‘But what have I got to do?’
‘Just wiggle about,’ Tara replied. ‘You dance around for a bit to get them excited, then you slip on to their laps and give them a good hard rub.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Don’t stay too long on each one. As soon as you get the money, you move on.’
‘Money?’
‘That’s why we do it, Greta. When they put the money in your knickers, that’s the time to escape.’
Greta sighed. She had stage fright. It always happened. ‘I can’t do it, Tara,’ she said
‘I can,’ Tara stressed in her competitive way and at that same moment Richard appeared back in the doorway.
He snapped his fingers. ‘It’s a go,’ he said.
The music had started. She heard the speakers crackle to life and followed Tara in a daze through the dark corridor backstage.
And tonight for your complete pleasure we are proud to introduce Greta May. Let’s give it up for our brand new performer, the beautiful, the adorable, the one and only Greta May …
Greta was blinded by the crisscrossing beams of spotlights as she stumbled on stage. She was aware that out there in the dark people were clapping, which was always nice, and she could see the brass pole fixed to the centre of the stage.
The music grew louder, filling her head, running like creepy crawlies down her arms and legs. As the applause grew louder the butterflies in her tummy lifted on angel’s wings and flew back to the canvas in Vanlooch’s studio. She moved slowly at first, gyrating her hips and shoulders, holding the pole like a lover, running her crack up and down the slippery metal. The music pounded. She was on stage. She was performing, taking flight. She sucked her fingers. She massaged her breasts and pinched her own nipples until they hurt. Pussy was wet again and she heard the crowd roar for more as she slid her hand inside her pants.
The lights changed, pulsing like heartbeats. She could see the audience now, rows of men proffering money, £20 notes, £50 notes and euros in every colour. As she moved away from the pole, Greta noticed Richard in the wings behind a video camera. She looked across stage; there was Gustav with another camera. She was trapped in the crossfire, her every movement captured and she knew it was immodest but Greta loved seeing herself on film.
She danced to the front of the stage and the eyes of the cameras followed. She remembered the way Marley Johnson had ripped her clothes off each night at the National and how the audience was always moved by the display. The lights were hot. She was bathed in perspiration. Her pussy was a lake. Her breasts were on fire.
And Greta couldn’t help herself.
She couldn’t stop herself.
She was a slut.
She wriggled out of her knickers and the men in the crowd came to their feet roaring and clapping as she discarded the little triangle of sopping cotton.
She was naked, covered in paint, sticky and sweaty. The men had fallen back into their seats, still waving their money, and Greta stepped into the arms of the first man at the end of the first row. He held her hips, he ran his arms up her sides and his cock sheathed in his trousers rammed at her slit. His eyes boggled. His throat opened in a roar and the next man was reaching for her, fondling her, touching her, grabbing her, wanking himself off. They were tossing their money on the stage like it was a tickertape parade.
Greta moved to the next man and the next, the first row, then the second. The lights were flashing as if it were a war zone, the music pounded hypnotically and the money kept raining down on the stage. One man with a big moustache and more innovative than his companions, turned her round and as he worked himself off against her arse she noticed the two cameras had moved like giant insects on tripod legs to the very edge of the stage and were capturing it all on film.
There must have been 40 men out there in Hades that night and Greta left them all with wet pants and suits covered in sweat, paint and pussy tears. Tara swept her money from the stage and Richard continued filming her as she retreated back into the dressing room.
Tara counted her money. There was £450 and €620.
‘That’s a fortune,’ Greta said.
‘That’s how I get through university,’ Tara told her.
The eye of the camera was moving between them, committing everything to film, and although subconsciously Greta was wondering why, what Richard and Gustav did with all that film, you are always high when you come off stage and it takes a long time to come down. During that time, Gustav appeared and the thought sailed from her mind.
Greta noticed Tara becoming all possessive. Gustav was smoking a cigar. He let out a plume of smoke and pushed his mop of bronze hair out of his eyes.
‘Very good,’ he said, studying Greta. Then he glanced at Tara. ‘Shall we,’ he added.
Tara gave herself a little shake as she tripped across the dressing room to join him.
Gustav looked back at Richard with a worried look suddenly clouding his blue eyes. ‘You’ll have to look after the shop for the next few days. The Americans are arriving and you know what they’re like.’
‘No problem,’ said Richard. ‘Go and do what you have to do.’
Richard glanced at Tara and Tara glanced at Gustav, and as Gustav glanced at her, Greta felt as if she was privy to a wonderful secret.
Tara flicked her hair over her shoulder as she span on her heels and followed Gustav from the dressing room.
‘Where are they off to?’ Greta asked Richard, although she had a very good idea.
‘Questions. Questions. Questions,’ he responded.
‘Ohmygod, I forgot,’ she said cheekily.
‘Come, I’ll take you home.’
‘I ought to have a wash...’
‘Don’t bother. I rather like you like that, all back to nature.’ He paused. ‘Are you a nature girl, Greta?’
‘Not half,’ she said, and he raised his eyebrows to heaven.
Greta dressed. They took a cab and Greta was thrilled when Richard agreed to come in.
He inspected the flat, tut, tut tutting continuously as he did so.
‘Looks like we’re going to have to give you a few lessons in tidiness,’ he said, and she felt ashamed because the flat was a disaster area.
‘Oh, absolutely, Richard. That’s just what I need.’
He glanced at his watch and Greta was bereft when she thought he was about to leave.
‘You will stay,’ she said.
‘Not for long, I’m afraid. There’s still masses to do.’ He took her arm. ‘Which little monkey house is yours?’ he asked, glancing from the narrow hall at the two bedrooms, one on each side.
Greta led him into her room and it was nice the way he turned her round and solemnly undressed her. He fondled her nipples and ran his hand over her stomach, checking to see whether she had lost those few pounds, which she hadn’t, of course, not with all the ice cream!
‘Have you been a good girl?’ he asked her, and she replied evasively.
‘Well, I have done as I was told,’ she said.
‘Excellent. Now, you go and take a shower.’
She turned away, then turned back again. ‘You will still be here?’ she said, and he gave her one of his rare smiles.
‘I’ll be here.’
Greta showered as quickly as possible. She slathered herself in baby oil and found Richard propped up in bed reading Oscar Wilde when she returned to her room.
He pulled back the cover and she fell voraciously on to his sturdy erection. She licked the full length of warm, satiny soft skin from his balls to the crown, up and down, up and down, then took it deep into her mouth, pausing for air half way, then taking the rest down, down until the bulging tip reached the hollow of her throat. She moved leisurely like silk in a slow wind, caressing the tissue fine skin, rising up the shaft until just the head filled her mouth, sucking it hard, then descending again like a marvellous machine. Greta thought that if she were a Greek maiden being punished by the gods she would like to be condemned to be doing th
is and just this from now to the end of eternity.
Weird. When she was 17, a boy she had taken home from the disco had tried to stick his thing in her mouth while her dad was in the next room watching the late movie on TV. They had been kissing and groping and suddenly it was there, smelly with fags and cheap lager, probing at her open lips, and it managed to get between her teeth before she knew what it was. She bit down as hard as she could and the boy screamed and was rolling around on the floor clutching his wounded pride when her dad came belting in wondering what all the commotion was about. She just shrugged and he shrugged and she never knew for sure whether her dad had guessed what had happened. Anyway, cocks in her mouth were a no-no.
Two years had gone by and now, Greta couldn’t imagine anything more perfect, more beautiful, more natural. Richard’s long, polished, glassy-smooth talisman was like a jewel, like a sculpture carved on another planet, and seemed to have been designed to slip into her mouth, her bum, her greedy wet pussy. He completed her, made her whole. Richard’s cock was a deity from Olympus and she was his hand maiden, his mouth maiden. She worshiped the phallus.
Greta was getting emotional, frenzied, moving mechanically, covetously, and he stopped her, holding the side of her head and easing her gently away before his climax burst into her mouth as she craved. He kept a grip on his essence and spent ages licking out her two holes, his cunning tongue taking the warm juice from her pussy to oil her bottom. When his hard cock probed at the slippery pleats of her arse it slithered in painlessly, pressing through the tender walls to massage her singing tingling clitoris. He moved without haste, bringing her along slowly, steadily, until she burst like a flower and Greta realised with immodest pride that this was her first anal orgasm. The first proper one. She panted like a pony and he turned her round and kissed her on the mouth.
This was the first time that Richard had made love to her without any slaps or spanks, and his black leather belt remained in the loops of his trousers. He kissed her eyes and kissed her seashell ears and when he got up to dress, he must have seen in the amber glow from the streetlight outside the wretched look on her face. He bent to kiss her brow.
‘You are doing very well, Greta,’ he said. ‘I am going to be so proud of you.’
He left then, left her alone, her body pulsing blissfully, and she wondered what it was she was going to do to make him proud of her. Not that it mattered. She would do anything.
Chapter Ten – Il Duce
HOW DO YOU DRESS for a count? She was annoyed at herself for considering such trivia because one thing she did know was that you dress for the upper crust the same way as you would dress for Dirty Bill, whom she thought of as a good representative of the lower orders. Nobles aren’t special, but she had to admit that they do make you feel special when you are in their company. Greta had met few knights of the theatre in her time. They were just like everyone else – they just had better diction and louder voices.
Still, a count! And an Italian at that.
She spent a long time in the shower washing off the last of the paint. She still had traces of yellow on the soles of her feet and had to balance on one leg to scrub it off. She warmed henna oil in her palms and smoothed it over her arms and legs, her sides and back, under her neck and into the hollow of her collar bones. The little bump of her tummy, which she considered totally sexy, was still putting in an appearance and her breasts had become quite a handful. They were just so out there, so perky and inquisitive, her nipples a deeper shade of red and so firm they throbbed for attention. She gave them a squeeze and suddenly remembered Tara Scott-Wallace tripping out of Hades with Gustav. The little minx still wasn’t home.
Greta spent like an hour going through the skirts and tops in the two bedrooms. Girls tend to have heaps of clothes and they all get mixed up in one giant jumble sale, as Richard had noted with his tut tut tutting.
She closed her eyes and held her breath. It was the morning after the night before. Richard had made love to her like a hero in a story book, and while she had come to enjoy all the dares and derring-do, the trappings and thrashings, Greta felt like a new person, complete, invulnerable, contented. It seemed as if living inside her all these years, there had been a shop window dummy, a marionette on strings, a lifeless puppet filled with other people’s thoughts and opinions, or having no opinions at all. She was the frightened girl who had run away from the theatre like poor little Orphan Annie. The girl had gone, waved goodbye from the deck of a ship sailing to the new world. She was a woman now. The strings guiding the marionette had broken and Greta had the feeling that she was becoming exactly who she always should have been. Confident. Compelling. Well-disciplined. She could see her profile in the mirror, everything rounded, soft, feminine. Greta adored her new life and realised with a stab of panic that she was totally, outrageously happy.
Ohmygod, the time!
Greta opened her eyes. She ran her gaze over the heaps of clothes and finally plumped for the demure but practical look and laid out a white bra and panties, a fitted, rather formal black skirt of the sort Miss Moneypenny might wear, and a white blouse that buttoned sensibly but left a hint of cleavage like a mystery or a promise. Finally, she chose the pink jacket she had once worn as a bridesmaid when Antonia from school married a South African old enough to be her grandfather and richer, she had whispered, than the man who stole the golden goose. In his honour, Greta put on a gold crucifix on a short chain and, before dressing, sprayed scent in the air and shivered as it rained in fairy kisses over her bare skin.
She painted her lips pale pink, brushed mascara over her eyelashes and trembled with vague excitement as she recalled the all-knowing eye of Pegasus staring back at her from Vanlooch’s painting. She was all the things he had captured on canvas, a butterfly girl on angel’s wings, a renaissance woman bursting from the husk and transforming into something air-borne and mythical.
Madame Dubarry had been right. When this week was done, she would never return to the shoe shop again.
Under Tara’s bed, she found the black heels she’d been searching for and concluded as she studied her reflection in the mirror that she looked every inch like the City girls who would come crashing into the tube rustling their newspapers at South Kensington.
She clickety-clicked her way along the pavement with the slightly puzzled look of a celebrity, something she needed to practise, and blithely ignored the builders emerging from a white van with gaping mouths and broken teeth. Did they really imagine the ‘Bleeding hell, look at the tits on that, ’ and, ‘I’d give her one up the Khyber any day... ’ was going to win their way into a girl’s knickers?
Greta weaved a path across the main road to the Underground and realised the moment the little bald man touched her derriere that he was bitterly disappointed. Everything was tightly tucked and neatly put away. His hands roamed her hip bones and across her tummy. He gingerly cupped her breasts when the lights dimmed and his hands fell away as they brightened again, the bulbs hissing, the rails screaming, the crowd squeezing them so tightly together she could feel his modest erection poking hopelessly at her thigh like an accusing finger.
She turned to face him. His head was just below her chin, his nose resting in her blouse. She slipped her hand down his trousers and his eyes went pop as she fished about for the little worm trapped in his Y-fronts. His lips parted and a tear jerked into his eye as it wriggled into her palm. She didn’t need to move about. The train was rocking and rolling, nursing the warm croissant of flesh in intermittent jerks, and it was all going rather well when the driver slammed on the steel brakes and they were thrown apart.
A look of distress came into his features as he stumbled backwards over his briefcase. Greta was about to topple on top of him, but a steadying hand came to the rescue.
‘Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut,’ she heard and turned to the man with the bowler hat, another regular in their carriage. He was staring down at the little bald man as if at a football hooligan.
‘Thank you,’ G
reta said.
‘A pleasure, my dear,’ he replied, and manoeuvred her away from the bald man as if for protection.
They remained separated for the rest of the journey and Greta gave her companions a little wave as she stepped out at Green Park. She set her long legs in motion along the platform as the train vanished into the tunnel and was aware of her reflection in the glass fronts of the advert displays as the escalator rose like a stairway to heaven. The sun outside was warming the pavement in Piccadilly and she hummed the music from Hades as she ambled through the jostling throng.
Life, she concluded, was more fun when you don’t take it too seriously, when you just let things happen. She had once read on a birthday card the message: ‘Be yourself and try to be happy. But first be yourself.’ Greta considered it extremely good advice.
Madame Dubarry was sitting in the staff room smoking a cigarette with a gold filter ringed in red lipstick and stood to kiss Greta’s cheeks when she entered. She studied her outfit.
‘Very fetching,’ she said.
‘You, too. That’s gorgeous.’
‘It is a woman’s duty, don’t you think?’
‘Women seem to have lots of duties,’ Greta answered.
They both smiled. Greta watched the smoke rise in curls from the ashtray and did something so naughty she would think about it for the rest of the day: she took a drag from Madame Dubarry’s cigarette and her head started spinning.
‘I thought you’d given it up.’
‘I had, no I have,’ said Greta. ‘I can resist anything except temptation.’
‘You should always do whatever you feel like,’ said Madame Dubarry and smoothed down the folds of her smart frock as if for Greta’s benefit.
Madame Dubarry had only ever worn black suits, but the day before she had switched to white and this morning she was wearing a pink paisley A-line frock that fell an inch above the knee and showed her girlish figure to best affect. Her hair, always severely held in a French pleat, had been released and tumbled in raven’s wing curls about her shoulders. Her eyes seemed brighter, glinting like black stones, and her lips were scarlet like a gypsy.
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