In Too Deep

by Roxane Beaufort

  'Julia, this is Mr Gabor,' said Grace, and her voice was slightly unsteady.

  'How delightful,' he said, and bowed over her hand. He didn't kiss it, but his lips hovered over the back, warm breath giving her goosebumps. 'I've been so looking forward to our meeting. I watched the video of you, taken yesterday afternoon, and I think you're just what I'm seeking.'

  Julia's heart missed a beat. She'd been filmed? Had this included Grace seducing her and then beating her, and her own response to lesbian love? One glance into Mr Gabor's eyes convinced her that he had seen everything. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. What must he think of her?

  She felt small and insignificant, underdressed in her floral print frock that was no more substantial than an under-slip. It reached to just above her knees, had spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline, back and front. With her bare legs and sandals her attire was more suitable for the beach than town. Hot and bothered as she drove in, she had been glad that she'd opted for something informal, but now regretted it.

  Vincent Gabor, however, smiled at her saying, as he held on to her hand, 'This is the look for summer; carefree, casual and bold. It makes a statement.'

  'Does it?' she quavered, unable to pull away, mesmerised by him. His suit was faultlessly tailored, his open-necked shirt pristine, forming a contrast with his coppery skin. He even smelt expensive, though there was an underlying hint of his own personal body odour and the scent of his hair.

  He smiled again with a flash of perfect teeth. 'Of course, all clothing reflects the manners and mores of the time. This is the age of women-power. They are like gorgeous butterflies emerging from the chrysalis, vital and full of force. The males have had to do a re-think, and maybe the women sometimes regret no longer being subjugated. There are those among us who seek to redress the balance.'

  He had lost her; she couldn't understand what he meant by his last sentence. But she wanted to please him, so said, 'I'm sure you know much more about what is fashionable. I simply follow the magazines and have had some training in deportment.'

  'Tonight I'm holding a small exhibition of Marty Blake's newest, most innovative designs, and the audience will be select,' he went on. 'I want you to be one of the models.'

  'Me? But I thought it would be some time before I actually appeared in public,' she gasped, her heart dropping like a stone to the pit of her stomach.

  He chuckled and put an arm around her in a gesture that should have been avuncular, but was far from that. 'This isn't the public, just a few of my friends and customers. You'll be fine.'

  Oh, Julia cried inside, trembling with fright, where are you Aunt Mary? I need you or Arlene, or even Will. What have I let myself in for?

  'Is this an audition, or are you about to offer me employment?' she asked, pulling herself together and trying to control that weakness of the knees brought about by her trepidation and his close proximity. His arm was like a steel band, though lightly placed, and she knew she'd be powerless to get away.

  'I've already seen you in action, remember?' he teased, and pressed against her, making her conscious of the fleshy baton lying in his trousers. 'And Marty Blake watched the video, too. He was most impressed.'

  She should have broken free, but couldn't. She was furious, shamed, and despite her predicament, aroused. Gabor was smiling so enticingly that she forgot to be angry, every sensible thought fluttering out the window. 'What... what time shall I come back?' she whispered shakily.

  He arched an eyebrow at her. 'Come back? Did I say you could leave?'

  'But I need to change, and um, do my hair and make-up,' she stammered, reduced to a jelly as he casually lowered his hand and lightly touched her bottom through the thin dress.

  'There's no need for you to go anywhere,' he drooled silkily, dragging the fabric across the flimsy triangle of her panties. 'Everything you need is here, my dear.'

  'Oh, I see,' she said quietly, her breasts rising firmly against the thin fabric that tightly encased them as she breathed deeply to calm herself, 'then you must tell me what to do...'

  'Grace will take care of you,' he said, and moved away, picking up the phone and dialling a number. He waved a decisive hand to his aide, adding, 'See to it. She's to have everything she wants and to be ready by eight. Now, leave me.'

  'Yes, sir,' Grace said stiffly. She prodded Julia in the back and hurried her across the vast floor to a door near the windows. It led to a smaller room, with French windows leading onto a balcony. Three girls idled there in the sun, completely naked, on deckchairs and cane basket-swings. Their skin was oiled to promote a tan, their hair up and kept in place with clips. Julia was shocked to see that two of them were pierced through the nipples, navels and labial wings. She didn't know quite where to look, though they seemed unfazed. She noticed that a copy of Hi Life was being passed around.

  'Mr Gabor's seraglio,' Grace remarked, with a contemptuous sniff.

  'Stuff off, you sour old cow,' retorted a redheaded beauty with legs that were long and slender. 'You're only jealous - though whether of him or us, it's hard to tell. Who's this, your new plaything?'

  'Keep your spiteful mouth shut, Gina,' Grace snapped coldly. 'This is Julia, and she'll be modelling tonight.'

  The girls laughed and Gina strutted over to Julia, magnificently naked and whiplash lean, her breasts full, the hard teats rising from brownish-pink aureoles, her pubic mound completely hairless, drawing attention to the dark cleft of her sex.

  'We're all models here,' she sneered. 'But sometimes we're told to do more. Are you prepared for that?'

  'I don't know what you mean,' Julia replied, as afraid of these brazen girls as she had been of the bullies in her school playground, to whom she'd always come off worst.

  'You don't?' Gina sneered again, hands on hips. 'Well, neither did we. Isn't that so, girls?'

  'That's right,' they chorused. 'We went like lambs to the slaughter.'

  'I told you to be quiet,' Grace insisted, and lifted the short cane she carried, slashing Gina around the thighs and backside. Then she seized Julia's arm and marched her towards another door.

  Julia hung back, frightened of what lay ahead, but Grace would have none of it, dragging and thrusting her into the next room.

  Chapter 6

  It's going to be all right, Julia kept telling herself as she submitted to Grace's rigorous grooming.

  First she was stripped and pushed into the shower, washed all over with scented gel, rinsed off, then told to step out. She was wrapped in a large warm towel, and Grace was utterly scrupulous about drying her.

  The luxury of her surroundings, the pampering lavished upon her, the fragrances, the soft samba music in the background, all conspired to ease Julia's mind and arouse her senses. Wherever she looked she could see Mr Gabor's face, and his deep voice seemed to mingle with the pulsing beat of the Afro-Spanish rhythms. When Grace sank to her knees before her and parted the damp fluff bordering her labia, she imagined it to be him. Grace's tongue became his, coaxing her swelling bud, and it was his long brown fingers that reached for her nipples, not the woman's.

  They were in a dressing room. There were racks where clothes hung; daywear, evening gowns, and a large collection of garments made of leather and PVC. She could see trousers and catsuits, split crotch panties, basques and corsets, and weird contraptions that resembled a pony's harness. Accessories were on stands close by; hats, broad-brimmed or pill-box shape, some with alluring veils, and shining helmets with ostrich feather plumes; cloaks and masks and bull-whips, paddles and tawse and birches. The shoes ranged beneath were extraordinary and theatrical; high heeled courts and mules and, most fascinating to Julia, thigh-high boots with lacing at the outer sides, stack heels, sharp pointed toes and spurs. Metal glinted on the clothes and footwear, studs and rings and zips.

  'Is this part of Marty Blake's collection?' Julia asked innocently.

  'Not exactly,' Grace answered, straightening up and unwrapping the towel, so that Julia was naked, pink from the shower and
glowing with outer warmth and inner arousal. 'But you'll be wearing something like them. Mr Gabor has important customers coming tonight.'

  'Buyers for big stores?'

  'Don't ask so many questions,' Grace said abruptly, and gave her hip a light slap. 'Yours is not to reason why, but to do as you're told.'

  Then the woman had Julia sit on a stool in front of the dressing table mirror and commenced to massage her with body lotion. Soon she felt limp, as if she was floating in a rose-scented cloud. Grace had a magic touch, her capable hands becoming marvellously gentle, yet with a firmness that brooked no resistance.

  It was while she was skilfully applying make-up to Julia's face that the other girls burst in, chattering and laughing, brandishing a list of what they were to wear and in which order. Gina seemed to be the ringleader and she stood close beside Julia, staring threateningly at her in the mirror.

  'Leave her alone,' Grace warned, calmly but with menace. 'She's not for you, or for me.'

  'Who then?' Gina demanded like a spoilt child.

  'I have my orders,' Grace informed her, brushing Julia's lustrous hair. 'Mr Gabor wants to put her through her paces.'

  'What's so special about her?' Gina asked spitefully.

  Grace said no more, but simply continued brushing Julia's hair.

  'Come on, darlings,' called a magnificent person who shimmied in on enormously tall stilettos that added six inches to his already considerable height. 'Stop frigging your fannies and get into your gear. We can have a quick rehearsal before the curtain goes up.'

  'Oh, Roberta, must we?' they complained in unison, but the stranger would have none of it. He strutted around them, running a critical eye over them from top to toe.

  'You certainly must. I've been too lenient with you, I can see that. Discipline is needed, and that's what you're going to get. Come on, chop, chop! You too, Gina. You didn't think I'd let you get away with laziness, did you?'

  The stunning figure scrutinised Julia. 'Is this her - the new one?' he asked Grace. 'Mr Gabor's been telling me all about her.'

  Julia stared, open-mouthed, as the person beamed at her. He - and she assumed he was a he - had the bearing of an empress. His skin was smooth and unblemished, and he wore a short skirt that finished mid-thigh. His legs were superb, his make-up faultless, his eyes emphasised by kohl and mascara. His hair was out of this world, mainly dark but with reddish streaks and a number of little plaits ornamented with colourful glass beads. One of his slim hands reached out and tipped Julia's chin up with a long talon that matched his gold eye shadow.

  'This is her,' Grace confirmed, pride in her voice as they viewed her handiwork in the mirror.

  'And your name is...?' he asked the bewildered girl, missing nothing as he assessed her face and figure.

  'J-Julia...' she faltered, nonplussed by his strangely intense interest in her. 'Julia Jones.'

  'Cute breasts and a pert little tush,' he commented. Gina and her friends, blonde Katie and dark Vesta, were watching like hawks, hoping to see her discredited, but Roberta smiled with a flash of white teeth, patted her shoulder kindly and added, 'You'll do fine, love. I've a wonderful scenario worked out. Get her into the white outfit, Grace, and she can strut her stuff during rehearsal.'

  The room became backstage, with everyone concentrating on donning their costumes, doing their make-up and hair, and quarrelling like children until Roberta lost it and told them all to shut up. The warm façade vanished and he was suddenly cold and cruel, and Julia shivered as she imagined incurring his wrath. He might look like a glamorous leading lady, but he had a vicious temper and the strength of a man.

  The first ensembles selected were quite conventional, next spring's fashions in spice and sand, lit by flashes of citron. Grace didn't attire Julia in the white costume, not quite yet. First of all she had to put on a dressing gown to go out to the reception room where an apron-shaped platform and a long catwalk had been set up.

  'Get your mind off pussy and your hands off cocks!' Roberta shouted to a pair of slouching engineers who were eyeing the models with intent. 'Music! Lights!'

  At once everything was transformed as the houselights dimmed and the spots were aimed at the stage. Gina appeared, swinging her hips, ribs lifted, breasts jutting, wearing an orange see-through sarong, a tiny G-string, and strappy sandals with thin heels. Raunchy disco music pounded out and she moved in time to the beat. Julia, watching from the wings, thought her superb, but Roberta wasn't pleased.

  'No, no, not like that,' he shouted. 'You're walking as if you've got a prickly pear shoved up your quim. Put some zing into it. You know how to walk... like this.'

  He made an entrance, paused for full dramatic effect, and then moved down the catwalk with all the fearsome grace of a hunting leopard. Julia forgot he had originally been a man, for he was so svelte, so sinuous, elegant, aristocratic and sexy, that he might have been born a female. The only giveaway was his height, the size of his hands and feet, and the flatness of his bum. Apart from that, he was a female by nature rather than surgery and hormone pills.

  'Watch closely, girls, especially you, Julia,' he demanded in a high, bossy voice. 'One, two, three, pause, legs apart, give 'em a thrill, then twirl, turn, hands on hips, up stage we go. Walk, walk, face the audience one last time, and off. Have you got it? Right, come on then. Julia, with me, walk, walk...'

  This was nothing like the time when Arlene had drilled her in a church hall. She felt clumsy and totally inept, and deeply regretted being drawn into her friend's hare-brained venture. It was Julia who'd had her dresses stolen. It wasn't her who had the hots for the alleged perpetrator of the crime. So why was she there, being taught how to walk like a model by a giant transsexual, and possibly in danger if the little ruse was discovered? This wasn't her scene at all, but then, she wanted to be a recognised reporter, and this venture could be a great step for her...

  Roberta clamped a firm grip around her arm and directed her to follow his moves. She began to get the hang of it, responding to the exciting beat that shot straight down to her epicentre. She stalked, she paced, she stared haughtily at mere mortals. She might not be dressed for the part, but by the time she'd walked the catwalk for half an hour with Roberta, she had the edge on the others.

  'And rest,' he said at last, and took her back to where Grace waited. 'The bride gown,' he instructed, and they exchanged a significant glance. 'She'll be in the finale. In fact,' he added, a little sinisterly, 'she'll be the finale.'

  Grace nodded enigmatically and a faint smile flickered in her eyes. 'Do you want her shaved?' she asked.

  'I think not, at this point. Mr Gabor didn't mention it. But later, no doubt he'll let me do the honours.'

  'Shaved?' Julia gasped, staring from one bizarre face to the other - Grace so gaunt and unfeminine, and Roberta a brazen parody of a woman. 'But I don't want to be shaved.'

  'Whilst here your wants have nothing to do with anything,' Roberta said dismissively, any trace of beneficence gone from his features; he now looked as stern as Grace.

  Julia had a job to do, she reminded herself. Will wouldn't crack on a story, and neither would she. That's what investigative journalism was all about. 'You're right,' she said, drawing her shoulders back determinedly. 'I'm sorry.'

  At once Roberta changed, visibly relaxing. 'I do,' he said, smiling. 'Obey me from now on, and we'll get along just fine.'

  He strode to the catwalk, clapped his hands smartly together, and took the models through the routine again.

  The air was charged with a heady excitement, and this increased as the girls prepared themselves. Much spring water was consumed, alcohol being banned before a show, but they puffed edgily on innumerable cigarettes and consumed more chocolate and sandwiches than anyone harbouring the idea that models were anorexic would have believed.

  And eventually it was time for Grace to dress Julia in the white gown they'd all spoken of.

  Bridal dress or confirmation attire, Julia wasn't sure which it was, and doubted th
at it mattered. The important thing was that it symbolised purity, an innocence that someone, probably Vincent Gabor, couldn't wait to besmirch. She stared at herself in the pier-glass, no longer Julia Jones, self-styled super-sleuth, but transformed into a male fantasy of feminine virtuousness. The gown was a simple length of silk chiffon with long full sleeves, reminiscent of that worn by a medieval princess in a fairytale. It was buttoned to the throat, but of so sheer a weave that the outline of her nipples could be seen, and the faint shadow between her thighs showed as an indistinct triangle through the diaphanous pleats.

  This teasing display was more arousing than if she'd been naked, and despite her concerns, she thrilled at the sensuous sight and feel of it.

  Grace pinned on a beautiful corsage, then topped the whole with a floating white veil that covered Julia entirely. She resembled Demeter, the goddess of fertile crops, or a young maiden about to dedicate herself to a god.

  'You look lovely - doesn't she, Roberta?' Grace said as the glamorous transsexual appeared in the dressing room.

  'Perfect,' he gushed.

  Now Julia could hear the murmur of voices from outside, and the compelling beat of soul music. Her heart began to thump, and once again she was reminded of her predicament and swamped with nerves.

  She was shaking as she stood with Grace in the wings, waiting until the other models had displayed their first costumes. She listened to the ripples of applause and murmured comments.

  During the intermission the girls changed into outlandish gear, which might have been supplied by a back street sex shop, not a respected fashion guru.

  'You ready for this?' Gina mocked, as she stood close to Julia.

  Her glossy red hair was piled high, and she wore a shining black patent leather bustier opened down the front and fastened with criss-cross lacing, her breasts lifted high, their upper slopes bare. Black and gold suspenders stretched to clip her stocking-tops, framing her pubis, which was part-covered by a pair of scarlet, open-crotched panties. Elbow-length black gloves and ankle boots with zips and stilt heels completed her outfit.