Dirty Minds (10 page)

‘That’s easy. There has always been a lot of it going on in my industry. You can’t imagine some of the talk. I suppose it’s inevitable; girls on their own, gay men around them, and all of them obsessed by beautiful bodies.’

He did not have the courage to ask whether her knowledge was first- or second-hand. She smiled at him.

‘And the sadistic matron was my old gym teacher. She was one creepy old bat. So, shall I go on to the next one?’

‘Be my guest, I’m still trying to sort my sabretooth tigers from my woolly mammoths. Not to mention the woolly adverbs. Come to think of it, were there humans around ten million years ago?’

She picked up The Marquise. The writer had done a very good job of evoking the suffocating heat of Provence in summer. Everybody was sweaty and the Marquise positively dripping. The story was simple enough. The lady herself is standing at her bedroom window. She decides to strip naked, in full view of the stable lad below. He gets more and more excited, until he opens his breeches and starts doing what stable lads do when they see their mistress in the nude. Unaware of the Marquise watching from the window, the kitchen maid comes out and gives him a hand. The net result is a summons to the bedroom for both of them, followed by some energetic spanking and whipping: first the maid at the hands of the Marquise, and then the Marquise at the hands of the lad.

‘How’s it looking?’

She looked up at the sound of his voice. ‘Pretty strong stuff, but well written. And your cavemen?’

‘It’s not the cavemen, but the cavewomen, who are in the heat of the action. They are at it like rabbits.’

Ros returned to The Marquise. She found herself comparing the use of the riding crop in this story with the use of the whip in hers. She was forced to conclude that this was more credible. Sounds of mirth interrupted her.

‘You’ll have to read this one, Ros.’ He was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘Thank God it finished at a thousand words. Any longer and I think she would have shagged the sabretooth tiger. Whoever wrote this either has a phenomenal sex drive or hasn’t had sex for a long, long time.’

He reached for the next story. It was entitled, The Memsahib’s Rules. The author was Maggie Perkins from Bristol. It was not funny. Definitely not funny at all.

She flexed the cane in her hands. There was silence in the room, broken only by the whimpering of the girl.

‘‘Silence!’ Her voice was like the crack of the whip itself. ‘‘You brought this upon yourself. Now turn round.’ To reinforce her words, she swung the cane down in a vicious arc. It smashed into the leather armchair, raising a cloud of dust, which danced and sparkled in a shaft of sunlight.

The naked girl turned as instructed. Her hands were firmly bound behind her back, her body totally defenceless. The Memsahib raised the cane and savoured the fear in the girl’s eyes.

‘‘Let this be a lesson to you.’

The cane whistled through the air.

‘Bloody hell.’

Ros had just picked up the last story. She paused, her eyebrows raised. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I have a feeling this one is going to prove a bit too hard to stomach.’

‘Rude, smutty, badly written?’

‘No, you can’t call this smut. It’s violence, sadistic violence. I sense this is going to be too cruel for us.’

‘What, worse than my Roman Matron?’

‘Your Roman matron is a pussy cat in comparison.’ He resumed his reading.

Ros drained her cup of tea and turned her attention to the last story in the pile. The title was short and sweet: Bliss.

She was wearing a grey check shirt. The top two buttons were undone, her black bra just visible underneath. He could see the gentle swell of her breasts pressing against the material.

‘‘Could I have my key please?’ Her voice was cultivated, her manner cordial.

‘‘Room 44, isn’t it?’ He could hardly get the words out.

‘‘You remembered. How sweet.’

As she took the key, there was the lightest touch of her hand on his. He felt it all the way down his spine and round to his loins. He watched her walk over to the elevator. The ridiculously short black skirt hugged her hips and stretched across her perfect bottom. There was no sign of underwear beneath the thin material. He gulped, leaning forward so that his groin pressed against the counter. Her long slim hand reached for the call button. A scarlet-tipped finger pressed it and the door opened. She stepped inside, her auburn hair swaying as she turned. Her eyes caught his. She held his gaze until the doors closed and swept her away from him.

He looked at the clock: 11.45. Johnny would be here soon and he could finish his shift. He felt the need of some fresh air. And a woman. Every night this week he had watched the girl come past. Always friendly, always enticing, utterly desirable. He sighed deeply.

‘‘Why the big sigh, mate?’

He looked up guiltily. Surreptitiously he turned his hips so as to conceal his state of arousal. ‘‘Hi, Johnny. Just the end of a long day, I suppose. How are you doing?’

Before he could answer, the telephone on the counter rang. He reached for it.

‘‘Reception
.’

A husky voice came back down the receiver, sending a shiver down his spine.

‘‘I’m calling from Room 44. There’s no water in the minibar. Would you be a dear and bring me up some?’

‘‘Of course, at once.’ He dropped the receiver as if it was hot. ‘‘Room 44 wants a bottle of water. If you’re here to stay, I’ll take it up. Then I’ll call it a night.’

‘‘Fine with me. You have a good rest now.’

He arrived at room 44 in record time. The bottle of water was fresh from the fridge and mercifully cold. He wrapped both hands around it to stop them sweating. He realised he was trembling as he knocked on the door. He saw that it was ajar.

‘‘Come in.’ Her voice was indistinct.

He pushed the door open and went in. The only light came from a bedside lamp and through the half-open bathroom door. He looked round the room, but could not see her.

‘‘That is you, isn’t it?’ She was in the bathroom.

‘‘Um, yes. I’ve brought the water.’

‘‘Close the door. I’ll be right out.’

He pushed the door to behind him and placed the bottle on the table. He was almost paralysed with anticipation. Seconds later she appeared.

His immediate reaction was one of disappointment. She was still fully clothed. In his mind’s eye he had imagined her naked.

‘‘How very kind.’ She walked over towards him. ‘‘You go off-duty at midnight, don’t you?’

He cleared his throat. ‘‘Yes, yes I do.’

‘‘So you are off-duty now?’

‘‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘‘Sit down on the bed.’

He obeyed instantly. He sat, transfixed, as his dream came true.

She began to strip.

Her elegant hands reached for the buttons on her blouse. One by one she undid them. She pulled the shirt open and let it fall off her shoulders onto the floor. She shook her auburn hair and smiled down at him.

‘‘All right so far?’ It was little more than a whisper.

He nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.

Her hands slid down to the zip at the side of the skirt. It opened and she shrugged it off. Now she was clothed in just a lacy black bra, a minute g-string and stockings. She stepped towards him until the g-string was inches from his face. Her perfume filled his nostrils.

‘‘Will you help me with my stockings?’ She raised one leg and placed her foot on the bed beside him, her thighs opening as she did so. He could see the outline of her, through the near transparent material. He reached for the top of her stocking.

‘‘Roll it.’

He rolled the fine nylon slowly down her leg, past her knee to her ankle, and lifted her foot for him to slip the stocking off. He leant forward and ran his lips along the inside of her thigh. She sighed deeply.

‘‘And the other one.’

He repeated the process. She did not step away after the second stocking fell to the floor. He reached towards her and ran his tongue all the way up to her leg. Her hands caught his neck and pulled him towards her.

‘‘The bra. Think you can manage it? I’ll give you a clue, it’s a front fastener.’

He reached up with his hands and caught hold of the clip. He pulled it open and watched as it fell to the floor. She bent forward, allowing him to take her hard nipples in his hands. He rolled them in his fingers and then took each in turn in his mouth.

‘‘You do that very well.’ ‘‘But haven’t you forgotten something?’ She straightened up and moved so close to him that the black lace of her pants rubbed against his face. ‘‘With your teeth, please.’

He gripped the thin elastic in his teeth and pulled downwards. After a few inches, it stuck. He transferred his attention to the other side. Gradually, alternating from side to side, the g-string slid off. She moved her feet apart; the g-string fell to the floor, and he heard a gasp escape her throat as his hand crept back up her thigh.

‘‘Oh, God’ was all he could find to say.

Tom was counting again. Ticking them off in his head, he added the stories up silently, not wishing to disturb her. She seemed engrossed in her reading.

‘There’s the Butler’s tale, the Roman romp, the Marquise, the Farewell to Arms, the cavemen and this rather unsavoury bit of Indian sadism. That’s six.’ So what was Ros reading, then? As he considered the question, he suddenly realised the magnitude of his blunder. Oh dear Lord, what had he done? He would have reached out and torn his story from her grasp but he could see that she was already on the final page. She was bent forward, chin in hand, glued to the print. She didn’t look up. He found himself remembering what he had written in the last few paragraphs. Her bare breasts, her nipples and, God help him, the pants pulled off with his teeth.

He glanced down at his hand and saw that it was shaking. Hastily he pressed it down on top of the other stories. Too late, he saw the sweaty mark it left on the top sheet. His throat was dry. He reached for his mug and drained the last remnants of the tea. It took two hands to return it to the tabletop without it flailing around wildly.

The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only sound. He hardly dared to breathe. He found himself counting the seconds. He realised that his heart was beating almost exactly twice as fast as the clock. He wondered idly if this meant he was going to have a heart attack. It would, at least, be a way out of this mess.

She cleared her throat and he jumped. But still she hadn’t finished. For a moment he wondered if she was feeling anything like he was. The top of her head gave nothing away. Her hair was hanging forward, concealing her face from him.

She let the last page fall closed. The noise of the paper drew his attention. She looked up and caught his eye. He blushed to his roots.

‘Oh dear God. That was just a trial run. You weren’t meant to read that. Oh bloody hell, Ros.’ His voice was little more than a croak. He swallowed hard.

‘I’m glad you like the shirt. It’s Kenzo. I’ve had it for years, but I still love it.’ Her voice was only gently mocking. She laid the story on the pile. ‘Pity it’s only a thousand words. You were just beginning to get into your stride. You are a bit of a slow starter, you know.’

‘More tea?’

‘Without question.’

He busied himself with the kettle. As he collected the mugs from the table, he saw that she had started to read the Indian story. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find that one a bit hard going.’

She nodded, once again immersed in her reading. The thought crossed his mind that she was maybe as embarrassed as he was.

He dumped the old teabag and refilled the teapot. As he was replacing the kettle, he heard her mobile phone.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tom. Do you mind if I get this?’

‘By all means.’ He opened the fridge door and took out the bottle of milk.

‘Darling, how lovely to hear from you.’ Her voice was warm and animated. His ears pricked up.

‘That’s wonderful news … Next Wednesday? Oh, you mean tomorrow? Why yes, it would be wonderful. You must come here to see my country residence … Don’t forget that it’s not quite in the same league as yours … Don’t be silly, it’s in the middle of nowhere, of course you must stay … No, I wouldn’t hear of it. You are very welcome. What’s that? Are you really? How wonderful. I look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow … Around teatime? Perfect. I’ll text you the address and the postcode. Your satnav will get you here, don’t worry … Drive safely … And I love you too. Bye, Fonsie.’

Tom realised that he had just filled one of the mugs to the top with milk. It was overflowing onto his fingers. He hastened to pour the excess away, unobserved, while she was still putting her phone away. He wiped his hand on a tea cloth and ventured a question.

‘Old friend?’

‘Very old. That’s Fonsie. He has loved me and courted me since I first trod the catwalk. I’ve lost count of the bunches of flowers … What am I saying? I mean the huge bouquets he has sent me over the years.’

‘And he’s coming to stay?’ Tom began to feel slightly sick.

‘Tomorrow night. I’ll do dinner for him. Will you come along as well?’

‘Erm, to play gooseberry?’

She laughted. ‘Gooseberry to Fonsie? Tom, darling, he just so totally isn’t the man for me.’

‘Another cricketer?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Definitely not. His bed head has more notches on it than Casanova’s. He told me once he had lost count before his thirtieth birthday. Even I don’t know his age, but he won’t see sixty again, so the total must be astronomical by now.’

Tom began to feel a bit less insecure. ‘And he’s coming to stay?’

Something in his voice must have given him away. ‘Tom, if it makes you feel better, I promise not to wear the grey shirt and the ridiculously short black skirt.’ He almost dropped the mugs of tea. She relented. ‘You will see what I mean when you meet him. He is not the man for me.’