'Oh,
boy
...'
he croaked, still sliding around her, seeking ever more lurid
shots. 'This'll have the boys spanking the monkey!'
At that Julia
returned to reality, leaving the euphoric clouds and coming down to
earth with a rude bang. 'But you said I would do fashion poses,'
she protested.
'So you shall,
pet. And the first pics we took of you in your ordinary gear will
be fine to present to a prospective employer. Though I've a hunch
Blake's sponsor will approve of these even more.'
'You talking
about Vincent Gabor?' Will asked, his hands shaking slightly as he
lit a cigarette, even though Julia was now sitting with her legs
primly together and her nipples again covered by the basque's lace
edging.
'Sure thing.
He's encouraging Blake to go for the leather and kink. I'll get
this developed pronto, show them the proofs and arrange a
meeting.'
'Don't we get
to see them first?' Will was obviously keen to protect her
interests.
'If you
want.'
'We do.'
'I'll give you
a bell when they're ready.'
'Then, that's
it?' Julia couldn't wait to get out of the corset that was nipping
her waist and pinching her ribs, her breasts pushed unnaturally
high. 'I can go home now?'
'So soon?'
George said regretfully, his tongue wetting his lips again. 'I
hoped we could... you know... get better acquainted.'
'Another
time,' Will intervened, and Julia slipped back behind the screen,
tearing at the lacing of the corset as she went. She heard Will and
George talking.
'Don't I get
to dip my wick?' the photographer asked.
'That's up to
her, but I doubt it. She maintains she's a virgin.'
George gave a
disbelieving bark of laughter. 'Pull the other leg, Will, it's got
bells on.'
'I'm telling
the truth.'
'You mean to
say you haven't fucked her?'
'No. And I
sincerely believe no one else has, either.'
'But she'll do
other things, give head or a hand job?'
'Yes, though
never with me. But I've watched her at it.'
'Have you?'
George wheezed eagerly. 'I've got the most monumental stiffy. It
refused to lie down all the time I was shooting her, and still
won't. So now what am I going to do with it?'
'Sorry, but
that's your problem,' said Will coolly. 'I'm in the same state and
we'll both be doing the five-finger exercise tonight.'
Julia stepped
from behind the screen wearing her own clothes, glad the session
was over. 'Thank you, George,' she said, and sort of meant it.
Posing had been embarrassing, surprisingly exciting, and would
provide her with pictures, but she didn't think she would care to
repeat it.
'Okay, Julia,
if that's how you want it,' he said regretfully, then shrugged and
added, 'Maybe things will be different next time we meet.'
'Don't come
down,' Will said. 'We'll find our own way out.'
George saw
them to the door, then retreated to the darkroom adjacent to the
studio and removed the film from his camera.
'That's
wicked!' Marty exclaimed as he watched the leggy, coffee-coloured
model stalk down the centre of the long, high-ceilinged room.
'Absolutely ace, Cressida. You've caught the mood perfectly. Marta
Hari... spy, dancer, harlot. It'll be a showstopper. If Mrs
Hooper-Jones doesn't buy it, I'll get a job down the mines.'
By now he had
conveniently forgotten that this stunning, sequinned and beaded
gown, a la the 1914-18 war, was not his at all, but Arlene
Murphy's. He was so powerful, or rather Gabor was, that he took
chances that would scare an ordinary person. All he had to do was
move a spangle here, a few diamantés there, and he could justify
putting his label in it.
'That fat old
broad,' Cressida said, her voice like rich dark chocolate, her
slanting agate eyes heavy with scorn, 'is like a sack of potatoes
tied up in the middle,' and she fondled her own eighteen-inch
waist.
'Ah, the
intolerance of youth,' he said blandly, lounging in the chrome and
black leather armchair, one trousered leg crossed over the other.
'So she is, but never mind, dear, I always seduce her into a double
think, urging her to dismiss the nubile models from her mind. I
suggest that though they show the clothes, it takes someone like
herself to give the garments pizzazz.'
He caught
sight of himself in the large mirror screwed to the red brick wall
of this fiercely expensive riverside apartment. It had been part of
a derelict factory before conversion by one of Gabor's building
companies. It was high fashion. So was Marty.
He would have
been the first to admit that he had done things of which he wasn't
proud in order to reach the highest echelon of the fashion world.
He'd recognised at art school that talent, even sizzling talent
like his, wasn't enough. What was needed was a large slice of luck,
a conscience that wouldn't keep one awake at night, and the ability
to seize life by the throat before it got you.
With the cool
for which he was famous, he made a critical note of the fit of his
Madras cotton shirt, which, along with his baggy trousers, were
top-sellers from his couture range. Branching off into menswear had
been one of Gabor's inspirations. Now every go-ahead executive
worth his salt had at least one Marty Blake suit in his wardrobe -
classy, sexy, and pricey.
'How can she
be so stupid?' Cressida said, pursuing the subject of Mrs
Hooper-Jones as she paced across the polished wooden floor and came
to rest in front of him.
'Her husband's
a millionaire. That gives her the right to be any goddamn thing she
pleases, including stupid,' he answered nastily, running a hand up
Cressida's thigh.
She was so
close he could smell her costly perfume and the scent of her
highlighted dreadlocks. His cock stirred, trapped in his trousers.
Her breasts were nearly as flat as a boy's, but her umber nipples
jutted out like organ stops.
The gown she
wore was stunning and he marvelled how Arlene had managed to do it
on a shoestring. The girl had imagination, flair and guts, and the
memory of their encounter in the storeroom fired his lust even as
he directed it towards Cressida. But though he had penetrated
Arlene and brought her to pleasure, it hadn't stopped him robbing
her, though, creative artist that he was, he understood just how
deeply this would have wounded her.
Barbaric,
outrageous, the dress would be a blockbuster, selling to the
highest bidder when he showed it. The bodice was made of thick gold
mesh, slashed to the navel. The sleeves were scalloped and
asymmetric, trailing jet beads. The black silk-chiffon skirt clung
to Cressida's lean hips, clearly defining the deep crease between
her buttocks and giving him thoughts of whips and canes, paddles
and tawse. She would be a willing party, he knew, though with her
height, strength and attitude, she preferred the dominatrix role.
It was slit so high on each side that every movement showed her
stocking tops. Her height was increased to six foot four inches by
her stilt-heeled ankle boots. She wore no panties, the shadow of
her mound visible, carefully depilated, except for a line of black
hair that accentuated the division of her sex-lips.
Marty parted
his legs to give her easier access to his cock. It was rock hard.
Besides being one of the world's highest paid models, she gave
superb head. As he lay back, anticipating the moment when her
plum-coloured lips would fasten round his helm, he dwelt on Mrs
Hooper-Jones. Even in the heat of passion his thoughts were never
far from his other lust, that of making money.
She was his
best customer, spending thousands of dollars a year in his West End
showroom, ordering half a dozen ensembles a season. Though a
middle-aged, dumpy New Yorker, by the time he'd finished smooth
talking her she was convinced that the mannequins were mere mirages
- substitutes for real women. He told her that it was only when an
inspired garment was actually cut on the customer that it could
finally achieve perfection. And she, besotted by him, believed
it.
'D'you know,
Cressida, I feel almost sorry for those rich, pampered bitches,' he
said, as he fingered her smooth pussy flesh. 'What they really want
is to have their cunts stroked, like this. They're lonely and
frustrated and their husbands are workaholics. I'll bet a dime to a
dollar that Mrs HJ goes back to her apartment overlooking Central
Park, all alone after some glitzy charity function, and plays with
her pussy as she looks in the mirror, thinking, "I'm wearing a
Marty Blake". Then she wanks until she can't stand.'
'They've all
got the hots for you,' she said, and gave a deep-throated chuckle
as she rubbed her clit against his fingers. 'What d'you want me to
do? Suck you off or fuck you?'
'In a minute
you're going to do both, but I'm enjoying this. Part those lovely
legs and let me get at your quim,' he growled, his eyes narrowed to
tigerish slits.
She stood with
her crotch on a level with his face, hiked back the skirt and her
beautiful, tapered hands came down each side of her labia, the deep
blue lacquer on her almond-shaped nails contrasting with the strip
of inky fur fringing her slate-dark lips. She stretched the wings
and her clitoris protruded, red as blood and well developed.
Marty leaned
forward and extended his tongue, flicking over the erect bud, his
balls clenching as he heard Cressida's indrawn gasp of pleasure.
She opened herself wider and the juice welled from her vulva. He
could taste it, salty and strong, and ran his tongue over her delta
while one of his fingers moved higher, finding the puckered moue of
her anus and pushing against it, gaining entrance to her
rectum.
The little
mouth yielded, and he sank his forefinger inside to the second
knuckle, feeling the taut muscles gripping it, and remembering the
blissful sensation of thrusting his upright tool into that dark,
secret tunnel.
'My tits,' she
pleaded, still holding her petals apart.
With his
tongue lapping her clit, he reached up and found the two ardent
points poking through the mesh. As he moved from one to the other
he wondered if he could alter the cut of the bodice so that they
were always on display. He teased them, made them swell even more,
and she pressed against his tongue, mewling like a Siamese cat on
heat as she convulsed in orgasm.
Marty's cock
pressed urgently against his trousers and his balls felt tight in
their hairy purse, aching with the need to discharge their
contents. He slouched low on his spine, and Cressida took her long
nails to his zipper and ran it down. He relaxed as her hand lifted
his heavy cock from inside. Then, with feline agility, she lifted
her skirt up out of the way, sat astride his lap and sank down
slowly, holding herself at the tip of his cock and rubbing her
swollen slit against it. He grabbed her legs and hitched them up
till her ankles rested on his shoulders. The force of gravity
pressed her down so that his dick plunged into her, burying deep.
Holding her firmly under the buttocks, his fingers indenting the
smooth brown haunches, he lifted her up and down over his pulsating
length.
Cressida took
her weight on her arms, clinging each side of the winged chair. Her
face was contorted like an African mask, full lips pulled back over
her even white teeth, her eyes fierce and unfocused. Her body heat
swept up like a miasma, and he breathed deeply of its odour.
He closed his
eyes as the first spasm shuddered through him. Sparks danced,
sensations scorched and he erupted, and amidst the volcanic
outburst he was aware of Vincent coming into the room, encouraging
him.
Marty dropped
from nirvana and tumbled Cressida off him. He tucked his cock away
and did up his flies. Vincent continued to grin, clad in a
knee-length white towelling robe, loosely girded, his stoutly
muscled calves supporting him, his phallus, impressive even in
repose, showing through the opening. Larger than most, naked of
foreskin, the exposed helm was a dark purple. It slanted to the
right, the black pubic thatch glistening with the pre-come juice
weeping from its single eye.
He was flanked
by girls.
Two walked
with their heads down, hands clasped behind their backs. Their hair
was waist-length, one toffee-gold, one a brunette. They were
barefoot and naked, except for a tiny suede cache-sex and a spiked
collar fastened tightly round their necks. Slender and shy, their
colour was high, their attitude one of shame, their rose-pink
nipples crimping at the drop of temperature. Behind them strode a
pair of strapping Amazons in black leather catsuits. They were as
tall as Cressida, big breasted, wide-hipped, their hair piled high,
strutting arrogantly and swishing whips that trailed several
knotted cords. Careful not to strike Gabor, they flicked the girls'
rumps, making them yelp, though never daring to look up or protect
themselves from these stinging blows.
'The jacuzzi
is the best thing since sliced bread,' he announced, jerking a
thumb at his slave girls who immediately crouched at his feet and
towelled his legs. 'You should have joined us. Plenty of room for
all. Aren't you glad I insisted it was included when we designed
your conservatory?'
'Of course,
you always know best,' Marty said, though his sarcasm was lost on
Gabor. This was one of the few things he could do better than his
foreign sponsor. No one dispensed irony like the British.
Gabor was
hardly listening, standing with his legs spread, his wet soles
making imprints in the rug. He was studying Cressida with shrewd
eyes, then said, 'Is that one of the dresses you've recently
acquired?'
'I don't know
what you mean,' Blake prevaricated.