A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel

by Thurlow, Chloe

  They studied the marks together. The count had a look of astonishment and Greta couldn’t help feeling proud.

  ‘You have a divine mouth, my dear,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I have the distinct feeling, Greta May, that you are going to be a winner.’

  ‘A winner in what, though?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘Success, my dear, is the meeting of preparation and opportunity. The opportunity will come. You must be prepared for it when it does.’

  Greta had the word wow in her mind but managed to stop herself saying it. She held Il Duce in her two palms and watched the tip growing fiery red as she nursed the great column up and down, up and down. She felt it throbbing as if it were about to burst and then it did burst in a vast creamy gush that covered her face and ran into her mouth and the count tasted gloriously of fruit salad.

  Chapter Eleven – The Secret

  GRETA WOKE EARLY that morning feeling refreshed and irrepressibly excited. She was naked as always under the duvet, the sun flooding the room and turning everything golden. She enjoyed nursing the slopes of her protruding hips and thought if she were a sculptor she would make marble mountains of her favourites parts, hip bones and shoulder blades, her plump sulky lips.

  Her tummy was almost completely flat in this position and she caressed the indentation of her belly button because belly buttons are terribly neglected. Her pussy was waking, hungry for attention, but Greta decided it would be a good idea to make her wait. She was so demanding. Greta grinned and wriggled her toes and ran her palms up over her rib cage to cup her breasts. Her little pink nipples were fizzing and she squeezed them until they hurt.

  There, now be good.

  It was like the last day of school and after a shower she decided to dress accordingly. She pulled her old school uniform from the back of the cupboard. She beat out the creases with the flat of her hand and thought the blouse looked awfully sweet with its little Peter Pan collar. She looked at the green tartan skirt and thought: Greta May you are such a slut. ‘You deserve a good smack.’ Greta adored the word smack and said it again and again as she smacked her bare bottom: ‘Smack. Smack. Smack.’

  She held the skirt up to the light. Throughout the fifth year two things had been taking place simultaneously behind the backs of the nuns: as she and her friends were growing taller, surreptitiously each month they turned up the hems of their skirts. Greta was still growing. She was five feet eight-and-a half-inches in her bare feet and the tartan band of fabric barely covered her round bottom as she put it on.

  She chose pink panties, a matching satin bra with plenty of lift and thrust and was absolutely certain the designers didn’t make such gorgeous things not to be seen. Her white blouse barely met the waistband of her skirt and she almost gagged doing it up to her throat. The gagging feeling made her feel proud and wistful. Thousands of girls had left their marker on the count’s column but none had done better than her.

  Greta found a pair of white knee socks, pushed her feet into flat shoes and wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t do up the top button on her blazer. Hats like shoes create character and, when she popped her straw bonnet on her head, in the mirror’s reflection was everything the neat clean schoolgirl ought to be.

  She squeezed orange juice and was standing up at the kitchen counter eating a strawberry yoghurt from the tub when Tara wandered in all bleary eyed and wrapped in a mammoth dressing gown. She took one long look at Greta.

  ‘You are debauched,’ she said

  ‘Thank you,’ Greta replied and it made Tara smile. ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ve got to write an essay on divorce and the rights of women.’ She waved her hand through the air as if at a bothersome fly. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Greta put the tub down and Tara approached shaking her head. ‘Come here,’ she said, and as Greta lowered her face Tara licked yoghurt from the corners of her lips, her pointy tongue darting between her teeth. She pulled Greta’s bottom lip out with her teeth. She sucked it until it was gorged with blood and Greta remembered Count Ruspoli praising her generous mouth. Greta ran her finger around the inside of the yoghurt pot and manoeuvred her way through the folds of Tara’s dressing gown. Tara had nothing on underneath and her sticky finger wormed its way between the pleats and folds of her hot vagina.

  ‘We’re going to have to have a big tidy-up, you know.’

  ‘Why,’ asked Tara petulantly.

  ‘Richard said so. He’s very strict.’

  ‘So’s Gustav,’ Tara responded and blushed.

  ‘Did he...’

  ‘I’m not telling you, Greta May. And don’t stop, that’s lovely.’

  Greta turned her finger in a spiral. Tara was rocking back and forth, getting wetter, her face contorting. She went up on her toes and the big dressing gown slipped from her shoulders as she went into spasm. Greta ran her free hand over Tara’s bottom and could feel the raised welts left from a thrashing.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  Tara was sighing through her tiny orgasm. ‘It was lovely.’

  Greta slapped her bum. ‘No, that?’ she demanded.

  ‘No... Yes... No.’ Tara had to think about it. ‘I quite liked it when it was over. Everything sort of glows inside and when Gustav, you know, did it, my whole body melted and the pain went away.’

  ‘I wish they’d told us about it at school.’

  ‘You’re getting totally gaga,’ said Tara. ‘What are you dressed like that for, anyway?’

  ‘For fun. That’s what life’s for. That’s what Aristotle said. Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dhaaaa!’

  ‘He gave me his phone number and told me I should call him this afternoon at precisely two o’clock.’

  ‘Are you going to?

  ‘Depends... depends on how my arse feels.’

  Greta turned Tara around and her friend let her study the six rosy pink lines that striped her bottom. Greta bent and when she planted a row of kisses on her cheeks she tasted of chocolate.

  ‘I’m going to be left all alone,’ Tara said. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Stock up on Chunky Monkey,’ Greta said and they laughed.

  At least it was her turn to wash the sheets! Tara had been propped up in a bank of pillows reading a great big leather book when Greta arrived home gorged on fruit salad. Naturally, she had to tell her everything and Tara got so wet as Greta described the genetic flaw that runs through the Ruspolis she abandoned the law to feed her ice cream fetish.

  Greta glanced up at the clock. It was time to go. Time was always in such a hurry and you have to rush just to keep up with it. She gave Tara’s bum a slap, grabbed her satchel and ran out the door.

  The builders in the white van were parked outside the same house and one of them dropped the bag of cement he was carrying as she passed.

  ‘Fuck me! That ain’t legal,’ he said...

  ... and his mate replied: ‘It is if you don’t get caught...’

  ... and Greta had no idea what they were talking about.

  Mr I Don’t Know Who & Don’t Want To Know Who was waiting at the end of the platform and his eyes bulged as she tripped along the concourse swinging her satchel. He was wearing a smart suit and had abandoned his briefcase for a silver case of the sort that photographers carry. Greta would soon find out why.

  The train burst on to the platform, hissing and sweating, the doors opened and she followed the man to the far back corner. She remained with her back to him and the moment the train pulled away he lifted her skirt, took the sides of her knickers and eased them down from her bottom. His short fingers teased back the firm elasticity of her cheeks and a finger worked its way into her pussy. He was really taking the initiative and carried on manoeuvring his finger back and forth, making her wetter, even when the doors fizzed open at South Ken.

  The stern girls and striped shirts rustled their
papers, the carriage rocked, the lights flickered and the bald man wedged his silver case between her feet. Did he know it was her last day at work? The last day she would take this train? Perhaps ever! He must have prepared for it, planned his strategy. He climbed up on his case, giving him several more inches, and she felt his plumb sausage poke between her thighs.

  Greta bowed her legs, moved up and down, up and down, the choreography of their movements allowing the little chap to pierce the mouth of her pussy and slip into the damp cavern within. She heard a slurping noise over the screech of the train wheels. She noticed the City gent in the bowler hat across the sea of people and could tell by the melancholic cast in his eye that he knew exactly what the bald man was up to and wished he had tried it on days ago. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and stared down once more at the Financial Times.

  For Greta, this wasn’t sex. It was just a bit of fun. She was being naughty and silly, dressed as a schoolgirl, a stranger’s little cock sliding over her pink knickers and up her crack. At Knightsbridge the lights went out. He gripped her hips and jolted back and forth with gathering fury. She felt a dribble run down the back of her neck and a dribble slip down her thigh as he shot his load and withdrew exhausted.

  Green Park. Mind the Gap.

  Greta pulled her knickers up and the spunk leaked into the gusset.

  ‘Thank you,’ she heard him say, the only words he had ever said, and she stepped out of the carriage on to the platform.

  Sticky stuff seeped over the insides of her legs as the elevator rose through the grey miasma underground and it was always a pleasure seeing the trees in the park opposite when she left the station. She was getting lots of lusty stares but pretended she wasn’t as she strolled along in her school uniform. It was such fun being a schoolgirl again.

  Greta remembered that last year at Saint Sebastian when they all went out on Saturday into the town dressed to kill in their skimpy clothes. The local girls with their piercings and bloated bodies, chain-smoking, eating chips for comfort, would go green with envy, their skinny boyfriends spitting and shouting vulgar things that made the convent girls shake their bony hips and look even prettier. It was curious to Greta that all the rich people she knew were thin and all the poor people she saw were fat.

  It was when she was turning 16, during that last year at school, that she began to be aware of the boys in town gazing at her, measuring her breasts, the length of her legs, her tiny waist that she showed to best effect in skinny shirts and slippery hipsters. She had been picked for the lead in a Noel Coward play at the drama society and it was probably the combination of being on stage and being ogled by the chavs in town that persuaded her that her future was in the theatre.

  Something had gone wrong.

  And it was all her own fault!

  It had probably been a mistake to move in with Jason Wise. He did make promises he didn’t keep, that was true, it was true of everyone in the business, and although she had conveniently blamed him for her stalled career, she knew deep down that he wasn’t responsible. Jason had actually managed to get her put up for several suitable roles and the fact that she was rarely asked back for a second reading she could only blame on herself, on her lack of presence, a lack of vitality, a lack of that essential, illusive, indefinable je ne sais quoi! And she didn’t know what je ne sais quoi meant, not exactly, but she knew that at those castings she didn’t have it. She had been too timid, too self-conscious. She had gone to play a role. Now she knew the trick. You just have to be yourself.

  That’s the secret.

  Be yourself and try to be happy. But first be yourself!

  Greta could hear squelchy noises as she tripped along Piccadilly swinging her satchel. She was shamelessly pleased with herself. She was certain every girl had fantasies about having sex with a stranger, having sex in public, having sex on the tube. She had lived all those fantasies at the same time and just loved the feel of the sticky liquids oozing out of her wet pussy as she turned into Bond Street. It was so great to be 19 in a new age when everyone was finally free to be and do whatever they wanted.

  Madame Dubarry sniffed the air with appreciation when she entered the shoe shop and Bach was playing a sonata.

  ‘Greta, how fetching.’

  ‘It’s not too short, is it?’

  ‘Not for me it isn’t.’

  Madame Dubarry was wearing trousers for the first time ever. They were very tight across her pert bottom and fell in a saucy flare mid-calf. She wore a white blouse that was open sufficiently to reveal a good portion of her breasts peeking out saucily from a lace bra.

  Friday was always busy and that morning they spent so much time on their knees they could have been penitents at Easter. They cooed like birds of paradise as people slipped into new shoes and fluttered their plumage whenever someone showed a second’s doubt. They were whipped along on by Wagner and Mahler trumpeting from the speakers, the credit card machine pinged and the till kept up a ringing percussion.

  Being secretly conservative, Greta at lunch chose carrot juice and sushi because that was the tradition at Pret and then went on a long walk through Soho like a criminal visiting the scene of the crime. The Rastas were drumming and the Hari Krishnas were beating cymbals.

  Hari Krishna. Hari Krishna. Hari Hari.

  She half expected to see Dirty Bill when she peered into the pink aquarium of the sex shop but there was only a crowd of girls giggling as they poked each other with the electric dildos. She turned right and left and left and right but she never found the narrow street with the horse posts and the houses all leaning drunkenly together. She still missed her watch.

  That afternoon they worked just as hard and that day they sold a record 137 pairs of shoes. Madame Dubarry looked watery eyed as the clock struck six and the last customer marched out with a red bag on long handles swinging from her shoulder.

  ‘It’s going to be so dull without you, Greta, what am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t you have a new girl coming?’ Greta said and Madame Dubarry patted her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘You’ll soon beat her into shape,’ Greta added and they both smiled.

  Madame Dubarry became unusually coy. ‘Greta, there’s one thing I’m simply dying to ask, and it’s so bad mannered...’

  Greta shrugged. ‘I don’t mind...’

  ‘Count Ruspoli...’ Greta waited. ‘Is it true?’

  She nodded her head. ‘It’s true,’ she said, and Madame Dubarry closed her eyes and abandoned herself to her imagination.

  Chapter Twelve – Bogwash

  THE PINK LIGHTS at Jasmine’s made everyone look younger except Jason Wise, she reflected in a rare moment of malice. Show business was the ultimate vanity and at 42 he still hadn’t been invited to direct his first film.

  But of course I wouldn’t, darling, even if they asked me.

  Jason was standing away from the bar stroking his goatee with one hand, rolling his wine around the glass with the other. There were wisps of grey at his temples and the early signs of a paunch. The three men with him were leaning forward as if to gather in his words like desert people collecting the dew. Sitting on a stool swigging beer from a bottle was Marley Johnson, his black skin shiny as polished shoes, his face as open as a secret at boarding school. The other two were toffs in pastel shirts, the word actor spinning about their floppy haircuts in invisible haloes.

  Jason turned as if with some sixth sense towards the entrance as she snaked her way through the amorphous throng towards them.

  ‘Ah, the Fairy Queen has deigned to delight us with her presence,’ he said and nearly spilled his spinning wine. ‘God, darling, what have you done? You must be on the monkey glands.’

  ‘I must be 19,’ she corrected.

  ‘How perfectly dreadful. White wine?’

  She nodded and went to kiss Marley’s cheeks. He gazed appreciatively at her long legs below the tartan kilt, up over her cotton blouse with the Peter Pa
n collar, and when he reached her eyes, his brow furrowed as if he had a faint recollection of having seen her before but was unable to place where. There were lots of young actresses but there was only one Marley Johnson. He playfully flicked the strap on her satchel.

  ‘So, girl, have you come from school or a casting?’ he asked

  ‘She’s come from a shoe shop,’ said Jason and Marley looked confused.

  ‘Is that a new show?’

  ‘No, it’s where she sells shoes.’ Jason gazed down at his own new loafers to make the point.

  Greta turned her back and focused again on Marley. ‘So, how are you? It’s been ages.’

  ‘It seems like forever. Even longer,’ he boomed and the toffs laughed.

  Marley dropped a big arm around Greta’s shoulders. He pulled her closer and she was embraced by the peppery cologne of his aftershave. Greta had a special feeling for Marley. After all, he had stripped her naked every night through 60 performances of Let Thunder Roar. It was like he was her first lover and you always remember the first. That honour had fallen in fact to a 16-year-old in the back garden one summer. It had lasted precisely two-and-a-half desperate minutes and had left Greta wondering what all the fuss was about.

  Jason introduced the floppy hair cuts: Alex and Gregory, actors indeed; each kissed her perfunctorily and as Jason handed her a glass of wine she was reminded of the exhausted feeling that hits the company backstage after an uninspiring performance.

  Men who mattered smoked cigars and did the business while girls perched on the arms of leather chairs like bouquets of flowers. Marley was assessing her with big doggy eyes and she found herself doing the same, watching his sensuous lips as he spoke, the muscles expanding and contracting under his white shirt. He glanced round at the girls fluttering their petals. There were corrugations lining his brow.