In Too Deep

by Roxane Beaufort

  Cressida took her weight on her arms, clinging each side of the winged chair. Her face was contorted like an African mask, full lips pulled back over her even white teeth, her eyes fierce and unfocused. Her body heat swept up like a miasma, and he breathed deeply of its odour.

  He closed his eyes as the first spasm shuddered through him. Sparks danced, sensations scorched and he erupted, and amidst the volcanic outburst he was aware of Vincent coming into the room, encouraging him.

  Marty dropped from nirvana and tumbled Cressida off him. He tucked his cock away and did up his flies. Vincent continued to grin, clad in a knee-length white towelling robe, loosely girded, his stoutly muscled calves supporting him, his phallus, impressive even in repose, showing through the opening. Larger than most, naked of foreskin, the exposed helm was a dark purple. It slanted to the right, the black pubic thatch glistening with the pre-come juice weeping from its single eye.

  He was flanked by girls.

  Two walked with their heads down, hands clasped behind their backs. Their hair was waist-length, one toffee-gold, one a brunette. They were barefoot and naked, except for a tiny suede cache-sex and a spiked collar fastened tightly round their necks. Slender and shy, their colour was high, their attitude one of shame, their rose-pink nipples crimping at the drop of temperature. Behind them strode a pair of strapping Amazons in black leather catsuits. They were as tall as Cressida, big breasted, wide-hipped, their hair piled high, strutting arrogantly and swishing whips that trailed several knotted cords. Careful not to strike Gabor, they flicked the girls' rumps, making them yelp, though never daring to look up or protect themselves from these stinging blows.

  'The jacuzzi is the best thing since sliced bread,' he announced, jerking a thumb at his slave girls who immediately crouched at his feet and towelled his legs. 'You should have joined us. Plenty of room for all. Aren't you glad I insisted it was included when we designed your conservatory?'

  'Of course, you always know best,' Marty said, though his sarcasm was lost on Gabor. This was one of the few things he could do better than his foreign sponsor. No one dispensed irony like the British.

  Gabor was hardly listening, standing with his legs spread, his wet soles making imprints in the rug. He was studying Cressida with shrewd eyes, then said, 'Is that one of the dresses you've recently acquired?'

  'I don't know what you mean,' Blake prevaricated.

  'Then it is an Arlene Murphy,' Gabor said, admiringly. 'It's superb. She has style, that little nobody.' Then he glared down at the honey-haired slave. 'Mind your manners, slut. Did I give you permission to touch my cock?'

  'I'm sorry, master,' she quavered, sinking low and placing her mouth on his foot.

  'Punishment time,' he announced.

  The leather-clad women hauled the girl up and dragged her to a stool, a plain thing of metal and thin upholstery. She was forced to bend over it, her knees on one side, her outstretched arms on the other, her hair streaming down to touch the floor.

  'Oh please, don't hurt me,' she sobbed, but Gabor strolled across and placed a hand on her raised hindquarters, then had the women open her cheeks wide so he could penetrate her fissure. He examined it with brutal fingers, making her cry out. She was helpless to move, her ankles gripped and pulled apart, her hands roped and tied to the stool.

  'Marty, would you like to do the honours?' Vincent said, with a sly grin.

  'What a splendid notion,' he replied, his lust momentarily appeased, yet his cock already stirring at the sight of the trussed and naked slave.

  'Give him the whip, Kay,' Vincent Gabor commanded and, after the tallest of his Amazons had done so, he had her stand beside him so he could finger her shaven mons and pierced nipples through conveniently placed openings in her catsuit.

  Marty Blake's palm closed round the smooth haft and balanced it. Short and strong, it supported the long wicked plait that ended in a dozen knotted thongs. It would hurt, he knew, no stranger to the kiss of the lash. Submissive or dominant; he selected whichever role appealed at any particular time. It depended entirely on his mood and what was happening in other areas of his life. Now, he longed to see Arlene stretched over the stool. What right had she to be so clever? No one should be more talented than him.

  He took up a position behind the girl's bare posterior, flexing his arm. He knew Vincent was watching him critically, a past master at chastisement. He wanted to acquit himself well. As in everything else, a certain rivalry existed here between the two men. Lifting the whip high, Blake struck with measured ferocity. His aim was as accurate as when he used his cutting-out shears. He had the eye of a perfectionist, and soon raw red bars striped the slave's quivering flanks. Her hips writhed and rose, to be held down remorselessly by Kay and the other Amazon.

  Power raced through Marty: he felt himself to be omnipotent.

  He'd stolen Arlene's work and no one was any the wiser. Tina wouldn't tell. She daren't. Besides, she was in love with him. And he suspected that Arlene, too, had been bewitched that one time he screwed her. And this little creature threshing and screaming under the whip was the recipient of his rage and passion. The blows fell across the backs of her thighs, the underhang of her buttocks, and she begged for mercy, her struggles subsiding to reflex actions at each cut.

  'Enough,' ordered Gabor, and Blake allowed the whip to fall to his side. 'Kay, take the wretched girl and put her under the shower. And you,' he pointed at the other slave, who was trembling lest she follow the same fate as her friend, 'fetch Miss Cressida a cup of coffee. Quickly, or you'll be bending over the stool yourself. Come over here, Marty, we've an important matter to discuss.'

  He moved to where a settee stood near a low glass and teak table. Blake sat and watched as Gabor took up a large manila envelope and drew something out. 'Take a look at these,' he said, handing the contents over. 'It's a new girl who wants to go into modelling. George sent me the proofs. Don't you think she's charming?'

  Marty had seen hundreds of CVs and folios from aspiring mannequins and, at first, he only glanced through these, then his attention sharpened as he looked at the blonde, blue-eyed girl who seemed to return his stare with amused precocity. First, she was in a denim skirt and crop-top, pretty, almost wholesome looking, yet with a certain naughty gleam in her eye. The next pictures confirmed her double personality. Wearing a red leather basque and miniskirt she became a tart, albeit a well brought up one.

  She was gorgeous, and he eyed every pose closely. It was always exhilarating to discover a brand new talent, and now Marty held it in his hands. But he wanted more than just pictures - he wanted her.

  'What d'you think?' asked Gabor, smiling knowingly.

  A nod of approval from Blake spoke volumes. 'What's her name?' he asked.

  'George rang to see what I thought of the proofs. Her name is Julia Jones. Nice and simple, eh? We'll let her keep it, and I think we should see her as soon as possible. Don't want some other designer signing her up.'

  'When?' Blake felt a hot rush of excitement, a boy again waiting for Christmas morning to come.

  'Tomorrow,' Gabor replied decisively, the pictures in one hand, his other disappearing inside the robe to fondle his erection. 'We'll invite her for an audition.'

  Chapter 5

  Julia wasn't familiar with the Highgate area of London. All she knew was that it contained a famous cemetery where many celebrities of the past were interred, including Karl Marx.

  It was a place where only those with money could afford to live. George had given her Vincent Gabor's address and told her to arrange to go there for an interview with him.

  'He's over the moon about your pics, sweetie,' he had crooned down the phone. 'Can't wait to see you in the flesh.'

  'And Marty Blake will be there?' she asked, unsure whether to be pleased or sorry that she'd made an impact.

  'He'll be around, for sure, but it's Gabor you've got to impress.'

  She pulled up at the gates of Hazel House. They were open and she drove her old banger along t
he drive and stopped outside the main entrance. She mounted the steps and pressed the bell, meanwhile looking up and around at the impressive building. It was a solid house set foursquare in a large piece of ground. It had stood there for a hundred years, and the monkey-puzzle and cedar trees were well established, as were the azalea bushes and privet hedges. The garden was immaculate and the mansion maintained to a high standard. The car she shared with Arlene looked battered and seedy in comparison with a Mercedes and Jaguar parked nearby.

  I shouldn't have come, she thought, hearing the bell go ding-dong deep within the building. She was acutely nervous, even though Arlene had advised her on her outfit and she was wearing a skirt and top in caramel linen, with a cashmere cardigan. A conservative ensemble, but the cut was superb, one of Arlene's own creations. Neat shoes and beige stockings completed the picture, and Arlene had also worked on Julia's hair, making the most of the bouncy curls, and helping her with her make-up, too, emphasising her English Rose complexion and darkening the lashes that framed her violet-blue eyes.

  This increased Julia's confidence yet made her oddly uncomfortable. She wasn't used to wearing dressy clothes. Although these were quite casual, she much preferred trainers or terrain sandals, jeans and T-shirts or shorts in warm weather. The stockings clung, upheld by white ribbon suspenders attached to a narrow, lace-trimmed garter-belt. Ordinarily she would have had bare legs, for the day was warm, a hint of approaching summer borne on the balmy breeze that lifted her curls and ran impudent fingers up inside her skirt and around the coffee lace trim of her French knickers.

  She heard footsteps coming along the hall and the two halves of the double door were flung open with a flourish. Julia had a quick impression of height and severity, finding herself face to face with an intimidating woman, who said without a smile, 'Miss Jones?'

  'Th-that's me,' Julia answered, stumbling over her words.

  'I'm Grace Pennick, Mr Gabor's personal secretary and assistant,' the woman went on, and stood to one side so that Julia might enter. 'Please come in.'

  'I had thought that perhaps he'd want to see me in his office,' Julia gabbled on, following Grace across a hall as big as a ballroom.

  'He works from home a great deal,' she answered crisply, her demeanour not one that encouraged small talk. Julia found her formidable. She was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, the jacket severe and the skirt calf-length. Her sheer black stockings fitted flawlessly and she wore lace-up shoes with high heels. Her hair was cut short and swept back from her plain, broad-featured face. Her flat cheekbones were rouged, her eyes outlined by kohl and mascara, and her mouth was a wide scarlet slash. The use of cosmetics did nothing for her, too heavily applied to be soft and feminine. When she twisted her lips into a sneer, her expression was one of cruelty and rapaciousness.

  She opened a door at the rear of the hall and they entered a large panelled room. It was filled with tapestries and antiques. Whoever Vincent Gabor was and where he fitted into the equation, there was no denying his exquisite taste. Julia gazed in awe at the collection of bronzes that stood on tables and plinths. It took her a second to take in their content. Sculpted and cast by master craftsmen, they were executed in the style of Ancient Greece. There were muscular men having intercourse with naked, buxom goddesses; hairy satyrs with goat legs and massive phalli penetrating the quims of slender, nude nymphs; men copulating with men, women pleasuring women, and mixed groups indulging in the penetration of every orifice.

  Julia, staring at them dumbstruck, wondered if they were originals thousands of years old and worth a fortune. Her eyes kept returning to one in particular where a voluptuous girl bound with chains was on her hands and knees. Her bare bottom was lifted towards a grotesque, dwarfish figure with an enormous cock, who was brandishing a whip. Stripes had been carved on her back and buttocks, tears made to trickle down her cheeks. The piece was so lifelike that Julia almost expected to hear her scream.

  'What a collection,' she said in awe. 'I've never seen anything like it.'

  'Nor will you,' Grace answered with almost personal pride, and a lustful look in her eyes as she stared at Julia. 'Mr Gabor is a connoisseur of art. He specialises in erotica. You appreciate them? That's good. He'll be pleased to know you're responsive.'

  'I've come about a modelling job, nothing else,' Julia reminded her, but was disconcerted when Grace, hatchet-faced and unsmiling, reached out, slid a hand under her cardigan and started to fondle her nipples.

  'So?' the woman said, unbuttoned Julia's linen top, and with stunning presumptuousness freed her breasts from her lace and satin bra, displaying their ripe roundness and luscious tips. 'What better way to begin?'

  Julia was stunned, feeling unsteady on her high heels, aware of the heat of the room, the heat of Grace's fingers, the heat welling up in her loins. A hand slid down, lifting the hem of Julia's skirt and stroking her thighs between her stocking tops and knickers. Not really knowing what to do, she stood perfectly still under the woman's caresses, her arms hanging limply at her sides, and she felt fingers worming inside the leg of her knickers.

  She gasped, moved back a step and, with a mocking twist to her lips, Grace released her. 'W-when will I meet Mr Gabor?' Julia blurted, her heart racing, her mind in a confused spin. 'Are you going to tell him I'm here?'

  'I shall interview you first. He trusts my judgement, and we're very impressed with your photos. Have you brought along your CV?'

  'Yes,' Julia said, pulling a folder from her bag. It contained her hastily concocted history of modelling work to date. Will had dreamed it up on his word processor.

  'This looks interesting,' Grace said, sitting on the chintz-covered window seat and browsing through it. 'Though it seems you aren't very experienced.'

  'That's true, but I'm willing to learn,' Julia insisted, wondering if Grace guessed the CV was a fabrication.

  It had been Denise's idea. After a few moments of doubt she had agreed with Will's suggestion that it would be a great story if Julia could pull it off, and had given the project her go-ahead. This was the chance to prove herself for which Julia had been praying, and she knew she could always rely on Will if she got into situations too hot to handle. Mobile phones were a blessing in disguise to people like them, who worked on a knife-edge and often needed an instant response and support.

  To her further embarrassment, Grace reached for an envelope lying beside her and started to leaf through George's photographs. Julia could feel herself blushing. This was far worse than when she had been posing. Then it had seemed as if some other girl was performing those rude acts, not her.

  'These are splendid,' Grace said, a hectic flush adding to her rouge, her pupils unnaturally large as if she'd been using belladonna. 'I'd like to see you modelling similar garments in reality, as it were. I've some here, brought along specially. Take off your clothes.'

  Oh dear, another one wanting Julia to undress. What was it with people? But, certain that she must comply in order to be accepted and then spy for Arlene, she slipped her arms out of her cardigan, then took off her top and bra. She unzipped the skirt and let it drop. Now she only wore her knickers, suspender belt, stockings and shoes.

  'Let me help you,' said Grace, her voice husky, and she knelt at Julia's feet, her strong hands undoing the tiny pearl buttons at the waistband of her satin drawers.

  These slid down with a seductive whisper and Julia lifted her feet, one by one, so that Grace could take them off, along with the shoes. She held the silky undergarment to her face with sensual delight, then put it to one side and unclipped Julia's suspenders, front and back, and rolled down the nylons, careful not to snag them. Naked, Julia was aware of Grace's breath on her skin. She went to unhook the garter-belt, but Grace slapped her fingers away.

  'What?' Julia squealed, the backs of her hands stinging.

  'I shall undress you,' Grace replied sternly, and imprisoned Julia's outer labia between thumb and index finger, and walked her middle digit between the soft inner lips, finding her clito
ris and starting to stimulate it.

  Tingling excitement made Julia gasp. Grace smiled knowingly, then stood up and went to where articles of clothing hung on the back of a chair. She took up a wasp-waisted corset of black satin, trimmed with scarlet, and brought it over.

  'I wore something like this for George,' Julia said as Grace wrapped it round her, settled her breasts in the half cups and started to pull on the lacing at the back.

  It was extremely restrictive and growing tighter as Grace hauled, pausing only to snap, 'Hold the couch - I need to get a purchase. Come on, breathe in...'

  'Oh... ah...' Julia grunted, bending to cling to the scroll back of the chaise longue, legs apart, the fair floss hardly covering her chubby lower lips protruding between.

  She was conscious of Grace behind her, tugging as if her life depended on closing the gap of the corset to the limit. The more Julia protested, the air leaving her with a rush at every forceful jerk at the laces, the more determined Grace became.

  Finally, satisfied that she couldn't reduce Julia's waist any more, she tied the ends and tucked them away. She prowled round to the front, pinching Julia's nipples till they swelled like raspberries over the basque's upper edge.

  'Gorgeous,' she muttered, and bent her head to lick each one, her tongue as rough as a cat's, causing a frisson of lust to race through Julia's nervous system.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror over the mantelpiece, and was struck by how extreme she looked. The black corset contrasted with her paler skin, nipping her waist to doll size, thrusting her breasts high. And, below the edge of the garment that ended at her navel, the swell of her belly and the outrageous sight of her golden fuzz sliced through by her labial slit.

  'I couldn't wear this on the catwalk,' she gasped, with some difficulty.