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 t
he 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.
And why not? she thought, her hormones in overdrive, making her reckless. Why not have him, this arrogant, successful man? He was looking at her as if he wanted her, and all other sensible considerations fled from her mind.
His hand closed on hers and his grip was like steel. 'Shall we?' he asked, and she knew exactly what he meant. He moved upwards, cupping her elbow and leading her out through a door with a light above it saying EXIT. He knew his way around, it seemed, and walked her down a short corridor and through a door on the right. It led into a storeroom, a place illumined by a single small window.
They didn't speak and he guided her between cardboard boxes, stacking chairs, an industrial vacuum cleaner, a mop and bucket, a folded stepladder, towards a table at the back. As they walked he had his hands under her bodice, adroitly unclipping her bra, lifting both and working on her bare breasts. She gripped the top button of his waistband, undid it and pulled his zip down. He wasn't wearing anything underneath, his cock springing into her hand, and then they could go no further, blocked by the table.
Arlene reached up and he lowered his face to hers, taking possession of her lips. She put her tongue in his mouth, tasting him. There was the faint flavour of wine on his breath. She felt as if she, too, had been drinking, intoxicated by the bizarre situation, his hands on her breasts, her fist closed round the solid column of flesh poking from his fly. She was actually about to fuck Marty Blake! Her rival in the field of fashion, admired, even adored, lionised by the press and public alike.
He took his lips away from hers, and then caught her under the buttocks, lifting and seating her on the table. He pushed her legs open and reached under her skirt. She gasped and heaved against him as he fingered her cleft, pushing her panties to one side and sliding into her wet depths. She was ready, teetering on the edge, excited beyond measure by the breathtaking glitz of the show, the glory of the fabrics and now - this! Blake represented all the most glamorous, romantic and fantastical elements of the rag trade. It was as if by screwing him she was taking the whole of it into her being.
He could have been selfish, but he wasn't. He moved his finger faster and she moaned as the exquisite sensations rose, lifting her towards a powerful orgasm. It broke, filling her with shuddering, lusting, absorbing pleasure. She lolled back, resting on her straight arms, opening her eyes to see his swollen cock standing up from his open flies, his deft fingers rolling a condom over the straining stem. Protected now, he guided his thrusting prick into her slippery vulva and pushed all the way up her hungry channel in a single, powerful stroke.
'Oh yes, yes!' Arlene cried, lifting her legs and locking them around his waist, pulling him even deeper inside her.
'I'm going to fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked,' he warned, propelling his cock with forceful thrusts of his hips.
'Yes, do it, do it!' she urged.
Using all his considerable strength, Blake withdrew to almost the full length of his shaft, and then plunged back into her. She lost her grip on him, her legs falling open. He snarled and pounded into her, again and again, grabbing her bottom to hold her steady to meet those ravaging thrusts. It wasn't love or even affection, simply mindless, animal passion, a savage meeting of two virile creatures intent on getting every ounce of sensation from the act.
He worked his hard cock into her relentlessly, as if it was as much an instrument of torture as pleasure. Then he gasped, flung back his head, his body jerking with the overwhelming force of his orgasm. Arlene revelled in the sheer magic of feeling his cock spasm, buried deep inside her.
He bent over her, rested his head on her shoulder for a split second, then pulled out, the teat of the rubber filled with his spunk. She regained control, her breathing becoming regular, her heartbeat slowing. Blake straightened, removed the condom and left it lying on the table. He tucked in his shirt and zipped up. He was composed and quiet, recovering his control. Watching him, Arlene entered that lonely place which always awaited her after casual sex. It was chilly and barren, and she never had come to terms with it. She slipped down off the table, adjusted her knickers and skirt, then tucked her breasts into her bra and rearranged her bodice. Neither of them spoke.
Then, 'I'll leave first and you follow after a moment or two,' he said. 'Don't want people seeing us together and getting the wrong idea.'
'Of course not,' she replied, an edge to her voice. 'That would never do.'
There were a dozen things she could have said, like, 'Shall I see you again?' but this would have been playing against the rules. People like she and Marty Blake didn't do that kind of thing. She watched him leave, then gathered up her bag, her length of devoré and her carrier and let herself out into the corridor.
When she crossed the hall, it was to see him surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, cameras flashing. Staring straight ahead, she went through the vestibule and stepped out into sunshine, the street bright and new-washed by the downpour. She walked briskly, found the nearest underground station and took a tube to her workshop.
Chapter 3
'What happened next?' Arlene demanded, seated at the kitchen table, all ears as she listened to Julia.
'It was very normal, well, as normal as an interview with a celebrity tends to be,' Julia replied, running her hands through her hair, still shell-shocked by the turn of events.
'No more sex?' Arlene went to the counter and re-filled their coffee cups.
'Not a whisper. Everyone became ultra professional. Theona was a perfect person to interview; chatty, informative, and witty. And she posed so naturally for pics, fully clothed, of course.'
'And Gus?' Arlene brought back the cups and perched on a stool, long legs crossed at the knee, tiny skirt riding back over her thighs.
'He was sent about his business, as were the bodyguards. It all went like clockwork and, when we'd finished, Will's car was waiting outside for us. Roy had been dispatched to fetch it. We went back to the hotel, occupied our separate rooms, and left after breakfast this morning. You know the rest.'
She had told her story reluc
tantly, her face red, her body aching with remembered pain and pleasure. Arlene had been insistent and, in a peculiar way, Julia found it arousing to voice what took place. She had been too shy to discuss it in the car on the drive back to London, and Will, though smirking at her every now and again, also kept quiet. It was as if they had never seen each other nude, or indulging in sexual practices. He dropped her at her house in Notting Hill, and Arlene, home from work, immediately pounced on her, wanting to know every last detail.
'D'you mean to tell me you kept your cherry through all these shenanigans?' she said sceptically, sipping at the mug held between both hands.
'It's true,' Julia answered earnestly. 'I'm still a virgin.'
Arlene nearly choked on her coffee. 'Oh yes, very virginal, I should say so!' she scoffed. 'I'm sure you're as pure as the driven snow. Come off it, Julia. Been brought to climax, gave a guy head. Is this virginal behaviour?'
'It's true. No one has penetrated me.' Julia rushed from defence to attack, pushing back her cup and standing up. 'I thought that you, at least, would believe me.'
'Oh, don't get so uptight. Sit down. Okay, I believe you're still technically a virgin. But you haven't told me yet... did you enjoy what you did?'
Julia fidgeted, unsure of herself. 'Some of it. I don't know about being slapped and belted. I haven't made up my mind if it's really my thing. Anyway, enough about me. What have you been doing?'
Arlene grinned and said, 'Only shagging Marty Blake at the Cloth Show, that's all.'
Julia focused on her, his name ringing a bell. 'Isn't he the one who was voted Top Designer of the Year recently? I tried to get him to talk to me, wanted a piece for Hi Life, but he was awfully rude.'
'That's Marty Blake. An arrogant, chauvinistic pig.'
'And you went with a man like that? I thought you were into girl-power.'
'I am, but Marty has a cock to die for. Besides, he may be able to give my career a nudge in the right direction.'
In Too Deep Page 4