Divas

by Rebecca Chance

  And then, wriggling helplessly on his lap, she felt how hard he was.

  The length of his erection was rising up along his left thigh, a hard ridge beneath her lower stomach, so prominent that she couldn’t help moaning as she felt its outline. As his hand came down again on her bottom, she rubbed herself against him, and she felt him swell in response, pressing up towards her through his trousers. She was so focused on his cock beneath her that she didn’t realise immediately that Niels had stopped spanking her: it was only seconds later, with shock, that she felt his hand between her legs, parting them roughly, reaching under her, his palm coming up to rub against her exactly where she wanted it.

  How he knew what to do so precisely, so perfectly, was something she didn’t want to think about: how many women he been with, who had taught him so well how to touch her, even through her jeans, in just the right place. Her eyes closed, her eyeballs rolling back in her head with pleasure, and she drove her hips down onto his palm, moaning in excitement and anticipation. Niels’s hand was up to her belly-button now, popping the button of her jeans open, forcing the zip down, his thumb finding her and drawing small clever circles on the silk of her knickers, the heel of his palm driving hard against her pubic bone, and before she could even draw breath she was coming so hard against him that, if he hadn’t still been holding her down, her wrists still trapped behind her, she would have arched right off him as the spasms hit her.

  He didn’t even let her recover before he was working on her again, and this time it was almost instantaneous, as if once he’d lit the fire it had spread so far and so fast that just the lightest touch would send her up in flames once more. All her sensation was on what he was doing between her legs, his thumb sliding past the silk of her knickers now, sliding into her, finding her damp and more than ready for him, drawing circles inside her till she thought she would explode . . . and then she did, screaming against the wool of his trouser leg, words that she didn’t even know she knew, helpless to do anything but come as long and as hard as he made her.

  Niels drew his thumb back, just barely out of her, and flicked it once, twice, directly on her most sensitive spot, working the seam of her knickers against her skin. Her whole body convulsed against him, her hips pounding into him as she wailed in such pleasure she couldn’t even remember her own name.

  He let her go, and Lola actually slipped to the floor of the limo, unable to catch herself; her legs felt boneless, her mouth open, panting for breath. She looked up, dazed, her vision blurred, to see Niels above her, frantically working his belt buckle loose, his big hands, which had been so clever as they gave her one orgasm after another, fumbling now. He cursed it furiously in what she assumed was his native Danish, and the sight of him, so big and capable and strong, struggling with his own trouser belt, overwhelmed with passion for her, Lola Fitzgerald, was so exciting that she felt it like a rush to the head. Better than any drug she’d ever taken was this feeling of power: the power to make Niels van der Veer, international tycoon and by far the bossiest, most domineering man she had ever met, so overcome with lust for her that he couldn’t get his own clothes to do what he wanted.

  She knelt up and knocked his hands away, unbuckling his belt and pulling it open with slim, deft fingers. And then she had his trousers unbuttoned, unzipped, and she was reaching into his boxers, running her hand along his cock, pulling it out, and ducking her mouth over its head.

  Above her, she heard Niels start to say something in protest, his hands under her arms, trying to pull her up. But she didn’t want to come up. She wanted to stay right there. She held onto him and started licking up and down his cock, her knees bouncing as the limo pounded over New York’s notoriously badly paved streets. Niels groaned, long and deep, a sound coming from the back of his throat, and his hands fell away as his cock drove itself up eagerly between her lips.

  Lola hadn’t planned this, hadn’t meant to take him into her mouth. But when she saw his cock springing free, so big and juicy, the only thought in her head was how very badly she wanted to suck on it. Which was extraordinary, as she had never in her life wanted to put a penis anywhere near her mouth. Various boyfriends had asked, hopefully, if she would suck them off, but she had generally limited herself to dabbing a few kisses on the head of their cock and then maybe giving them a hand job, if she felt very well-intentioned and affectionate.

  She hadn’t dreamed of doing anything like this. It was too animalistic. There would be mess, and they would be offended when she spat it out. She simply hadn’t wanted to, and, to be completely honest, she’d looked down on girls who did.

  Well, she had fallen a long way since then, far and fast, all the way to her knees in a luxury limousine, wedged between Niels van der Veer’s strong thighs, one hand braced on the rock-hard muscle of his quad to keep her balanced, the other wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, as she curved her lips over her teeth and sucked and licked up and down his straining thick length as if she could never, ever, get enough of giving head. Niels’s groans were rising, and every appreciative sound he made was a huge relief, as she was worried she might not be doing it right. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d had any experience with this.

  But his hips were lifting, pumping his cock against the roof of her mouth, his hands were rising to twine through her hair, and she thought, as she licked the swollen head of his cock as if it were the most delicious lollipop she’d ever tasted, that she couldn’t be doing it that wrong, because if she were, he’d scarcely be moaning:

  ‘Oh yes, Lola, yes, like that, just like that – God Jesus fucking God—’

  His hands were so tight in her hair now that she couldn’t move her head. He was holding it where he wanted her, using her just as he needed to. The thought flooded her with happiness: Niels had made her come, played her like an instrument, and now what she was doing to him was working, because he was bucking now beneath her, his thighs thrusting up, the sheer size of his quad muscles amazing her as her hand slipped along his leg, and with one huge gasp he yelled: ‘Oh God yes! Fuck!’ and his cock started to pump inside her mouth.

  She had never felt anything like this before. One moment she had thought she would choke on the size of him, and now he was pumping like a geyser. It was unbelievable, transcendent. Hot liquid flooded her mouth, foaming down her throat as she swallowed. It tasted of almonds and milk and lemon. She gulped for breath, pulling back a fraction so she could swallow it all, keeping Niels’s cock still in her mouth, her lips wrapped round it, holding him, not wanting to let him go.

  The limo swerved round something, and bounced over a pothole. Lola tipped back, and, to her great regret, Niels’s cock slid out of her mouth. She sat back on the floor of the limo, licking her lips, feeling ridiculously, unbelievably, satisfied. Why had she ever thought she wouldn’t like this? Why had she ever thought it might be demeaning? She’d had all the power there: she’d been the one to reduce big, strong Niels to – she almost giggled as she looked over at him, slumped in the corner of the limo – a drained, exhausted, shadow of himself. Talk about taming the beast. She suddenly understood why men were so nervous about sex. It made women feel stronger and men feel – well, drained. She had his essence now, swallowed down. He’d lost his strength. She had taken it from him.

  The limo made a left turn and tilted downwards suddenly, sliding Lola across the floor towards Niels’s seat. He reached down and hauled her up, one big hand in her armpit, lifting her and dropping her next to him on the leather upholstery before she’d even got her feet under her.

  ‘Mr van der Veer?’ said the chauffeur over the intercom as the limo slid to a halt. ‘We’re in the parking garage by the elevator bank. Shall I open the door?’

  ‘Give us a minute, ’ Niels said, shifting to tuck himself back into his trousers and do them up. He nodded a command at Lola, who stared at him blankly before blushing furiously and reaching down to do up the zipper of her own jeans.

  ‘I—’ Niels started. He cleared his throat
, and began again: ‘You—’

  He ducked his head into his hands. Lola stared at him in amazement: it was inconceivable to have big, powerful Niels van der Veer too embarrassed to meet her gaze.

  ‘Look, this isn’t a good situation, ’ he mumbled into his palms. ‘You and Jean-Marc – you’re drinking, obviously, and probably taking drugs too. Your friends were high as kites this evening. You shouldn’t be around Jean-Marc. I know this isn’t exactly’ – he rubbed his face furiously – ‘I mean, after what we just did, it seems very hypocritical of me – but your staying with him is just not a good situation. He shouldn’t be drinking, and I know he is. He nearly died just a couple of weeks ago, for God’s sake!’

  Niels dropped his hands to look at Lola.

  ‘The bottom line is, you’re not a good influence on Jean-Marc, no matter what he says. I want you out of there. I’ll pay you – however much you want – I know Jean-Marc’s looking after you financially, and I’ll match that – but you need to pack your things and leave.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Lola exclaimed furiously. ‘If you think Jean-Marc would survive for a day without me staying there, you’re mad. He can barely be alone at the moment, he’s so vulnerable. David can’t be around the whole time, and Jean-Marc gets so upset when David leaves to go to work that he crawls in with me and sleeps in my bed, just so he isn’t by himself! And yes, we drink, but it’s only champagne, and just a few glasses, and we’re trying to get him to stop that too.’

  She was frowning so hard her forehead hurt, her fists clenched with anger.

  ‘You aren’t around!’ she added. ‘You aren’t there when he’s curled up on the sofa crying because he misses David! You aren’t trying to sort him out a sponsor and make sure he goes to Narcotics Anonymous meetings every day! You make me move out and Jean-Marc will be back on drugs in a week! He needs someone with him all the time, don’t you get it? You haven’t talked to him properly, spent any time with him – all you do is lecture him instead of working out how he’s doing and what he really needs, you big arrogant bossy bastard!’

  Panting for breath, she stared at him furiously, seeing that he was frowning too. He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment the chauffeur, obviously having counted down a minute as per Niels’s instructions, opened the back door of the limo, and Lola scrambled out as rapidly as if the upholstery had just burst into flames.

  ‘Stay away from us!’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘We don’t need you! Just stay away from me and Jean-Marc!’

  Her attempt to make a fully dramatic exit was frustrated by the fact that the strip-lighting of the Plaza’s parking garage was so bright after the dark interior of the limo that it blinded her momentarily. She came to a halt after two steps, blinking frantically, scared that Niels was going to jump out of the limo and shout at her some more. But then she realised that there was a lift already waiting, its doors opening just at that moment: the chauffeur must have called it before unlocking the limo door. She muttered her thanks and dashed inside, holding her breath until the doors closed behind her and she was finally alone, in a different space from Niels.

  There was a mirror in the lift. She stared at herself. Her hair was a messy tangle, her mascara smeared halfway down her cheeks. Her eyes were dilated; there was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and her skin was sweaty from exertion.

  She was so confused by her own roiling emotions that she would have given anything to be able to ring a girlfriend right now and tell her everything. Talk it over, analyse what had happened, twice, between her and Niels – what seemed to happen every time they were alone together: fighting and sex. They didn’t seem to be able to exchange two pleasant words with each other; everything they did triggered a fight, which triggered sex, and, as had just happened now, another fight after that.

  Because Lola had no experience with this kind of insane, unbridled lust, she had no idea how to deal with it at all. Exciting though it was, sex with Niels was equally terrifying: it went from zero to 100 in the flash of an instant. Too fast, too out of control. Together, she and Niels were a Maserati with a hair-trigger accelerator. Was that normal? Lola really didn’t think so. But Jean-Marc, who would be ideal to ask, was out of the question, because it would be much too embarrassing to tell him what she had just done with his brother.

  And the girls – well, after the revelations about her that someone had sold to the British tabloids, she had no idea whether she could trust any of them. It would take a little while to check if any of the traps she had set last night would be sprung.

  She stepped out of the lift and walked down the corridor. But as soon as she pushed the door of the apartment open, she heard sounds that sent all her senses on high alert.

  Up till that moment, Lola had been exhausted, coming down from a high-grade combination of stimulants. She had been ready for nothing more than stripping her clothes off and crawling into her huge, soft bed.

  That was, until she heard the thudding generic bassline of a pounding club soundtrack, laughter so high-pitched and raucous that it could only be drunken, and a provocative scream of excitement in a man’s voice.

  But I thought David wasn’t staying the night? Lola thought. He said he had to get a really early start tomorrow morning. And besides, that doesn’t sound like David . . .

  All tiredness forgotten in her rising panic, Lola strode through the foyer, crossed the living-room and pushed open the door of Jean-Marc’s bedroom. What she saw there was worse than anything she had imagined. Two half-naked young men – barely legal jailbait, by the looks of them – were curled up on the bed with Jean-Marc. The big mirror that usually hung over the bed-head had been taken down, and was now lying on the coverlet. Its surface reflected the glittering chandelier overhead, streaks of light glinting on the razor-blades propped next to the piles of white powder.

  And there was a fourth person present, sitting in the big armchair next to the bed, observing the proceedings with the wide smile of a satisfied pagan idol. Lola recognised her immediately. The over-plucked eyebrows, the cheaply dyed hair, the pores so deep that foundation, rather than covering them up, had sunk into them and made them even more visible, the gigantic football-sized breasts resting just below her collarbones . . .

  Lola stood and gaped at her, unable to believe anything about what she was seeing. She had seen pictures of Patricia in the tabloids, of course, but in the flesh she was infinitely more freakish, as if she’d taken everything associated with femininity – the breasts, the long hair, the make-up – and exaggerated them beyond the point of parody.

  Patricia’s head turned, sensing eyes on her. She didn’t miss a beat when she saw Lola, standing in the doorway: she smiled instead, showing a set of teeth so bright and white that Lola shivered, thinking immediately of a crocodile rearing out of the water, its mouth open.

  ‘Lola!’ she said, in the rough, grating voice of someone who smokes two packs a day. ‘Nice to meet you, darlin’! Johnny’s told me all about you. Come in, join us!’

  Jean-Marc raised his head from the mirror, catching sight of Lola. His blue eyes were glazed, his fair hair damp with sweat. He looked frenzied, his pupils tiny dark points, and white powder was caked round his nostrils.

  ‘You like the white stuff too, don’t you, Lola?’ Patricia giggled. ‘No point denying it, dear. We’ve all seen the papers! Come on, have a toot!’ She winked at Lola. ‘And feel free to play with the boys if you like. Believe me, dear, there’s nothing they won’t do . . .’

  Chapter 23

  Lola took a deep breath, grabbed the mirror with both hands, and up-ended it and its contents all over the coverlet and the carpet. Puffs of white powdery cocaine flew up into the air, momentarily blinding everyone on the bed. The boys screamed in fury and protest, ducking down as Lola sent the razorblades sliding across the mirror and onto the floor on the far side of the bed.

  ‘You crazy bitch!’ one of them yelled. ‘Do you know what that’s worth?’

  Struggling under t
he weight of the mirror, Lola dragged it towards her and propped it against the wall behind her: it was still streaked with white residue.

  ‘Naughty, naughty, ’ Patricia commented, her voice like gravel dragging against gravel. ‘You’ve got quite a temper, don’t you, dear? He’s not coming back to you, you know. Our little Johnny’s a confirmed homosexual.’

  Patricia turned her head, the pencilled-in eyebrows raising in fake surprise as she failed to see Jean-Marc.

  ‘Now, where can he have gone?’ she asked. ‘Lola dear, where is your fiancé? Have a look, why don’t you?’

  Tears came into Lola’s eyes when she ducked down to see Jean-Marc crouched down beside the bed. His fingers were pinched together, desperately scrabbling white powder from the tufts of the thick pale carpet and stuffing it up his nose. Strands of carpet came up with the coke, and he didn’t seem to care. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was moaning faintly.

  As she straightened up and looked around the room Lola felt as cold as ice. She turned to stare at Patricia, who was still sitting in the chair, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the previous one, a small, amused, infinitely knowing smile on her face.

  ‘Get up, ’ Lola said between her teeth. ‘Get out. All of you. Get out and never come back.’

  The sheer iciness of Lola’s tone made the boys jump to obey, grabbing their clothes and hustling for the door.

  ‘And you, ’ Lola said, staring at Patricia. ‘You disgusting, horrible pimp. Get up out of that chair now, before I call security and make them throw you out on the street where you belong.’

  ‘You bitch, ’ Patricia hissed, her eyes narrowing. ‘How dare you call me a pimp? It’s madam to you! Can’t you see these?’ She hoisted her breasts at Lola. ‘Bigger than those little fried eggs on your skinny little chest!’