nose
, Greta whispered, slipping finally from the bed and across the hall to the bathroom.

Her mouth dropped open as she studied herself in the full-length mirror. She was a work of art as original as anything by Salvador Dali... no, not Dali, he was more figurative: she was a Jackson Pollock, her body a collage in shades of pink and vanilla. The ice cream was dotted with fiery stars, or horror of horrors, nasty red pimples, and she ran a wet finger over the pattern to make sure. They were strawberry pips and she popped them in her mouth.

Mmm, delicious
.

She turned, glancing over her shoulder at the swirls curling down her legs and suddenly understood why people decorated themselves in illustrations and piercings. It might be fun, she mused, although nothing permanent remains fun and, anyway, Gustav didn’t approve of girls with filled teeth, so he certainly wouldn’t appreciate tattoos.

Greta had a good look at her bottom. It was rosy cheeked and she wasn’t sure if this came from traces of raspberry ripple or the spanking she’d taken from Madame Dubarry. She ran her hands over the curved arabesques of warm flesh. The sting had gone, it only lasts about half an hour, but the memory made Greta so moist her ears pricked up when her name murmured sleepily from across the hall.

‘Greta...’ the voice cooed. ‘Where are you?’

Greta stepped back into the bedroom. Tara was hiding under the duvet.

‘Is there anybody there?’ Greta asked.

A hand appeared, the fingers dancing. ‘I’m all sticky and yucky,’ Tara said, raising the covers. ‘And there’s a funny smell...’

Greta crawled back between the sheets. She slid her tongue the length of Tara’s body, all the way up from her wriggling toes to her shiny nose, into her eye sockets and across her forehead. She cleaned her ice creamy ears, her long neck and the warm groove of her throat. Their lips met and Greta knew that she would always prefer kissing girls. Their lips are softer, smoother, more inventive.

Tara rolled over. She was dominant, ambitious. She liked to be on top. She lapped the raspberry ripple from Greta’s cheeks and chin, her pointy tongue like a feeler leaping into the hollows below her collar bones before running down between her breasts. One after the other, she took the firm peaks into her mouth, squeezing them softly between her teeth until they swelled and grew so hard Greta thought she was going to burst. Tara continued her journey over Greta’s tummy, her tongue pausing to consider the little well of her belly button, and down into the humid nest of her pubic hair.

Tara spun round in a flowing lap-dancer move and lowered her dripping sex into Greta’s mouth. Greta took Tara’s bottom and did the same, Tara’s engorged vulva opening juicy and slicked, so gloriously naked. Greta wanted to submerge herself in Tara’s ocean and changed position, opening her thighs, the tips of her fingers spreading back the outer lips of her vagina in order that she could plunge in, her face buried in the oily warmth. Tara was a fount of silky liquids, a magic potion that made Greta forget everything except that solitary moment. She was one giant erogenous zone, a pulsing g spot, all sensation and thoughts about nothing. Except the next sensation.

A pulsing surge of pleasure coursed through her body and Greta was unsure if
she
were about to come, or Tara? Were they coming together? Their bodies were a ball of glossy smooth flesh slipping and sliding into new shapes, the tip of Tara’s tongue moving slower now, feather-like across Greta’s swollen clitoris. She did the same for Tara, the same action, the same motion; they were
yin
and
yang
, each the opposite of the other, completing the other, pink tongues in wet pussies moving in perfect harmony. The pressure kept building, the air grew still, then Tara tensed as the dam burst and they both climaxed, the circle broken as the ripples became two crashing waves that rocked through them and they collapsed, panting for breath, the eight quivering limbs of a beached octopus, the bed steamy as a swamp.

Tara curled into Greta’s arms and nibbled her ear. ‘I got an A for my essay on copyright law,’ she murmured.

‘You are a clever girl.’

‘Two more weeks and it’s over, no more work.’

‘Lazybones,’ said Greta.

‘I wish,’ sighed Tara, and gave Greta’s nipple a hard pinch.

‘Ouch!’

‘I’m going to end up squatting on erections all summer,’ she complained, and then paused. ‘I’m just dying to do something different.’

‘If you
really
want to you probably will.’

‘Optimist,’ said Tara.

‘Pessimist,’ said Greta.

Tara was massaging her breast now, kneading it softly like pastry dough. The breath caught in Greta’s throat, then her eyes caught a glimpse of the luminous face of the alarm clock.

‘Ohmygod, I’ve got to go,’ she said and Tara gave her nipple another good pinch as she slipped from the bed.

‘Sadist.’

‘Masochist.’

‘Lazybones,’ Greta screeched from the bathroom.

She turned on the shower and lathered the sponge. As she was soaping the remains of the ice cream from her legs it occurred to Greta that she had only laundered the bed linen the night before and if Tara persisted in her fetish she would end up forever washing sheets like that woman in mythology condemned for eternity to carry water in a vessel that leaked so artfully it was always empty when she reached her destination. Who was that now?

She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything. Sex had opened the door to her inner self and closed her memory banks to all thoughts except the next adventure. And there was something weird. It truly was a drug: the more sex you have the more you want. As she stood there with the hot water raining over her, Greta was absentmindedly caressing her nipples.

Ohmygod. The time.

She threw a big white towel around her shoulders and ran her palm over her cheek. That night when Richard had slapped her in his hallway it was as if the old Greta May had flown away, gone into storage, a musty wig, or a taffeta dress from a costume drama, and the new improved version was now smoothing sun block down her long legs, over her arms, her breasts with little raspberry ripple nipples always so tingly and overt, always anxious to be touched. She kissed a fingertip and planted the kiss on each of their little noses.
Be good
, she said, and turned quickly to the mirror to see if she could see herself as others saw her.

‘Slut,’ she hissed.

Tara had rolled under the covers and had gone back to sleep. Greta decided not to disturb her, opened the curtains in Tara’s room, and raided her closet instead. Greta was caressing the moist opening to her sex, her eyes running over the piles of books, the sweaters and knickers leaping from drawers, the dresses like phantoms fleeing from the wardrobe. Tara was always so busy lap dancing and writing essays Greta felt positively exhausted as she slid into a silver thong, a matching bra and a shimmering metallic dress that flickered with rainbows where it caught the light. The sky was clear blue, the sun moving in a veil of mist like a belly dancer. It was going to be another scorcher and that always made people happy. Greta studied her reflection.

The dress was completely unsuitable but she had a feeling that there was something right in getting it wrong. Tara was stick thin and toned from all that dancing, all those essays, and the dress on Greta was so stretched it was as if she were bound in shackles. She shivered and tossed her mane of brown curls. The thought of being bound made the blood bloom on her cheeks. Greta was getting to know herself, her needs and desires, and just wished that what she was becoming aware of now, in the last few days, she’d been aware of when it could have informed her acting, helped her career.

In one of the scenes in
The
Raw Edge,
she’d been bundled into a car by two men, then tied to a bed in a gloomy basement. She had reacted with classic hysteria, hammering her fists, wailing at the top of her voice, and this might be true to life, but it lacked subtlety, subtext, a space for the imagination. If she had the chance to play Polly again she would give her an air of tragic mystique, that mixture of strength and vulnerability that leaves audiences wondering if she is truly a victim or if there is a dark side to her character that encourages cruelty.

Greta sat pondering these thoughts as she painted her eyelids pale blue. She had not given up her career.
I’m only 19, for heaven’s sake
, and it didn’t seem quite so old anymore. She was, as actors say, just resting and would return better equipped when the time was right.

She slicked mascara over her long lashes and as she opened and closed her eyes she looked like a pony about to be taken for a long ride. The image was silly and slipped away as she rouged her cheeks below high, prominent cheekbones and added pale pink lipstick, all very demure and inviting. She pursed her lips and blew a kiss.

‘Slut,’ she said again and giggled

Greta stepped into silver heels and the dress rattled like spare change as she walked. She borrowed a silver evening bag with a long chain and it occurred to her that she was dressing for a date. She glanced about for her cigarettes and lighter, her mobile phone, the little Cartier wristwatch. All gone, vanished forever, and she made do with some lippy and Tara’s Ray-Bans. Her tummy grumbled but there was no time for breakfast.

Tara was making sleepy noises, and Greta brushed a lock of hair from her brow. She dropped her keys in the silver bag, closed the door and strode along the busy street passing the lines of baked cars locked in a metal chain across London, the drivers sweaty and anxious, the exhausts pumping clouds of purple haze into the ozone.

The man with the shiny head was waiting on the platform. Like Greta, he seemed to have taken care with his appearance. His white shirt was freshly ironed, he wore a green tie with hunting dogs running down its length, shiny brown brogues and an off-white linen suit, as unsuitable for the Underground as was Greta’s attire for the shoe shop. She was glancing over the top of her shades and noticed the customary look of relief in his beady eyes as she made her entrance.

The platform was full. She walked its entire length, almost to the end, heels clacking, heads turning, and stood like a long thin needle really much too close to the edge. The wind was charging over the glittering rails. The crowd swelled about her like moons to a silver sun and the train was an angry demon roaring from the tunnel. The doors opened and the bald man made sure he was right behind her as they shoved their way into the carriage.

People wishing they knew how to fold a newspaper on the tube were engaged in origami. Two schoolgirls in short navy skirts were talking in loud voices, and the hand that ran like a frisky animal under Greta’s skirt quivered with pleasure as it came into contact with her bare flesh.

She reached for the hanging strap, swivelled her hips and her lips parted as a finger ran over the gusset shielding her crack, up and down, slowly, softly. It was so decadent being fondled in public it made her wet and breathless. She closed her eyes and thought about the cold ice cream melting under the eager laps of Tara’s tongue, her pussy sticky and dripping. Greta could feel a prickling in her thighs and went up on her toes, up and down, up and down, in counterpoint to the caressing fingertip, the movement releasing a creamy trickle between her legs and she had an awful urge to rip her knickers off.

The papers kept rustling like dry leaves. Further down the carriage a drunk was singing and it was only 8.30 a.m. The lights flickered. There was something sensual about flickering lights. Greta was sucking for breath through parted lips. Pushing down on the dancing fingers. Air was trapped in her body like the air chasing through the Underground. She was going to cry out. She couldn’t control it. It was coming, coming, something glimpsed on the horizon. Her body was damp and slippery. Oh yes! Oh yes! She gritted her teeth. She was there, nearly there, vagina throbbing, muscles pulsing, contracting, she arched her back, bit her tongue, stretched her legs apart,
Ohmygod
...

... when at that very moment the carriage tilted and they were torn viciously apart.

The train leaned into the bends and one of the schoolgirls yelled...

‘Like. Excuse me...’

... as the bald man was thrown against her.

‘Perv,’ said her friend, curling her lips with distaste.

And Greta knew that it wouldn’t be long before she was proffering her little arse to strangers on the train. You could see it in her saucy eyes, in the swell of her breasts peeking from her unbuttoned blouse, so soft and tempting. She was ungainly with long limbs like a pony and it dawned on Greta that Richard and Gustav didn’t train horses, they trained girls. She had been discovered, harvested, selected for something and the fact that she still wasn’t entirely sure what made it all the more exciting.

She smiled at the girl and the girl smiled back. They were conspirators. The lights dimmed and during the prolonged moment of darkness, her travelling companion manoeuvred his hand back over the globes of her bottom. He was like a small boy with a marvellous toy. He adored her arse. He wanted to take it home with him, nurse it, caress it, bring it presents. Keep it safe. In the air was the scent of her own arousal, the sweat of hot bodies rubbing together, the sugary perfume of schoolgirls.

The bald man was anxious now, worrying at the strip of material running tightly and damply between her legs. She was clammy from the ripples of an unfinished orgasm, vaginal oils slicking her panties, glossing her thighs. The train had built up speed, a knife plunging through the tunnel, rattling and screeching. The noise grew louder and, like a key entering a lock, a finger finally lifted the thong and was about to slip into her gaping crack when the driver stamped down the brakes and they were torn apart again.