Stephanie's Revenge (9 page)

Without a word
from her, the driver started the engine and pulled the car out into
the traffic. Stephanie lay still for a moment, luxuriating in the
aftermath of her orgasm. Both her hands were wet with her own
juices; the back of the car reeked of the smell of sex.

They were
heading past the Palazzo Barberini, a baroque seventeenth century
palace, and were, therefore, very near the hotel.

Stephanie
slipped on her boots and climbed back into the fur coat. There was
no way she could squeeze herself back into the cat-suit, even if
she'd wanted to - which she didn't. The idea of walking through the
Excelsior, naked but for her fur, made her smile.

The driver
pulled the car into the small colonnade of the hotel. A doorman
immediately opened the rear passenger door, and was rewarded by a
view of the whole stretch of Stephanie's thigh as she climbed out,
and a ten thousand lira note which she pressed into his palm.

'I won't be
needing you again tonight,' she said to the driver. He stood
impassively by the driver's door, his face giving no indication of
what had happened. 'Think of me,' she wanted to say, 'when you're
fucking your wife.' But she said nothing, not even smiling at
him.

Stephanie felt
wild. Her body was tingling, her nerves flaring. As she walked up
the steps into the hotel, she felt the cool silk lining of the fur
against her naked body, against her rump and her thighs, against
her hard nipples.

She was much
too excited to sleep, that was certain. She turned into the bar,
instead of heading for the lift.

'A very dry
Martini,' she said to the smart but diminutive barman, arranging
herself on one of the barstools. 'With a twist.'

She watched
him make it, shaking it in a silver mixer before pouring it into a
triangular cocktail glass. 'Grazie,' she said.

'Prego,' came
the automatic response. The barman smiled, revealing two gold
teeth.

The bar was
almost empty. A middle-aged couple sat in the heavy brocade
armchairs, drinking a bottle of French wine. The man had watched
Stephanie come in. It was not easy for him to see her from where he
was sitting, but he tried his best, twisting around, attracted, no
doubt, by the way the fur coat fell away from her crossed legs to
reveal a great deal of tanned and shapely thigh - so much it almost
looked as if she had nothing else on under the fur. Could it be
true? He strained to see.

The martini
was just what she needed; a big cold jolt of strong spirit.

'Where is the
best nightlife near here?' she asked the barman.

'Well...' He
thought for a moment. 'La Sinistra. If you want to dance, is
good.'

Dancing was
exactly what Stephanie wanted to do.

'Can I walk
there?'

'Si. Is just
across the street. Where Harry's Bar is, on that corner.'

'Great.'

She finished
the martini.

'You look very
happy, signorina. Is nice to see people looking happy.'

'I am.'

'Better than
looking sad. Too many people, they look sad all day. Look sad, feel
sad.'

'Yes.'

She peeled a
ten thousand lira note from her purse and left it on the bar.

'Grazie,
signorina.'

'Prego,' she
said, smiling.

As she climbed
down from the bar-stool, the fur fell away and a naked breast swung
into view, as well as a quick flash of dark pubic hair. The man who
had been watching her was sipping his wine. He almost choked as his
secret suspicion proved to be a reality.

Stephanie
walked past him, wrapping the fur around herself and smiling at him
sweetly.

Back in her
room she had a long bath, towelled herself down then searched
through the packages that had been delivered from the shops after
her morning shopping expedition. She soon found what she was
looking for, a short navy-blue leather skirt she had bought in
Trussadi. It came with a matching leather halter top which was
really no more than a bra - the sort of bra that was cut to push
the breasts upwards and together to form a deep cleavage, its
shoulder straps as far apart as possible.

Since her
experiences at the castle, Stephanie had hardly worn tights. Tights
were associated with work, with the office, with her life as it had
been. But the skirt was too short for stockings, so tonight she
would need tights again. Fortunately, she had bought two or three
pairs for her shorter dresses.

Sitting on the
bed, she pointed her toe and fitted the sheer nylon over her foot.
Gradually, she played the material she had gathered in her hands,
out over her calf, up over her knee, and then watched as it encased
her thigh. She repeated the process with the other leg, before
standing up so she could pull the hose over her belly and in
between her legs, smoothing it on to her flesh. She didn't bother
to wear knickers.

As she stood
she glimpsed herself in the long mirror on the wardrobe doors,
naked but for the sheer black tights. Her breasts looked white in
contrast to the dark shiny nylon, but her waist was trim, her legs
looked long and strong and firm, shaped by the nylon, and her black
hair streamed down over her shoulders. Not bad, she thought to
herself smiling. She turned sideways to admire the pertness of her
arse and the prominence of her uptilted breasts. Not bad.

She pulled the
leather skirt up over her hips and zipped it into place. She hooked
the halter top over her breasts and found a pair of high heels to
match the blue. She clipped her hair into a long ponytail so it
would stay together when she danced. She looked at herself in the
mirror again. The halter emphasised the nakedness above the skirt
and the ripeness of her breasts. The skirt was short, covering no
more than two or three inches of her thighs, leaving her long legs,
shining in the black nylon, a definite object of desire.

She looked so
sexy as she pirouetted in the heels that she was turning herself
on. And that, of course, was her intention. Her whole body still
throbbed with a sexuality she could not control, nor had the
slightest desire to. Masturbating in the car had temporarily
relieved her most intense feelings but it had, in turn, created a
new need. Her sexual appetite had been assuaged but not sated. Now
she wanted it satisfied. What she badly needed now was cock; hard,
hot, spunking cock. She needed to feel it thrusting inside her,
taking her, using her. Nothing else would do.

Yes, she
wanted to dance. She wanted to dance and use the energy that seemed
to be coursing through her like electricity. But dancing was
foreplay, a foreplay to sex. She wanted to fuck. Fuck and be
fucked. Sate herself with fucking.

And since she
had been at the castle, since she had been with Devlin, since her
new life had begun, the wonder was that now she always got what she
wanted.

She stuck her
tongue out at herself in the mirror and laughed out loud. She
picked up a small bag to carry her purse, put the fur around her
shoulders and walked out of the suite.

'You shall go
to the ball,' she said aloud, for no particular reason.

Judging from
the admiring - not to say leering - looks she got as she marched
through the spacious marble-pillared lobby of the hotel, she was
not going to have any trouble satisfying her appetites.

Outside there
was a distinct chill in the Roman air.

'Taxi?' It was
the doorman she had tipped earlier.

'No. La
Sinistra.' She pointed over to Harry's Bar. 'It's there.'

'Si,
signorina. For this you don't need a taxi.'

'That's what I
was told. Help me, would you.'

She took the
fur from her shoulders and had him hold it for her while she put
her arms in the sleeves. She could feel his eyes on her cleavage.
Actually, he was not bad looking, she thought; he was tall and
looked strong.

'What time do
you go home?' she asked.

'Two,
signorina.'

'See you
later, then.' She pressed another ten thousand lira note into his
hand. He was her insurance policy; if there was nothing better at
the club well, he would just have to do.

She crossed
the road and walked up towards Harry's Bar. As she approached, she
could see a bright red and blue neon sign in the side street
flashing the name 'LA SINISTRA' with a curved arrow pointing to a
small door.

At the door, a
short but thickset man in an evening suit and black tie let her
pass without a word. He demanded no payment, despite the fact that
the couple in front of her had been charged fifteen thousand lira
each.

Stephanie
walked down the narrow, red-carpeted staircase, decorated with
signed pictures of Italian pop singers. At the bottom there was a
cloakroom, where a girl in a red leotard and black fishnet tights
took her fur in exchange for a small plastic token in the form of a
hand engraved with a number. Beyond the cloakroom was a
lozenge-shaped bar in the middle of a large brightly coloured room,
from which half-a-dozen staff mixed and served cocktails as
colourful as the lights that flashed continuously from the dance
floor on the other side of the bar.

The club was
not crowded. Stephanie found a table where she could survey both
the dance floor and most of the bar area. Almost before she was
seated, a waiter, dressed in a black and white striped T-shirt and
white trousers, was at her side.

'Signorina?'

'A bottle of
champagne. Dom Perignon.'

'Si,
signorina. Presto.'

Stephanie
crossed her legs, the nylon rasping on her thighs as she watched
the waiter go over to the bar and place the order. She watched the
bottle being extracted from the refrigeration, opened, placed in an
ice bucket in the shape of a top hat, then on a tray with two
glasses - perhaps they thought Stephanie was not alone - and swung
over the counter to the waiter. In a minute, he was back, setting
the tray down in front of her knees.

He murmured a
question.

Stephanie
looked puzzled. The waiter indicated the cork on the bottle.

'Si. Grazie,'
she said.

He eased the
cork out without a sound and poured the wine into one of the
glasses.

'Grazie,'
Stephanie repeated.

'Prego,' he
said, bowing slightly and hurrying away.

Sipping the
champagne, Stephanie looked around. The hard, insistent rhythm of
the disco music pounding from the speakers on the dance floor
perfectly matched her mood. Her foot tapped to the beat.

There were
several groups of men in the bar, some with women in the party,
some without. Stephanie had attracted everything from admiring
glances to lecherous stares. The fact that, seated, her leather
skirt hid little, did nothing to discourage their looks. There were
two young men sitting on bar-stools that she particularly noticed,
however. One was tall, slim but athletic, with black curly hair and
an open face with strong features and a firm chin. He looked like
he might be a long distance runner for the Italian Olympic Team.
His friend was shorter, but with equally curly dark hair. He looked
fit too, but was much broader in the shoulders, looking as though
he had considerable upper-body strength. His face was puckish, his
eyes glinting with mischief. Neither was more than twenty years
old.

Both men had
glanced at Stephanie with admiration, their eyes lingering on her
long legs. The next time the taller of the two looked round,
Stephanie caught his eye. She beckoned him over with a crooked
finger. He pointed at himself as if to say, 'What, me?' then nudged
his friend before walking over to her table.

'Buone sera,'
he said cheerily, smiling his best smile.

'You speak
English?' she asked.

He shook his
head and shrugged. Not that it mattered. For what she had in mind
sign language would be quite enough. She patted the seat next to
her and poured a glass of champagne. Handing it to him, she clinked
the side of her own glass against his.

'Cheers,' she
said.

'Salute,' he
replied, sipping the champagne.

'No English at
all?'

He shrugged
again.

'You'll
dance?' She indicated the dance floor.

'Danzare? Si,
si.'

He stood up,
looking down into her cleavage and at her long legs. 'Bella,' he
said, almost to himself. He held out his hand to help her up from
the rather low seats. He did not let go of her hand when she was
up, but instead used it to lead her on to the dance floor. She saw
him exchange looks with his friend.

It was not
difficult to be carried away by the throbbing beat of the disco
music. The DJ was good at his job. He increased the pace of the
music gradually but continually, each song a little bit more
upbeat, requiring a little bit more effort. Stephanie had always
loved to dance. She let her body move with the music, let it take
her over until she felt her pulse rate rising, her heart pumping,
and a sort of euphoria overtaking her; nothing left in her mind but
the pounding beat.

The DJ changed
the mood with Chris de Burgh and Lady in Red. Her Italian caught
her hand and pulled her to him, both his hands snaking behind her
back to hold her tightly against him. That was what she wanted,
too. She suddenly felt seventeen again, dancing at school balls,
remembering how all the girls had teased the boys, trying to see if
they could give them an erection by stroking their necks, biting
and blowing in their ears, pushing themselves against their groins.
She remembered how it had felt as their penises unfurled, nosing up
against her navel, hot and hard. In those days, the boy would often
blush and break away. Or not. Those that didn't were the
experienced ones, the ones that knew. They pushed their erections
rhythmically into her navel, up and down, while their hands worked
their way over the cheeks of her arse...