In Too Deep

by Roxane Beaufort

  She glanced at Will questioningly, but he nodded and she said, 'Marty Blake.'

  'Going straight to the main man, eh? And why not? I've found models for him before.'

  'So you know him?' Will asked cautiously.

  'Of course, old boy.' George shrugged and looked meaningfully at his empty glass.

  Will didn't take the hint, saying, 'There you are then, Julia. When shall we start?'

  'No time like the present,' George suggested eagerly.

  'Now?' She wasn't prepared for this.

  'Yes. Have you got your car with you, Will? I was going to get a cab back to my place.'

  Will nodded.

  'Right, let's go then.' George stood up. 'Ready, Julia? I'm going to make you a star,' he promised.

  He took her arm as they made their way towards the exit. There he leaned closer, his unpleasant breath fanning her cheek as he added. 'I expect a return. Nothing is for nothing, girl, and I have my own method of extracting payment from lovely girls.'

  Although he wanted her to sit in the back of the car with him, she succeeded in occupying the front seat next to Will.

  'I'm still in the same place,' he said, as Will turned the ignition key. 'Sylvan Avenue, Wood Green. Remember? We used to have a whale of a time there, didn't we? Once I'd got rid of the wife, that is. Silly cow didn't approve of me drinking. We're divorced now. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.'

  London was still busy but Will, who knew it like the back of his hand, took diverse shortcuts to bringing them to George's residence, a late Victorian terrace house in a tree lined street. His own car was on a hard standing in his small front garden.

  Iron railings and a tiled path led to the porch and the front door, with all its original brass fittings. Inside there was a passageway, not unlike that of Julia's own house, then up two flights of stairs and into a studio that stretched the entire length and width of the attic. It smelt of cigarettes, stale booze, developing fluid and coition.

  'Make yourselves at home,' George said, taking off his jacket. 'We'll start with a few shots as you are, love. Just to get in the mood. I shan't be a tick.'

  He busied himself with his equipment, very professional all of a sudden, the whisky addict banished. She put down her bag and mounted the shallow step of the podium. George adjusted the back sheet, reflectors and lighting. He then retreated, squinting at her through the viewfinder.

  'Now, darling... stand proud, lean on your right hip. That's it. Look at me. Straight at me. Big sexy eyes, think sexy thoughts, pout, sweetie, pout those gorgeous lips as if you're about to fasten them round a great fat cock. Lovely!'

  This wasn't too bad. Julia began to get into the swing of it, remembering photos she'd seen of famous models, aping their brash confidence, the way they stared arrogantly down their elegant noses, thrust out their bosoms and arched their necks with never a crotch-shot between them, just the blatant suggestion of promiscuity.

  Soon George had her take off her fleece and display her bare middle in the crop-top. 'Hitch up your skirt. That's great. What legs! Now we'll try something a little bit more daring, shall we?'

  He handed her a bundle of garments and indicated a screen. She changed behind it and came out wearing a red leather skirt and a basque. Under his direction, she assumed an expression of utter boredom and indifference. She was the epitome of every man's wet dream, with her sulky mouth, and the way her heavy-lidded eyes stared defiantly into the camera as she straddled a damask upholstered chair. Her breasts were pushed high by the restrictive corset. The short skirt barely reached the tops of her wantonly spread legs, exposing the slim expanse of her upper thighs, and a glimpse of the tempting blonde floss at her apex. Black stockings covered her from toes to above the knee, fastened by fancy garters. It was a pose that was ageless: she could have been a nineteenth century whore posing for some be-whiskered photographic pioneer who'd already realised the commercial value of racy pictures.

  She could feel the colour running into her face as George stared through the aperture and Will lay on the couch, smiling in an almost proprietorial manner.

  George tried out other positions. 'Let's go with the flow,' he said. 'You're a natural. I knew you would be the moment I clocked you.'

  Julia laid on her stomach, propped on her elbows, one leg out straight, the other bent. It was charming, guileless even, till the eye travelled to her naked buttocks, firm globes ripe for caning. In another she bent to fasten her shoe, her breasts lifting even higher as she glanced provocatively over her shoulder, her skirt riding up to show her bottom crease and the downy hair of her pudenda.

  'Now lay down, dear,' George urged, and pointed to the cushioned-heaped settee at the back of the podium. 'That's it. Let's see your pussy. I want your hand down there, touching. I want your head back, your tongue circling your lips, and your eyes half-closed as if you're going to come at any minute.'

  'I can't do that,' she murmured, but her hands were already on her satin smooth skin, her thighs bent outwards.

  'Yes you can. Pretend you're in your bedroom and there's no one to see. Do it like when you can't help playing with yourself.' George's voice was thick with excitement, his prick distorting the front of his cord trousers. 'Come on, sweetie, do it for me,' and he waltzed round her, snapping as he went. He ended up somewhere between her feet, the camera aimed at her crotch.

  She nibbled her lower lip as she obeyed, not so much him as her own urges, and combed her fingers through her pubes. She was acutely aware of the openness of her sex and of George's third eye, the camera lens. Juice glistened on her vulva, and the hot bright lamps ruthlessly exposed every frill and curl of her genitals, beating down on the sensitive cleft. And, more than this, she felt the heat on the rabid swell of her clitoris. She touched it with a fingertip, and pleasure fired through her.

  'Make it wet,' said George.

  His gruff words turned her on unbearably. Far from this intensely private act being something secretive and shameful, here was someone actually encouraging her to do it. He put down the camera and reached for a bottle of baby oil, and before she knew what was happening he flipped back the cap and poised it over her quim. She started at the sudden chill as several shining drops fell directly onto her clit. Any residue he massaged into her thighs and up and over her mound, the pubic hair shimmering.

  For an instant his finger followed the oil and she gasped, shuddered and wanted desperately to come. Then he withdrew and took up his camera again. As if on cue Will knelt behind her. She felt his hands on her breasts, teasing the erect nipples, and an even greater thrill as he leaned across to take one in his mouth, while continuing to finger the other.

  'Oh... that's good,' she mumbled, despite her shame.

  'Back off now, Will,' George instructed. 'I don't want you in the frame. Julia's supposed to be doing it for herself. Come on, baby, give yourself a brisk wank... that's great... come on, I want to see you come,' he urged crudely as the shutter clicked.

  She crooked her middle finger and caught the underside of her clitoris, and with every touch the waves of orgasm swept closer. She sighed and tensed, her bottom cheeks clenching. A silence fell over the studio; a watching, waiting silence broken only by the camera's whirr. She had forgotten the men, the camera, the lateness of the hour and the weird circumstances, every sense focussed on the sensations pouring through her. One giant wave, a second and then a third lifted her onto the rollercoaster and she screamed as her climax thundered, screamed and writhed and offered herself voluptuously to George and his lens.

  'Oh, boy...' he croaked, still sliding around her, seeking ever more lurid shots. 'This'll have the boys spanking the monkey!'

  At that Julia returned to reality, leaving the euphoric clouds and coming down to earth with a rude bang. 'But you said I would do fashion poses,' she protested.

  'So you shall, pet. And the first pics we took of you in your ordinary gear will be fine to present to a prospective employer. Though I've a hunch Blake's sponsor will approve of the
se even more.'

  'You talking about Vincent Gabor?' Will asked, his hands shaking slightly as he lit a cigarette, even though Julia was now sitting with her legs primly together and her nipples again covered by the basque's lace edging.

  'Sure thing. He's encouraging Blake to go for the leather and kink. I'll get this developed pronto, show them the proofs and arrange a meeting.'

  'Don't we get to see them first?' Will was obviously keen to protect her interests.

  'If you want.'

  'We do.'

  'I'll give you a bell when they're ready.'

  'Then, that's it?' Julia couldn't wait to get out of the corset that was nipping her waist and pinching her ribs, her breasts pushed unnaturally high. 'I can go home now?'

  'So soon?' George said regretfully, his tongue wetting his lips again. 'I hoped we could... you know... get better acquainted.'

  'Another time,' Will intervened, and Julia slipped back behind the screen, tearing at the lacing of the corset as she went. She heard Will and George talking.

  'Don't I get to dip my wick?' the photographer asked.

  'That's up to her, but I doubt it. She maintains she's a virgin.'

  George gave a disbelieving bark of laughter. 'Pull the other leg, Will, it's got bells on.'

  'I'm telling the truth.'

  'You mean to say you haven't fucked her?'

  'No. And I sincerely believe no one else has, either.'

  'But she'll do other things, give head or a hand job?'

  'Yes, though never with me. But I've watched her at it.'

  'Have you?' George wheezed eagerly. 'I've got the most monumental stiffy. It refused to lie down all the time I was shooting her, and still won't. So now what am I going to do with it?'

  'Sorry, but that's your problem,' said Will coolly. 'I'm in the same state and we'll both be doing the five-finger exercise tonight.'

  Julia stepped from behind the screen wearing her own clothes, glad the session was over. 'Thank you, George,' she said, and sort of meant it. Posing had been embarrassing, surprisingly exciting, and would provide her with pictures, but she didn't think she would care to repeat it.

  'Okay, Julia, if that's how you want it,' he said regretfully, then shrugged and added, 'Maybe things will be different next time we meet.'

  'Don't come down,' Will said. 'We'll find our own way out.'

  George saw them to the door, then retreated to the darkroom adjacent to the studio and removed the film from his camera.

  'That's wicked!' Marty exclaimed as he watched the leggy, coffee-coloured model stalk down the centre of the long, high-ceilinged room. 'Absolutely ace, Cressida. You've caught the mood perfectly. Marta Hari... spy, dancer, harlot. It'll be a showstopper. If Mrs Hooper-Jones doesn't buy it, I'll get a job down the mines.'

  By now he had conveniently forgotten that this stunning, sequinned and beaded gown, a la the 1914-18 war, was not his at all, but Arlene Murphy's. He was so powerful, or rather Gabor was, that he took chances that would scare an ordinary person. All he had to do was move a spangle here, a few diamantés there, and he could justify putting his label in it.

  'That fat old broad,' Cressida said, her voice like rich dark chocolate, her slanting agate eyes heavy with scorn, 'is like a sack of potatoes tied up in the middle,' and she fondled her own eighteen-inch waist.

  'Ah, the intolerance of youth,' he said blandly, lounging in the chrome and black leather armchair, one trousered leg crossed over the other. 'So she is, but never mind, dear, I always seduce her into a double think, urging her to dismiss the nubile models from her mind. I suggest that though they show the clothes, it takes someone like herself to give the garments pizzazz.'

  He caught sight of himself in the large mirror screwed to the red brick wall of this fiercely expensive riverside apartment. It had been part of a derelict factory before conversion by one of Gabor's building companies. It was high fashion. So was Marty.

  He would have been the first to admit that he had done things of which he wasn't proud in order to reach the highest echelon of the fashion world. He'd recognised at art school that talent, even sizzling talent like his, wasn't enough. What was needed was a large slice of luck, a conscience that wouldn't keep one awake at night, and the ability to seize life by the throat before it got you.

  With the cool for which he was famous, he made a critical note of the fit of his Madras cotton shirt, which, along with his baggy trousers, were top-sellers from his couture range. Branching off into menswear had been one of Gabor's inspirations. Now every go-ahead executive worth his salt had at least one Marty Blake suit in his wardrobe - classy, sexy, and pricey.

  'How can she be so stupid?' Cressida said, pursuing the subject of Mrs Hooper-Jones as she paced across the polished wooden floor and came to rest in front of him.

  'Her husband's a millionaire. That gives her the right to be any goddamn thing she pleases, including stupid,' he answered nastily, running a hand up Cressida's thigh.

  She was so close he could smell her costly perfume and the scent of her highlighted dreadlocks. His cock stirred, trapped in his trousers. Her breasts were nearly as flat as a boy's, but her umber nipples jutted out like organ stops.

  The gown she wore was stunning and he marvelled how Arlene had managed to do it on a shoestring. The girl had imagination, flair and guts, and the memory of their encounter in the storeroom fired his lust even as he directed it towards Cressida. But though he had penetrated Arlene and brought her to pleasure, it hadn't stopped him robbing her, though, creative artist that he was, he understood just how deeply this would have wounded her.

  Barbaric, outrageous, the dress would be a blockbuster, selling to the highest bidder when he showed it. The bodice was made of thick gold mesh, slashed to the navel. The sleeves were scalloped and asymmetric, trailing jet beads. The black silk-chiffon skirt clung to Cressida's lean hips, clearly defining the deep crease between her buttocks and giving him thoughts of whips and canes, paddles and tawse. She would be a willing party, he knew, though with her height, strength and attitude, she preferred the dominatrix role. It was slit so high on each side that every movement showed her stocking tops. Her height was increased to six foot four inches by her stilt-heeled ankle boots. She wore no panties, the shadow of her mound visible, carefully depilated, except for a line of black hair that accentuated the division of her sex-lips.

  Marty parted his legs to give her easier access to his cock. It was rock hard. Besides being one of the world's highest paid models, she gave superb head. As he lay back, anticipating the moment when her plum-coloured lips would fasten round his helm, he dwelt on Mrs Hooper-Jones. Even in the heat of passion his thoughts were never far from his other lust, that of making money.

  She was his best customer, spending thousands of dollars a year in his West End showroom, ordering half a dozen ensembles a season. Though a middle-aged, dumpy New Yorker, by the time he'd finished smooth talking her she was convinced that the mannequins were mere mirages - substitutes for real women. He told her that it was only when an inspired garment was actually cut on the customer that it could finally achieve perfection. And she, besotted by him, believed it.

  'D'you know, Cressida, I feel almost sorry for those rich, pampered bitches,' he said, as he fingered her smooth pussy flesh. 'What they really want is to have their cunts stroked, like this. They're lonely and frustrated and their husbands are workaholics. I'll bet a dime to a dollar that Mrs HJ goes back to her apartment overlooking Central Park, all alone after some glitzy charity function, and plays with her pussy as she looks in the mirror, thinking, "I'm wearing a Marty Blake". Then she wanks until she can't stand.'

  'They've all got the hots for you,' she said, and gave a deep-throated chuckle as she rubbed her clit against his fingers. 'What d'you want me to do? Suck you off or fuck you?'

  'In a minute you're going to do both, but I'm enjoying this. Part those lovely legs and let me get at your quim,' he growled, his eyes narrowed to tigerish slits.

  S
he stood with her crotch on a level with his face, hiked back the skirt and her beautiful, tapered hands came down each side of her labia, the deep blue lacquer on her almond-shaped nails contrasting with the strip of inky fur fringing her slate-dark lips. She stretched the wings and her clitoris protruded, red as blood and well developed.

  Marty leaned forward and extended his tongue, flicking over the erect bud, his balls clenching as he heard Cressida's indrawn gasp of pleasure. She opened herself wider and the juice welled from her vulva. He could taste it, salty and strong, and ran his tongue over her delta while one of his fingers moved higher, finding the puckered moue of her anus and pushing against it, gaining entrance to her rectum.

  The little mouth yielded, and he sank his forefinger inside to the second knuckle, feeling the taut muscles gripping it, and remembering the blissful sensation of thrusting his upright tool into that dark, secret tunnel.

  'My tits,' she pleaded, still holding her petals apart.

  With his tongue lapping her clit, he reached up and found the two ardent points poking through the mesh. As he moved from one to the other he wondered if he could alter the cut of the bodice so that they were always on display. He teased them, made them swell even more, and she pressed against his tongue, mewling like a Siamese cat on heat as she convulsed in orgasm.

  Marty's cock pressed urgently against his trousers and his balls felt tight in their hairy purse, aching with the need to discharge their contents. He slouched low on his spine, and Cressida took her long nails to his zipper and ran it down. He relaxed as her hand lifted his heavy cock from inside. Then, with feline agility, she lifted her skirt up out of the way, sat astride his lap and sank down slowly, holding herself at the tip of his cock and rubbing her swollen slit against it. He grabbed her legs and hitched them up till her ankles rested on his shoulders. The force of gravity pressed her down so that his dick plunged into her, burying deep. Holding her firmly under the buttocks, his fingers indenting the smooth brown haunches, he lifted her up and down over his pulsating length.