The Ninety Days of Genevieve (4 page)

'I'm not asking you to act as a saleswoman,' Ricky said. 'Just bring it up in conversation. Sinclair's known to be a womaniser, and he's kinky too. I heard this story...'

'Not the one about politician's daughter?' Genevieve interrupted. 'I've heard it.'

'Look/ Ricky said, 'Sinclair sounds like the kind of man who'd be interested in my work. Surely you could find an opportunity to tell him you know someone who can supply some unusual pictures? You don't have to say any more than that. He'll understand.'

'Act as a pimp for you, you mean?' Genevieve shook her head. 'Ricky Croft, if s about time you grew up.'

'I need the money/ he said.

'Start behaving like a professional, meet your deadlines and you'll make a fortune.'

'And die of boredom?' Ricky stood up. 'No thanks.'

'It's possible to be creative and commercial, you know?' she said.

'I've never noticed it/ he answered. 'And certainly not in advertising.'

He left her to finish her roll in peace. And to start thinking again. James Sinclair certainly seemed to have a varied reputation, and his message to her indicated that he wanted more than a few quick press-ups in bed. But was the reputation true, or just gossip? She had a feeling that her visit to 43 Harmond Street would be the first step in supplying an answer. She got up, and became aware that Ricky's pictures had aroused her more than she had realised. She felt distinctly uncomfortable as she walked back to work.

It looked like a very ordinary house. A neat front garden, flower-patterned net curtains. Genevieve knocked on the dark-red front door. An elderly lady opened it.

'I'm Miss Jones,' said Genevieve, following instructions, 'I've come to collect some - er - things.'

'Go straight in, dear,' the old lady nodded. 'Georgie's in her workroom now.'

Wondering if Georgie would turn out to be another old lady, Genevieve went through the door and found herself in a room that indicated whatever clothes you bought here they would certainly not include anything either lacy or frilled.

There was leather everywhere. The tangy scent of it perfumed the air. Hides were stacked on the floor. Boots with impossible heels stood against the wall. Whips and harnesses hung on hooks. Faceless tailor's dummies were masked and gagged with demonstration items. There were long gloves, heavy belts and bras so studded with metal they looked like armour. A workbench was piled high with work in progress. Genevieve stared round in amazement.

Georgie was a bubbly blonde who looked hardly out of her teens. She wore a Save the Seals T-shirt and jeans. 'It's a terrible mess, I'm afraid,' she apologised cheerfully. 'My girlfriend says she can never understand how I find anything. I've got your stuff all boxed up.'

Genevieve inspected the nearest dummy. It was dressed in a close-fitting female bodysuit made of lustrous black leather. The head was completely covered by a tight cap with holes only for the nose and mouth. Chrome zips, all obviously very carefully positioned, circled the thighs, the breasts, the midriff, the arms, and curved up between the buttocks. The legs ended in high-heeled, front-laced boots.

'Nice, isn't it?' Georgie said proudly. 'One of my specials. Imagine standing there in some kind of restraint harness, not knowing which zip's going to be undone, which bit of you is going to be used or played with next? But what
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s really good is that it's a dozen outfits in one. If you fancy a different game you can take the whole suit apart and use bits of it. The leggings can be thigh boots, the sleeves are gloves. There's a bra and a corset, whatever. I always thought anyone would look good in just the hood and long boots and maybe a wide belt. Actually I saw a painting a bit like that once in a proper art gallery, this woman standing there in this shiny leather gear, and there were all these serious people looking at it and saying how symbolic it was/ She giggled. 'I just thought it was a turn-on, and I bet that's why the artist painted it, really/

Genevieve stared at the bodysuit. A turn-on? Yes, she had to admit that it was. The leather made it seem faintly aggressive but the obvious sexual positioning of the zips implied submission. She imagined the chrome teeth opening slowly. She imagined the cool touch of air on the exposed skin. And then the tips of fingers, or the tip of a tongue, exploring.

Yes, definitely a turn-on for a certain type of person. Her type? What would it feel like to be sheathed in that body-hugging leather? She turned round. A dummy behind her was wearing a complex corset, laced down the back and covered with straps, buckles and studs. She thought it looked incredibly uncomfortable. 'Do a lot of people buy these things?' she asked.

'Gosh, yes.' Georgie nodded. 'And a lot more probably would if they could afford them. I don't come cheap, but I use the best leather and none of my straps pull off at the wrong moment, unlike some of the stuff you can buy. When you're laced up in one of my restraints you stay laced up until your master or mistress releases you.'

Genevieve stared at the corset, trying to visualise where various straps would go, how they would feel when they were pulled tight. The more she stared the easier it was to imagine this blatantly sexual garment on a real body, or to be more precise, on her body.

She had never really understood the erotic appeal of leather clothing before, or perhaps it would be more honest to say that she had never thought about it. But she began to think about it now, surrounded by this cornucopia of fetishist designs. She imagined the leather corset encasing her, the straps digging and constraining, and realised that she found the idea exciting. She reached out and touched the leather. It was smooth and sensual.

Georgie watched her. 'Nice, isn't it? Almost as nice as stroking a cat. Yours is the same quality. The best.'

'Mine?' Genevieve was startled back to the present.

'Your corset,' Georgie said. 'The one your fella ordered.'

'You've made me a corset?' Genevieve felt her face flush. Her eyes returned to the model on the dummy. She felt as if James Sinclair had read her mind.

'You bet.' Georgie nodded. 'Rush job and guess the measurements time, but it'll fit. Your fella gave me a rough guide to your size and I made it adjustable. You'll feel great in it. Promise.'

Genevieve felt her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment at the thought of it. It was one thing imagining yourself in one of these unambiguously provocative outfits, or maybe even wearing one for a long-time partner you knew and trusted. But Sinclair was virtually a stranger. 'But my - friend expects me to wear it when I go out with him,' she said.

'Well, why not?' Georgie shrugged. 'Where are you going? To a club?'

'To a restaurant.'

'But I bet he'll take you to a club afterwards,' Georgie said. 'He'll probably want to show you off. I would if I'd paid all that for your gear.'

'Show me off?' Genevieve repeated. Good God, was that what he was planning? She was horrified. And yet deep down in her mind a little tremor of excitement began.

Georgie looked at her in amusement. 'You're really new to all this, aren't you?'

'New to what?'

'Bondage. S and M. Master and slave.'

'Well, yes,' Genevieve admitted.

'You'll love it,' Georgie enthused. 'My girlfriend takes me to The Cupboard. I have to wear a collar and chain and this really short skirt, and boots of course. The Cupboard's for lesbians so it probably wouldn't be your scene, but I've had more spankings there than I've had hot dinners. There's this marvellous dyke, really strong, she bends me over and really goes to town. My girlfriend loves to watch.'

'And you don't mind?' Genevieve asked in amazement.

'Of course I don't mind.' Georgie looked surprised. 'It turns me on. If I minded my girlfriend wouldn't let anyone do it.'

'I wouldn't let anyone do that to me,' Genevieve said, with conviction. 'In public or anywhere else.'

Georgie looked at her and then laughed. 'You'd be surprised what you'd do', she said, 'with the right partner.'

Knowing what to expect didn't make the sight of the corset any less startling when she unpacked it. Black leather, dull-sheened, with so many straps and buckles she wondered if she would be able to do them all up correctly. The box also contained a pair of seamed black stockings and some ridiculously high-heeled shoes. She searched for panties and could not find any. Obviously an oversight, she thought, and put on a pair of her favourite black silk bikini briefs.

It did not take her as long to lace herself into the corset as she expected. It was beautifully made and the straps seemed to find their correct position automatically. She soon discovered that they were intended to display and emphasis various parts of her anatomy. They plunged between her legs, scooped under her buttocks, and circled her thighs like narrow garters. They drew black lines round her breasts and she realised that if she tightened them they would pull her into a provocative jutting shape. She deliberately did not tighten them too much. It looked sexy but it was also uncomfortable.

One of the straps seemed to be designed to go straight across her breasts and was fitted with two little expanding rings that she could not see any use for. She could not detach them so she left them alone. The stockings polished her legs with a glossy lustre and the shoes fitted perfectly. How had he known her size?

She looked at herself in the mirror and saw a woman with her face and a stranger's body. A leather queen in fetishist gear. She thought about the bondage clubs. There were women who would let others see them dressed like this? She guessed there were, but she was not one of them. Or was she?

She posed, at first self-consciously and then with increasing lack of inhibition. Her figure, she decided, was fine: good breasts, long legs, neat waist. She had nothing to be ashamed of and plenty to display. Would she really do it? The idea was suddenly exciting.

She covered the corset with a dark blouse and a loosely tailored suit made of silk, not wanting anything too tight or the buckles and studs would show through. She twisted her straight blonde hair into a loose knot and applied the minimum of make-up. Outwardly she looked almost prim. Only the shoes and stockings had a sexy look.

But when she walked she was constantly aware of Georgie's leather tailoring. The straps pulled and the studs pressed, reminding her all the time of exactly what she would look like if anyone removed her clothes. And James Sinclair was going to remove them at some point in the evening. That was one thing she could be absolutely certain of.

A taxi called for her promptly and took her to the Garnet. He was waiting, elegant in black. He smiled and surprised her by putting his hand behind her back and drawing her close for a chaste kiss on the cheek. She smelled the faint and expensive tang of his aftershave. His hand moved down her spine and she realised that his apparently friendly gesture had an ulterior motive. He was feeling for proof that she had obeyed his orders. 'Good,' he said, his fingers lightly tracing a line of hidden studs. 'You're obedient. But I always thought you would be.'

The muted sounds of the restaurant murmured round them. A middle-aged couple sat discussing the wine list. A waiter hovered discreetly. The subdued lighting gave the interior a sense of peaceful intimacy.

He took her arm and led her to a table. She had a horrible feeling the leather was creaking, that everyone knew exactly what she was wearing under her primly tailored suit. He held her chair for her, the perfect gentleman.

'No problems dressing?' he wondered mildly.

'I overcame them,' she said.

'A good fit?'

'Tight,' she said.

'It's supposed to be tight,' he said pleasantly, smiling. He leaned across and took her hand, pressing her fingers. 'Like this.' He squeezed briefly and let her go. 'Ifs a restraint corset. A mild one, but you're supposed to know you're wearing it. There are better versions. Much better. Think about that.' He beckoned to the waiter. 'Did you fit the rings?' he asked her.

'Rings?' she repeated blankly. The waiter hesitated near their table.

'The nipple rings,' he said.

She felt her face growing pink. Surely the waiter could hear their conversation? 'I don't understand you,' she faltered.

He ordered for both of them and the waiter moved silently away. He leaned forward. She reflected that they must have looked like a couple of lovers. 'There should have been a strap with rings on them to cross your breasts/ he said. 'The rings were to fit round your nipples, nice and tight.'

'Oh,' she said, blushing. 'I didn't realise that was what they were for/

He surprised her by laughing. 'You are an innocent, aren't you? I'm going to enjoy teaching you!'

This simple comment made her skin prickle with sudden excitement. She was already beginning to realise that her erotic education had been sadly lacking in variety. She would enjoy learning with him as her tutor but she did not intend to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had already virtually won her over.

'I haven't agreed to anything yet/ she said sharply.

He gave her a wry look. 'Haven't you?' he asked softly. 'I'm not going to argue. Enjoy the meal.'

She did enjoy it. He discussed plays, films and music, entertaining her with anecdotes, intriguing her with his ideas. She sat stiffly because of the corset and wriggled occasionally as the metal studs on the leather garter bands dug into her thighs. He said nothing but she knew he noticed her movements and she was sure they amused him.