Feeding at her
mother's teat, lolly-pops and ice-cream; all these had prepared her
for her task, and she tried out several angles, improving her
skill, finding that she was doing what came naturally. Gus groaned,
slumping low on his spine, surrendering to her greedy slurping. His
hands stroked her rumpled curls, and she felt empowered, in control
of this mighty man. He had become as pliable as putty in her hands.
At that moment he would have done anything for her. She dipped up
and down, never letting him force his glans to the back of her
throat, using her tongue to caress his stalk, then sucking
strongly, entranced by the ridge of his retracted foreskin and the
smoothness of his cockhead.
'Go for it,
kid, you're good,' he muttered. 'Wow, that's it. Pinch my nipples.
Yes, yes... pull 'em hard.'
She reached up
and seized the blue-black nubs, but didn't stop sucking. Her breath
whistled through her nostrils. This wasn't enough. She withdrew to
grab in a mouthful of air, then returned to her task. She was hot,
her face bedewed with the sweat pooling in his groin, her mouth
filled with her own spittle and his pre-come. She sensed his crisis
was near, felt the throbbing of his stem, the pulsing of his helm.
His fingers curled in her hair, forcing her closer, jabbing at her
throat. She threshed, realising what was about to happen and not
quite ready for it. She tried to pull her mouth away, but Gus was
having none of it. He clamped her to him, holding her hard against
his belly. She couldn't move, her face pressed to that wildly
throbbing weapon. It soared and spasmed as he neared the pinnacle
of bliss.
A hot geyser
of semen coated her face, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, spraying
her hair and breasts as he came in powerful jerks. She tried to
drag away, but he still held her, rigid in all-consuming ecstasy.
She was helpless in his ruthless grip, bathed in his rapidly
cloying libation. It cooled, mixing with her perspiration and
tears, a pearly white trickle even managing to inch past her navel,
heading for her delta.
She sank down,
exhausted, resting her head against his thigh, and his fingers were
gentle now, fondling her hair. She wanted to wipe his come from her
face and body, but was afraid to move.
'Get cleaned
up,' Theona said, linking her arm with Will's. 'Both of you dress,
and then I'll get into my glad-rags and we'll do the
interview.'
'We don't have
cameras,' Will reminded.
'Worry not, my
dear, I've equipment here that'll make your hair curl. You can
borrow that. In fact, I'll make you a present of it. Come along,
let's get started. I haven't got all night. Things to do, people to
see.'
It was like
walking into a treasure house.
As far as the
eye could see the exhibition hall was filled with display stands.
It was laid out like a glorified bazaar, a huge, beautiful expanse
of exciting fabrics. It was the stuff of which dreams are made,
samples of every conceivable material known to man - a jungle in
which ardent travellers in the heady world of couture could lose
themselves.
Arlene Murphy
almost had an orgasm when she stepped inside; fabrics had the same
effect on her as sex. She could feel cold fingers crawling down her
spine and tickling her nipples into stiffness. She knew that her
panty gusset was damp.
She had come
in from the rain slanting across stylish Upper Street, Islington,
into the Business Design Centre. After producing her pass ticket in
the foyer, and picking up a presentation carrier of catalogues and
other goodies, she had proceeded into this annual event, the Cloth
Show.
She clipped a
nametag to her bodice and worked her way through the crowd, nodding
to this acquaintance and that, pleased to find that she was getting
known. It had been a long hard haul, but success was within her
grasp. She eyed the crowd boldly. There were soberly clad
businessmen pacing slowly, their heads together in earnest talk;
snappy dressers holding one-sided conversations into mobiles;
designers swanning about in their latest offerings; coltish,
willowy models and a couple of celebrities trailed by members of
the press with cameras poised.
Arlene was
confident she was every bit as talented. As always when in crowds,
she amused herself by picturing people naked. From the highest to
the lowest, all were brought down to a common denominator if one
thought of them stripped. She'd started doing this at school, even
the headmaster reduced to insignificance when she imagined him with
a bare bottom, sagging balls and a three-inch dick.
She smiled as
she looked around her, playing this interesting game. Everyone
seemed to be talking at once and she caught several different
languages. Background music drifted from overhead speakers, only
slightly more upmarket than that used in food stores - a
compilation of popular classics. Arlene roamed the stalls, a
sensual tingle running up her arm as she handled the swatches of
slippery satin, responding to the texture of plush, the misty
transparency of chiffon or leopard print georgette. Her breath
shortened, her heart thumped and the excitement she had experienced
on entering was now visceral in its intensity. She yearned to find
a man, or maybe a woman - Arlene was bi-sexual - drag them into the
nearest washroom and screw them legless.
From these
samples she longed to create the wildest, most fantastic outfits.
This is what she had always wanted to do; use material as a painter
uses palette and brushes, though she produced living works of art
to be touched and worn, lived in, fucked in, instead of sterile
canvas and paint.
She selected a
hanger and took it to the agent's table, a suave lady wearing a
tailored two-piece and a patronising air, her thickly gelled hair
swept high.
'Excuse me,'
Arlene said briskly, glad that she was taller than the woman, an
impressive five-nine in her high-heeled cowboy boots. These
complemented the American Indian theme of her outfit; suede
wraparound skirt with fringes, brief top trimmed with peacock
feathers, hand-painted wooden bead necklace, each item made by her
own clever fingers.
'Can I help
you?' the agent asked, staring at her with flinty eyes, the lids
coated with blue shadow, the lashes spiky with mascara.
Arlene
returned the frosty glare. 'I want to order samples of this,' and
she held out a length of gold embroidered silk bearing the logo of
the Parisian manufacturer represented by the agent.
'You have a
business card?' the woman enquired loftily.
'Of
course.'
When Arlene
produced it the agent took it between the tips of her manicured
fingers, glancing down disdainfully as she read, '"Arlene Murphy.
Dress Designer. Pattern Maker. Garment Technologist." I can't say
I've heard of you, Miss Murphy.'
'No?' Arlene
retorted, her hackles rising, her colour too. 'And where have you
been hiding? You're out of touch. How much is that fabric per
metre?'
'One hundred
and fifty pounds.'
Arlene gulped,
but replied with regal unconcern, 'Can you send me sample
lengths?'
With a curl of
her cherry-red lips the agent said loudly, 'Oh, no, that's not our
policy. But we'll send you out the set if you inform us when you
have a prospective buyer.'
'Thank you,
you'll be hearing from me in a few days,' Arlene lied, wrote down
the details and replaced the hanger, then strolled away.
The truth was
that she was strapped for cash. Oh yes, her star was in the
ascendant, but she needed that lucky break which happens in the
best movies when the heroine is discovered by some influential
person and shoots to the top. She managed to keep body and soul
together, just about, and knew she'd been fortunate to live with
her friend, Julia Jones. Julia was hard up too, struggling to make
it in journalism. Arlene wished she was at the show, but she'd gone
dashing off on some adventurous escapade with Will Denton, being
very mysterious and hush-hush. Arlene hoped she'd take care,
worrying about her. Julia wasn't in the least bit streetwise and
one needed to be in this day and age.
She supposed
it all came down to Julia losing her parents in a tragic plane
accident and being brought up by an elderly aunt. Her life had been
sheltered. She'd lived with the aunt in the house she and Arlene
now occupied, and had gone to a private school down the road, as a
daygirl, not a boarder. College had been a culture shock, but she'd
had Arlene to shield her, Arlene who came from a rumbustious Irish
family. She had left Dublin to attend an English university and
then gone on to the Portland School of Fashion. Both of them had
settled in London, and Julia having inherited her aunt's property,
it had been natural that they share it.
Arlene was
like Julia's big sister. Julia was an only child, whereas Arlene
was one of six. She felt responsible for her and hoped that old
lecher, Will, wasn't getting up to anything.
Even though
her thoughts were busy with Julia, another part of her mind was
alert for bargains. She approached a short balding man who was
manning the fort for another supplier.
'Can I
assist?' he said, smiling too much. Arlene noted the little beads
of sweat on his upper lip, the smell of cheap deodorant clinging to
his person, the way in which his watery eyes roamed her
breasts.
'I'd like to
order samples of this,' she said haughtily, displaying a piece of
forest green devoré.
'Certainly...
Miss Murphy,' and he studied her nametag as if committing it to
memory. 'Such wonderful stuff, so glamorous. I expect you know that
devoré, literally translated, means devour. The makers use acid to
eat patterns into the velvet.' He brought this out with relish, as
if the very mention of devouring brought his cock to attention. His
leer told her he would like to suck her nipples and lick her
pussy.
'I knew, but
thank you, anyway,' she said, deliberately adding to his discomfort
by leaning across the stall so that the valley between her breasts
was clearly displayed.
His face
flushed even more. He came round and stood beside her, his portly
body close as he placed a sweaty hand on hers, saying, 'I can
arrange for your order to be processed at once. And there will be
no charge for the samples. I'd be happy to deliver them in person,
Miss Murphy. Perhaps we could go out for a drink or a bite to
eat...'
'Perhaps we
could,' Arlene murmured, batting her eyelashes at him. Unlike
Julia, who never could get the hang of flirtation, Arlene was an
expert.
'I'm Sam
Watney,' he said, and she could see the thickening of his dick as
it lay to the right of his flies. In her experience men who hung
that side and not on the left were usually sexual inadequate.
Besides which, it looked untidy, offending her designer's eye.
'Thank you for
being so helpful, Sam,' she said throatily, and didn't back away as
he pressed his prick against her thigh. 'I'm not in a frantic hurry
for the swatches. Don't put yourself to any trouble.'
'It would be
no trouble; a real pleasure, in fact, to help a beautiful woman
like you,' he insisted, his cock growing, an expression of drooling
admiration on his face.
'I'll look
forward to receiving the samples. When I've decided on the colour
and how many metres, I'll be in touch.' She didn't fancy him one
bit, but had learned to get all she could out of men. If he wanted
to lust after her and thought he was in with a chance, well, so be
it. It would ensure he got her a good deal.
She turned
away, and immediately bumped into the most beautiful man there. She
recognised him, of course, but wasn't about to give him the
satisfaction of knowing this. Let sycophantic followers hover in
the background. Let the press be jockeying for a few words from his
lips and, if possible, a picture. She chose to pretend to be
ignorant of the fact that this was Marty Blake, one of Britain's
leading designers. He smiled and she melted into lubricity.
He was
thirtyish, tall, rangy and lean, casually but expensively dressed
in loose, sand coloured trousers and a white collarless shirt. His
face was tanned and classically handsome; high cheekbones, a
straight nose, a firm jaw and dark hair that curled to his
shoulders.
Arlene was
cynical about men, thought she knew everything about them and what
made them tick, was sure she could control her own reactions to
them, but now she could feel heat washing over her skin as he
pierced her with pewter-grey eyes.
Then he lifted
one curving brow sardonically and remarked, 'We seem to share the
same taste. These are the best I've seen so far, in the cheaper
range, that is,' and he nodded to the hanger she still held.
'I agree,' she
said, marvelling at the steadiness of her voice.
'Lovely,' he
said, and continued to scrutinise her.
Was he
referring to the devoré or her? 'It's French, naturally,' she
answered.
'Have you seen
the latest Italian textiles?' he asked, very seriously.
'No, I've not
been round everything yet.' Lord, she thought, I can't bear to
stand here like this, exchanging banalities. All I want to do is
kiss him then fondle his dick.
It was
impossible not to glance down at his thighs and the promising bulge
at the front of his trousers. Was he gay or straight? She struggled
to recall gossip printed in the newspapers or bandied around the
shows. Before she could decide how to take this further, he took
the swatch from her and held it up against her face, remarking,
'Green suits you. You've glorious hair; so dark yet with chestnut
highlights, and your eyes are green, too. The fabric brings out
their colour. Don't you agree, Miss Arlene Murphy? Or is it
Mrs?'
'I'm not
married,' she said, wondering why she was bothering to play along
with this. He obviously expected every female, and probably many
males, to be bewitched by his charm, his looks and his fame.