Naughty Bits

by Rebecca Chance

  It kept sliding up. Past her almost non-existent buttocks, past her waist, up each visible knob of her spine, right up to her shoulderblades. One hand was pulling up the zip, the other holding the dress up at the nape of her neck, almost unable to breathe, sucking in everything she could as she went. Until the zipper tag found no more teeth to slide up, until it snicked to a halt at the very top . . .

  Coco spun to look at herself in the mirror, letting out her breath, her heart pounding. The dress was perfect, a sexy, flimsy wisp of silk that ended high up on her slender thighs, managing to be both seductive and elegant, its sleeves double-lined chiffon, gathered at the wrists to hide the reddened skin there.

  Perfect with my new Balenciaga shoes, she thought instantly. The shoes were high-cut, fastening around her ankles, concealing the restraint marks. She raised her hands to the nape of her neck, lifting her beautifully-streaked light brown hair, hand-painted by her colourist in artful shades of butterscotch, ash and honey. Definitely hair up and back to show off the neckline. And those huge Lara Bohinc earrings I got in London, with the crazy faux-pearls in rose gold.

  Oh God, he’s going to love me in this.

  She turned slowly, appreciating with a professional eye the way the skirt clung to her bottom, making it seem positively minuscule, the superbly cut float and drape of the silk over her shoulders. You could always, instantly, spot couture. This dress had been made specifically to her dimensions, but she had never been able to wear it before, never been able to draw up the zip with such effortless ease – because it had been tailored to the measurements she would have when she was a perfect size zero.

  After all this effort, all the extreme dieting and the exercise and the ironclad self-denial, here she was, standing in her perfect designer apartment, in her perfect designer dress, the perfect designer size. This was it.

  Coco Raeburn was finally perfect.

  And as she looked at her image in the mirror, she had to press her left hand against her bony chest to calm herself down, reassure herself. On her fourth finger was her engagement ring, an enormous, two and a half-carat princess-cut diamond in a simple platinum setting, so big it made her hand look impossibly fragile, so big it looked as if it weighed almost as much as she did. In America, the rule was that the fiancé should spend two, possibly three months’ salary on an engagement ring. But Coco’s fiancé was so rich that, as her friend Emily had commented in awe, she could never have, for daily use, a ring that had cost him that much money; she’d have to be shadowed by a pair of bodyguards wherever she went.

  Size zero. She had reached her goal. Their goal. She was beyond excited, into some realm of high altitude that made her head spin with exhilaration and terror. Coco recognised the sensation: it was the same light-headed dizziness she experienced when he fucked her, when he held her down, tied her up, slid the ball gag between her lips, fastened the eye mask over her face. Deprived her, utterly and completely, of any freedom, any ability to move, to speak, to protest anything he might choose to do to her.

  Coco had given herself over to him completely. The gigantic ring was a symbol of her dependency, just as much as the bruises on her body and the chafe-marks on her limbs. She was too tiny now, and the ring was too huge. Everything in her life was out of proportion. She was caught now, carefully and skilfully brainwashed by him, pinned down in his net, starved to skin and bone. Bucking under him as he dripped hot wax on her, her pain and pleasure sensors so blurred together by everything he had done to her in the last months that she could no longer have said whether she would have screamed in ecstasy or distress, would have pleaded for him to stop or go on, if she could have made anything beyond a flicker of sound around the firm rubber sphere of the ball gag fastened between her lips.

  With him, she was wordless, sightless, but never deaf. He wanted her to hear the sounds he was making, his grunts and moans of pleasure, the snap of the match as it lit the candle whose melting wax she was about to feel, the flick of the rubber whip as he tested it against the post of the bed before bringing it down on the backs of her thighs. He wanted to hear her try to gasp in anticipation, to guess where she would feel him next. To see if she would recoil at the unmistakable sound of him returning from the bar in the living room, ice cubes clinking in their metal container, knowing that he would be merciless with them, would slide them over her body and trail them, slowly, tantalisingly between her legs, making her jerk and try, futilely, to escape their burning cold on the most sensitive areas of her body. Hoping that his hot mouth would follow them, licking and biting her, sending her into spasms of orgasm that seemed even more intense because she couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, could do nothing but buck against her bonds, coming over and over again, feeling him drive her beyond anything she had thought she could take, over a dark precipice where she nearly fainted with the intensity of one orgasm thudding after another, all the while knowing that his teeth and lips would leave her wincing and sore.

  Or nipple clamps, a tiny little snip of sound as he flicked them open and closed before attaching them to her, pulling the soft pink flesh, hearing her whimper. Bending over her, listening to the tiny sounds she was struggling to make, before he pulled out the ball gag, tossing it aside, and straddled her, giving her barely any time to gasp a breath before his weight settled heavy on her chest, his cock hot and wide in her mouth as it drove into her, her lips eagerly closing around it, sucking and pulling hard, hearing his groans of encouragement above her. Knowing how much she was pleasing him, trying to make him come as hard as he had just made her writhe with orgasm, drinking his come down with fast, practised gulps as he flooded her mouth with hot, salty, almond-scented liquid. She had learned to suck it down swiftly, a series of short, frantic swallows so that she didn’t choke, her mouth distended with his stubby thrust of cock, her throat full of come.

  Eighteen months ago, Coco had been a girl who had a well-developed sense of humour, a quick wit. But she was too tense now, too skinny, her nerves too on edge for her to be able to relax enough to see the funny side of anything, to think ironically: This is the only time he doesn’t worry about the calorie content of what I’m eating. The only time he rewards me for swallowing something – instead of gently pushing my plate away when I’m halfway through, and telling me I’ve had enough, that I still have more weight to lose . . .

  He’ll be happy now. Surely he will. Now that I’m perfect.

  But beneath her pride in her achievement was a creeping fear. Not so much of him, but of herself.

  Because she had been starving herself for so long that she was frightened that she wouldn’t know how to stop.

  PART ONE

  London: Then

  Jodie

  The waiting room was full of clones. Slim, elegant girls with their hair pulled back into chignons, wearing crisp white shirts tucked into tailored trousers or skirts in shades of grey or beige, their wrists loaded with wide bangles, their makeup simple and discreet. They sat in the moulded white chairs that lined the walls, their legs crossed to show off their high stiletto-heeled cage shoes, heavy with straps that reached up to the start of their calves. On their laps were the latest It bags, or very good imitations, decorated with buckles and tassels and zips. They were all staring straight ahead, not deigning to notice each other’s existence, as if they were the originator of their style and all the other girls were inferior copies.

  Jodie stood in the doorway, her portfolio under one arm, looking at the clones with disbelief that gradually morphed into panic. No one had bothered to look up at her: it would be beneath their dignity to show interest in the new arrival. And the assistant, sitting behind her glass desk, tapping away at her computer, didn’t look up either. Why should she? Jodie was simply the sixth girl to be interviewed this morning for the coveted job of Victoria Glossop’s assistant, one in a long line of Identikit young women who had done their best to dress like their idol’s poorer, younger sister. It was for Jodie to go over to the desk, to give her name in a hushed voice,
to sit down next to one of the other Victoria Glossop replicas and wait for her turn, her chance to show Victoria that she was different from the rest of them, the stand-out applicant whom Victoria really had to hire . . .

  Sod this. Jodie’s hand clenched tightly around her portfolio, sinking into the leather. It was real, and even though she’d bought it on sale from Bilberry it had cost an absolute fortune. She was proud of it: dark green, patent, embossed, with a heavy brass clasp, she’d been planning to lay it on Victoria Glossop’s famously immaculate desk and pull out her layouts. At least it’s not beige, she thought savagely, glancing from one clone to the next. But it was the only thing in Jodie’s possession that wasn’t. The clones were so upsetting because Jodie had, exactly like them, dressed to replicate Victoria Glossop’s famous style, her hair pulled back, her clothing colourless and perfectly tailored. Victoria’s hair was always in her signature chignon. She wore white, beige and grey, with touches of black-and-white fur: snow leopard, zebra, sable. Victoria loved heavy bangles. Victoria loathed hoop earrings. Victoria—

  Jodie took a deep breath. She’d never win if she took these girls on at their own game. Most of them were thinner than she was: Jodie was a size 12 – on a good day, and in a label that had a more generous definition of that size than one that sold to skinny teens or model wannabes. A Marks & Spencers 12, rather than a Lipsy or Stella McCartney. And at five foot six, that was a perfectly happy weight for her – or it was, till I came to London to work on fashion mags, she couldn’t help thinking. Because none of these girls was over a size 10, and she’d bet that several of them, at least, had independent incomes, rich boyfriends, or much better PR contacts for free-bies than she did. She’d already spotted a Marc Jacobs bag, a Miu Miu skirt, and some amazing Zanotti heels, minimum £450 retail.

  I can’t compete at this level, Jodie knew, without a hint of self-pity. Her family hadn’t got a penny to spare; all she lived on was her minimal salary as fashion editor of Wow magazine, and the freebies she could scrounge up using Wow as a lever were distinctly low-status. Her white shirt was Jil Sander, but Jil Sander for Uniqlo, her pencil skirt Karen Millen – it fitted her beautifully, but it was high street, not high end.

  The girl sitting closest to Jodie glanced up, probably because she’d become aware that Jodie was standing in the doorway, hovering nervously. She zipped her eyes up and down Jodie, taking in every detail of her appearance, pricing her hair, her clothes, her shoes: in thirty seconds, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth and she turned away again, visibly relaxing with an attitude that said all too clearly that Jodie was no competition for her.

  She’s probably called Chloe, or Caroline, or Natasha, Jodie thought viciously. Something posh or foreign, something much classier than Jodie.

  The open contempt that Chloe or Caroline or Natasha had just demonstrated was exactly the spur that Jodie needed. It had been hard enough to even get this interview, and she wasn’t going to buckle under pressure now. She might not have the advantages of money and class that the Chloes, Carolines and Natashas did, but she came from a stable, loving, supportive family, she’d been brought up to be confident with who she was, and so what if she was a bit bigger than the other girls? She was healthy and happy, and she had great instincts for what women – real women – wanted to see in fashion magazines. Clothes they could actually wear, models they could identify with. Jodie knew she had real talent.

  I need to stand out from the crowd – show Victoria that I’m not just a clone.

  There were five girls in the room: that would give Jodie at least an hour before her interview. No time to go home – unable to afford a place of her own on her tiny salary, Jodie still lived at home with her mum and dad in Luton. There was no way she could ever make it back there to change her clothes.

  No, I’m going to have to think on my feet.

  And there Jodie had a real advantage, because she did that all day long. Jodie was a grafter; she’d been climbing the greasy pole so far by working harder, thinking faster and being more creative than anyone else around her. Fashion editor at Wow wasn’t much, and her budgets were small, but she’d managed miracles with the little she had, and her layouts had been good enough to secure her an interview with her idol Victoria Glossop, editor of Style.

  Nipping over to the desk, Jodie gave the receptionist her name, and offered to bring her back a coffee of her choice if she ensured that Jodie was called last. Agreement secured, and an order taken for a skinny grande latte with extra chocolate, Jodie shot out of the Dupleix building on Brewer Street, turned right and hurtled up to Oxford Street as fast as her shoes (Zara, loose interpretations of 3.1 Phillip Lim) would take her.

  Sixty minutes later, she was back, breathing fast, but the skinny latte was unspilled. As Jodie set it down, the receptionist did a double-take, her eyes widening as she realised that this was the same person who had spoken to her an hour earlier.

  ‘You’re next,’ she said in hushed tones; everyone at the Style reception spoke in an artificially-lowered voice, as if they were in church.

  It is a sort of church, Jodie thought as she took a seat in one of the uncomfortable, but highly fashionable white chairs. We’re all worshippers, with Victoria Glossop as a cross between the High Priestess and God.

  The atrium of the Dupleix magazine building, which housed many other publications as well as Style, was extremely smart, but the fifth-floor reception that led to the hallowed ground of Style was decorated entirely in Victoria Glossop’s signature palette; it might have been her own entrance hall. Huge white vases held black orchids, the only flower that was ever allowed to grace the receptionist’s desk. The walls were greige – that perfect blend of grey and beige where neither one had predominance – and the huge Chinese six-fold screen that hung on the wall behind the desk was of a snarling white tiger, black brushstrokes on cream paper in a black lacquered frame. It was the screen, the seventeenth-century painting as vivid as if it had been executed only days ago, that really showed how excellent Victoria’s eye was: the rest of the room would have been in perfect taste, but bland without the huge, magnificent animal sprawling across its folds, bringing the décor to life.

  Jodie’s phone beeped: a message coming in. Pulling it out of her bag, she checked it quickly.

  All right darling? Get the job? Making your fave dinner – shepherd’s pie! Can’t wait to hear how it went. And turn your phone off!!! X x

  Her mum, checking in. Jodie couldn’t help smiling as she put the phone back in her bag, making sure it was set to silent.

  Thanks, Mum. I’d’ve forgotten that.

  The thought of her mum’s shepherd’s pie, rich, fragrant meat under the whipped potato topping, made her stomach rumble in happy anticipation. Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine returning to Luton in triumph: sitting down for dinner with her parents and sister, tucking into a delicious plate of home-cooked food, announcing that she’d pulled off a miracle, actually succeeding in getting a job on Style—

  One of the opaque glass double doors swung open: an impossibly thin girl in skinny grey jeans and five-inch heels emerged, followed by the interview candidate who had sneered at Jodie in the waiting room an hour ago. She wasn’t sneering now. Her head was held high, but her eyes were suspiciously red and she was biting her bottom lip, hard, trying not to cry.

  ‘Jodie?’ the girl in skinny jeans said, looking at a list in her hand. ‘You’re next. God, it’s taking forever.’

  Jodie jumped up, smoothing down her skirt.

  ‘I hope you’ve had a stiff drink,’ Skinny Jeans said without an ounce of compassion in her voice, holding open the door for Jodie. ‘She’s in full bitch mode. I could hear her through the wall ripping that one’s throat out, and once she gets the taste of blood . . .’

  ‘That one’, visible through the glass doors, waiting for the lift, had wrapped her arms around herself and was giving vent to a series of whimpering sobs that she probably thought were inaudible to the people in reception.
Crossing the office, Jodie glanced up to the snarling white tiger on the Chinese screen: its pink tongue, the sneering curl of its nose, the sharp, dagger-like white fangs. It occurred to her that the tiger screen wasn’t just the perfect final decorative touch, but that Victoria Glossop had hung it there to symbolise herself. A warning that anyone who crossed her was liable to get their head bitten off.

  And when Skinny Jeans ushered Jodie through the assistant’s antechamber into Victoria’s office, snapping the door shut promptly behind the latest victim to avoid any last-minute attempts to flee the ordeal awaiting them, Jodie almost raised her hand to her throat in self-protection under the laser stare of Victoria’s cold grey eyes.

  ‘Well!’ Victoria said in a voice as crisp as her perfectly-starched white shirt. ‘At least you’re original. Five points.’ She scribbled something on her Bilberry notepad with a slender silver Tiffany pen. ‘Though I’m deducting two for cheapness. Those shoes. Always spend money on shoes. People notice. Sit.’

  Jodie was so shocked by this stream of words that she didn’t immediately obey the last one.

  ‘Sit!’ Victoria repeated impatiently, pointing with the Tiffany pen to the beige leather chair in front of her desk. ‘You should be grateful – I didn’t even ask the last girl to sit down.’

  Victoria shuddered at the recollection, as elegantly as she did everything else. Her nose was long, narrow and patrician. Generations of Glossops had looked down that nose at peasants, intimidating them very effectively even before they’d said a word.