‘Neither did I!’ She covered him with a sheet and blanket. She even tucked him in as though he were a helpless child sent to bed early. Of course, he was not a child. But he was helpless, and that was just the way Katie wanted him.
Her dreams were erotic and Carew was in them. In her dreams, she savoured his body and had him tied to the bed just as she had Gareth. In her dreams, she was in charge, her hand snaking down over the hardness of his chest, the flatness of his belly. At his pelvis, her fingertips tangled in the glossy thickness of his pubic hair. Proud and ready, his penis rose to meet her. How thick it was, how long, how hot and how it throbbed in anticipation.
She straddled him so that the wetness of her sex sucked on the hardness of his belly. Then she leaned forward so that her nipples met his. The picture in her head was so arousing, and far too engrossing to ignore. As the clock on the far church tower in Pursington struck three, she got out of bed and again mounted Gareth. Immediately, alert to what she had said to him, he responded. Warm body against warm body, she plunged onto him and he reared into her. This time he came, and when she had used him to the full she lay on him and enjoyed the comfort of his body. In the morning, she untied him.
Later, Imran told her that Carew insisted the boy Oliver come into town with him and stay in the car whilst he attended to business.
Such a message was music to Katie’s ears. I am most definitely having an impression on him, she told herself. In fact, I do believe I am getting under his skin.
Chapter 9
‘Are you a virgin, Oliver?’
It was not a question that Katie had been asked in a very long time. In the real world her worldly air, the sway of her hips, and the twinkle in her eyes, was enough to spell out the extent of her experience. But at present she was Oliver and, as such, his background and experience were an entirely different matter. Was Oliver a virgin? she asked herself.
‘I’m not sure, sir.’
Carew paused before his face broke into a smile. ‘But what about your lady friend? The one who...’
Carew hesitated again as the story Oliver had told him came to mind. ‘The one who had such a sad life?’
‘Ah. But she is only a friend, sir. Her breasts feel very nice and so does that hot little place between her legs, but that is as far as our relationship has gone, sir.’ Carew stared and held his breath before he spoke. ‘I see.’
Katie could not look into his mind, but wished she could.
For his part, Carew thought himself a fool. What did it matter whether Oliver was a virgin or not? Talk chummy was the best thing to do, he told himself. But Oliver’s thigh was warm against his and that odd scent of his - that mixture of damp cloth and something not quite male - assaulted his senses. His own advice was not easily taken.
Pull yourself together, man. Get him to talk and tell you another story. Carew congratulated himself. Listening as they drove seemed an excellent idea.
‘So what story do you have about someone losing their virginity, Oliver? I’m sure you must have one about that.’
Bright-eyed, Katie slipped easily into the part of the boyish storyteller.
‘Indeed I do, sir. And every word of it true. I remember a friend of mine telling me his tale, sir. He was really a family friend and a bit older than me, sir. In fact, he was old enough to join up just before the war ended, and of course he got sent to France.’
The Great War. Carew felt suddenly inadequate, though, of course, he had not been old enough to go there at the time. France to his mind meant Paris. Automatically, as Oliver began his tale, he could smell the blossom of springtime, the perfume of chic and beautiful women. In his mind’s eye, he could see the kicking legs of the dancers at the Moulin Rouge, their thighs strikingly white against the dense blackness of their stockings. Inspired by such thoughts and his own experience of Paris, his member stiffened noticeably.
‘He went on leave to Paris, sir,’ said Katie, her eyes falling to Carew’s groin before she truly began her tale. ‘Of course, a young man in Paris is fair game for anyone. And soldiers being what soldiers are, the comrades who accompanied him soon found a suitable house of pleasure in a place he called Pig Alley.’
‘Pigalle,’ Carew interrupted. ‘It’s called Pigalle.’
‘I know that, sir. But my friend’s colleagues, being unversed in the French language, called it Pig Alley, so he got into the habit of calling it by the same name. Anyway, sir, that being as it may, he was the youngest of them there and the others had been pulling his leg most of the night. When they gained entrance to this place, they told him he was too young to come in, so, with his hands in his pockets, he stormed off and got himself lost.
‘Before going on leave, he’d got all het up and ready to try his first woman, and his member was so hard, it hurt him to walk because it beat so fiercely against the top of his thighs.
‘A few ladies of the night accosted him, but they didn’t look worth the few francs they were charging, so, with a hardness in his pants that he wanted to get rid of, he went wandering further and further away from the river and the heart of the city.
‘In time, others of a dishonest persuasion noticed he was lost and set upon him. As they were taking the last of his money and kicking him where he lay, a very tall man looking as though he had just left the opera came walking by. With his walking stick, he set about those that had attacked my friend and beat them soundly.
‘Having helped my friend to his feet, and asked him how he felt, he invited him back to his apartment which was on the third Boor of a large block overlooking a pretty square where three lime trees were growing.
‘This man, who was tall and quite striking, gave my friend wine and food besides dealing with his bruises. My friend was grateful and became very relaxed as the wine took over.
‘He could not help watching the man as he walked around the apartment. He remembers that he was dressed in top hat and tails, his shirt sparkling white, his trousers and jacket sharply pressed and cut. His cheekbones were very pronounced and he had a generous mouth and dark grey eyes - a bit like mine - he said. Besides that, he had a very graceful way of moving and he smelt very pretty indeed.
‘Before very long, the effect of the wine could not be ignored. My friend and the man became very jolly in each other’s company and conversation got to a very personal level indeed.
‘The tall man asked my friend the self-same question you have just asked me. My friend had to answer that he was indeed still a virgin, upon which the tall man said he thought he could help. In fact, he offered to get a tall, graceful woman to initiate my friend in the art of love and sex.
‘My friend jumped at the offer, so the tall man suggested he come into the bedroom, take his clothes off and get into bed. In the company of his new-found acquaintance, my friend did just that - unconcerned about the presence of the other man.
‘As instructed, my friend slid naked between the bedclothes and awaited the return of the tall man and a suitable young lady to take care of his erection, which even now was causing the bedclothes to form a neat pyramid.
‘The man in the evening suit disappeared, and my friend dozed for a while before he heard the rustling of silk and smelt the unmistakable smell of expensive perfume.
‘Trembling beneath the bedclothes, he opened his eyes, and his member, which had dozed whilst he had, now rose vigorously upright.
‘In the low light of a single gas lamp, he watched as a woman clad in a blue silk robe came into the bedroom. She was statuesque and very handsome. ‘She said nothing to him. She just let the silk robe slide to the floor in a breathless hush.
‘My friend’s first impression had been correct. She was beautiful. As she approached the bed, his tool throbbed as though it were taking leave of his body.
‘With one graceful hand, she pulled the bedclothes back and stood looking at him. Then with
her lips alone, she explored every inch of his skin, but seeing as he was so green and obviously very near to ejaculation, she did not kiss his member.
‘Instead, she slid into the bed beside him, lay there immobile and let his virgin hands explore the ripeness of her bosom, the firmness of her belly and the wetness of her sex.
‘As his fingers explored, he gained more knowledge.
The woman whose body he explored did not need to say that this was good, or that was better, or this did nothing for her at all. Just the subtle movement of her body, or the sweet murmurs from her lips were enough to teach him what was best to do, and what was not.
‘For the first time in his life, he pressed his belly against that of a woman and, relying on natural ability, let his member find its own way through her slit and into her vagina.
‘Being such a novice, his climax was easily and quickly obtained on the first attempt. But on the second and the third his control and technique improved, so of course his pleasures, and hers, lasted that much longer.
‘Besides, practice making perfect, the lady who shared his bed was entirely compliant with his wishes. If he told her to turn over and get on her hands and knees so that he might take her from behind, she would do so. If he told her to lie across the bed rather than top to toe so that her head was out of sight on one side and her legs widely spread, she did that too. Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble for her.
‘When he finally awoke in the morning, he was alone. He looked and called around the apartment for the tall man who had befriended him the night before, but no one answered.
‘Finally, he scribbled a note thanking the gentleman, then went off downstairs and past the office of the concierge, a woman nearly as wide as she was tall.
‘Yelling at him in the worst of French language, she pointed to a notice outside her office door and, following him out, pointed to another just to the side of the main entrance.
‘Too happy to let his spirits be dampened by her loud harangue, he set off to find his comrades, whistling and smiling as he made his way back towards the centre of the city.
‘It was only after the square with the limes and that side of the city were far behind him that he realised the implications of the sign the woman had pointed out to him. He stopped whistling and smiling• as he translated what the woman had been trying to bring to his attention.
‘Ladies only. That was basically what it said. Ladies only.
‘He’d heard there were buildings like that in Paris where the apartments were let exclusively to women.
‘But what, he asked himself, about the man who had befriended him? He lived in that flat. He knew he did, he’d seen him open the door with a key.’ He couldn’t live there unless he had a key.
‘That fact, he decided, was correct. Then realisation dawned. The man so elegantly dressed for the opera and the woman who had shared his bed and opened her legs for his virgin penis, were one and the same. She dressed like a man and performed like a woman because, of course, she was a woman.’
All the time ‘Oliver’ had been telling his story, Carew had stared spellbound. He still stared now. What was it about the boy that made him do that?
‘Did you like my story, sir?’
Carew blinked and tore his eyes away from the striking, but dirty-faced boy.
‘Yes. I did.’ That at least was true. There was a chirpy innocence in the way the boy told his tales but, by virtue of that innocence, the stories had a strangely erotic quality that unashamedly aroused the one who listened. Carew, much to his own embarrassment, had a tight feeling in his stomach and a hard phallus in his trousers.
He’s smiling at me, he thought to himself as he looked as directly as he could into the boy’s face. He’s bloody smiling at me as though he knows the torments I am going through, the guilt and uncertainty that I cannot seem to overcome.
Such a smile made him grind his teeth. Well, I’ll show him. I’ll teach him to smile at my discomfort.
Immediately after Carew had finished his business in town, he had a quick word with Imran, his driver. Once back in the car, they drove down the main road, then turned down a side road.
Scruffily boarded-up shops and tenements lined the street on either side. Katie immediately recognised where she was. This was the place where she and Phoebe had ventured walking. Here, in this road, was the shop doorway where Phoebe had checked for the teaspoon and had then done some passing man a good turn. But that had been in daylight. As evening approached, the street was getting busier and some of the doorways were already occupied.
White faces peered out above mock fur collars and beneath shabby, but gaudy hats. There were knowing smiles, brazen waves. The odd one or two lifted their skirt to a few inches above their stocking tops.
With something approaching pity in her heart, Katie eyed the stockinged legs and raised skirts. These girls sold what she freely gave. Was Carew about to procure one of these girls for himself? Somehow, she didn’t think so or, if he did, it would only be to augment some tableau for his visual entertainment rather than for his physical pleasure. His next question put her more firmly in the picture.
‘I presume you are a virgin, Oliver, so following that very entertaining story about your friend, I decided to bring you down here to buy you a woman. Would you like to try one?’
Taken off guard, Katie stared at him wide-eyed. What could she say?
At least he was not looking at her. If he had been, he would have seen the unease in her eyes. But he wasn’t. In fact, it was patently obvious he was making a point of not doing so.
‘Well, boy. Are you going to answer?’ There was a serious edge to his voice.
Katie flustered. ‘Yes sir, I mean, no sir. I don’t want one of them. In all honesty, sir, I can’t say I fancy them much at all.’
‘Why is that?’
Carew was still staring steadfastly forward. Katie fancied she saw his lip tremble and a nerve twitch in his cheek. She would have liked to touch it; smooth it away. As it was, she could imagine his cock might be doing the same and would like to have touched that too.
‘They don’t appeal to me, sir. Women they might be, but they don’t look that wholesome. Sooner a pretty boy, sir, than a scruffy woman.’
Now Carew did look at her, his eyes blazing.
‘No, Oliver. Not sooner that at all. Not at all!’ With a heavier hand than was necessary, he tapped on Imran’s shoulder. ‘Home!’
Imran appeared unmoved by the conversation and by the change in plan. Only once did Katie fancy she saw those black eyes drift to the rear-view mirror and regard her with something like amusement. Just imagination, she told herself.
Beside her, Carew sat like stone. Strange, she thought, how tension can be felt in a body even when there are inches of space between them. What was he thinking?
As he stared out at the passing shops, houses and tenements, Carew was deciding how best to get rid of his hard-on. I also need, he thought to himself, to regain my self-control, and I know exactly the right person to help me do that. When we get home, I will instruct Imran to telephone Prissy and get her to come over.
He glanced briefly at the wide-eyed boy who now sat so still yet so compelling beside him. And you, Oliver Tempest, he said to himself, are going to see exactly how much of a man I am.
Priscilla Palmer-Tovey arrived at Thompson Towers on the dot of seven. Like any parson’s daughter, Prissy was polite, punctual and, although not exactly plain, she wasn’t beautiful either. Carew watched her walk up the drive, straighten her hat and smooth her dress before she rang the bell. Priscilla was neat in dress but not prim when she was out of it, and at times that suited him very well indeed.
He smiled and drained the lingering dregs of whisky from his glass. It was the third since six, and although it had helped him drive Oliver’s eyes and pert behind from
his mind, it had not banished the boy completely. As for the story Oliver had told him, the aftermath of that was still discernible and relatively hard in his trousers. But Prissy, he decided, would restore his self-assuredness, and relieve him of his climax.
There was a gentle knock on the door to his private sitting room which was on the first floor and had high lead-paned windows and wainscot panelling. Imran entered. He bowed before making his announcement.
‘Miss Priscilla Palmer-Tovey, sir.’
‘Ask her to come up - and Imran...’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Get young Oliver to come here too.’
After giving the instruction to fetch the boy, Carew turned and looked out of the window at the sun-dappled parkland, so did not see the knowing smile on Imran’s lips or the amusement in his eyes. He was too wrapped up with his own worries. There was a gnawing confusion burrowing deep in his groin. He loved women. He knew he did, so why did the boy unnerve him so much and make him think otherwise?
Excusing his obsession as being based in weariness or not getting enough fresh air lately, he poured himself another whisky.
‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ he muttered to himself ‘With Priscilla’s assistance, it will be confirmed before the boy’s very eyes. He’ll not mistake your meaning, old boy. He’ll get the message that you want no more of those doe eyes and come-on looks. Good God, didn’t you leave all that stuff behind you at school?’
A peel of laughter disturbed his muttering as Priscilla floated into the room before either Oliver or Imran. She rushed into his arms. Her face was flushed and hot beneath his lips.
‘Darling, Roo,’ she gushed, her eyes as bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. ‘How marvellous it is to see you again.’
She smelt of lavender and cabbage roses and her dress seemed a mixed bag of the same - pretty, floral and as busy as a cottage garden.
‘Prissy. It’s nice to see you too. I’m really glad you could come.’
Prissy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why, darling Roo. How kind of you. I’ve never heard you say that to me before.’
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