She heard the powerful sound of an engine and went over to the window. A massive black-and-chrome motorcycle pulled up to the curb. The rider was clothed from head to foot in tight, black leathers, a space-style helmet with a dark visor covering his head. He carried a similar helmet under his arm. She tried to persuade herself that this was a stranger waiting for someone else. In a minute he would mount his machine and ride away.
But even in leathers there was something familiar about the tall, slim figure. When he blasted impatiently on the horn she knew she was right. A motorcycle? How could she ride on a motorcycle in this skirt? It was hardly long enough to cover her bottom. If she sat astride the seat it would probably go up round her waist.
Did he really expect her to show herself in public wearing the kind of clothes that made her look like a total exhibitionist? The kind of woman men instantly thought of as a dirty shag? Her first reaction was anger, but she had to admit that the idea excited her too.
And, she reminded herself, she had not chosen this situation. It had been forced on her. Well, more or less. She knew she could invoke the back-out clause but that would be the end of any chance of a deal with James Sinclair. It would also probably be the end of her chances of early promotion. She went downstairs and into the street.
He stood by the powerful, chrome-tanked machine. His leathers fitted him as if they had been tailored, accentuating his broad shoulders and slim hips. She found her eyes drawn to the bulging trouser zip and quickly looked away. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she found his sexual equipment exciting.
He hardly moved his head but she knew she was being checked.
‘Very nice,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly clear and she realized there was a small speaker in the helmet. ‘Lift your skirt.’
There was no one else on the street but she still flattened her hands protectively against her thighs. ‘I’m not wearing anything under this,’ she said.
‘You’d better not be.’ He handed her the helmet. ‘Put this on.’
She took it and held it. ‘I can’t ride behind you dressed like this.’
‘Why not?’ He sounded surprised. ‘It’s a nice warm day.’
‘It’s obvious why not.’ She tried to tug down the ultra-short skirt. ‘You’ve only got to look at this outfit to know why not.’
‘You look fine,’ he said, and she guessed he was grinning. ‘Put the helmet on.’ She lowered the helmet over her head. There was a click and his voice sounded in her ear. ‘You look like a typical biker’s tart. I’m going to take you for a ride, and I guarantee you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.’ He swung one long leg over the saddle, kick-started the bike and his dark-visored helmet turned towards her. ‘Get up behind me.’ She hesitated. ‘Get astride.’ His voice was hard. ‘Or I’ll pick you up and dump you on and if any passers-by get a good look between your legs that won’t bother me at all.’
The street was empty but she wasn’t sure if anyone was watching from the windows. She approached the bike cautiously. Suddenly she felt as if she was acting in a play. She was a different person in these clothes and with the added disguise of the helmet no one would ever recognize her. Let him take her for a spin round the block. If anyone saw her they wouldn’t have time to realize that she was more undressed than dressed.
She climbed astride the bike. The saddle felt warm against her naked skin. She managed to tuck the lower edge of her skirt under her bottom. If she sat down hard she thought she could keep it there. Well, she decided, this isn’t so bad after all. She slipped her arms round his waist, feeling the smooth, sexy texture of the leather. The bike roared away from the kerb.
It soon became obvious that he did not intend to take her for a short ride, but he did stay on the side roads and, before long, they were passing boarded shop fronts and a rough-looking housing estate. The few pedestrians out walking turned to stare, although whether it was at the powerful, macho lines of the motorbike or at her she wasn’t too sure. But she was sure that it was going to be impossible to keep the skirt secure.
He slanted round a corner and she slithered towards his back. The skirt slipped from under her bottom and she was acutely aware that anyone in a car behind them would have a perfect view of the cleft between her buttocks and her white, rounded cheeks spread by her weight against the black padding of the seat.
And there was a car behind them. She glanced over her shoulder. She could see the driver grinning. She tried unsuccessfully to tug the skirt down.
‘Stop,’ she requested through her helmet speaker.
‘What for?’
‘There’s a car following us. The driver’s looking at me.’
He laughed. ‘Looking at your ass, you mean? And you’re enjoying it, aren’t you?’
‘Certainly not.’ It was her best boardroom voice.
He laughed again and reached behind her, clasping one of her buttocks with his leather-gloved hands, pushing her skirt up even more. His strong fingers massaged her flesh, squeezing and pinching, forcing her to wriggle and shift her position, lifting her bottom off the seat. The car driver tooted enthusiastically on his horn.
‘Stand up.’ His voice was hard now. ‘Unzip your skirt. Make his day.’
‘No,’ she protested.
‘Do it!’ he said.
He turned the bike into a narrow side street and slowed down. They were between high padlocked wooden gates and disused buildings now. There were no pedestrians. The car stayed behind them. Suddenly she felt a great sense of freedom. She was anonymous in these clothes, with only her over-made-up eyes showing behind the helmet visor. Her best friend wouldn’t recognize her. To hell with modesty and convention.
She stood up on the footrests, her legs bent, knees pointing outwards. He kept the bike upright and slow. The car braked gently behind them. She found the zip tabs and pulled, opening the skirt at both sides. The zips made a tearing noise. The skirt was reduced to two flaps.
Sinclair reached behind again and lifted the back flap, exposing her fully. She knew that the unknown voyeur now had a perfect view of her naked bottom.
‘Loving this, aren’t you?’ The car crawled behind them, showing no inclination to overtake. Sinclair’s voice sounded mockingly in her ears. ‘I bet our Peeping Tom thinks he’s in heaven. It can’t be every day you get to see an ass like yours for free.’ He slowed down and beckoned to the car. ‘Well, he’s seen you. Now we’ll have a look at him.’
The bike glided to the kerb and she lowered herself back on the saddle. The car slowed until the driver was level with them. His window was open. Genevieve thought he looked like the kind of man who would have two teenaged children and a nearly paid-for house. She found herself wondering what his wife was like. Middle-aged, she guessed. Not the kind of woman who would wear a frilly blouse with the buttons coming undone.
‘You’ve seen her ass.’ Sinclair’s voice startled her, coming clearly from the helmet speaker. ‘Want to have a look at her tits?’ She was surprised to find that the unexpected schoolboy crudity of his language excited her. His voice in her helmet ordered, hard-edged: ‘Show him.’
She tugged the flouncy frills aside without a second thought and displayed herself. Behaving like this was so out of character that she felt as if she was acting in a film. The driver’s smile turned into a gape of surprise. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted them slightly. The man pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
‘Delightful, isn’t she?’ Sinclair observed. ‘And she likes being handled.’ His voice switched inside her helmet too. ‘Lean forward, my darling. Let him touch.’
Again she felt a strange sense of unreality. She turned towards the car window. The man swivelled in his seat and reached for her. He squeezed and cupped her, bouncing her breast appreciatively. His thumb found her semi-erect nipple and rubbed it into full and sensitive hardness. She felt her breath quicken.
‘That’s enough.’
The motorbike rolled forwards,
taking her out of the driver’s reach. He grasped the steering wheel again.
‘Put her on the backseat,’ he suggested. ‘I can think of some other bits of her I’d like to rub.’
The visored helmet turned. Sinclair’s voice sounded faintly amused. ‘Save it for your wife. Go home and give her a treat.’
‘I couldn’t…’ The man faltered in surprise. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t…’
‘How do you know what she’d do? Have you ever suggested anything unusual? Whatever you’re thinking, go home and do it to your wife. Surprise her for once. I bet she’ll love you for it.’
Sinclair accelerated and roared off down the road. Genevieve had to circle him with her arms to keep her balance. Her exposed breasts pressed against the sensual smoothness of his leather-covered back. Her skirt flapped behind her. For all the protection her clothes were giving her now she might as well have been naked.
‘Stop,’ she cried.
‘Why?’
‘I want to make myself decent.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t bother,’ he said. ‘Anyway we’re nearly there.’
They pulled up outside an anonymous, high gate. He dismounted and pushed it open. The bike cruised into what had probably once been a builder’s yard, a small paved area surrounded by ramshackle sheds and garage doors.
He dismounted and watched her slide off. Then he stood the bike on its stand and closed the gates. She fumbled with the buttons of her blouse and he came over to watch her, standing with his booted, black-clad legs apart, his face hidden behind the dark visor.
‘Did it turn you on?’ he asked. He sounded interested.
She glanced up. ‘Having to behave like a whore on a motorbike? Certainly not!’
He laughed. ‘Lady, you’re a liar.’
He was right, although she would never have admitted it to him. It was a little difficult to admit it to herself. It had turned her on. The freedom of it, knowing that she was unrecognizable. She would never have believed that the hard insistent fingers of a stranger fondling her could have given her a sexual thrill.
She reached for the helmet strap, wondering what he was planning now. Did he intend to take her into one of the disused sheds? Stretch her out on the paving stones? Not very imaginative, she thought, but what else could you do in a place like this?
‘Leave the helmet on,’ he said. ‘Get back on the bike.’
Surprised, she went to straddle the seat.
‘Not that way.’ He walked towards her. ‘Turn round.’
She obeyed, lying with her back against the petrol tank, her legs apart. He took two narrow silk scarves from one of his pockets. Lifting her arms above her head he positioned her exactly how he wanted her and bound her wrists to the handlebars.
After looking at her for a moment he pushed up her skirt and fondled her clit gently. The touch of his leather-covered finger made her gasp. She waited for him to unzip his trousers, straddle the bike, start to give her some lasting relief from her mounting sexual tension, although she hoped he would arouse her for a little longer first.
Instead he stepped back. ‘You’re about ready,’ he said. He turned. ‘Gentlemen, she’s all yours.’
Four young men came out of one of the sheds. They wore T-shirts and jeans and looked fit and muscular. She could imagine them working out with weights. They stood round the motorbike, two on each side, and she saw their eyes admiring her.
The man in black leathers said, ‘Get on with it.’
They each took up a position where they could reach her body easily and began to play with her. Unhurriedly. Expertly. One of them kissed her arms, his lips tracing lines to the crook of her elbow, licking and teasing the delicate inner skin. Another caressed her ankle, undid her shoe, removed it and lifted her foot to his mouth. He sucked her toes one by one, taking his time. The third man kissed her neck under the padded rim of the helmet. One finger stroked the underside of her breasts. He avoided her nipples although they were hard with obvious desire.
Her fourth tormentor ran his tongue round her navel. She willed him to move his mouth down to her clit, but he didn’t. He flicked and tickled her skin. His fingers tantalized the top of her thighs but stopped short of her pubic hair. It was an incredible sensation, to have so many men working on her at once, teasing her, finding erogenous zones she did not know existed.
Someone was drawing light patterns on the palm of her hand. Someone else was massaging her shoulders. A gentle slapping made her breasts jiggle. The man stimulating her toes now moved to her kneecap, making it tingle with the same lightly sucking kisses he had used on her foot. The hands working on her breasts teased insistently but avoided the two hard buds that she most wanted them to handle.
She suppressed a groan of sheer frustration. She was wet and throbbing, aching for a male touch between her legs and on her nipples. The tall figure in black leather stood watching her from behind the blank black visor, legs braced apart. She could see his erection bulging against his zip and hoped he felt as sexily uncomfortable as she did.
The fingers and tongues moved over her skin. She strained at the scarves that held her captive. Hands slid under her buttocks and lifted her slightly. Hands pushed her thighs wider apart. She imagined a tongue on her clit giving her relief but instead a mouth merely kissed her inner thighs. She moaned with delicious frustration.
‘You want them to fuck you, don’t you?’ The voice in her helmet startled her. ‘Well, they’re not going to do it, lady. Their job is to warm you up. When you want it badly enough you can try asking for it, and I might oblige.’
A mouth nuzzled the underside of her breast, a tongue tickled her belly, another licked the sole of her foot.
‘You want it good and hard?’ He was actually voicing her exact thoughts. ‘Then beg for it. I want to hear you beg.’
But a perverse obstinacy gripped her. If she didn’t obey what else would he make them do to her? ‘I won’t beg,’ she said defiantly. ‘Never!’
He laughed. ‘Enjoying yourself too much, are you? Let’s see how you like it when it gets a bit rougher.’ She heard the outside speaker click on. ‘Gentlemen, turn her ladyship over. And then get to work. Warm up her ass for me.’
The scarves were loosened. They lifted her bodily, forced her to straddle the bike facedown and retied her wrists to the handlebars. She stood with her legs braced apart. But not for long. They caught her ankles, lifted her feet from the ground, stretching her out. She felt the cool chrome of the petrol tank against her breasts, the smoothness of the saddle between her thighs.
‘Let’s see how you like this,’ James Sinclair’s voice said politely in her ears.
The hand that landed on her bottom made her yelp as much in surprise as pain. The slaps that followed were hard and stinging. Watched by the black-visored man in leathers, they took it in turns to give her a thorough spanking. And they made no secret of the fact that they were enjoying every minute of it, enjoying the way she struggled, the way her body reacted, the way her hips jerked when she tried unsuccessfully to evade the undignified punishment. But whichever way she wriggled and twisted, the descending hands always found their target and left their glowing pink imprint on her flesh.
She guessed they were probably turned on by the noises she was making too, and she knew her gasps, squeals and protests were quite clear to Sinclair although he did not seem in the least bit inclined to heed them.
And did she really want him to? Not just yet, she startled herself by thinking. She had never been spanked before but it was arousing her as intensely as all the previous sexual tricks she had been subjected to. She was wet and her swollen clitoris ached for relief.
She remembered Georgie. Was this how Georgie had felt when her dyke friend upended her? No wonder she went back for more. As each hand landed, her pussy clenched and unclenched. Her moans took on a new urgency. Finally she gasped: ‘Make them stop.’
‘I thought you were enjoying it.’ He sounded faintly mocking, pretending surprise.
‘Just stop,’ she groaned. She knew she could not bear this mounting sexual tension for much longer.
‘You want fucking, lady?’ He might have been asking her if she wanted a drink. His voice was suddenly hard. ‘You want it, you ask for it. Properly.’
The young men changed over. New hands gripped her ankles. A new palm left its stinging imprint on her bottom. Her body jerked and quivered.
‘I’ve asked,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked already.’
‘Wrong words,’ he said. ‘I want it plain and simple. I want it basic. I want to hear that snooty boardroom voice of yours begging for it.’
‘Please,’ she said.
‘Try again.’
‘Fuck me,’ she moaned. ‘Please.’
‘And again,’ he ordered. She repeated the request, more urgently this time.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘You sound as if you mean it.’ He touched the external speaker. ‘Playtime’s over, gentlemen.’ They stopped at once, standing back. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
He straddled the bike behind her. His leather-gloved hand smacked her behind. ‘Straighten up.’
She jumped with surprise and did as she was told. Was he going to untie her? She heard the zip of his trousers opening and the next moment he had leaned over her; his hands slid under her armpits and captured her breasts. His erect cock pressed against her bottom as he fondled her. As she wriggled she felt it growing even harder from the friction she was providing.
She found it intensely stimulating to be bent forward, hands tied, and used like this. The fact that he was fully dressed in his black leathers added to her pleasure. His gloves were tight-fitting. The leather gave his fingers a sensual smoothness. Her nipples were already aroused by the spanking. When he rolled them between his finger and thumb the sensations shuddered down to her clit.
He entered her easily. She was so wet she felt she could have taken a cock twice as big and twice as long. Not, she remembered, that there was anything small about his.
The Ninety Days of Genevieve Page 6