The Ninety Days of Genevieve (30 page)

'Goldie owns the place,' Georgie said. 'You'll see how she got the name when you meet her.'

Georgie was a walking advertisement for her own talents. Her leather trousers were skin tight and she wore a soft suede waistcoat over a white silk shirt. Genevieve wore a pale suit with a loosely tailored jacket and straight skirt.

The club was lit by subdued wall lights with multicoloured shades. Smoochy music murmured from the speakers, and several women were dancing. Tables stood round the side of the small dance floor, wooden partitions giving the occupants a measure of privacy. A bar ran along one wall. A good-looking young barman smiled at them, but it was only when 'he' spoke that Genevieve realised the elegant 'young man' was a woman.

'Hi Jan,' Georgie said. 'This is a friend of mine. She's never been to a queers' club before.'

Jan nodded cheerfully, and did not seem offended by Georgie's description of the club, but Genevieve felt distinctly awkward and was glad when she was able to hide herself in the shadows of one of the tables by the wall.

'I thought "queer" was an insult?' she said.

'Depends on who's using it/ Georgie said. 'And I wanted to let Jan know, in the nicest possible way, that you were straight. Otherwise she'd have been over here as soon as she came off duty, chatting you up.'

'How do you know I'm her type?' Genevieve asked.

'Any beautiful woman is her type,' Georgie said. She glanced up. 'Look, there's Goldie.'

An enormous woman had appeared behind the bar and was now talking to Jan. Apart from her size the other extraordinary thing about her was the amount of gold jewellery she was wearing. Earrings dangled to her shoulders, her fingers were hidden under glittering rings. Chains covered her chest, and bracelets heavy with charms were pushed halfway up her arms to make room for the wide slave bangles on her wrists. Genevieve calculated that if the gold was genuine Goldie should have been kept in a padlocked safe.

'It's genuine,' Georgie confirmed when Genevieve questioned her.

'Isn't she afraid of being robbed?' Genevieve asked.

Georgie shrugged. 'If you asked Goldie she'd probably say "easy come, easy go". She loves wearing the stuff, but I don't think she's hung up over it. Mind you, she very rarely goes out. This place is fully alarmed, and Billie's here most of the time, too.'

'Billie?' Genevieve questioned.

'You saw her on the door,' Georgie said. 'No one gets in here unless Billie approves. You wouldn't have got in without me.'

Genevieve remembered the hefty 'doorman'. 'Are they - er - lovers?' she asked.

Georgie grinned. 'No. Just friends. And business partners. Lesbians can be
friends
with each other, you know?'

'Oh, stop being so touchy/ Genevieve said, good-humoured.

The music changed to a brighter beat. A couple of women began to dance with each other.

'Things get more lively later on/ Georgie said. 'Thaf s why I brought you early. I didn't want you getting embarrassed.'

'The orgies start later?' Genevieve enquired, smiling.

'That's right,' Georgie agreed. 'Billie won't let you in unless you've got a ten-inch dildo in your handbag.'

Genevieve sat back and enjoyed her drink. Two more women walked onto the dance floor. Dressed plainly in T-shirts, tights and leg warmers they looked like ballet students. Interpreting the music's beat in a series of rhythmic and sinuous movements, they moved slowly round each other without touching. It was graceful and theatrical. Genevieve was so engrossed in watching them that she did not notice the two new customers at the bar until a loud laugh from Goldie caught her attention. She leaned forward, and looked round the wooden cubicle partition.

A man and a woman stood together. The woman looked like a fashion model, in a figure-revealing, mini-skirted dress. She had the kind of stunning red hair no one could ever get out of a bottle. It cascaded to her shoulders in glossy waves. The man looked relaxed and elegant in a dark tailored suit. He was talking to Goldie, but he had one hand possessively on the redheaded woman's bottom. As Genevieve watched, she saw his long fingers massaging his companion's curving buttocks. Not only did Genevieve know that this was definitely a man, she knew his name. It was James Sinclair. She drew back so quickly that Georgie looked at her in surprise.

'What's the matter?'

'I didn't think you allowed men in here.'

'We do/ Georgie said. 'Mostly gays, but unless Billie knows them really well they have to come in with a genuine club member. We don't get many straight men. Most of them only want to gawk at the freaky women who don't like penises, and this isn't really a voyeur's club. Why? Who's just come in?' She peered round the cubicle. 'Oh, that's Marsha. She's an actress, or a model, or whatever takes her fancy. I don't know who the man is.' She glanced at Genevieve. 'Do you?'

'Er - yes.' Genevieve felt she had to admit that much. 'But not all that well,' she added hastily. 'I know him from work. And I don't want him to recognise me.'

'Relax,' Georgie said. 'Sit back. No-one will see you.'

Genevieve could accept that Georgie did not know Sinclair. He had probably conducted all his dealings with her over the telephone. But what was he doing in this kind of club? And with a ravishingly good-looking woman like that? It was quite obvious from the way he was fondling her, and the way she was reacting, that they were more than just good friends.

'Marsha certainly isn't gay,' she observed, tartly.

'She is sometimes.' Georgie glanced at Genevieve and grinned. 'Marsha swings both way. Fancy her, do you? Want me to arrange an introduction?'

'Certainly not,' Genevieve said, primly.

She toyed with her drink and then peeped quickly round the side of the cubicle again. Goldie had moved further down the bar to talk to another customer. Jan was pouring a drink. Sinclair leaned towards Marsha and whispered something. Marsha laughed. Sinclair lifted the heavy fall of her shining red hair and it was obvious from the way his head was moving, and from the way Marsha squirmed with delight, that he was using his tongue in and around her ear, probing and caressing, kissing her lightly, while his hand flattened against her bottom and pulled her closer to him.

'Hey, you two,' Goldie called from the other end of the bar. 'Why don't you just hire a bedroom?'

Genevieve heard Sinclair laugh. 'Good idea,' he said. 'Come on, sweetheart. Let's go.'

They left the club together and as she watched them Genevieve realised that she was furious. And jealous. First Jade Chalfont, and now this redheaded bisexual. Or maybe Jade Chalfont
and
Marsha whatever-her-name-was. And who else? She sat there silently fuming. Then she remembered the torture implements at the bondage club and suddenly the idea of Sinclair chained to a rack or a flogging post seemed positively attractive.

'Hey?' Georgie touched her arm. 'Loosen up. So you like him. So he hasn't noticed you yet. Maybe he will. But even if he doesn't, ifs not the end of the world. You've already got a fella, haven't you?'

Have I? Genevieve thought. It looks as if I'm just one on a long list of Mr James Sinclair's available playmates. What was he going to do with redheaded Marsha that evening? What was he doing at that precise moment? Was he driving, telling her what he had arranged for her later? Or was he sitting in a taxi with his fingers smoothing the soft inner skin of her thigh, finding the warmth higher up, tempting her legs apart while the driver, oblivious to what was happening on the back seat of his cab, headed for whatever destination Sinclair had planned.

Would he take her home? Would Marsha strip for him? Or would he strip her? Would she end up naked, bound to the door, with Sinclair looking her over with that possessive, slightly cynical and infuriatingly attractive smile, as he decided which part of her body to stimulate first? The thought of him was making her wet. She hated him! She hated Marsha! She swallowed the remainder of her drink and slammed the glass back on the table.

'Really fancy him, don't you?' Georgie said quietly.

'No I don't,' Genevieve snapped back. 'I hardly know him.'

'If I was into men,' Georgie said, reflectively, 'I think he'd be the type I'd go for.' She glanced at Genevieve. 'But I wouldn't get ulcers over him. Or over a woman either, come to that.'

'Well, I am into men,' Genevieve said. 'And he's definitely
not
the type I go for.'

'How do you know?' Georgie asked innocently. 'You just said you didn't know him all that well.'

'You can see what he's like. A conceited womaniser! A male chauvinist pig!'

It had spoiled her evening. She tried to put it out of her mind but it was impossible. Although Georgie attempted to entertain her with amusing anecdotes, Genevieve cut the evening short. Leaving Georgie with her friends, she took a taxi back to her apartment.

She tried to forget what she had seen. She tried relaxing in a warm bath (which somehow did nothing to relax her), and then watching a video. Unfortunately she picked one with a leading man who looked vaguely like Sinclair. She switched the film off.

She was angry with Sinclair for being able to affect her like this, and angry with herself for being affected. She knew that she had no claim on him. He had never said that their agreement, even while it lasted, was exclusive. She had simply assumed that he was not seeing any other women while he was seeing her. He had not forbidden her to see other men. As long as she was available when he wanted her, she thought, he probably did not care what she did in her spare time.

Even that angered her. She realised that she
wanted
him to care. Damn him! What was he doing in a lesbian club with that redheaded bitch in tow? What was he doing right now? She felt her body shiver as she imagined his mouth moving over Marsha's body, his hands exploring, expertly, finding different ways to turn her on.

She wished he was here with her. She wished he had come in while she was in the bath and dipped his hands under the froth of bubbles and found her warm skin, slippery from the oil that scented the water. She imagined the sensation of his hands searching her body, lingering down her spine, fondling her nipples just roughly enough to excite them, sliding between her legs.

Maybe he would strip, and join her. She would feel his skin next to hers, his hard erection pressing against her. But he would save himself. They would shower the soap from their bodies. She imagined the shine of his tanned skin under the cascade of water. The sight of his cock, straining upwards. She would tease him, gently cupping his balls and maybe even taking him in her mouth, arousing him still further. He would lift her into his arms and carry her over to the bed.

You romantic idiot, she told herself. Thaf s never going to happen. That's the way lovers behave, and James Sinclair is not your lover. He's a business proposition. And to him you're an amusement. He's selling, and you're buying. You're using each other. Thaf s what the ninety-day agreement was all about.

And my usefulness is coming to an end, she thought suddenly. James Sinclair is already looking round for a replacement.

She began to wonder if she was going to get the usual feedback from Sinclair. If there was even going to be another meeting. Then the courier brought a small parcel and a large white envelope. The parcel contained a length of heavy silk cord. The envelope a large white invitation card: YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A CELEBRATION. COSTUME AND MASK TO BE WORN BY ALL GUESTS. The address was Hilton Hall, Essex. The date, the thirtieth of the month. It was the day her agreement with Sinclair ended.

Chapter Eight

G
enevieve put the invitation card on the shelf of the small Welsh dresser in her kitchen. She read it each morning, and each time it depressed her. It sounded terribly final. Was this really going to be her last private meeting with Sinclair? She believed it was. He had not shown any sign of wanting to continue their relationship. Was he already enjoying Jade Chalfont's company more than hers? With Marsha adding a little spice to the mixture? Perhaps Marsha and Jade were willing to perform a twosome for him, with variations that she and Bridget had not had the time - nor in her case, the inclination - to try?

She did not want to imagine them together, but the pictures kept forming: Jade Chalfont, slim and tall as a super model, but with hidden muscles from her martial arts training, and Marsha, with her more rounded curves and stunning red hair. What would they do? Would they use whips and chains? A penis-shaped vibrator? A strapped on dildo? Surely Sinclair would not find that sort of thing a turn-on?

Or maybe he would. Maybe she did not know him at all. He had certainly shown no particular interest in the more extreme pleasures on offer in the dungeon, but was that just because he guessed she was not interested?

Although part of his pleasure clearly came from making his partner aware of sexual needs she had not previously been aware of - or had deliberately refused to acknowledge - he did not seem to want to force a woman into any sexual games she did not enjoy.

But she was certain he would be equally good at discovering what those games might be. Was he already planning to get her to back down on the last day of their unusual contract? Would that amuse him? She remembered his words: if anyone breaks our agreement, if 11 be you. He had quite obviously enjoyed the feeling of being in control. This would be the ultimate proof of it.