When she had cleaned up and refreshed herself, she realised that her panties were now useless. She'd have to go back to the rehearsal knickerless, and try to keep the hem of her dress discretely low. She shrugged, ran her fingers through her hair and returned to the lounge.
Blake was fully clothed once more. 'All set?' he said.
'Yes, but I did rather want to see your atelier,' she replied, putting on her most appealing, little-girl-lost look.
'Sorry, darling,' he answered as she picked up her bag and he strolled with her to the door. 'Can't possibly disturb my workforce. Another time, perhaps.'
Julia was convinced he didn't want her poking her nose in. What, she wondered, was he up to? She would have bet money that he'd got his secret agents copying Arlene's dresses. However, it hadn't been an entirely unsuccessful mission. She was confident that she'd discovered a few chinks in his armour. Next time, she would get into that studio if it killed her!
'I'm very pleased with you, Julia,' Vincent Gabor said, in the dressing room at the end of the day. They were alone, and he leaned over and placed a kiss at the nape of her neck. She smelled delicious and her skin was baby-soft. She melted into his arms. There was no doubting the instinctive warmth of the girl or her welcome.
'How so?' she asked, breaking free and idling her fingers through her curls. 'I wasn't expecting you to be here. Grace said you were away.'
He drew up a stool beside hers and, sliding a hand onto her knee under her robe, started to move upwards, caressing her thigh all the way. He needed her hot and malleable. 'I was able to return earlier than expected. I've been talking to Marty, and he told me about your lunch date.'
He was amused and aroused by the way her cheeks reddened and the shy manner in which she kept her eyes fixed on her hands folded in her lap. She was feeling guilty, and he liked that. Contrite, she'd be all the more eager to accept punishment for her unfaithfulness. His fingers climbed higher and he parted her thighs, sliding over her wet cleft and finding her bud. He felt her shiver, and strummed on her tiny organ. Her labia opened like petals in the sun and her clit enlarged.
'Don't worry, Julia,' he continued, using his most persuasive tone. 'What you did pleased me. I like you to be nice to my friends. You want to please me, don't you?'
'Yes, of course I do, Mr Gabor.' She lifted her eyes to his and they sparkled with a clear sincerity that almost touched his conscience - almost, but not quite.
He kept up the pressure on her clit, bringing her closer and closer to orgasm. She swayed on her seat, her face flushed, but timing it to perfection he removed his hand from the warm dark valley between her thighs before she had reached her orgasmic plateau. She moaned frustratedly, leaned towards him, tried to keep his hand there where she needed it most, but he calmly withdrew. His fingers were coated with nectar. Its oceanic odour rose between them in a sweet wave and his fully erect penis throbbed. He was sorely tempted to take her, but had other matters to sort out first.
'Bearing in mind your desire to please me, you will do whatever I command after the showing of Marty's collection,' he said firmly. 'There will be a formal party when it is over, and an informal one later on. I expect absolute obedience, Julia, no matter what you're asked to do.'
There was a moment's pause, and then she answered, 'Yes, Mr Gabor, I understand,' and then, despite loathing her weakness, she couldn't prevent herself from reaching blindly for the bulge in his lap, covering it with her small palm and rubbing through the immaculate cut of his trousers, her robe falling open over her nakedness.
'Punishment first,' he said quietly.
'Punishment?' she asked, in a voice weak with consternation and frustration. 'But, what have I done now?'
'You hesitated when I demanded that you obey me to the letter, without question,' he told her sternly.
'I'm really sorry, Mr Gabor,' she said. 'I really am. Don't whip me, please.'
'I am prepared to be clement,' he said. 'Not on you're account, however, but because we don't want you marked in any way before the show.' Placing his feet firmly on the floor, knees a little apart, he pulled her to him until she was lying across his lap. The robe tangled under her and he eased it away, running his hands over her shoulders and back and buttocks, the feel of her unblemished flesh, the helplessness of her position, making the lust rise urgently within him.
He paused, to excite himself further and let the tension build, and then, without warning, his right palm smacked down across her bottom, making her whimper and her hips bounce from the shock. He let the smart sink in, and spanked her again, his hand burning with the sharp contact of palm on rump. He did it thoroughly and for several minutes. At first she protested and writhed in a futile attempt to make herself a difficult target, but soon her response changed and he knew she was awaiting each slap with anticipation, her bottom glowing red, the heat no doubt spreading to her clitoris, making it pulse greedily.
He loved spanking a female and watching how it changed them - tamed them. Chastising a female, and the inevitable sex that followed, was almost - but not quite - as satisfying as concluding a business deal - particularly if that business deal was at the expense or ruination of someone else.
Julia pushed her bottom up, silently begging for more. He slipped his free hand under her belly and his probing fingers found her wet delta. He buried it in her vulva and then withdrew, anointing her clit with juice. He moved it up and down as he continued to chastise her, his palm slapping down on her scarlet bottom cheeks.
Each blow landed close to the former one, leaving a glow that her wriggles and yelps told him were adding to her wanton pleasure. His finger worked the hard button of her bud. Her lovely hair swept the floor and she whimpered piteously. He changed pace, whacking three more slaps across her cleft. He never relented in his brisk attention to her clit and she gave a muffled scream, her convulsions announcing that she had reached her crisis. She slumped across his lap and he ceased his assault on her hinds, allowing her to lie there for a moment, his hand gently cradling her mound.
'How on earth am I going to get in?' Arlene raged, hands thrust into her wild dark hair, green eyes as dangerous as a lioness's. 'It's tickets only, isn't it? Top whack tickets, only available to the rich, famous and influential. Just the kind of people I'd be brown-nosing if it was my show instead of his. Which it should be if there was any justice in this world.'
'I'm going, representing Hi Life,' Will told her again, alarmed by her bitterness. 'I've a pass as a member of the press. Why don't I say you're with me... assistant photographer or something?'
'That's a good idea,' agreed Eugene, obviously eager to smooth her ruffled feathers.
They were seated at a table in the Flying Goose, awaiting the arrival of Julia. Each was keyed up in his or her particular way. Marty Blake's much-advertised event was taking place the following day. It was early evening and the bar was filling, patrons beginning to trickle in, dropping by for a pint on the way home from work, or already making a night of it. Members of the pub team had requisitioned the dartboard, and others were gathering for the weekly quiz in the lounge bar.
'Could we get away with it?' Arlene asked Will, crossing her slim legs in tight stretch jeans and lighting up another cigarette.
'You could wear a wig,' he said light-heartedly, and was rewarded with a freezing glare. He was never quite happy in her company; she was too fiery a woman for him, though she did remind him a little of Denise.
'A wig,' Arlene sneered scornfully. 'Blonde, I suppose, to convince the men that I'm an empty-headed bimbo.'
'Julia's a blonde,' Will pointed out, finding himself instinctively protective of the sweet girl.
Arlene shrugged and spread wide her hands, 'I rest my case,' she said. 'Julia's a darling and I love her to bits, but she's not exactly the brain of Britain, is she? And she'd be the first to admit it.'
'That's not fair,' Will said, surprising himself at how determined he was to fight her corner in her absence. 'She's very loyal and very brave. It
takes guts to do what she's doing right now.'
'Modelling?' Arlene replied sarcastically.
'No, trying to net a couple of suspected villains, and on your behalf, might I remind you?'
'Okay, you win,' Arlene conceded. 'So, I'm to wear a wig, change my style and become your assistant - is that it?' she asked, moving the subject away from Julia and back to the agenda.
'That's about it,' Will said. 'Anyone care for another drink while you ponder the idea?'
'Mine's a pint, please, mate,' said Eugene. 'And is there any chance I could come along, too - just to keep an eye on things, should they get rough? If Arlene spots one of her gowns, which he's saying is his, then I don't reckon much for his chances. She'll gouge out his eyes and be done for assault.'
'I wish,' she said darkly, then added, 'I'll have a lager,' and looked anxiously towards the door; she would be on tenterhooks until Julia appeared.
'Number twenty - Springtime in Paris,' said the commentator, standing to one side of the stage, microphone in her hand. 'Number twenty-one - Rio Carnival.' And so on and so on, as she continued to introduce a dizzying procession, each model displaying a Marty Blake creation.
The cameras clicked, recording the girls' progress along the catwalk. At the top each girl turned, revealing the whole of her outfit - the patter of shutters and the beat of soul music an accompaniment to her haughty stride. The tide of beautiful females wearing outrageously new ensembles seemed to go on forever.
For two hours the audience, sitting on small gilt and red plush chairs, watched the procession gliding by in burgundy silk crêpe, cream grosgrain, quilted damask, a heady flurry of hot spice and curry colours for the beach and tropical nights. There were ballgowns and dresses for every hour of the day, or night, and a sprinkling of male models outlandishly attired in kilts and sarongs, and skin-tight trousers that left nothing to the imagination. Hats, shoes, jewellery, even a new perfume called Body Talk had all been designed by the maestro, Marty Blake.
'Isn't he just wonderful,' gushed a short, overweight and overdressed American matron. She had a seat in the front, but Arlene had managed to wedge herself to the fore, with the help of the camera she hefted and the press badge she wore pinned to her chest. It all seemed to open all manner of otherwise closed doors.
'You know him?' asked Will, her stalwart backup, his journalist's head glued firmly in place. Eugene brought up the rear. Both of them wore suits, and that in itself made Arlene all the more conscious that this was a momentous occasion and one which would be remembered; the start of Marty Blake's downfall, she thought, irritated by the fat woman's drooling admiration of such a charlatan.
'Oh, yes, I've been a customer of his for years. I'm Mrs Hooper-Jones, from the USA.'
She levelled Will a searching stare, taking in his press badge and adding, 'Are you a newsman?'
'I work for a popular magazine called Hi Life, Mrs Hooper-Jones,' Will said, using his considerable charm. 'I'm here to report this event. Anything you can tell me about Mr Blake and his work will be of enormous value.'
'Have we got a couple of weeks?' she gushed again, her bouffant hair, her extravagant but passé gold brocade two-piece more suitable for a wedding than a late afternoon fashion show. Without awaiting Will's reply she rushed on. 'Why yes, honey, he's been designing my clothes for several years,' she willingly disclosed. 'And this collection... my, but he's excelled himself! So new, so daring. I can't wait to take some of the things home and show them off to my girlfriends. They'll just die! But hush now, here they come again.'
She adjusted her pink-framed spectacles and looked at her programme. As the music beat out a rhythm the applause swelled and three more models stalked and turned and trod the catwalk.
Arlene stared, half expecting this but stupefied when it actually happened. She thought she'd spotted several of her designs earlier, but these were blatantly, undeniably hers. Evening or party wear, when she had given full rein to her imagination. She'd used synthetics, PVC, and Lycra to create slinky, daring outfits, vaguely Egyptian in concept, certainly space age fantasy gear. Will leaned forward with his camera and clicked away at a bodice like a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of carnivorous flowers.
'Get all these,' Arlene hissed under her breath. 'They're mine. Marty Blake is a thieving, conniving bastard!'
The girls retired and the lights dimmed. There was a hush, an expectant pause as the commentator announced, 'And now, just before our final item which is the traditional wedding scene, we have great pleasure in presenting Marty's latest and greatest, which he has called Queen of The Night.'
Someone had changed the music tape. Now the mighty chords from the Space Odyssey blared forth, the lights went up and the audience gasped and started to clap and cheer. Arlene stared and stared, her emotions in turmoil; hatred of Marty Blake, pride in this piece of her own work, and a blazing fury forming a combustible volcano within her.
Cressida posed, allowing the furore to die down before moving. Tall Cressida rendered seven foot tall by the addition of a towering jewelled headdress and stack-heeled silver boots laced to the thigh. Her make-up was barbaric, and she looked like a sexy, alien warrior queen. The gown scintillated, a diaphanous skirt slit front and back, the flaps dangling from the heavily encrusted belt drawing attention to, rather than hiding, her shaven mound and shapely taut buttocks. Tooled metal armbands stretched from wrists to elbow. Arabesque bra cups that left the top half bare upheld her firm breasts, and a jewelled collar drew the eye to her stiff nipples.
Cameras flashed all over the long, high-ceilinged banqueting room, and the distinguished guests, drawn from among the aristocracy, the world of entertainment and haute couture, leaned forward on their seats.
'Don't!' Eugene warned in urgent, hushed tones, grabbing Arlene's arm and preventing her from leaping up onto the catwalk.
'But it's mine!' she gasped, tears of rage smudging on her cheeks. 'Mine!'
'I know, I believe you, but there are other ways of tackling this,' Eugene insisted, glancing anxiously around to see if anyone had noticed the intensity of Arlene's reaction. 'Pay Blake a visit after the show. Will and me'll come with you.'
'Oh, my word!' Mrs Hooper-Jones exclaimed, unaware of anything except her pent-up emotion and frustrated desire centred on Marty. 'Will you look at that? I must have it for the Ladies of Louisiana Charity Ball at Thanksgiving!'
Chapter 9
The atmosphere backstage was one of nerve-jangling tension. Roberta and Grace were possessed of an extraordinary, unnatural calm, far removed from their frantic behaviour at the rehearsals. It was as if, now too late to do anything to avert disaster, they had reached a stage of stoical acceptance.
Julia had only appeared in the beach outfit. It had been decided to keep her for the grand finale, the wedding sequence that always ended any show worth its salt. She had been selected as the bride. Roberta had made her practice until she was giddy, having nightmares of going down the aisle, or in this case, the catwalk, hearing Mendelssohn's Wedding March ringing in her ears, her arm linked with that of Lee, Marty Blake's houseboy. He had been chosen to act as her bridegroom. He was an exotic figure in a colourful cotton kanga, a frilled white shirt and a dinner jacket. This, coupled with thonged sandals, fuchsia-pink toenail varnish and camp gestures, made him a very odd choice indeed. Apparently he was popular with the punters; the older women wanted to mother him.
Julia's single foray into the public eye had been enough, and she was shaking like an aspen leaf as Grace settled ten thousand pounds' worth of wedding dress round her. She was in awe of it, yet knew it to be bottom of the range; it would have to be a very well heeled daddy indeed to lead his million-dollar princess to the altar wearing one from the top end.
Julia was in the lap of luxury. The hotel the girls were staying in was extremely grand and very expensive. All gilt and mirrors and cut glass and crimson plush.
'More like your traditional whorehouse,' Gina had commented acerbically. 'And I expect there's a fair bit
of whoring goes on inside it, too. Can't fool me with all this pomp and circumstance. It's a load of old cobblers.'
They had been permitted one run-through in the banqueting room consigned to them. The hotel manager let it be known in no uncertain terms that only because the event was to be patronised by certain members of the royal family had he allowed such a rabble of riffraff and mountebanks to enter its sacred precinct.
'Fuck right off,' Roberta had commented under his breath, sticking up a stiff forefinger at the pompous little man's retreating back. 'Swivel on that, baby! Charity my arse; the hotel's costing a fortune to hire. The good cause, and I'm not sure which one it is, will get the leftovers after every one's had a slice of the pie.'
Cressida returned, flushed with success. Queen of the Night had brought the house down. Foreign buyers already besieged Blake, though the show was not yet over.
'Keep it on, darling, keep it on!' Roberta squealed with barely controlled hysteria. 'You know you'll be poncing about out there again, as soon as the wedding thing is over, to let them have another look.' His voice rose shrilly. 'No, don't sit down!'
'Stuff off!' Cressida spat, her feline eyes elongated by black liner, her full red lips parted in a snarl. 'I need to have a piss.'
'Then I'll come with you,' he insisted. 'To hold up your skirt and make sure you don't piddle on it.'
Julia surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She was almost unrecognisable in this gorgeous, fairytale gown fashioned of silk faille, and decorated with seed pearls and lace. Vincent Gabor had called in a favour from Armand, a famous stylist with a salon in the West End. He had come to attend to the models' hair. He attached the wreath of orange-blossom and stephanotis to Julia, and was now fussing round her, adding the finishing touches.
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