‘So, you’re not an actress then?’ he asked and shot an accusing look at Jason.
‘Marley, I was the girl you stripped naked every night at the National for six weeks.’
‘And now you’re all grown up,’ he said. He gazed at her breasts pushing against the thin cotton of her blouse as if to revive his memory. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What are you in?’
‘She works in a shoe shop,’ hissed Jason.
‘Temporarily,’ she said.
‘Try saying that after a bottle of crème de menthe,’ Jason added and the haircuts laughed again.
It was one of those conversations typical of Jasmine’s. People wanted to know everyone else’s business but were usually too busy to listen, and much too eager to tell everyone their own business. Jason refilled her empty glass.
Greta was dying of thirst and asked for sparkling water, drinking it down, one glass after another. Marley kept his strong arm about her and the boys talked the talk, the TV slot just missed, the soap that was coming up, the new casting agent, their headshots and long shots, the reading at Pinewood next week.
They fell silent and all heads turned as if in reverence for royalty as Tyler Copic strode in with a tall, thin donnish man ‘from the Film Council’, Gregory whispered, his voice rising like a ringing bell from the depths of his chest.
Tyler Copic threw up his hands as he ambled towards them.
He spoke in a low voice, deadly serious, a California accent.
‘Two guys are sitting at the bar and one says to the other: listen, buddy, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I went by your house yesterday and your wife was in bed with your agent.’
‘What ?’ says the other guy. ‘You mean my agent went to my house!’
They roared with laughter.
‘Tyler, you old wanker,’ said Jason, grinning, raising his glass. ‘Wine?’
‘Later, Simon hasn’t got a lot of time,’ he said, glancing at the don. ‘Listen, what do you know about Lorca? My manager’s reading that play, what’s it called, Blood Wedding ?’
‘Not exactly your cup of tea. It’s as old as the hills for one thing,’ Jason told him.
Tyler shrugged. ‘Sammy’s an asshole. I just wish I’d get home early one day and find him in bed with my wife,’ he said and they all roared heartily once more. He glanced at Greta. ‘Catch you later,’ he added and combed his hair back with his palms as he followed Simon into a vacant booth.
‘Very good friend of mine,’ Jason explained and Alex gave himself a little hug.
‘I adored, just adored Pay To Play,’ he said.
‘What about Streets ?’
‘Wow.’
They fell silent and sipped their drinks like guests at a wedding after the newlyweds have driven away. Tyler Copic directed edgy, menacing films that people had heard of. His presence had given them a sense of identity. Greta had shared those feelings once and was glad she didn’t have those feelings any more. She glanced again at the flower girls perched on chair arms and table tops and knew instinctively that you don’t get work as an actress by hanging out, by showing your tits. You work when you know your craft.
The barman plunged another bottle of wine in the ice bucket and they raised their glasses in a toast.
‘To...’
Jason couldn’t decide what and they all stood there playing statues.
‘Well?’ Gregory demanded.
‘To fucking.’
Marley roared and sprayed beer over Alex’s pink gingham shirt.
‘Bastard.’
Ghosts of blue smoke crossed the ceiling and Greta suddenly remembered that it had been a whole week since she’d smoked a cigarette. Well, except for that one puff. She made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t break the rules again and, at that moment, while she was feeling contrite, she was sure she saw Richard at the top of the stairs, just a movement, a shadow, and he was gone. She swallowed her wine in one long gulp.
‘I have to pee,’ she announced and hurried towards the stairs.
The club was a maze of rooms like Russian dolls one leading to another, one inside the other, narrow corridors curving into flights of stairs that led like a drawing by Escher in circles to nowhere. The bar on the ground floor gave no indication of the size of the premises above and, as Greta turned into yet another corridor she imagined she must have walked the entire length of Dean Street. She was Alice spiralling down the rabbit hole and realised she was completely lost.
Richard was just a trick of her imagination and when she heard the sound of someone on the stairway behind her it was only Jason Wise.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said.
Marley was following and the two young actors were looking nervous like first-nighters before the show.
Ohmygod, they’re going to do me, she thought.
‘I have to pee,’ she said again.
Jason squeezed by her and opened the end door. She glanced in.
‘You’re not serious?’ she said.
‘Greta May, I have never been more serious about anything in my life.’
He beckoned and she entered the men’s lavatory, a white tiled space with the smell of pine and bleaching lights that gave her four companions the look of gargoyles with grinning carnival masks.
‘You know, girl, all my life I’ve been looking for that mouth,’ said Marley. ‘That’s one big mouth you got.’
‘And no fillings,’ she said.
‘She’s got a sense of humour.’
‘That’s not all she’s got,’ said Jason and the boys laughed again.
To complement her large mouth, Marley produced from his Levi’s a large cock, not of the dimensions of Count Ruspoli, of course, but big in the normal scheme of things.
Greta watched with cold detachment. If you’re going to get done, she was thinking, you may as well make the most of it. She’d had a sneaking suspicion when Jason Wise made her promise to meet him at Jasmine’s that fate was being tempted.
Marley was rocking on the heels of his Cuban boots, his cock bouncing jauntily, and Greta was drawn to the shiny purple thing like a moth to the flame, a wave to the seashore, and ran her warm palm up its length to the big fiery head. The others giggled.
‘Not so fast, girl. Not so fast.’
She had got carried away, drawing the loose skin over the shaft, watching mesmerised as the head vanished and re-emerged with each thrust. Marley eased down his jeans and jockey shorts and shuffled backwards into a narrow cubicle. He lowered the lavatory lid and sat, his cock rising like a pole over large hairy balls. Her school blazer was pulled from her shoulders. The floor tiles were hard on her knees.
‘The tip,’ he said. ‘Slow now, there’s no hurry.’
He pulled the tails of his shirt aside and made himself comfortable. Greta studied her subject for a few seconds and as she whisked her tongue over the fine indentation she realised that the top of his cock was the shape of a tiny bottom, the taut mauve skin rigid around two fine openings the size of the holes in a button. She flicked her tongue like a whip across the groove until the large hand buried in her hair guided her mouth down the pole, her hot saliva greasing the way. Greta went slowly up and down, up and down, keeping her lips slack, the movement of her tongue bouncing it playfully against the roof of her mouth.
Marley groaned. ‘Get on down, girl. Get on down,’ he cried, and held the side of her head in his hands, locking her there so that she became a machine, an air pump blowing him for all she was worth.
It was a relief on her poor knees when the weight was removed from them. Her tartan skirt had been pulled up around her waist. She went up on her toes, her feet left the ground and her smelly knickers were brusquely removed. She kept pumping away, slurping and sucking. She wiggled her arse because she had such a pretty little arse. She was so ashamed she was such a slut and pictured herself in the toilet cubicle sucking cock with three men looking up her pussy and the thought made her
fidget even more.
She heard someone spit. She felt the moisture run through her cheeks of her bum and felt the pang of want course like an overflowing river from her lips gripped about Marley’s cock to her dripping cunt. Her legs were raised, and one of them, Alex, or Gregory more likely, shoved into her wet slit with a careless thrust that took the wind out of her sails.
As she was lifted higher, Greta was forced further down the trunk of Marley’s throbbing monster. Slowly like session musicians they found a rhythm, one pushing, the other pulling, and a stray thought struck her consciousness and what she thought was it was so much better being up here performing than down there in the bar talking about it.
Marley’s purple helmet thrust her tonsils aside and she gagged as the silky head lodged at the base of her throat. She was jiggling her tongue, gasping for air, and the boy at the back was riding her like a jockey. Marley was thrusting his thighs up from the lavatory lid as he reached down into the deepest wells of his being and started to come.
The jockey must have felt the vibration at the other end like a charge of energy from Marley’s exploding helmet, the hot spunk erupting like molten lava down her throat, through all the channels that led to her vaginal passage to engulf the eager prick prodding at her sopping entrails. Marley’s come was like a frothing tidal wave, a come that just kept coming and coming, filling her mouth, her throat, her tummy and prodding at her swollen bladder.
Marley had drawn deep in the well and, before he finished, he withdrew from her inflamed lips to scribble his signature over her face, the creamy jism coating her cheeks, dripping from her gaping mouth, and falling in dollops to her white breasts below her blouse.
‘You’re the champion,’ he said. ‘You can suck cock for England.’
She didn’t have time to say thank you. She was gasping for air as the actor bringing up the rear shot his wad and she tingled with an exquisite little spasm as her clitoris savoured a warm upsurge of pleasure.
Greta’s cheeks burned under the coating of sperm. Her earlobes were scorched by friction, her knees were sore as she settled down on the white tiles. She didn’t try to stand, or even look round. Alex in the gingham shirt sat on the seat Marley had vacated, his trousers about his ankles, his little pink sailor standing upright for inspection. She ran her large salty tongue down its length and his whole body shook as if from a shot of adrenaline. It was tiny after Marley’s colossus and she rolled it around her mouth like a lump of toffee. He was jigging about, but stopped suddenly.
It was the voice of God.
‘Hey, you guys, is this gang busters, or what?’
It was Tyler Copic and they all laughed as if it were the funniest thing that had ever been said.
Alex carried on and she wiggled her little bum. Now, there were four men standing there scrutinising her dripping parts, the lips of her vulva rolled back like the peel of an exotic fruit, ripe and delicious, and she realised as her hand reached between her legs that she hadn’t actually climaxed. Not really. A little spasm, nice though it is, isn’t a full-on, wow kind of orgasm. With a long finger she stroked the flowering nib of her clitoris.
‘Look at the dirty bitch, she can’t get enough,’ she heard Gregory say and the others chortled.
‘You don’t have to do that, honey,’ Tyler Copic said. ‘May I?’
‘Be my guest,’ Jason told him.
‘Wow, you guys,’ said Tyler with a sigh.
The aroma of men in rut was clammy in the windowless room, their lusty smell hotly seductive. Greta’s skin was sheened in damp. She wanted to be free of her clothes and as if her guardian angel was on her shoulder listening to her thoughts, her school blouse was lifted up over her sticky body. Alex popped his cock momentarily out of her mouth and the little piece of clothing was discarded. Her skirt was removed and she wriggled her white bottom appreciatively.
‘That’s better, I like to see what I’m fucking,’ Tyler said and there was the laughter again. Like schoolboys, she thought.
A tongue was licking her clitoris. It was Tyler’s tongue and he had done this a million times, she could tell, slow but steady, firm but smooth, soft as a feather; he was a tongue artist and Greta loved to be tongued. Her stomach quaked. Ribbons of fire snaked through her insides and Tyler at the precise moment pulled out his Oscar winning member and slid it into the pool of Gregory’s come.
‘That’s good, honey. Easy now. Easy as she goes.’
Greta was concentrating on her own pleasure, pressing up from the tiles to meet his languid thrusts, all those clever little pussy muscles clenching and releasing with swiftly growing contractions. He rode her in rhythmic, melodic, gentle movements, probing the pink walls and gossamer fabric of her body, each motion driving the cock in her mouth like a piston deeper down her throat. Time hung suspended as if she had plunged from a high diving board and was plummeting into a deep lagoon.
‘Agh. Agh. Aghhh!’
It was her own voice. She released the cock blocking her vocal chords and screamed as she climaxed. Alex had got there at the same time and released his come into her open mouth. The American director, directing from above, drained his cock inside her and lowered her feet to the floor.
‘Jeez, that was the first time I’ve come in ten years.’
Again the giggles. Alex was wedging himself back between her teeth and she milked his little pink cock until it ran dry. He held her there, not sure what to do next and she waited, aware there was more to come and she was ready for it. It wasn’t just blood running in her veins. There was fire and passion, grit and brimstone. Once you give into your instincts, give in completely, there is no way back, no way of knowing where it might lead you. Greta had been suppressing this part of her personality. She was 19 and she loved fucking. She was born to be fucked. It was liberating to finally know it. She would pursue sexual pleasure no matter how extreme, how kinky, no matter what the fetish.
Alex was taking deep breaths like he’d just run a marathon. She felt a strange new heaviness somewhere below her stomach and suddenly realised her bladder was about to burst. She went to speak but the moment passed.
A hand, Tyler’s hand, she thought, was stroking her bottom. He was panting away like an old steam train going up an incline.
‘... you blokes are something else,’ he said.
Gregory had already shafted her but was ready for more, buoyed up by Marley’s enthusiasm. ‘That’s one great mouth,’ he kept saying, and she took Gregory’s soggy cock into her cheek as he slid into place on the lavatory seat. She heard a zip unzip, loud in the confined space, like the rasp of dry chalk on a blackboard. Two hands jerked her knees wider apart and something sticky ran into her anus – soap probably, she’d seen a pump bottle beside the sink. It bubbled out of her with an obscene squelch and a stubby helmet started pressing at her pretty bottom.
‘Come on. Come on. You love it.’
It was Jason Wise. So predictable.
‘Ride her cowboy,’ Tyler said. He’d got his breath back.
Jason drove his plump cock like a boy with a new car carelessly up her arse. He’d spent six months trying and now he’d finally managed it. She’d washed his socks and sucked his cock but this was all he wanted. If only all life were so straightforward.
Greta tried to put some effort into it but she was growing tired. Even excess gets excessive. Jason pumped away and her ears hurt with Gregory clinging on to them. Her body was a sponge dripping liquids, her own and everyone else’s, her flesh burned and her jaw was beginning to ache.
She turned off her thoughts and, like a mouse on a treadmill, went through the motions, up and down the cock in her mouth, round and round the cock up her arse until Gregory managed another little squirt and Jason proudly removed his appendage and shot his sperm over her back and down in a gooey trickle between the worn crease of her arse.
There was another still moment. Everyone was sated. Even her.
‘You guys all done?’ Tyler asked and there was no response.
‘Cos you know, where I come from, you finish with a bogwash. It’s traditional.’
Greta didn’t know what a bogwash was but soon found out. Gregory stepped away. Her hands were quickly, roughly tied behind her back with the arms of her blouse. She was lifted again by the thighs.
Jason, she assumed, after buggering her, wanted to humiliate her even more. He pushed his soiled cock in her throbbing vagina and a hand gripping the back of her hair guided her head down into the lavatory. Someone hit the mechanism and she was plunged into the deluge. As she pulled backed, gasping for air, Jason Wise beat down on her pussy and submerged her once more below the gushing cataract.
She was terrified and amazed, a wave of contradictory emotions coursing through her, submission, arousal, humiliation, the thrill of the unknown. Being bound was strangely thrilling. She was an explorer exploring her unexplored self and she rose again, gagging for breath as the water refilled.
‘You slut. You bitch. You slag,’ Jason was saying, riding her for all he was worth, punishing her for something and she wasn’t sure what.
The cistern burst into life once more and her head was lowered into the churning water. He pushed her down, deeper down. She couldn’t breathe. Air fled in bubbles from her nose and mouth. Her heart was beating so strongly she could hear it hammering in her throat. Her ears pinged as her lungs were about to give out.
As she was on the point of drowning, of dying, Greta reached a peak of sensation beyond the clouds, beyond her dreams. Her little body was ripped apart by the biggest orgasm ever, a vast, exploding, earth-shattering quake that surged and rippled through her body and gave her the strength to shake her hands free of her bonds. She clenched the side of the lavatory bowl and pushed back, driving up the shaft of Jason’s cock, seizing the initiative.
Jason let go with a dribble of come and remained immobile, locked to her arse like a trapped dog. As the pressure lessened, her bladder finally gave way and Greta hosed yellow piss in a steady stream over his stomach, down his legs, his trousers and over his new shoes.
A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 14
