Bare, White and Rosy

by Penny Birch

  It took me ages to clear up, and all the while Lydia just sat in my armchair sipping a glass of wine. My legs felt weak and I was sore in a dozen places, my bumhole worst of all, but even that couldn’t detract from my rising excitement as I thought about what I was going to do. She looked so pleased with herself, and was happily telling me how much money she and Orpheus Asset Management were going to make from the Hambling and Borst name. I let her talk, answering only to tell her how clever she’d been and how easily she’d manipulated me.

  ‘Percy will be over in a few minutes,’ I said, all innocence. ‘Are you ready to play again?’

  ‘Percy?’ she demanded. ‘What did you invite him round for?’

  ‘To play with us, of course.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about!? I’m not playing with any of your dirty old men!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, crestfallen. ‘I thought you might like a good spanking for a change.’

  ‘No, I would not.’

  ‘Oh . . . um, you’d better go then, because I told him you’d be up for it and he’ll be over any minute.’

  ‘I don’t care what he thinks. He’s not coming anywhere near me!’

  ‘Yes, but . . . the thing is, I said you liked to make a fight of it and that he shouldn’t take any notice of your protests, you see—’

  ‘Natasha, for fuck’s sake! OK, I’d better go. Have you got the paper?’

  ‘Sure, just let me throw some clothes on and I’ll see you out.’

  It had worked like a dream, her reaction exactly as I’d expected. I took my time dressing, while Lydia grew increasingly annoyed, until at last Percy rang the bell, four minutes late. I took the envelope from the chest of drawers and passed it to her and we went downstairs together, Lydia hurrying and nagging me about my inappropriate behaviour. Percy was at the door, beaming and, of course, utterly unaware of what was going on except that he was taking me out to dinner.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Good evening, Lydia.’

  ‘Fuck off, you filthy old git!’ she spat, and stalked off down the pavement, leaving Percy staring after her in astonishment.

  ‘How very rude,’ he remarked.

  ‘She’s a little upset,’ I explained, ‘but not as upset as she will be when she opens that envelope.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘She thinks she’s bought Hambling and Borst, but what I’ve actually sold her is their holding company, Monterprise Ltd.’

  Eleven

  I DIDN’T EXPECT Lydia to take it lying down, so I gave up my flat and spent the rest of the week with Percy, coming into Hambling and Borse each day to sort out the cellar and, on the Friday, to witness the signing of the papers making the property over to the Linnet Club. Lydia excepted, everybody was extremely pleased with me. Gilbert and Otto not only no longer had to worry about debt but had enough to see them comfortably through retirement, as well as a ready supply of fine wines to drink and girls to spank. Percy too was pleased, basking in reflected glory as he received congratulations for having put me forward, along with an associate membership of the club. Vernon and his friends were delighted with the arrangement, even the filthy Stubbs, who had accepted the job of commissionaire.

  It was all great fun, and there was one last act to play, but I couldn’t help feeling a touch of despondency. The inaugural party was on the following Saturday and I was due to be thoroughly roasted, but that would be it, job done – but not properly. Just thinking about Anton Yoshida simultaneously made my blood boil and filled my head with filthy fantasies. I also wanted Rhiannon quite badly. I was even tempted to stay in London, but with Lydia about it really wasn’t advisable. She knew altogether too many of the people I did, and if she got together with somebody like Pia Santi I might end up in real difficulty. Then there was the situation with Earle, because it could only be a matter of time before he discovered that my so-called Uncle Percy not only still spanked my bottom but spent his time rogering me silly.

  I was still interested to see how M. Blanquefort’s little piece of jiggery-pokery with the ’07 Château La-Croix-de-Pignon worked out. Each morning I would search the net, reading the cautious articles as wine writers began to commit themselves on the quality of the vintage, until on the Tuesday Anton Yoshida made his initial pronouncements. At first he was as cautious as any, more so if anything, admitting that it would be a difficult year at best and advising on which châteaux had been most conscientious and were therefore likely to make the best wine. The list was largely predictable but contained one or two surprises and so seemed likely to be honest, or at least more honest than his promotion of Kavanagh’s Cordon Noir Cognac. However, Château La-Croix-de-Pignon was included in the list with a five-star recommendation for quality, which was a joke, and a five-star recommendation for value, which was insane. That meant he was either a fool or a liar, and for all my low opinion of him I had to admit that he was no fool.

  As I sat back from my screen I was biting my lip in consternation. It was such a shame not to expose him, but I couldn’t. I was just going to have to swallow my pride, for the time being at least, and put down my experience with him as a solitary defeat in a war I’d won. That wasn’t easy, not when every time I tried to masturbate, and even when Percy was in me, my head would fill with what he’d threatened to make me do. An added humiliation was that he had no further interest in me, but had said what he had purely because he knew it would get to me . . . or so I thought until my mobile rang later that afternoon. I recognised his arrogant drawl immediately.

  ‘What do you want?’ I demanded.

  He laughed.

  ‘Temper, temper, Natasha. I have a little proposition for you.’

  ‘Well, you can take your proposition and—’

  ‘Now, now, Natasha, I think we know who’ll come off best if you start that again. Besides, from what I hear you need work. Hambling and Borst are giving up the game, are they not?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted cautiously, wondering how much he knew.

  ‘Not before time either,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure even you can see that they were dinosaurs?’

  ‘You want the stock, don’t you?’ I responded. ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘The stock? A few bottles of mediocre Bordeaux and some Burgundies that should have been drunk twenty years ago? Don’t be foolish, Natasha. What I want is you.’

  ‘Well, you can . . . hang on, you’re offering me a job?’

  ‘After a fashion. Certain of my friends wish to enjoy a discreet entertainment, for which you would be perfect. You are pretty, albeit in a rather bovine way, busty and you have a big bottom—’

  ‘No I do not, and if—’

  I stopped, knowing that my anger and embarrassment would only amuse him, but I couldn’t cut the connection without saying something to get back at him. He carried on, his voice as calm and smug as ever.

  ‘Not gargantuan, perhaps, but like so many Anglo-Saxon girls you do rather tend to run to fat around the hips and buttocks, so very different from the elegance shared by the French and the Japanese. One friend of mine, when watching you walk, said it reminded him of two piglets fighting under a blanket, and the general consensus is that your body is highly erotic, if in a rather vulgar way. Anyway, enough flattery. Do you know what a bukkake party is?’

  My mouth opened to answer, but no words came out. I knew perfectly well what a bukkake party was, as I’d had it done to me more than once and thoroughly enjoyed it, but for him to suggest it after the way he’d treated me was so outrageous I was bereft of speech.

  ‘No?’ he queried. ‘I’m surprised. The essence of it is that one girl entertains a great many men, in her mouth and hands, the idea being to get as much spend as possible in her face.’

  ‘I know what a bukkake party is, Mr Yoshida,’ I managed, trying to keep my voice cold and hard but failing miserably, ‘but if you think I would attend one for your perverted friends let me assure you . . .’

  ‘That you would rather have sex with a wa
rthog?’ he interrupted. ‘I did tell them you’d enjoy that, but it’s not really to their taste and they are the ones who’re paying. A thousand pounds was the sum mentioned.’

  ‘No. Not for a thousand pounds. Not for ten thousand pounds. I am not a prostitute, Mr Yoshida.’

  ‘No? You must excuse me, but English is such a mongrel language and I sometimes get lost in its complexities. What do you call a girl who accompanies wealthy men on exclusive trips on the understanding that she spreads her legs on demand?’

  ‘You . . . you utter, fucking . . . no, you are not going to get to me, Mr Yoshida. If you and your perverted friends want to get off on covering some poor girl with spunk you can look elsewhere. I am not for sale.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure you are,’ he replied, ‘but haggling is so sordid, don’t you think? So I’ll tell you now that we’re prepared to go to two thousand, no more.’

  It was not the time to admit that I had plenty of money. With him a show of pure pride would be far more effective, not to mention good for my battered ego.

  ‘No,’ I told him, ‘and no, Mr Yoshida, means no.’

  ‘Fifty pounds then, if you prefer to think of yourself as a cheap tart.’

  ‘No! Not for any amount of money.’

  ‘No? You surprise me. In fact, I doubt you’re being entirely honest with yourself. For free then?’

  I’d been about to cut the connection, but stopped, amazed by his sheer arrogance.

  ‘Free?’ I demanded. ‘Why would I do it for free, Mr Yoshida?’

  ‘Because you like degrading yourself, as we both know. Come, come, Natasha, give in to what you know you want. I intend to have you, you realise that? After all, there are very few girls as dirty as you, and if we hire a girl who’s only in it for the money she’ll either be unable to cope or, if she can cope, she’ll be bored or, worse, try to pretend she’s enjoying herself.’

  ‘I have given you my answer, Mr Yoshida.’

  ‘Very well, as you appear to have more pride than a girl like you can really afford, my guess is that it extends to other people. It’s a little awkward, you see, if you’re going to be so uncooperative, to keep on a girl who broke her contract of employment by having lesbian sex with a guest—’

  ‘You bastard!’ I broke in. ‘Leave Rhiannon out of this. It’s nothing to do with her! Anyway, we didn’t—’

  ‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Natasha. You were caught on the security cameras, crossing the yard and going back again the next morning. We know you spent the night in her room.’

  ‘You’re a blackmailing bastard, Mr Yoshida, but it won’t work. Now fuck off!’

  I broke the connection and hurled my phone into a chair. My anger was so hot I felt as if I was going to be sick, while tears were welling in my eyes. I bit my lip, struggling not to cry and telling myself that what I needed to do was think, and hard. He might have been bluffing about Rhiannon, and she was probably better off in another job anyway, considering how Southern and Allied treated her. Yet he’d implied that he could influence their decision, which suggested he was pretty closely tied up with them.

  Again I considered exposing him. All I had to do was turn my pictures into a well-presented file and perhaps wait for the results to come back on my wine sample. I could send copies to Pia Santi, the French authorities, the EC even. At the very least Yoshida would be severely embarrassed, but I’d hurt a lot of other people as well, mainly ones I didn’t know at all, but also M. Blanquefort. I needed to get at Yoshida personally.

  For a long time I sat brooding in my armchair, only to realise that the solution was staring me in the face, just so long as I had the courage to go through with it. Yoshida understood my sexuality quite well. Perhaps he even thought he understood me better than I did myself. Certainly he was arrogant enough, and at least he realised he had a strong effect on me. Even though I’d managed to resist so far, he wasn’t going to be surprised when I gave in, especially as he’d brought Rhiannon into the equation. I rang him back.

  ‘Ah, Natasha, I’d been expecting you to call.’

  His smug, syrupy voice made me want to retch, but I did my best to sound resentful but defeated rather than angry as I answered him.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it, but you don’t have to be such a bastard about everything.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Oh, but I do, Natasha, as I expect you know very well. It wouldn’t be nearly as exciting otherwise, would it?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, ‘but you definitely don’t have to blackmail me. Leave Rhiannon alone.’

  ‘That was merely a bluff, in case you needed it as an excuse. So, would you like to prostitute yourself, or will you do it for free?’

  My voice was cracking as I answered.

  ‘I . . . I’d like to prostitute myself.’

  Again he laughed.

  ‘I rather thought you might. Two thousand pounds then, on the understanding that you are properly compliant.’

  ‘I will be, but I’d rather the men paid per head, and on the spot.’

  ‘Ah ha, I quite understand, how crass of me not to have realised. You can strip for us first and I’ll tell everybody to put their money in your underwear. They’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘OK. A hundred pounds a head?’

  ‘I expect that can be arranged. You will wear . . . let me see, a tight dress, high heels, stockings, matching panties and bra, all in red.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I am so glad we understand each other, Natasha. Most of my clients are still in France, so I will arrange the event for next Saturday, in the afternoon. I will tell you where to come once I’ve chosen a suitable venue.’

  He rang off.

  Saturday was the same day as the inaugural party at the Linnet Club, which was a nuisance but something I’d just have to put up with. The most important thing was to make sure Blake and Lucas did as they were told, so I invited them up to my flat for a private party. By the time they’d finished with me, fat Lucas from behind with his belly resting on my upturned bum and Blake in my mouth, I had them both eating out of my hands. They were also the right men for the job, as I’d been sure they would be. Being asked to drive to Weymouth in the early hours of the morning didn’t faze them at all, but their appreciation of wine stopped at knowing there was alcohol in it.

  That meant making some very careful arrangements, but by Thursday I was ready, allowing me to spend Friday preparing myself for the experience of being put in a ring of men and come over until I was so sodden with spunk I was unrecognisable. Had it been Monty Hartle and his friends, or some of the local lads on the island, I’d have been nervous and excited, but with a group of Oriental businessmen, only one of whom I knew by name, my sense of anticipation was stronger by far. Again and again I had to tell myself that I could cope with it, and with what would come later, but that night I barely slept for erotic nightmares, and so I was still in bed at eleven on Saturday morning when Anton Yoshida called to tell me that the party was in a conference suite at one of the big five-star hotels on Park Lane.

  All my life I’ve never really had to work, because even while I was making a living as a wine writer I knew that if it all went horribly wrong Daddy would be there to catch me. Yet I’ve often wondered how it must feel to have no choice but to work, and, for a pretty girl with no qualifications, how it must be to cope with the knowledge that you can always sell yourself. As my cab threaded its way through the London traffic I wondered if a high-class call-girl felt any different from me, knowing she was to be paid to entertain men with her body: perhaps ashamed, perhaps excited, perhaps a little afraid, as I was? Or perhaps I’d got it all wrong and after a few times she’d simply be bored.

  I very definitely was not bored. All I had on was a smart red leather coat over a set of expensive and matching scarlet underwear: bra and panties, stockings and suspenders. Lipstick-red high heels and a big scarlet flower in my hair completed the ensemble, making me feel how I looked, a tart – admittedly a very expen
sive tart, but nonetheless a tart. Even the cabbie realised, his eyes flicking with an odd mixture of desire and contempt, and he dropped me at a back door of the hotel.

  That suggested there was some sort of protocol, but I wasn’t sure what to do, so stood there on the pavement looking conspicuous until the doorman noticed me. He exchanged a knowing look with the cabbie and beckoned me in through a small rotating door. I smiled my thanks and had my bum squeezed for my trouble, adding to my rising sense of sexual vulnerability as I rode the service lift to the fifteenth floor. The suite was easy to find, but only after getting more dirty looks, this time from a pair of cleaners pushing a trolley piled with sheets. As they passed me and carried on down the passage they were whispering together, and I caught a single word – ‘whore’.

  The lump in my throat was threatening to choke me as I knocked on the door. I was eager to get to work, humiliated and aroused by my encounters but too vulnerable to want any more. The men at least understood, and were there to get their pleasure just as I was there to give it, so the suite was a sanctuary – or so I thought until the door was opened by a girl with a black bob and mischievous, upturned nose: Rhiannon.

  ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ I stammered as the blood rushed to my face and chest.

  ‘I’m the waitress,’ she replied, ‘and . . .’

  She trailed off, her big green eyes wide in shock, her pretty mouth ever so slightly open. It was obvious she knew, because it was obvious that Anton Yoshida had hired her on purpose, no doubt telling her that a call-girl was coming up to entertain the men but not that it was me. I couldn’t think what to say, and I was burning with embarrassment and shame, so hot that I was close to tears as I entered the suite. There was no time to explain the truth, and I was very sure Yoshida would have primed her with care and skill. My sweet, virginal Rhiannon now thought I was a call-girl. I very nearly lost my cool, but the shock as I glanced around the huge living room of the suite burst the bubble of my anger. Yoshida himself was there, and the men, lots of them, so many that my mouth came open in automatic protest.