In Too Deep

by Roxane Beaufort

  'Careful, don't crush it,' she warned, and pushed back a little to get rid of the precious cloth, laying it over a chair away from harm.

  Now she was naked and, after admiring every inch of her, he picked a silk dressing gown from one of the rails and draped it around her, then walked her over to the sagging old sofa. There he sat down and held out his hand to her. She took it and sank into the depths with him. She was trembling with lust. It ran through her from the tips of her toes to her cortex as she touched his clean-shaven cheek. He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, sucking each one into his mouth and licking it with a leisurely enjoyment that made her clit thrum. Then he dropped a light kiss on her brow and drove his fingers into her hair, massaging the scalp till she was almost purring.

  Every nerve in her body quivered. He was kind and sincere and free from attachments - no wife or girlfriend. He was as free as her, and liked it that way. She ran her hands up his thighs, and then dropped to her knees between them, pressing her face to the front of his faded jeans and gnawing at the hard outline of the swollen baton slanting beneath the denim. He trembled, and his fingers gripped the corkscrew ringlets of her hair as her breath heated the skin-tight denim and the cock beneath. Smiling inwardly, she ran her tongue around the brass buttons fastening the flies. Eugene groaned.

  The buttons were cold and she closed her teeth on the top one, worrying at it, rampant to free his serpent and take it into her mouth. Glancing up she saw the intent look on his face. It increased the flow of juice wetting her quim. Her nipples were pebble-hard, her clitoris red-hot. One orgasm was never enough for her hungry little bud.

  'Unbuckle your belt,' she ordered, very much in charge.

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  As she watched him deftly releasing the buckle, she remembered Julia recounting how Gus had leathered her. Arlene had already dipped a toe into the heady waters of S&M, but didn't think Eugene would try it - not on this occasion, anyway. Later maybe. But her bottom clenched and her skin smarted as she eyed the length of belt. She could almost hear the hiss and feel the burn as it landed on her cringing arse.

  She took over, finishing the job, baring the dark dimple of his navel and the black thicket that covered his lower belly. He wasn't wearing underpants, and as the final button yielded his cock sprung out, striking her face. It was so tempting that she opened her mouth wide and took it in, all the turgid length and thickness of it, till it rammed her throat. She rocked her head, pulling on the cock with a light suction, tasting the divine flavour of his pre-come. She circled the foreskin, and pulled his jeans around his bottom so that she could hold and fondle his heavy balls in their loose bag.

  He stopped her then, murmuring, 'No more, baby, or I'll shoot my load. I want to do it inside you, but not till I've given you the best frig you've ever had.'

  Still exposed, his wet, fiery-headed cock jutting from his flies, he moved over and pulled her up. A shiver rocked her as he fastened his mouth on hers and wormed his tongue inside, savouring her saliva. As he kissed her he rolled and roiled her nipples and palpated the ripe swell of her mound, letting his fingers enter the cleft. She sighed into his open mouth and ground her hips against his skilful hand. Sensation poured through her. His touch was as satisfying as when she brought herself to climax but with the added rush of uncertainty. What would he do next?

  Pressing her flat on the creaking settee, he opened her legs, leaning over and admiring the prominent swell of her pubis, kneading it and rubbing the thick puffed wedge of hair, before poking a finger into the wet aisle. She clung around his neck, wanting to get closer and closer. She gave short sharp cries, then became silent, the coming bliss too wonderful to be disturbed by noise.

  Her whole body had become a temple of pleasure as the feeling intensified. Now she saw nothing, heard nothing, bathed in a glorious agony of passion. Her climax roared and she lifted her hips from the couch. As the tension was released, Eugene sank a finger into her spasming cunt, moving it like a penis. Then he held her close, kissing her and enclosing her hot mound in his hand.

  'Now,' she whispered urgently. 'Put it in me, now.'

  He knelt between her legs and rubbed his cockhead against her labia, his fingers continuing to stimulate her clit. When she was sure she was about to come again he allowed his shaft to slide into her. He started to move, undulating his pelvis, withdrawing and thrusting in perfect harmony. Arlene embraced him with her arms and legs, his every downward stroke rubbing her bud.

  She could hear herself making strange whimpering noises, and Eugene grunting as his hips pistoned rapidly. His eyes were shut, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He was like something possessed and she shrieked as another orgasm electrified her.

  'That's it, girl,' he urged, and came with a final lunge, then collapsed, his face buried in her neck.

  She stirred, duty calling. 'I must get on,' she said, wriggling out from under him. 'I've a dress to complete before leaving. If I give the customer a ring and tell her it's ready, then I may be able to deliver it and collect the lolly. I need the basics, like bread and milk and tea bags. It's that serious.'

  'I can always lend you some cash,' he offered, sitting up while she rummaged for her scattered clothes and began to put them on.

  Arlene hated being obligated to anyone, particularly if it was male, but she smiled across at him and said, 'Thanks, but I'll manage. All I need are a couple of substantial orders, that's all.'

  She combed her fingers through her hair, and then went to her store cupboard, an area big enough to walk into, where she kept her latest, most secret designs, along with the patterns and sketches. Lit by a skylight, it was sacrosanct. No one was allowed into this holy of holies where the most precious of her brainchildren had their being. Here she was gathering her collection, waiting for that break which would enable her to exhibit.

  She stared as she entered, certain that she must be dreaming. It was empty! Anger, fear and a terrible sense of loss grabbed her by the throat. 'Eugene!' she shouted. 'Quick! Come in here!'

  'What's up?' he said, taking one look at her white face and staring eyes.

  'My clothes, my patterns! Everything's gone!'

  'Gone? How?'

  'I don't know.' She moved frantically, searching in vain, knowing it was useless.

  'Was it locked?'

  'Yes, of course it was locked.' She was impatient, even with him, as distraught as a mother whose children are missing.

  'But it looks as if someone came in and swiped the lot,' he continued, with a shrug. 'Couldn't have got in through the skylight, so how? Unless someone had a key. I'll bet it's an inside job.'

  'Why should anyone want to steal my stuff?' she asked despairingly.

  'Oh, come on. You know it goes on all the time, industrial espionage and all that. Aren't clothing manufacturers always pinching each other's designs?'

  Arlene drove her fist into her palm. 'You're right. Someone's robbed me of my newest creations, and I've a suspicion who. And who helped him do it.'

  'Who?'

  'I think it's Marty Blake, probably assisted by the big chief at the top... Vincent Gabor.'

  'How can you be so sure? There are a dozen designers who could have done it.' Eugene placed a comforting hand on her shoulder but she didn't bend, rigid with fury and indignation.

  'I met him at the Cloth Show. And that's not all... he'd seen my work at a charity function. If he's running out of ideas, and don't forget he's been pulling out all the stops over the past year and may be feeling pretty jaded, then what's to prevent him deciding to help himself to something of mine and rehash it as his?'

  Eugene pulled a face, as if unable to contemplate such an underhanded trick. Wide boy he might be, but there was always a kind of fairness about his own dealings in the trade. Honour among thieves didn't seem to exist in the rarefied atmosphere of haute couture.

  'You mean, he broke in here?' Eugene hadn't met Blake personally, but had read about him in the papers and seen him on television. 'Burglary's hardly
his style, is it?'

  'It wasn't burglary. No one's tampered with the lock. He had a key. I can't believe it of her, Eugene, but there's only one person who could have given it to him.' She wanted to break down and cry, feeling as if she'd been raped. 'That's my assistant, Tina Morris. Funnily enough, she rang to say she was ill. Somehow I don't think I'll be seeing her again.'

  Chapter 4

  'So you see, I've simply got to help her,' Julia said, looking across the round marble-topped table at Will, having just finished giving him details of Arlene's loss.

  He pulled a serious face, humouring her in an annoying, patronising way. He lifted his pint to his lips and took a long pull, then put it down on the coaster, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, unenthusiastically, 'If you say so.'

  'I do say so. She's in trouble. Been robbed. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'

  'Sounds like a job for the police, not us.'

  'She won't do that, not yet. Wants to try it her own way first. Eugene was furious.'

  'And who, darling girl, is Eugene?' Will drawled, his voice world-weary and cynical.

  'He's her friend. He was there when she discovered she'd been robbed. He wants to deck Marty Blake.'

  'Does he indeed? How macho. Well, good luck to him. I hope he knows what he's taking on.'

  The Flying Goose was crowded with Saturday night drinkers. Built in 1880, on a main road where once a posting-inn had stood, it had survived a firebomb during the blitz in World War Two, and retained its Victorian opulence of polished mahogany and bevel-edged mirrors etched with ferns. One of its finest features was a stained glass panel depicting art nouveau beauties, their flowing hair entwined with the names of breweries. The air was redolent of the fermented hops and tobacco of ages, though there were plenty of non-smoking areas now.

  It was Julia's local; not that she drank much, but had needed to meet Will somewhere outside the office, asking his advice concerning Arlene's problems. She had found her friend in tears last night, alarmed to see this usually level-headed girl so upset. She had calmed down after threatening to castrate Marty Blake and hang Tina up by her thumbs. Then, her face set grimly, she announced her plan, one in which Julia was involved.

  Nonplussed but willing, Julia required Will's help if she was to fall in with it.

  He had been happy to meet her, almost too eager for comfort and she was glad he was sitting opposite. Even so, his foot kept touching hers under the table. She moved it, but he was persistent, and she realised that had he been at her side, he would undoubtedly have had his hand on her knee by now, probably fondling her inner thigh. The thought made her hot, a flush mounting to her cheeks.

  She took a sip of her gin and tonic, cleared her throat and asked, 'Can you tell me anything about Vincent Gabor?'

  Will's eyes sharpened and he leaned forward. 'Is he mixed up in this?'

  'We don't know for sure, but yes, Arlene suspects him. What do you know?'

  'Vincent Gabor is a self-made man, son of mid-European refugees. He was born and educated in England, went to Oxford, I believe. Rumour has it he's made a fortune through wheeling and dealing, and has invested some of it in the fashion industry. He has contacts worldwide. Dips his fingers into any number of pies, and is never over-scrupulous when it comes to making a profit.'

  'Arlene's suggested I get a job modelling for Marty Blake,' she said. 'He won't know I'm her friend, and maybe I can find something out.'

  'And how is Denise going to take it if you have too much time off?' he asked, ever practical.

  'I've a holiday due, and anyway, I thought we might sell it to her with the offer of a story, if I find that Blake's guilty.'

  'That's sound. She might wear it.'

  'Will you help me persuade her?' Julia asked, remembering Arlene's pep talk and pasting on her most winning smile.

  It was after ten o'clock and the crowd was thicker. The pub provided a showcase for aspiring bands, the skittle alley used for gigs most weekends. Now the younger element was herding towards the improvised stage, but this didn't do much to lessen the crush in the public bar. The noise was deafening as the support band struck up, and Will moved over to the banquette where Julia sat. She couldn't slide away from him, blocked by a gangling youth with a shaven head and rings in his eyebrows.

  Will, ever the opportunist, bent closer and shouted in her ear. 'Marty Blake is Gabor's protégé. I've heard they're thick as thieves, and that seems to be the case, if what Arlene suspects is true. Gabor's useful; he can get garments made in the sweatshops of Sri Lanka, and will front up the money. In exchange he enjoys all the glamour of the industry and gets to fuck beautiful models, to boot.'

  Sure enough, she felt his hand close on her knee. It was like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Up it travelled, pausing momentarily to see if she would protest, then journeying on, finding the curve of her mons under the little white panties. Julia's exclamation of indignation was lost in the uproar surrounding them. Will didn't look at her, just kept on talking.

  'Gabor's a big fish, Julia,' he said, and tickled the spot at the top of her cleft, where the outer labia protected her clitoris. 'It's not wise to tangle with him.'

  'I must help Arlene,' she insisted, increasingly uncomfortable, unable to stop herself from resting against the back of the bench and slipping down a fraction so that her mound was lifted towards his fingers.

  'Did I say you shouldn't?' he went on calmly, and she felt him easing round the edge of her knickers and starting to brush over her floss. 'Just be careful.'

  'Don't,' she hissed. 'Someone may see you.'

  'Unlikely,' he answered, chuckling. 'You don't really want me to stop, do you?'

  Before she could answer they were interrupted by a weedy man with a ferret face and sparse, sandy hair who clapped Will on the shoulder, shouting, 'Hello there, chummy. How's your belly off for spots? And who are you, deary? What a choice bit of totty.'

  He leered at Julia and she was certain his base instincts had drawn him there, just when Will was fingering her crotch. She disliked him instantly, hating the way in which he smiled as he addressed her in that disparaging tone. She escaped Will's hand under cover of the table, sat up and rearranged her skirt, all without the newcomer seeing, or so she hoped.

  'Hello, George,' Will said, unimpressed. 'Sit you down, if you can find a chair. This is Julia Jones. Julia, meet George Comby. He was with me at the Daily Courier in our misspent youth.'

  She nodded and made appropriate noises, while George continued to give her lecherous glances. With typical bad timing, the pierced and tattooed youth on her other side got up and headed for the skittle alley and the band. George instantly squeezed himself into the vacant seat and set his whisky tot on the table.

  'I'm warning you, George, Julia is one of these new girls,' Will said. 'If you refer to her again as "totty" you'll probably get a clip round the ear.'

  Ignoring Will's advice, George continued to subject her to his lascivious stares, pressing his bony thigh against hers. She couldn't move in the close confinement of the table and bench, crushed between him and Will. The bar was dimly lit, but she could see that both men were flaunting erections: Will's jeans were bulging and George's corduroy trousers were full beneath the fly buttons.

  'What are you doing in this neck of the woods?' Will asked. 'Not your usual stamping-ground, is it?'

  'Had to see a man about a dog, if you get my drift,' George answered, squeezing Julia's hand, which lay on the table. 'No, actually, it was to fix up a photo-shoot. For a skin-mag, you know. Nice work if you can get it.'

  'I heard you were concentrating on photography now,' Will said, and Julia was glad to have him there, protecting her like a faithful mastiff. There was an ambience about George that made her think of dark alleys and deceitful deeds.

  'That's right. I'm in with most of the top-shelf porno magazines. They like my work.'

  'We've got a bit of a problem here,' Will said, picking up George's empty glass. 'Maybe you can help us.
Another Scotch? Hang on while I get it.'

  Julia wanted to stop him from leaving her with the unpleasant George, but he was already elbowing his way to the bar.

  'And what do you do, darling?' George asked, his eyes never quite meeting hers. He always seemed to focus just beyond the person he was addressing, as if unwilling to allow them a peep into the windows of his soul, which she imagined to be black and wrinkled and hard as an old prune. And Will had once been his bosom buddy? He dropped in her estimation.

  'I'm a model,' she replied, and this wasn't entirely untrue. She had modelled for Arlene in a fashion show once.

  'Are you? Well, you're pretty enough and have a great figure.' He slipped an arm round the back of the seat and fastened his clammy hand on her shoulder, his fingers moving over the flesh revealed by her sleeveless crop-top. His predatory gaze dropped to where her breasts filled the white jersey cloth.

  'I'm rather on the short side, even in high heels,' she said quickly, unable to shift away from him. 'Fashion models are expected to be tall and thin.'

  'You're okay. I like petite, curvaceous girls,' he leered, licking his thin lips.

  'Here you go, George,' Will said, returning with the whisky, and Julia had never been more thankful to see him.

  'Cheers,' George said, and knocked it back in one. 'Now then, you said you wanted my help.'

  'Julia's a model, but she needs pictures for her folio.'

  'No problem. I'll do them.'

  'I haven't much money,' Julia put in, unwilling to be indebted to him.

  'That's all right. I'll get paid if any of them are used.'

  'Not for porno mags?'

  'Call it art, my dear,' he answered, running his tongue over his slack lower lip.

  'But I want poses that will make people take me seriously as a model for clothes,' she protested, having second thoughts about the whole idea.

  'And so they will. I can see you doing kinky clobber. Fetish gear's all the rage now, and you don't have to be into the scene to wear it. Leather, PVC, chains, studs, bondage straps; you can buy them in lots of highstreet stores, or something remarkably like them. You look vulnerable and innocent, yet with a hint of naughtiness, too. It'll drive the punters wild. Who are you going to apply to for a job?'