Stephanie's Revenge (10 page)

The music
stopped, and a more aggressive number blared out again to start
another sequence. Her Italian started to dance again, but she
caught his hand and pulled him towards the bar.

At the table,
most of the ice in the bucket had melted and the Dom Perignon was
now very cold. The Italian refilled both their glasses. Using sign
language, Stephanie indicated the glass and then the Italian's
friend, who still sat on the bar-stool all alone. The Italian,
catching on quickly, beckoned his friend over.

'Would you
like a drink?' Stephanie said when he arrived.

'Si,
grazie.'

He glanced at
his friend, uncertain as to what was going on. The friend shrugged
his shoulders, equally puzzled. Stephanie attracted the waiter's
attention and asked him to bring another glass and another
bottle.

'Stephanie,'
she said, pointing at herself.

'Angelo,' the
Italian she had danced with said, smiling.

'Carlo,' the
new arrival added.

'Well boys,
here's to a wonderful evening.'

'Salute.'

'Salute.'

'You speak
English, Carlo? Parla l'inglese?'

Carlo smiled,
his mischievous face radiating pleasure, his eyes darting over
Stephanie's body. 'A little,' he said haltingly.

'Come on,
let's dance some more.'

Stephanie got
up and took Carlo's hand. Angelo looked crestfallen until she
extended her other hand to him. Then his puzzlement returned.

She pulled
them to the dance floor and danced with them both. She aimed her
body subtly at each in turn, moving her hips in time to the music,
making circles in the air, looking into their eyes to tell them
what she was thinking as she was dancing: that dancing was a form
of sex, a rehearsal, a movement class in sexual gyration. She held
her breast, she caressed her sides, she shimmied and shook, and let
the music and the excitement she was creating in both men's eyes
carry her away with the pounding rhythm.

When the slow
number came this time she pulled them both to her, dancing with
them in a little triangle, until Carlo broke away, not liking what
she was making them do. She immediately closed up on Angelo,
pushing her belly into him, holding him tightly in her arms,
whispering into his ear.

'Are you going
to fuck me, Angelo?' she breathed. 'Are you good at fucking? I need
to be fucked.'

She knew he
didn't understand a word she said, but her tone must have meant
something. She felt his erection grow. She pushed her thigh hard
between his legs and bit the lobe of his ear. She ran her hand down
over his buttocks. His cock hardened.

'Si?' she
questioned. 'Bene?'

'Cosi?' he
said, pushing his growing erection against her.

'Si. Si.' Now
it was not a question.

She kissed him
on the mouth, a hard, penetrating kiss, her hand holding the back
of his head so she could push her lips up against his. She broke
the kiss, looked straight into his eyes, then kissed him again. His
erection felt like a bone now, sticking up between their
bodies.

'Bello,' she
said, looking at him again. 'That's what I want, Angelo.'

She led him
off the dance floor in the middle of the song. Carlo was sitting on
a stool, at the table. She came up behind him and pushed herself
into his back, the hem of the leather skirt, because the stool was
so low, brushing the nape of his neck. Her hands massaged his
shoulders. Then she pulled him to his feet and on to the dance
floor.

It was
Angelo's turn to look sulky. He sat and poured himself more
champagne.

Stephanie felt
Carlo's body against her. It was different from Angelo's. Angelo
was slim, skinny, bony. Carlo was muscled, plump but hard. Even his
hands were rough and calloused. She hugged him to her. But none of
her tricks had his penis unfurl, not the ear biting, not the hand
between his buttocks, not the seductive words she whispered to him,
which, even in another language, must have been clear in their
tone.

The evening
continued in the same vein. More champagne was consumed. More
dancing. More sulky looks from the one consigned to sit it out at
the table, to watch the object of his affection dancing with
another.

It was the
perfect evening for Stephanie. The dancing made her body feel
energised and alive. The tension between the two men amused her,
the champagne relaxed her, and the music reached inside her to the
rhythms and tempos that, she had recently discovered, were now
essential to her life. The lack of conversation, the need to make
small talk removed, was curiously refreshing. It was a silent
movie, a ballet of seduction.

She played
with them like a cat, teasing them with her paws, giving them a
little nudge, a little scratch with her claw.

At two she
decided she had drunk enough champagne and paid the bill, giving
the waiter a generous tip. Both her male companions looked
embarrassed as she counted out the money, but neither attempted to
offer to pay. Dom Perignon is expensive in any language. What the
men thought she was, or did, to be able to afford such luxuries,
she did not know or care.

For a final
dance she took Angelo's hand and smooched with him around the dance
floor. The DJ was playing mostly moody music now, and the many
couples on the dance floor were stuck to each other, their hands
caressing arms and backs, their lips pressed to shoulder, neck or
cheek.

'We go home
now,' Stephanie said. 'Casa...' she remembered the word.

'Si.' He
smiled. 'Si.'

In the bar
again, Angelo looked distinctly pleased with himself. He said
something to Carlo, who shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of
acceptance. They followed Stephanie to the cloakroom, where she
exchanged the plastic token and a ten thousand lira note for her
fur coat. Angelo held it for her while she slipped her arms into
the sleeves.

'Bella,' he
said. She was not sure whether he meant her or the coat.

Carlo led the
way up the stairs. They walked out into the clear and chilly night.
Several people were leaving too, and a series of taxis had arrived
in the narrow street to pick them up. Stephanie looked round.
Suddenly, Carlo had disappeared.

'Carlo?
Where's he going?' she said to Angelo, who immediately looked sulky
again.

She had seen
Carlo getting into a taxi, the last in the line in the street.
Taking Angelo's hand firmly in hers, she ran to the taxi, which was
unable to pull away because of the others in front, and got in,
pulling a reluctant Angelo in beside her.

'Carlo! Where
are you going?' She desperately needed some Italian. How could she
explain what she wanted? 'I want you both,' she said. 'Both.'

The taxi
driver started to laugh, a deep, throaty, dirty laugh. He turned
round to look at Stephanie. The fur coat was open. He looked up her
long legs, admired her tight cleavage, and laughed more. 'English,
yes?' he said.

'Yes. You
speak English?'

'I worked in
London, two years, Terrazza Restaurant—'

'Take us to
the Excelsior. I know it's only across the street.' She extracted a
fifty thousand lira note from her bag.

'Anything you
want, lady.'

'I want you to
translate.'

'Both?' He
laughed. 'You want both, yes?'

She saw no
point being embarrassed. She had drunk too much champagne to be
embarrassed. 'Yes, I'm a very greedy girl.'

'You wouldn't
like to make it three, would you?'

'I don't think
you could stand the pace.' The driver was sixty. His huge pasta
belly almost rested against the bottom of the steering wheel. He
looked as though he had never taken a day's exercise in his
life.

'You're
right.' He burst into laughter again, the road ahead still blocked
by other taxis and people climbing into them.

Angelo snapped
a question at the driver, obviously irritated by his exclusion from
the conversation.

The driver
spoke in rapid Italian with what seemed to Stephanie to be obvious
passion. Neither Carlo nor Angelo made any reply. As he delivered
his diatribe, the road ahead cleared and he drove the taxi into the
Via Veneto, turned right and then left into the hotel colonnade, no
more than a thousand yards away.

The doorman
opened the rear door of the taxi. Angelo and Carlo remained silent.
Nobody moved. Then the taxi driver burst into another lilting
passage of Italian in which the only word Stephanie recognised was
'presto'.

'What did you
tell them?'

'That they
should be so lucky. That the honour of the whole of Italy was on
their shoulders.'

Now it was
Stephanie's turn to laugh. 'Ask them how old they are?'

He did. 'The
tall one's eighteen and his brother's twenty.'

'They're
brothers?' she said, astonished.

'Si,
signorina. It makes a difference?'

'No.'

Angelo got out
and helped Stephanie. Carlo slid along the seat and got out of the
same door. Stephanie bent down to the window of the taxi.

'Grazie,' she
said, smiling.

'Prego,' the
driver said, grinning broadly to reveal gums which had more gaps
than teeth.

The mini-bar
in the sitting room of the suite was stocked with champagne.
Stephanie gave it to Angelo, signed that he should open it, and
went into the bathroom. She contemplated stripping her clothes off
but decided against it.

Angelo poured
the champagne and handed her a glass. He had only poured one glass.
Before she took it, she reached behind her back and unhooked the
leather halter top. She slid it off her shoulders and dropped it on
to one of the armchairs. Her breasts trembled at their freedom, her
nipples flat. She took the glass of champagne, already covered with
condensation, and held it against each nipple in turn. As if by
magic both nipples sprung up from her breasts, like mushrooms
maturing in time-lapse photography, round and swollen. Both men's
eyes were watching her.

She didn't
really want any more champagne, and handed the glass to Carlo, who
sipped at it without taking his eyes from her breasts. He handed it
to his younger brother, who did not drink.

Stephanie
walked around the huge sitting room of the suite with its rather
ancient reproduction furniture, her high heels clacking on the
parquet floor where it was not covered with rugs, her firm breasts
bouncing slightly as she moved. A delicious sense of anticipation
was coursing through her body. So much potential for pleasure, her
pleasure, so many possibilities, so many things she could do, so
many things she could think of doing.

'Who's going
to unzip me, then?'

Both men stood
together looking uncomfortable and uneasy, as if they didn't know
where to put their hands, how to stand, or what to do. They shifted
from one foot to another, looking at Stephanie as she prowled the
room like some big cat.

Stephanie
pointed to the short zip at the side of the skirt and mimed the
action of unzipping it. She was closest to Angelo, who moved
towards the zip as if approaching a poisonous snake. The skirt fell
to the floor. Stephanie stepped out of it but did not pick it up.
She took the champagne glass from Angelo and sipped from it.

The brothers
were staring at her legs in the shiny black tights clinging to
every contour, revealing and yet, at the same time, not revealing.
They could see the shadow of her pubic hair but not the detail.
They could see what all evening their fevered imaginations had
strained to see under the skirt. This was the vision in the mirror
Stephanie had seen earlier as she had dressed. With her high heels
shaping her calves and tipping her arse into a distinct pout, she
walked some more, letting them watch her, turning so they could
examine every angle of her body - front, side, back - the black
nylon cutting her into two halves, black and white; soft sensual
white, shiny slippery black.

'Where shall
we start, then?' The words hung in the air. She stopped walking and
stood facing both men, her legs apart, one arm on her hip the other
holding the champagne glass to her lips. She licked the edge of the
glass with her tongue.

She put the
glass down and came over to Angelo. 'You first,' she said, with a
slight tone of menace in her voice.

She stood
directly in front of him. He looked down at her naked breasts, so
round and plump, the nipples corrugated by the cold of the glass.
Stephanie unbuttoned his shirt slowly. There was no hurry. She
wanted to be fucked, but there was plenty of time. Her mood was
teasing, quizzical, adventurous. She unbuckled his belt and pulled
down his zip. The trousers fell from his skinny hips.

Stephanie
dropped to her knees. He wore small black briefs in cotton. His
cock was only just beginning to engorge. She pulled the tight
elastic of his briefs until they were down to his knees, then
circled his cock with her hand. She felt it growing. Wanting to
feel it grow in her mouth, she moved her head to gobble it up.
Wetting it all over with her tongue, she sucked hard and felt it
swell at an alarming rate, thrusting out and burying itself in her
throat. She sucked again, and this time felt no increase in size.
It was fully grown.

Carlo moved to
his brother's side. She saw his eyes watching her. She saw him
pulling off his shirt.

She
concentrated on Angelo. She pulled away from his cock to look at
it, holding it in her hand. It was long and thin. A perfect match
for Angelo's figure. The foreskin was already back and she used her
hand to retract it fully. Angelo groaned. She sucked on the tip,
using her tongue to probe the little slit while her hand grasped
first one ball and then, reeling it in by the scrotum, the other.
She felt him tense as she cupped his balls in her hand, but then,
as she pulled them gently downward, away from his body while her
mouth went back to his cock, plunging down on it as far as she
could go, his tension became pleasure.