The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  ‘Really?’ She was interested. ‘And what exactly is his type?’

  ‘Models,’ David guessed. ‘Leggy blondes with silicone implants. Or society types. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘He likes variety, you mean?’

  ‘He likes women as accessories,’ David said. ‘Status symbols. I can’t really see him going for anyone with brains. Too much competition. They might answer back.’

  ‘He didn’t strike me as that kind of man,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘That’s because you don’t know him.’ David leaned forward. ‘I expect he’s played the perfect gentleman with you, but I’ll tell you for nothing Sinclair’s known to be a bit of a bastard with women. There was this daughter of a politician…’ He broke off. ‘No, I shouldn’t spread gossip. It was all hearsay. Probably a load of lies.’

  ‘Oh, stop acting like a schoolgirl, David,’ Genevieve said crossly. ‘You know you’re going to tell me anyway.’

  ‘Well.’ David settled into his chair. ‘She was very stuck on him until he started asking her to do some very peculiar things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How should I know? Kinky stuff. Anyway, she refused.’

  ‘Very moral of her,’ Genevieve said dryly. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘She threatened to sell her story to the newspapers.’

  ‘Don’t they all? I still don’t believe it. What’s the punch line?’

  ‘Rumor has it that Sinclair paid her more than the papers.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  David shrugged. ‘He’s got the money to do it.’ He paused, then grinned. ‘Personally, I think it’s far more likely that he told her to publish and be damned. And since her daddy was a politician she thought better of it. But that isn’t to say I didn’t believe the stories of what they got up to. Sinclair likes playing power games. With women especially. Just thought I’d warn you.’

  ‘Where business is concerned I’m not a woman, just a negotiator.’

  ‘For your sake,’ David said, ‘I hope James Sinclair thinks the same way.’

  Genevieve thought about David’s words for the rest of the week. Was Sinclair courting Barringtons for reasons of his own? And if he was, what were they? The more she thought about it, the harder she found it to come up with any. And what was his real interest in her? If David was correct in his description of Sinclair’s sexual preferences she was certainly not his type. She was gaining a reputation for efficiency at her job but she certainly could not be considered a status symbol. And she had no intention of pretending to be stupid either, just to humor him. Furthermore, she realized, she had made no arrangements to meet him. George Fullerton had stayed with her while Sinclair went down in the lift on his own. She doubted if he would contact her at work, but it would be easy for him to find out her mobile number. Would he do it?

  But her phone did not ring, and she began to wonder if she really had been a fool to take him seriously. Sex for a signature? It was like something out of a film. Perhaps David had been right. He was just playing power games? Perhaps it was his idea of a joke. If it was, did she care? She had to admit that she did. Not, she told herself quickly, that she was particularly looking forward to obliging him in bed. She could take that or leave it. It was strictly a career move. She needed a break. She wanted to prove that she could win clients.

  Barringtons currently had an exciting creative division, but they would not keep their inventive young designers and writers if they did not expand. Sinclair’s account would be the first step. And if Barringtons succeeded, Genevieve knew she would succeed with them. Sinclair could give her that. She stared at her phone and willed him to call her, to suggest a meeting. Anything.

  The phone stayed silent.

  Genevieve had just run a bath and the perfumed water was gently warming her. She lifted one leg and stretched it, smoothing the creamy foam that clung to her skin. Why did the gleam of water always make your body look sexy? Was that why so many men liked giving women an oil massage?

  The phone rang. She reached for it, unhurriedly, trying to guess who it might be. At this time of night it was probably her brother, Philip. He knew she worked long hours and usually phoned late—at least when he thought about it. He hadn’t rung her for ages. She prepared to tell him off.

  ‘Miss Loften?’ She recognized the voice immediately, with its combination of authority and attractive depth.

  ‘Mr. Sinclair?’ She hoped she sounded neutral. She had no intention of letting him know how relieved she was to hear from him at last. ‘I thought you’d forgotten our deal.’

  ‘I don’t forget anything,’ he said. ‘I had a few arrangements to make. Now listen. Go to 43 Harmond Street tomorrow and collect a box. You wear what’s inside it under an outfit of your own choice when we meet for our discussion. Just the items in the box. Nothing else. Understand?’

  So he’s into sexy underwear, she thought. But he sounded as if he was giving orders to his secretary and she wasn’t sure she liked it. With her free hand she smoothed the creamy foam over her breasts so that her nipples were just visible then submerged herself in the warmth of the perfumed water again. She thought: If you were here now, Mr. Sinclair, I’d make you change your tone.

  She decided to make some kind of protest against being dictated to, if only to see how he would react. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll have the time to go anywhere tomorrow. I’ve got two meetings and…’

  ‘Make time,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘And if I can’t?’ she returned, coolly.

  ‘The deal’s off,’ he said.

  ‘Now listen,’ she began.

  ‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘You listen. This isn’t the office. This is just the two of us, and I’m the one who calls the shots. If you don’t think you’re going to like it, back out now.’ His voice softened, and she imagined his mouth with that slightly sardonic smile. ‘Try it my way,’ he cajoled. ‘You know you’re curious.’

  She was. She was curious about the kind of garments he would expect her to wear. Frilly knickers? The perennial male favorite, a suspender belt and seamed stockings? Open-crotch panties? A peephole bra?

  She stifled a sudden giggle. Surely not. He was so elegant and controlled, she couldn’t imagine him being turned on by such schoolboy props. But then you never knew. She slithered further into the bath. The foam came up to her chin. She felt relaxed, hugged by the scented water. ‘Well, all right,’ she agreed, hoping she sounded as if she was granting him a favor. ‘As long as I can go in the evening.’

  ‘You can go anytime,’ he said. ‘And the day after tomorrow you’ll meet me at the Garnet at eight.’ There was a pause. ‘And like I said, lady, you wear what you like on top, but underneath it’s my choice.’

  She knew the Garnet to be an exclusive and expensive restaurant. If she had to wear black stockings and open-crotch panties to please him it would be a fair exchange for what would certainly be a marvelous meal.

  After her bath, wrapped in a silky kimono, she checked out her London A to Z. The road name he had given her was in a residential suburb, and not a particularly classy one. It made his instructions all the more intriguing. There were plenty of kinky shops in London ranging from the smart to the downright tacky. What was so special about 43 Harmond Street?

  Genevieve was still thinking about Sinclair’s instructions while having lunch the following day. In the summer she often took a break from her colleagues and bought herself a couple of rolls in a small pub that most local office workers had not yet discovered. She had no objection to talking shop, but sometimes she just wanted to eat in peace.

  She was still trying to decide what she would find at 43 Harmond Street (her favorite choice being a middle-aged housewife sewing naughty knickers for bingo money) when someone thrust an A4 portfolio under her nose and said: ‘Take a look at these!’

  Almost choking on her roll Genevieve turned round angrily. She recognized the voice and knew exact
ly who she was going to see: Ricky Croft, his hair straggling over his collar, and his face unshaven. He wore a battered Levi’s jacket and jeans. She could not remember seeing him in anything else. His enemies (and his friends) reckoned he slept in them.

  ‘Go on.’ He sat down opposite her and pushed the portfolio towards her. ‘Look.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve never seen anything like this before,’ he said.

  ‘Ricky—’ Genevieve put down her roll ‘—there is no job for you at Barringtons.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ he agreed. ‘I’m not pretty enough, am I? I don’t fit the image. Tell me, what are well-dressed graphic designers wearing these days?’

  ‘You know we don’t give a sod what you wear,’ Genevieve said crossly. ‘You’re simply unreliable. You haven’t learned what the word deadline means.’

  ‘I’m an artist,’ Ricky said. ‘Artists don’t work to a timetable.’

  ‘They don’t work for Barringtons either,’ she said. ‘We employ professionals. And I don’t want to see any more lovely logos for nonexistent firms.’

  Ricky was undeterred. ‘Just look,’ he said, tapping the portfolio. ‘These are reductions. The originals are much bigger.’

  Despite herself Genevieve reached for the portfolio and opened it. She knew Ricky Croft’s work. She had once given him a freelance assignment. He had turned in some brilliant ideas—six weeks too late.

  The first clear plastic envelope contained a pencil drawing. Detailed objective drawing was one of Ricky’s specialties, but it wasn’t the skill of the almost photographic rendering that surprised Genevieve. It was the subject matter.

  A soldier in eighteenth-century military uniform tumbled with a young woman on a four-poster. The two of them had clearly been romping together; the girl’s full breasts were exposed, and her frilly skirts were bunched up round her waist. She wore dark stockings gartered at her thighs. The man was kneeling between her plump but shapely legs, holding her ankles apart. His jacket and undershirt were undone. Although his own erection was visibly bulging through the tight material of his trousers, he was obviously intent on oral sex rather than penetration.

  Ricky had drawn the woman’s erect nipples and open sex in loving detail. Her expression was one of slight shock coupled with erotic curiosity. It implied that she had never experienced this kind of foreplay before. The man’s face showed only anticipation. His half smile, and the tip of his tongue just showing between his lips, gave the impression that he knew exactly what he was going to do, and he would make sure his partner enjoyed it to the full.

  Genevieve found the picture curiously arousing, all the more so because it hinted at what was about to happen rather than displaying it. It allowed an observer to use his or her imagination. A man could imagine tasting the woman’s swollen pussy, imagine her writhing in delight as he forced her into willing submission. A woman could imagine the sensation of an expert tongue exciting her into a frenzy, withholding the ultimate release as long as possible, until she begged him for it. Genevieve briefly superimposed Sinclair’s face on that of the soldier. Then, furious with herself, quickly turned the page.

  The next picture showed the same couple, but this time the man’s head was deep between the woman’s thighs. His hands were under her buttocks, lifting her. The woman’s head was thrown back, her expression clearly orgasmic. She was fondling her own nipples.

  ‘Nice, eh?’ Ricky was watching her. ‘Like I said, the originals are much bigger.’

  Genevieve gave him what she hoped was a disdainful glance. She felt that she ought to slam the portfolio shut, and tell Ricky in no uncertain terms that she was not interested in dirty pictures. But it would not have been true. She wanted to see more. She turned another page.

  The characters had changed. The man was now definitely an officer and it gave her a slight—and delicious—jolt of pleasure to realize that this time it required very little imagination to believe that this was Sinclair. In fact she could almost have been persuaded to believe that Ricky had used Sinclair—if not as an outright model—at least as a representative type. Tall and slim, with dark hair and Sinclair’s angular good looks, the officer wore a uniform that was probably historically inaccurate, but looked enough like a traditional hussar to give him an aura of macho authority: tight trousers, knee-high boots and a short braided jacket, buttoned to a high-stand collar. The woman looked more aristocratic this time, slightly contemptuous in fact, with elaborately styled hair held in place by a band with a sweeping feather pinned to it, and a high-waisted, low-necked dress that emphasized her swelling breasts but covered everything else.

  There was nothing erotic happening in the picture, but it was clear that these two people knew things were about to change. The woman stared up at the officer as if daring him to touch her, and the man’s stance and expression showed clearly he accepted her challenge and was planning to do exactly that—and more. Once again Genevieve was forced to admire Ricky’s skill. Not only had he depicted his characters with photographic accuracy, he had conveyed their thoughts too. Or, it suddenly occurred to her, was she just reading into the drawing what she hoped to see? She noticed the picture had a caption. It said: Military Maneuvers.

  ‘It’s a set,’ Ricky said. ‘A sort of picture strip for adults. A bit like the Rake’s Progress. You know?’

  ‘With an accent on the strip?’ Genevieve raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You get the idea,’ Ricky said. He watched her. ‘Well, don’t just sit there. The pages won’t turn themselves.’

  She felt that this was the time to say: I’m simply not interested in this sort of thing. If the man had looked less like Sinclair she probably would have done. But the likeness intrigued her. She almost felt a sense of power. It was as if she was peeping through a keyhole, watching him. She turned the page.

  In the second picture the officer had removed the woman’s dress, leaving her stripped except for stockings, gartered at her thighs, and shoes with tiny heels and large bows. She also still wore her jewelry: a choker round her neck and earrings. Her hair was pinned up but the headband and feather had disappeared.

  The officer—who had removed his jacket but nothing else—was pressing her back against the wall, his mouth exciting one erect nipple and his fingers teasing the other. The woman had her hands on his shoulders, presumably as a gesture of protest, but although her lips were parted she was clearly not calling for help. Judging from her expression, Genevieve thought a moan of pleasure would be more likely. The picture reminded her of her recent experience with Sinclair. She felt her body begin to tingle, and turned the page quickly.

  In the next picture the officer had removed his shirt, and the woman was on the four-poster—although it was obvious that the two of them were not preparing for a quick session of orthodox lovemaking. The woman’s hands were already tied to the bedposts and the man was in the process of completing her restraint, holding and tying one ankle. He had positioned her so that her thighs were wide apart. Ricky had drawn her swelling clitoris—and all the other parts of her body—in loving detail. It was apparent from the officer’s bulging trousers that he was also aroused.

  The woman showed no apprehension about being tied, and certainly no inclination to struggle. If anything she looked excited. Genevieve was shocked to realize that because it was associated with sexual playacting the idea of being held captive in this way did not fill her with either anger or disgust. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be spread-eagled on a bed with a man tying your hands and feet. She stared at the picture of the officer, with his bare chest and flat stomach. His expression as he looked at his willing captive again reminded her of Sinclair. He was smiling slightly. In anticipation, Genevieve thought.

  By the fourth picture the action had heated up. The officer’s head was between the woman’s legs, his hands flat against her inner thighs, forcing them to stay apart while he pleasured her with his tongue. It looked to Genevieve as if she had already had h
er first orgasm. Her head was thrown back and her mouth open as if she was screaming. Her arms were stretched against their bonds, her nipples erect. Her whole body seemed to be shaking with sensation. The officer was glancing up at her even as he used his tongue on her, obviously pleased with the result of his actions. Looking at the drawing, Genevieve could almost imagine the warm friction of that tongue lightly caressing her, moving faster as her lover felt her body responding. She imagined his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her firmly as her writhing grew more frantic and the sensations became almost too intense to bear. Genevieve’s own body began to respond. She glanced up to see Ricky watching her closely. Assuming what she hoped was a disinterested expression, she turned the next page.

  Now the officer had shed all of his clothes. He straddled the woman’s body. His buttocks were taut and muscular. His cock was half in her willing mouth. His hands were under her head and he lifted her slightly towards him, encouraging her to give him the kind of pleasure he had just given her. Although she was still tied, and obviously could not refuse, her expression clearly showed that she was equally delighted to be doing so.

  Genevieve had only performed oral sex on one boyfriend. It had not been a very loving experience. Jeff, she remembered, had seemed irritable at her suggestion and tense while she was performing—with more enthusiasm than expertise, she remembered. After his orgasm he had rolled away from her and refused to talk. It was only later that she found out he considered such activities unnatural and had only agreed in order to please her. Since she had only done it to please him (having read in a magazine article that most men considered it the ultimate compliment), she had been both angry and upset at his reaction. They parted very soon afterwards, following a heated argument during which Jeff had brought up the oral sex incident again and described it as ‘animal behavior’. If nothing else it had at least taught Genevieve that not all men were as liberated as she had been led to believe.