'Then it is an
Arlene Murphy,' Gabor said, admiringly. 'It's superb. She has
style, that little nobody.' Then he glared down at the honey-haired
slave. 'Mind your manners, slut. Did I give you permission to touch
my cock?'
'I'm sorry,
master,' she quavered, sinking low and placing her mouth on his
foot.
'Punishment
time,' he announced.
The
leather-clad women hauled the girl up and dragged her to a stool, a
plain thing of metal and thin upholstery. She was forced to bend
over it, her knees on one side, her outstretched arms on the other,
her hair streaming down to touch the floor.
'Oh please,
don't hurt me,' she sobbed, but Gabor strolled across and placed a
hand on her raised hindquarters, then had the women open her cheeks
wide so he could penetrate her fissure. He examined it with brutal
fingers, making her cry out. She was helpless to move, her ankles
gripped and pulled apart, her hands roped and tied to the
stool.
'Marty, would
you like to do the honours?' Vincent said, with a sly grin.
'What a
splendid notion,' he replied, his lust momentarily appeased, yet
his cock already stirring at the sight of the trussed and naked
slave.
'Give him the
whip, Kay,' Vincent Gabor commanded and, after the tallest of his
Amazons had done so, he had her stand beside him so he could finger
her shaven mons and pierced nipples through conveniently placed
openings in her catsuit.
Marty Blake's
palm closed round the smooth haft and balanced it. Short and
strong, it supported the long wicked plait that ended in a dozen
knotted thongs. It would hurt, he knew, no stranger to the kiss of
the lash. Submissive or dominant; he selected whichever role
appealed at any particular time. It depended entirely on his mood
and what was happening in other areas of his life. Now, he longed
to see Arlene stretched over the stool. What right had she to be so
clever? No one should be more talented than him.
He took up a
position behind the girl's bare posterior, flexing his arm. He knew
Vincent was watching him critically, a past master at chastisement.
He wanted to acquit himself well. As in everything else, a certain
rivalry existed here between the two men. Lifting the whip high,
Blake struck with measured ferocity. His aim was as accurate as
when he used his cutting-out shears. He had the eye of a
perfectionist, and soon raw red bars striped the slave's quivering
flanks. Her hips writhed and rose, to be held down remorselessly by
Kay and the other Amazon.
Power raced
through Marty: he felt himself to be omnipotent.
He'd stolen
Arlene's work and no one was any the wiser. Tina wouldn't tell. She
daren't. Besides, she was in love with him. And he suspected that
Arlene, too, had been bewitched that one time he screwed her. And
this little creature threshing and screaming under the whip was the
recipient of his rage and passion. The blows fell across the backs
of her thighs, the underhang of her buttocks, and she begged for
mercy, her struggles subsiding to reflex actions at each cut.
'Enough,'
ordered Gabor, and Blake allowed the whip to fall to his side.
'Kay, take the wretched girl and put her under the shower. And
you,' he pointed at the other slave, who was trembling lest she
follow the same fate as her friend, 'fetch Miss Cressida a cup of
coffee. Quickly, or you'll be bending over the stool yourself. Come
over here, Marty, we've an important matter to discuss.'
He moved to
where a settee stood near a low glass and teak table. Blake sat and
watched as Gabor took up a large manila envelope and drew something
out. 'Take a look at these,' he said, handing the contents over.
'It's a new girl who wants to go into modelling. George sent me the
proofs. Don't you think she's charming?'
Marty had seen
hundreds of CVs and folios from aspiring mannequins and, at first,
he only glanced through these, then his attention sharpened as he
looked at the blonde, blue-eyed girl who seemed to return his stare
with amused precocity. First, she was in a denim skirt and
crop-top, pretty, almost wholesome looking, yet with a certain
naughty gleam in her eye. The next pictures confirmed her double
personality. Wearing a red leather basque and miniskirt she became
a tart, albeit a well brought up one.
She was gorgeous, and he eyed every pose closely. It was
always exhilarating to discover a brand new talent, and now Marty
held it in his hands. But he wanted more than just pictures - he
wanted
her
.
'What d'you
think?' asked Gabor, smiling knowingly.
A nod of
approval from Blake spoke volumes. 'What's her name?' he asked.
'George rang
to see what I thought of the proofs. Her name is Julia Jones. Nice
and simple, eh? We'll let her keep it, and I think we should see
her as soon as possible. Don't want some other designer signing her
up.'
'When?' Blake
felt a hot rush of excitement, a boy again waiting for Christmas
morning to come.
'Tomorrow,'
Gabor replied decisively, the pictures in one hand, his other
disappearing inside the robe to fondle his erection. 'We'll invite
her for an audition.'
Julia wasn't
familiar with the Highgate area of London. All she knew was that it
contained a famous cemetery where many celebrities of the past were
interred, including Karl Marx.
It was a place
where only those with money could afford to live. George had given
her Vincent Gabor's address and told her to arrange to go there for
an interview with him.
'He's over the
moon about your pics, sweetie,' he had crooned down the phone.
'Can't wait to see you in the flesh.'
'And Marty
Blake will be there?' she asked, unsure whether to be pleased or
sorry that she'd made an impact.
'He'll be
around, for sure, but it's Gabor you've got to impress.'
She pulled up
at the gates of Hazel House. They were open and she drove her old
banger along the drive and stopped outside the main entrance. She
mounted the steps and pressed the bell, meanwhile looking up and
around at the impressive building. It was a solid house set
foursquare in a large piece of ground. It had stood there for a
hundred years, and the monkey-puzzle and cedar trees were well
established, as were the azalea bushes and privet hedges. The
garden was immaculate and the mansion maintained to a high
standard. The car she shared with Arlene looked battered and seedy
in comparison with a Mercedes and Jaguar parked nearby.
I shouldn't
have come, she thought, hearing the bell go ding-dong deep within
the building. She was acutely nervous, even though Arlene had
advised her on her outfit and she was wearing a skirt and top in
caramel linen, with a cashmere cardigan. A conservative ensemble,
but the cut was superb, one of Arlene's own creations. Neat shoes
and beige stockings completed the picture, and Arlene had also
worked on Julia's hair, making the most of the bouncy curls, and
helping her with her make-up, too, emphasising her English Rose
complexion and darkening the lashes that framed her violet-blue
eyes.
This increased
Julia's confidence yet made her oddly uncomfortable. She wasn't
used to wearing dressy clothes. Although these were quite casual,
she much preferred trainers or terrain sandals, jeans and T-shirts
or shorts in warm weather. The stockings clung, upheld by white
ribbon suspenders attached to a narrow, lace-trimmed garter-belt.
Ordinarily she would have had bare legs, for the day was warm, a
hint of approaching summer borne on the balmy breeze that lifted
her curls and ran impudent fingers up inside her skirt and around
the coffee lace trim of her French knickers.
She heard
footsteps coming along the hall and the two halves of the double
door were flung open with a flourish. Julia had a quick impression
of height and severity, finding herself face to face with an
intimidating woman, who said without a smile, 'Miss Jones?'
'Th-that's
me,' Julia answered, stumbling over her words.
'I'm Grace
Pennick, Mr Gabor's personal secretary and assistant,' the woman
went on, and stood to one side so that Julia might enter. 'Please
come in.'
'I had thought
that perhaps he'd want to see me in his office,' Julia gabbled on,
following Grace across a hall as big as a ballroom.
'He works from
home a great deal,' she answered crisply, her demeanour not one
that encouraged small talk. Julia found her formidable. She was
dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, the jacket severe and the skirt
calf-length. Her sheer black stockings fitted flawlessly and she
wore lace-up shoes with high heels. Her hair was cut short and
swept back from her plain, broad-featured face. Her flat cheekbones
were rouged, her eyes outlined by kohl and mascara, and her mouth
was a wide scarlet slash. The use of cosmetics did nothing for her,
too heavily applied to be soft and feminine. When she twisted her
lips into a sneer, her expression was one of cruelty and
rapaciousness.
She opened a
door at the rear of the hall and they entered a large panelled
room. It was filled with tapestries and antiques. Whoever Vincent
Gabor was and where he fitted into the equation, there was no
denying his exquisite taste. Julia gazed in awe at the collection
of bronzes that stood on tables and plinths. It took her a second
to take in their content. Sculpted and cast by master craftsmen,
they were executed in the style of Ancient Greece. There were
muscular men having intercourse with naked, buxom goddesses; hairy
satyrs with goat legs and massive phalli penetrating the quims of
slender, nude nymphs; men copulating with men, women pleasuring
women, and mixed groups indulging in the penetration of every
orifice.
Julia, staring
at them dumbstruck, wondered if they were originals thousands of
years old and worth a fortune. Her eyes kept returning to one in
particular where a voluptuous girl bound with chains was on her
hands and knees. Her bare bottom was lifted towards a grotesque,
dwarfish figure with an enormous cock, who was brandishing a whip.
Stripes had been carved on her back and buttocks, tears made to
trickle down her cheeks. The piece was so lifelike that Julia
almost expected to hear her scream.
'What a
collection,' she said in awe. 'I've never seen anything like
it.'
'Nor will
you,' Grace answered with almost personal pride, and a lustful look
in her eyes as she stared at Julia. 'Mr Gabor is a connoisseur of
art. He specialises in erotica. You appreciate them? That's good.
He'll be pleased to know you're responsive.'
'I've come
about a modelling job, nothing else,' Julia reminded her, but was
disconcerted when Grace, hatchet-faced and unsmiling, reached out,
slid a hand under her cardigan and started to fondle her
nipples.
'So?' the
woman said, unbuttoned Julia's linen top, and with stunning
presumptuousness freed her breasts from her lace and satin bra,
displaying their ripe roundness and luscious tips. 'What better way
to begin?'
Julia was
stunned, feeling unsteady on her high heels, aware of the heat of
the room, the heat of Grace's fingers, the heat welling up in her
loins. A hand slid down, lifting the hem of Julia's skirt and
stroking her thighs between her stocking tops and knickers. Not
really knowing what to do, she stood perfectly still under the
woman's caresses, her arms hanging limply at her sides, and she
felt fingers worming inside the leg of her knickers.
She gasped,
moved back a step and, with a mocking twist to her lips, Grace
released her. 'W-when will I meet Mr Gabor?' Julia blurted, her
heart racing, her mind in a confused spin. 'Are you going to tell
him I'm here?'
'I shall
interview you first. He trusts my judgement, and we're very
impressed with your photos. Have you brought along your CV?'
'Yes,' Julia
said, pulling a folder from her bag. It contained her hastily
concocted history of modelling work to date. Will had dreamed it up
on his word processor.
'This looks
interesting,' Grace said, sitting on the chintz-covered window seat
and browsing through it. 'Though it seems you aren't very
experienced.'
'That's true,
but I'm willing to learn,' Julia insisted, wondering if Grace
guessed the CV was a fabrication.
It had been
Denise's idea. After a few moments of doubt she had agreed with
Will's suggestion that it would be a great story if Julia could
pull it off, and had given the project her go-ahead. This was the
chance to prove herself for which Julia had been praying, and she
knew she could always rely on Will if she got into situations too
hot to handle. Mobile phones were a blessing in disguise to people
like them, who worked on a knife-edge and often needed an instant
response and support.
To her further
embarrassment, Grace reached for an envelope lying beside her and
started to leaf through George's photographs. Julia could feel
herself blushing. This was far worse than when she had been posing.
Then it had seemed as if some other girl was performing those rude
acts, not her.
'These are
splendid,' Grace said, a hectic flush adding to her rouge, her
pupils unnaturally large as if she'd been using belladonna. 'I'd
like to see you modelling similar garments in reality, as it were.
I've some here, brought along specially. Take off your
clothes.'
Oh dear,
another one wanting Julia to undress. What was it with people? But,
certain that she must comply in order to be accepted and then spy
for Arlene, she slipped her arms out of her cardigan, then took off
her top and bra. She unzipped the skirt and let it drop. Now she
only wore her knickers, suspender belt, stockings and shoes.
'Let me help
you,' said Grace, her voice husky, and she knelt at Julia's feet,
her strong hands undoing the tiny pearl buttons at the waistband of
her satin drawers.