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Copyright © Robert Fanshaw 2013
First Published 2013
ISBN 978-0-9923315-5-9
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Shameless Exposure
by
Robert Fanshaw
www.steamereads.com.au
Contents
Foreword
PART ONE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
PART TWO
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
PART THREE
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Robert Fanshaw
Also from Steam eReads:
Foreword
Soon after the Eurobonds affair I received an email from Herbert von Wolfswinkle. He explained that around the time the loans were made to Monsaint, Melody had applied to join the Inner Circle. She wanted access to the private parties for stressed-out bankers and politicians. Von Wolfswinkle vetted her application and turned it down:
Miss Bigger lacked the necessary discretion to become a member of our society. She did not forgive me for turning her down. Be careful of that Bigger woman. If she perceives you have slighted her, she will seek to destroy you like she sought to destroy me. Please give my felicitations to your lovely wife Caroline, and tell her she is welcome to visit me at the IMF when she is next in New York. I will be honoured to show her the inner workings of this great institution. Regards, HvW.
I replied to sender, thanking Herbert for completing the jigsaw. I didn’t tell Caroline about the invitation to visit the IMF, or about his warning. I wish I had.
RF
PART ONE
One
I suppose this is a confession, but it’s a confession of stupidity, not unfaithfulness. It was a genuine mistake. Xena told me about the Orgatron Training Centre, how everyone was going, and how fabulous her orgasms had become. I tapped the address into my phone and it came up with a location in Soho. Did Xena say Old Brompton Road? Did I mishear and type in Brompton Row, or did the phone just anticipate where I wanted to go?
27 Brompton Row was an old shop front painted black. There was no big sign saying Orgatron Training Centre, but I expected it to be discreet. I spoke my name into a crackling chrome box and was admitted to a dim hallway with period décor; dado rails, deep skirting boards and red damask wallpaper. I was met by a maid who spoke poor English.
“Thank goodness you come. Very particular man. Must be red hair.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I had made my appointment for a consultation at the Orgatron Centre a week previously, after Xena had been so enthusiastic about it.
The maid, a small lady from somewhere like the Philippines, couldn’t answer any of the questions I had lined up. I wanted to know how much the course cost, how long you signed up for, whether you could rent an Orgatron before deciding to buy. She just shook her head as if I was mad and guided me into a dressing room full of theatrical costumes. She gave me an ivory coloured corset, silk stockings, and frilly bloomers. She gestured that I should take off my work clothes. I stripped and started to pull on the bloomers but the maid looked horrified and shouted “No! Must be clean for Chinese man.”
I admit I was confused but you don’t know what to expect with new things. As I took a shower I almost decided the Orgatron thing wasn’t for me. But Xena had gone on and on about how brilliant the programme was and I convinced myself the change of clothing must be a symbolic preparation, casting off your everyday life.
The bathroom was decorated with Victorian paintings, nudes attended by gentlemen in top hats mostly. At least the plumbing was modern. I relaxed in a cascade of warm water. I remember the soap was heavenly, an old fashioned lavender brick.
The maid helped to dry me and laced me into the corset. I selected a pair of red and gold bedroom slippers with a small heel from a shoe rack that extended the length of the dressing room. The maid took me up some narrow stairs to a large bedroom, the light almost excluded by heavy blue velvet curtains.
The maid told me to wait. I sat down at an antique dressing table. Looking through the drawers, I found some costume jewellery and grips. On an impulse, I decided to pin up my hair, my reflection framed in a gilded mirror, the mercury showing through around the edges. A shaft of sunlight through the gap in the curtains lit my face, reminding me of an Impressionist painting.
There was a knock on the door. Without thinking, I said “Come in.” A Chinese man appeared in the mirror behind me. He wore a long patterned cloak, tied with a black cloth belt. He stared at my face. I stared back at his Fu Manchu moustache.
“Please, don’t stare,” he said. “Impolite.” He sniffed my neck. “Flowers, very good.”
I searched for the right words to shed some light on a most confusing situation. When Xena had told me I should try the Orgatron Training Centre I had expected something modern, technologically advanced. Yet from the moment of gaining admission to 27 Brompton Row I had been plunged into a world of gas lamps, brocade curtains, corsets and bloomers. The man said nothing more and watched me fiddle with straggles of hair. I felt uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I said. “It’s my first time here.”
“Really? Perfect.”
“I’m keen to learn. My friend has told me about it and I wanted to experience it for myself.”
“On the bed please.” I lay back on the bed, hands behind my head raised on plump feather pillows. I was glad he had not asked me to undress.
“I’m Caroline,” I said. “And you would be? Do I need to read anything first?”
“No talking necessary,” said the Chinese man, sitting on the edge of the bed and carefully opening the crotch of my bloomers. I guessed he was going to give me some kind of examination, perhaps evaluating my genitals for their orgasmic potential before assigning me some exercises and ginseng tablets.
He exposed my genitals and then stared at them. I was glad I’d got Robert to tidy me up with the razor, one of the few jobs he does with great care. He does have some uses. I thought of reminding my instructor that he’d said staring was not polite, but held my tongue.
He didn’t hold his tongue for long. His head disappeared between my legs and I felt him delineate my outer lips, circle the hood of my clit with forensic precision. I felt fingers pull me gently apart and the tongue dart into my hole, teasing and
lubricating in equal measure. He was certainly competent, professional even, but I was struggling to comprehend his purpose. Xena had said it was all about delaying orgasm, going without a climax for days on end. If that was the case, he had a funny way of going about it.
In the twinkling of an eye, I felt a slim finger probe my hole. Before the twinkling of another eye, two long fingers were jabbing in and out of me and my knees shot up at the sudden rough treatment.
“Excuse me, I don’t understand…”
“No talking.”
I guessed from what Xena had said that this must be some kind of desensitisation process. I tried to relax, breathing out slowly, lowering my knees, and letting the muscles in my stomach de-tense.
“Very good,” said the Oriental man, withdrawing and then examining his shiny wet fingers. “You ready now. Please, don’t look at me.”
“Ready for what?” I turned my head to one side. He pulled up his gown, climbed on top of me, entered me with one thrust. I gasped with surprise. Xena had said nothing about actual sex. She’d talked about masturbation and machines.
I shifted slightly to improve the angle but he didn’t seem at all concerned about my pleasure. When I started to move along with his thrusts, he stopped and shook his head. He wanted me to lie still and not look at him. I had never had sex like this before. I don’t just mean the Victorian clothing. It was so impersonal.
He was very active, fast in his movements. Yes, professional, was the right word. He sat up and used his thumb on my clit, his penis still inside me. A high moan escaped me, more a squeak really, but he liked that, and rubbed me firmly, making me squeak more. I couldn’t help it. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I could feel a climax coming. Before it did he withdrew, turned me over, and pulled me to the edge of the bed, my feet on the nearly bald Turkish carpet.
I was definitely wet now and pushed back hard on his cock, only to be rewarded with a slap on the buttock. He pushed me into the satin counterpane, and my body slid forward. He didn’t want me to move. This so-called ‘training’ ran counter to everything I had thought about enjoying orgasmic sex.
He entered me again and again, just a little way, withdrawing completely each time. When at last he plunged deeply in and thrusted high up inside me I sighed and my vagina clamped round his slim penis, desperate to hold him in. I sneaked a hand down to my clit and worked myself to the orgasm I could deny no longer. My spasms and cries took him over the edge too. When he silently withdrew, I felt warm come trickle down the inside of my thighs, lots of it.
“Very good,” he repeated. He adjusted his gown, straightened his stage moustache, and placed a pile of clean notes, straight out of a cash machine, on top of the costume jewellery box.
“What’s that for?”
“For you. Very good.”
“But I thought I had to pay for training.”
“No need to pretend now. This all for you. Have already paid maid for the room.”
When I got home I had a deep bath and tried to make sense of the bizarre experience. It was so not what I had expected. I dried my hands and picked up my tablet to read some more about the Orgatron Training Centre: a charity, a religious foundation dedicated to connecting people with their inner spirit. Founded by Regina Heart, the main centre is based in an ancient castle in Scotland, on an island thought to have once been a pagan religious site. The London training Centre is located in Old Brompton Road.
Not Brompton Row.
Two
“You said you wouldn’t do anything like that again.” Robert, sitting at his desk going through a case file, did not turn round to look at her.
“But this is for charity,” said Caroline.
“It may be a good cause, but we agreed – no more Bluebell.”
“God I hate living with a lawyer; it’s like everything I ever said is taken down and used against me.”
“Can’t you see?” said Robert. “He’s trying to get you into his studio under a pretext.”
“Robert, it will spoil things if you’re suspicious of every innocent thing I do. You like it well enough when I play being Bluebell at home. Erik is an old, old friend. And it’s not a pretext. It’s a high-class art calendar which will raise money for breast cancer research. It’s not just the calendar – the paintings will be auctioned off. Erik’s paintings fetch thousands.”
“But why does it have to be you, Caroline?”
“He said my red hair would be perfect for November. And because I sat for him before it would be a lot easier than dealing with a new model.”
Robert finally turned to face her. “I can see you two have discussed this in depth already.”
“I met him on the train going down to Devon when I visited Bettina. He’s got a gallery and a studio in Torquay and spends half his time there now. He was on his way for the opening of a new exhibition and he invited me to the opening night.”
“So that was your night out in Torquay. What did Bettina think of Erik’s exhibition? Come to think of it, he’s the obvious choice for a breast cancer charity.”
“She loved it. My mother’s not hung up about nakedness like your family. There’s no point in us having a row about this. I want to do it. Erik’s an interesting person with lots of interesting friends.” Like Xena, who had told her about the Orgatron Training Centre and the fantastic things it had done for her sex life. She blushed at the memory of her failed attempt to visit the centre.
“What’s been going on, Caroline?”
“Nothing. Look, I’ve decided I’ll do it so let’s not have a row. I met Erik’s other models for a drink and they’re really nice people. You would love Xena, she’s just your type.”
“What type is that?”
“Blonde, big tits, French accent. She’s August. January is an ice maiden and May dyes her hair green. Erik’s not interested in me, he’s fascinated by Xena. Anyway, you can talk. I can’t believe you’re serious about representing Madame Melody.”
“That’s work, not leisure. Melody is using Forbes-Brown to contest the withholding of her share options. Your success on the European hub has pushed Monsaint’s share price up so much that about fifteen million rests on the outcome. Forbes-Brown wants an early opinion.”
“What about conflict of interest?”
“Officially, there’s no conflict of interest. Forbes-Brown knows nothing about our involvement with Melody last year. I’ve got to do it. I can’t afford to pick and chose.”
“Well you’d better be careful.” Caroline blushed again at the memory of how Melody had manipulated her into indiscretions with work colleagues.
“I don’t think you need worry. She’s living a quiet life out of the limelight on a remote Scottish island. She says she needs the share option money for a religious foundation. She’s even changed her name – again.”
“Again? I can’t imagine she wasn’t always called Melody Bigger.”
“She changed her name when she was nineteen. Decided she didn’t like her parents or their name and invented a new one.”
“So what’s she changed it to now?”
“Regina. Regina Heart.”
♥ ♥ ♥
“Come in, come in, take a seat. The star of Frankfurt has returned.” Andreas Rivera-Castillo met her at the door to his office and guided her to a leather armchair, one of four arranged around a low table.
It was the first time she had been admitted to his inner sanctum. The chairs were usually reserved for the four people who were the engine of Monsaint Medical Instruments: the Chairman, grey-haired Anthony Belvoir; the finance director, and Caroline’s boss, Ivan Kalashnikov; Andreas, Chief Executive; and his dynamic PA and company secretary, Julia Sinbad. When it came to decisions in Monsaint, the rest of the board, the senior management team, and the major shareholders could all go to hell. Every decision of significance was taken around that low table with not a paper agenda in sight.
She sat upright, not back in the chair, and crossed her legs, showing off her high-he
eled leather boots, a present from Cosimo Baldissi. The silver side buckle reminded her of spurs. She had learnt a few useful things from Melody Bigger – how to dress from the bottom upwards and from the inside outwards. Frankfurt was full of brilliantly designed underwear, smooth and tight as a BMW. She had achieved an hourglass figure calculated to appeal to an American Chief Executive.
Unfortunately she had miscalculated the dress code. When Andreas had offered an early evening meeting to give her time to fly over from Frankfurt, she had expected to meet a man in an expensive suit who, if things went well, would invite her for a cocktail after work. Instead she was faced with a regular guy in a check shirt, designer trainers and jeans, dark stubble already beginning to appear on his face.
“Thanks for fitting in a meeting at short notice, Mr Castillo.”
“Call me Andreas. It was like you read my mind. I’ve seen all your reports of course but I wanted a personal update on the European hub. You’ve done fantastically well in the past year but it’s vital that progress in maintained, accelerated if possible. Against all the odds, Europe has been the source of most of our growth. Tell me, how you did it?”
She had prepared for many questions, but not that one. She had no idea how she’d done it. It had just happened. Doors had been miraculously opened. All she had had to do was to mention to Cosimo or Von Wolfswinkle that she’d like to meet so-and-so and an invitation would be forthcoming. Any obstacles, like change of use for a storage facility, were overcome with a phone call to a helpful official who seemed to be expecting her call.
Von Wolfswinkle had come up trumps with any capital investment needed, refinancing Monsaint’s 1990’s enormous loans without a quibble. And Morag Moran: what a woman she turned out to be. What Miss Moran didn’t know about logistics was really not worth knowing. Although now elevated to international finance and politics, her name and fortune had been made through Demon Delivery. The flames of their logo streaked down the motorways and across the air lanes of Europe seven days a week.
Shameless Exposure Page 1
