She closed her eyes and all the little scenes from the coarse floor in Richard’s hallway to the hood being pulled over her head were joined as if by a film editor, the whirl of images warming the oils of her insides and she had an awful urge to touch herself.
They had reached the far end of the long chamber where the diffused glow from lights set in the floor embraced two figurative sculptures in two different shades of marble, pink and pale green, each locked like a lover to the other by reversed shapes of evocative forms, breasts, a penis, lips, a lock of hair. The artist had joined the figures into one form and together they resembled a curling heart.
Richard retreated behind the sculpture, his head visible in the v-shape between the raised shoulders of marble. She hurried to join him and he placed her where he had been standing.
‘Be good,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
He lifted the back of her dress. A finger slid into her pussy, then another, and she shuddered as hemanoeuvred them back and forth inside her. Sex in public. It was so rude. So cheeky. So fab. She was doing what nature had intended and realised with Zen-like awakening that she had never had sex before. Not really. The breathless grunts of Jason Wise had been as clumsy as a car running on three wheels, his little jack handle always trying to force its way up her bum. Those quick knee-tremblers with gauche boys, no sooner in than out with a syrupy splash of spunk on her belly. The rare glimpse of an orgasm like a soap bubble that vanishes the moment you reach for it. So fast. So furious. So disappointing. Boys just don’t know what to do and Richard wasn’t a boy. He was an artist and in his hands she perceived herself transforming into something divine and magical.
Greta was clenching her muscles, rolling with the movement, enjoying the sheer audacity of what they were doing when she noticed a man in the far corner filming her with a digital camera.
‘Richard...’
‘Be good now.’
He maintained the same steady motion and she gripped the marble carving for support. The man with the camera moved closer. She could see her face mirrored in the lens.
The people in the gallery were losing interest in the other exhibits and were stopping one after the other to watch and listen. Richard’s clever fingers were going faster, her pussy throbbing, all slippery and hot. The camera panned in on her open mouth. Greta was trembling, ready to come, and it was like the ripples on a pool stilling as Richard withdrew his hand, the feeling ebbing away and leaving her like a skydiver when the parachute opens and you fall gradually, unremittingly back down to earth.
‘Gustav,’ Richard said. ‘This is Greta.’
‘Agh, agh, agh,’ she sighed.
All that she had taken in was that Gustav was tall and broad like Richard with the same blue eyes, a thick wave of messy bronze hair, a pale linen suit and a striped shirt. He moved to the back of the sculpture and Richard placed his hand on the middle of her back to indicate that she should remain exactly where she was. Richard took the camera and continued filming.
Gustav was carrying a tripod with the telescopic legs folded away. The long rubber handle was ribbed in raised finger holds and was finished in a rounded tip that he flicked at the hem of her skirt. She felt the rubber handle run up her legs and pause at her pouting cleft. Greta was in new territory and felt uncertain. She knew she had to be obedient, but Gustav was a stranger, not Richard. Richard had become – what? What had he become? Greta wasn’t sure and clinging to her uncertainty shuffled her feet fractionally apart. God, she whispered to herself, I really didn’t know I was such a slut!
The handle was twisting one way, then the other as if Gustav was screwing and unscrewing the cap from a bottle, the head prying open the wet lips of her vulva before drawing the shaft smoothly up inside her. Her knees shook. She gripped the v of the sculpture so she could take more, and she wanted more, her drenched sex sucking on the hard rubber until she toppled over the brink into wild wanton frenzy, hips thrusting, head thrown back, a line of sweat like hot lava running between her breasts.
She thought at first that she was doing this for Richard, but she wasn’t. She was doing it for herself, riding the rubber so hard the sap drained from her, swimming down her thighs and calves. Her face flamed as he eased the handle up to the hilt and the crowd stood mutely, awed by her performance. The rubber cock, bigger than any man, teased and punished the swollen protruding lips of her oozing sex and she gasped as she bent her legs to absorb the last turn of the screw. Her hips were lifted high, her back slightly arched, and though she tried to be quiet, little sobbing groans left her parched throat, slowly building, growing in volume until she exploded in a dramatic crescendo, her sighs turning into a scream that shook the glass in the domed roof and traumatized the cracks in the veins of marble.
Gustav slowly unscrewed the handle from her sopping hole and she continued to cling on to the marble figure. She wasn’t sure if she could stand on her own two feet. Her breath came in snappy gasps and through the ringlets of hair veiling her eyes the people were motionless as if far away and lost in thought. However aesthetic in form and metaphysical in concept, she had brought life to the sterile carvings, her vast roaring orgasm giving the works on display the memorable quality the artist had no doubt set out to achieve.
Wow, she thought, I’ve had the biggest orgasm ever. And in public!
Greta took a deep breath to compose herself. Then, on shaky legs, as she followed Gustav out from behind the sculpture the most extraordinary thing happened. The people in the gallery clapped and she instinctively placed one foot behind her and bowed the way she’d been taught.
‘You’re doing OK,’ Richard whispered and she felt inordinately proud as he led her through the crowd back into the sunshine. She had been applauded twice in one day and that’s really something.
Gustav led the way to a red Range Rover, the sides coated in dried mud, and while he drove the short distance to Gloucester Road, Richard studied the film in the viewfinder.
‘Lighting’s not very good,’ he said.
‘It’s only a try-out,’ Gustav responded testily.
Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘I thought these things were state of the art,’ he continued, waving the camera about.
‘Perhaps it isn’t the quality of the camera?’
Richard closed the viewfinder and Greta sat dazed in the back, hands in her lap, knees together, her whole body one giant erogenous zone. Gustav watched her in the mirror. He wasn’t smiling. He was assessing her and she realised he resembled Richard, a little older, and just as tanned. She realised, too, that their little spat was a display of sibling rivalry but had no idea how competitive they really were.
Gustav lived in the same building as Richard, occupying two floors among an eclectic array of oriental rugs, chaises with high backs and drapes patterned with hunting scenes. Like the sculptures in the gallery, the large abstracts on the pale lemon walls were erotic and vaguely feminine. She looked at them all but her eyes kept returning to a square canvas with a simple grid of six brilliant red, randomly placed lines, one crossing the almost parallel arrangement of the other five, the edges bleeding into a plain of pale pink, the combination sensual and hypnotic.
She had sunk exhausted into a pale brown leather armchair, kicking off her shoes, and watched Richard and Gustav wire the camera into the television with the brusque impatience men have with electrical things.
When her image flickered on the screen her green eyes seemed brighter, wet and sparkling like algae in water. The worry lines that marked her face when she was on the tube had gone. Her skin was smooth and she looked so awfully young, a convent girl with the future spreading endlessly before her. Her features changed as the spasms began. She became anxious, breathless, greedy for each new assault on her senses. As her mouth fell open it was so embarrassing watching herself have multiple orgasms and it occurred to her that when you throw back your head to come it doesn’t look like you’re enjoying pleasure but enduring pain. Had the same thought gone through h
er mind this morning? Or yesterday? Time had taken on a new dimension. It had stretched, every moment growing as vibrant and surreal as the paintings on the walls.
The film came to an end and she lifted her shoulders in a modest shrug. Richard beckoned her out of the chair and took her hand so that she could stand on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. He gestured for her to remove her dress and she did so automatically. She was born to be naked, admired, fondled, fucked in every hole and in every way. Richard knew that. Gustav knew that. He was nodding, stroking his cheek. He turned her around as if he were inspecting an objet d’art at an antique market. He lifted a lock of her hair.
‘Natural?’ he asked, and she nodded.
He traced his fingers over the lines decorating her bottom. She bit her lips. The pain had gone but the sensation made her tingle and it was hard to stand still. His palm ran down her legs, feeling her muscles. She raised one foot at a time so that he could inspect each sole. He looked between her toes. Greta shivered and held her breath as two fingers journeyed down her spine and came to rest in the dimples in the small of her back.
He pressed, as if pressing two buttons, then told her to go down on her hands and knees. He motioned for her to lower her shoulders until her head rested in her cradled arms, exposing her in the most submissive way but it seemed perfectly natural and she didn’t feel humiliated at all. He inspected her bottom, her pussy, glistening still, always wet, the puffy lips peeled back to reveal the little shining star of her distended clitoris.
As Gustav looked at her various bits she closed her eyes and couldn’t help remembering the rubber handle on the camera tripod reaching new parts of her undiscovered universe. Her breasts hung low, abundant with their own weight, her nipples unashamedly erect. He tested them between his fingers and gave them a hard squeeze that sent little sprites of pleasure racing through her veins. Everything seemed to be in order. She sat cross-legged, opened her mouth as wide as she could and Gustav examined her teeth. She was pleased that she’d never needed a filling. He ran his fingers around the curve of her mouth, then pinched her bottom lip and kept squeezing until it swelled and drooped in a pout.
‘Might do,’ Gustav said in a serious tone.
‘I think I’ve got you worried.’
‘Worried,’ he repeated haughtily. ‘If I may remind you, dear boy, you have never won.’
‘There’s always a first time.’
‘That’s wishful thinking.’
‘We shall see.’
‘We shall see what we see, Richard,’ said Gustav.
Greta remained cross-legged on the glass table looking from face to face: they had set jaws, the same intense expression and she just wished she knew what they were talking about.
Gustav pulled her ear playfully and she came to her feet. He stood back, his hand nursing his chin. He leaned forward, ran his palm over the curve of her rounded tummy, then took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion to help her down from the glass table.
‘Good girl,’ he said and gently slapped her bottom.
She sat back in the chair. Richard had tossed her dress over a sofa and it was so far away across the room she couldn’t be bothered to go and get it. Richard had said in the market that she wouldn’t be needing her black dress any more and there was no reason to think that she would need the white one either. She had been selected, and it was exciting not knowing what for.
Chapter Five – The Whipping Stool
GUSTAV PUSHED A VIDEO into the machine. The screen came to life and Greta watched a girl riding into view bareback on a pony. The girl, too, was bare except for the leather straps around her neck, wrists and ankles. The pony slowed and the camera moved in for a close-up, the girl’s hair glittering like copper in the sunlight, her tanned skin freckled over high cheekbones.
‘We have stables in the country,’ Gustav said.
His voice was far away and she barely heard him. Greta was transfixed. The girl was dazzling, ethereal, flawless. She had the most startling eyes Greta had ever seen, as shiny as polished brass, and in them she perceived both knowledge and serenity. Beauty carries its own burden, guilt over unmerited good fortune, or irritation at being admired. But as the girl slipped smoothly down to the ground, naked, as free as the wind, it seemed to Greta that she must have gone through those feelings and submitted to the understanding of who and what she was. Greta noticed that the pony had practically the same colour hair as the girl. Its eyes were pure amber.
The film cut to another scene inside the stable. The girl was towelling down the pony, her pretty bottom peeking back at the camera, her svelte slender body moving like a well-oiled machine. She was tall, strong, perfectly formed, an unspoiled, diamond-cut girl brimming with refinement and grace. The camera operator must have called because she turned with a smile, shook her auburn hair and stood with her head erect, hands loose and motionless at her sides. The scene went blank.
‘Wow, she’s really come on,’ said Richard.
‘You still think you can compete?’
Richard glanced at Greta. ‘Actually, yes I do?’
‘It’s your money.’
‘Our money,’ Richard corrected.
He glanced at her again. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand anything, but couldn’t ask because that was the rules and she was wondering about her prize.
Richard must have read her thoughts. ‘Do you ride?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, of course. Since I was little,’ she replied and was so happy to see the look of relief cross his features.
‘Would you enjoy spending some time in the country?’
‘Yes. Yes. Very much.’
‘It will be a...’ he looked for the right words. ‘... an education. You’ll learn all sorts of new things.’
‘I like new things,’ she said and blushed.
Greta stood.
Richard looked for a moment at Gustav, then back at her. ‘We’ll need a few weeks and we really should make a start,’ he said and paused. ‘Next weekend?’
‘I’m sure that will be all right,’ Greta answered and shrugged. ‘I don’t think they’ll mind at work.’
Richard glanced back at Gustav. ‘Well?’ he said.
Gustav thought for several moments. Greta was biting her lips.
He spoke first to Richard. ‘I’ll make all the arrangements,’ he announced, then turned to stroke her bush affectionately. ‘Good luck...’ he paused, as if searching for a word, ‘Pegasus,’ he then said, and his stern expression became a rare smile.
Greta was so relieved to see Gustav smiling she was suddenly a little girl and uncontrollably happy. She stood, clinging to his neck and he swung her round in a circle. He put her down again and led her back to the chair where she’d been sitting. There was a sticky puddle on the leather seat and she went obediently down on her knees to lick it all up.
She stood feeling a bit silly and Gustav nodded with approval as he grabbed his keys.
‘Let battle commence,’ he said and high-fived Richard as he left the room.
Gustav had to return to the country and after he’d gone, Richard took her by the hand and she skipped barefoot up the stairs to the loft below the eaves. She really adored having nothing on. It made her feel more feminine, her full breasts rolling with her movements, like the girl in the film, her nipples hard, burning with the blood rushing into them.
She shook herself and tried to stop thinking about her breasts as she glanced around at the modern pieces of equipment, running and rowing machines, wall bars, a weight press and an odd-looking wooden bench with the two front legs slightly higher than those at the rear. Straps with buckles were attached to the legs and the leather top was sloping at such an angle that it would be most uncomfortable as a seat.
Richard was studying the bench as he spoke. ‘Did you like our game today?’ he asked her.
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, yes I did actually.’
‘We shall play lots more games in the country,’ he added
and she smiled.
He walked around the bench, patting the leather top in the firm tender way you would stroke the flanks of a horse. Greta looked more closely and could see that the deeper colour at the centre wasn’t part of a pattern, but was stained from use, although from what use exactly she couldn’t be sure.
‘It’s an ancient design copied from a drawing in a book of fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm,’ he told her. ‘Do you know the story of Polly Flinders?’
She was running her fingertips over the leather surface and paused to shake her head. Richard recited the poem:
Little Polly Flinders,
Sat among the cinders,
Warming her pretty little toes.
Mother came and caught her,
And whipped her little daughter for spoiling her nice new clothes.
‘Gustav had it built in Canterbury,’ he added. ‘It was used in olden times to discipline girls.’
Goosebumps prickled her skin and her armpits felt damp. She swallowed hard. Richard had been speaking in a friendly voice, but now he looked stern and she really did want to be good.
He patted the top of the bench again. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s make a start.’
She didn’t know what he meant, but was coming to see that it was better to just be obedient and trust Richard. He knew what was best. She was standing with the high side of the bench in front of her, at the level of her belly button. He took her shoulders and she leaned forward, her stomach resting perfectly over the dark stain on the angled top. She spread her feet for balance. It came as no surprise that in this position it was easy for him to strap her ankles. Her breasts hung low and heavy below the bench and her arms fell naturally against the back legs, her wrists at the level of the remaining two straps which he tightened securely. It was quite comfortable, her bottom forced up in such a way that she knew it was going to receive some attention.
A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 4
