The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  Rhythmically he began to thrust. She let her head fall forward and saw the reaction of his hands massaging her in the chrome petrol tank. The image excited her. It made her wonder what she looked like, half-naked, being taken from behind by an anonymous man in leathers.

  It was then, as the sensations mounted, that she realized the four men were still watching. Instead of embarrassing her, it added spice to her predicament. And they could not see her face. They had never seen her face. The helmets guarded them both from recognition. She could be as wanton as she liked. The thought encouraged her to try and control her partner’s orgasmic thrusting. When she felt him speeding up, felt his body trembling with imminent release, she moved away from him and nearly broke contact.

  Angrily he grasped her thighs and pulled her close, pushing into her again, filling her. She teased him with quick vaginal contractions and was delighted to hear him groan with pleasure. Her apparent compliance fooled him into thinking that she was going to let him have his own way. He relaxed his grip and she immediately pushed forward again.

  But this time he grabbed her more roughly. She heard his breath rasping in the confines of his helmet, coming clearly through to hers. His superior weight pinned her down on the bike. Her knees bent and her high heels slipped on the ground. His hands held her close. He thrust deeply, pulled back, and thrust again until she began to match him with her internal muscles and the smooth pumping of her own hips.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said softly in her ear.

  His fingers slid round to her clit. He rubbed it lightly and thrust faster. The stimulation was so intense that she felt herself coming and could not control it. She cried out, ‘Yes, now! Please!’ Her legs kicked and her feet slipped and it was only his hand round her waist that kept her in position as they both climaxed together in a violent spasm of delight.

  The men had gone. Sinclair took off his helmet, untied her and went to unlock one of the garage doors. Inside there were two chairs and a table. She sat down and felt the chair’s padded PVC seat cool against her skin. It reminded her of the saddle of the motorbike.

  ‘Not a very glamorous venue, I’m afraid,’ he apologized. ‘But it doesn’t get used very often.’

  ‘You don’t bring all your girlfriends here?’ she asked, extra polite.

  He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned unexpectedly. ‘You’re the first. I arranged this just for you.’

  She wanted to believe him. She was tempted to mention Jade Chalfont’s name but instead she allowed herself to feel both flattered and fulfilled by the knowledge that he had taken all this trouble to provide what had been an exciting, revealing and sexually satisfying experience. She knew that while he had undoubtedly enjoyed every minute of it, he had always intended her to enjoy it too. She guessed instinctively that Sinclair was not the kind of man who got his kicks from forcing a woman to do something against her will.

  He went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of white wine, two glasses, a large cardboard box and a mobile phone. He poured her a glass of wine then opened the box. Inside was a full-length fur coat.

  ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘I’ll call a taxi.’ His eyes ranged over her, amused. ‘You’re in no fit state to ride back with me. You look as if you’ve been gang-banged.’

  ‘Well, that’s more or less how I feel,’ she said. She took the coat dubiously. ‘I hope this is fake fur. I hate the idea of animals being killed for fashion.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said, surprising her. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fake, but it cost almost as much as the real thing and you’d have to be an expert to tell the difference. Keep it. I might want you to wear it again.’

  She stood up. She knew she looked tantalizing and sexy with her leather skirt split to her waist and her blouse open. He watched her, enjoying the view with undisguised delight. She couldn’t remember when a man had last looked at her that way. It made her feel powerful.

  She took the coat, standing with her feet apart, and swung it elegantly over her shoulders like a cloak. Twisting, she shifted her body provocatively as she pushed her arms into the silk-lined sleeves. His eyes followed every move she made but he didn’t make any attempt to touch her. She sat down, swathed in the soft weight of the fur, stretched her legs out and crossed them. Then she picked up her glass of wine. He sat opposite her.

  ‘Who were those men?’ she asked.

  ‘Friends of mine. We share similar interests. We help each other out.’

  ‘And the man in the car? Another friend?’

  He laughed, relaxing in his chair. ‘No. Just a lucky punter. A bonus for us both.’

  ‘A bonus for me? Being touched up by a stranger?’

  ‘You loved it,’ he said, ‘and so did he. He’ll be telling his mates about it for years, and they won’t believe him.’

  If I told my friends about it they wouldn’t believe me either, she thought.

  ‘If only you could have seen yourself,’ he said suddenly, ‘tied to the bike and wriggling about, getting more and more frustrated. It was the greatest kick ever, watching you. Do you know, some idiot former colleague of yours told me he thought you’d got a low sex drive. He should have seen you out there on the saddle. He’d have certainly changed his mind.’

  ‘Whoever was that?’ she asked.

  ‘Harry Trushaw.’

  ‘I thought he’d be retired by now,’ she said. ‘He tried for years to get me into bed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you oblige him?’

  Because I didn’t fancy him, she thought. Lecherous old sod, never looks at your face, always stares at where he thinks your nipples are. Aloud she said: ‘Mr. Trushaw never offered me anything I wanted.’

  ‘Like a good business deal?’ Sinclair’s dark eyes were serious now. ‘That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? It’s purely mercenary.’

  ‘Dead right,’ she agreed. She finished her wine.

  He picked up the mobile phone and called her a cab. ‘Has this taught you anything?’ he asked her. ‘Anything about yourself?’

  She knew that it had, but she was not going to admit it to Sinclair. ‘Only that I’ll obviously go further than I thought to get our deal closed,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll go further yet,’ he said. ‘You’ll learn more. Believe me.’

  A week ago she would not have believed him. Now she did.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me,’ he said. ‘Soon.’

  The next day a small parcel was delivered by courier to her London apartment. It contained a model black-and-chrome motorcycle and a neatly printed card inquiring: MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS? She smiled, and stood the model next to her bed.

  Chapter Three

  Genevieve saw Mike Keel, the assistant manager of the sports center, coming towards her and deliberately walked faster. Mike ran. Knowing that if she ran too it would look unkindly obvious, Genevieve stopped and turned. ‘No,’ she said.

  Mike grinned. ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘I haven’t time.’

  ‘You could make time,’ he said, teasing now. ‘For me. You won’t regret it. I can promise you an experience I’m sure you’ve never had before.’

  Well, Genevieve thought, I doubt that. Even though I imagine you’re only talking about squash. ‘It’s not fair on the others in the league,’ she said. ‘I can’t help missing games when I’m busy.’

  ‘Who’s talking about the league?’ Mike asked innocently. ‘Are you trying to tell me you can’t spare an hour on one solitary Saturday afternoon? And for charity too?’

  ‘It’s not one of those awful sponsored press-ups? I’ll give you a donation but I’m not doing a single press-up.’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘I’m not doing a two-legged race round the grounds either,’ Genevieve said, remembering a previous sponsored event which had a variety of people tripping over each other and falling into the flower beds.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Mike said. ‘All I want you to do is demonstrate some squash moves wh
ile an audience of admiring men stand and watch.’

  Genevieve stared at him in surprise. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I’m not. Don’t you read company-wide emails?’

  ‘Well—sometimes.’

  ‘That means never. I don’t know why I bother to send out any information. If you had paused to read my missives occasionally you would have seen that we’re having an open day in a couple of weeks time. Basically we want people to explain their particular sport so that anyone interested can get some idea of what it’s all about, and in some cases maybe try it. The entrance money will go to the local hospice fund.’

  ‘What about the admiring audience? Is that guaranteed?’

  ‘If you’d be willing to wear a bikini, it would be.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Well, I’ll come and admire you, anyway,’ Mike offered, gallantly.

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘Whatever you like, really,’ Mike said. ‘Just give the audience the feel of what squash is about. You can do a bit of coaching. Demonstrate some shots. Answer questions. John Oldham said he’d come and help. The whole thing needn’t take long. We just want visitors to see as many sports as possible, even though most of them will probably be coming to watch the demonstrations.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Ladies in sexy Lycra doing aerobics. Trampolining. The kids are doing a gymnastic display. And we’ve got karate, aikido and even kendo. It should be good.’

  ‘I didn’t know we did kendo here?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Mike said. ‘But one of our new members does. Apparently she’s well up in the sport. She teaches in London, and she’s agreed to arrange something for us. If there’s some interest she might start classes. I think her name’s Chalfont.’

  ‘Not Jade Chalfont?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘Sensei Chalfont,’ Mike agreed. ‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

  ‘No. Well, not really.’

  ‘You know her but you don’t like her?’ Mike guessed. ‘I agree, she is a bit—overpowering.’

  ‘I don’t know her personally,’ Genevieve said. ‘She works in advertising, but not in my agency.’

  ‘A rival?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Genevieve shrugged. ‘But then anyone who doesn’t work in my agency is a rival. Advertising is a competitive field.’

  She agreed to help out on the open day and found herself wondering about Jade Chalfont’s demonstration. Kendo was a fairly unusual sport but she thought it suited the self-confident Jade. It was easy to imagine her as a warrior. Sensei Chalfont, she thought. I bet she just loves strutting about waving a sword, turning on all the men who like dominant women.

  And James Sinclair? Would it turn him on to see a woman fighting like a samurai? Perhaps he had seen it already? Maybe he also practiced kendo? She realized that she had no idea what he did in his free time—apart from arranging sexual fantasies and playing them out. Perhaps he listed sex as his hobby? He was certainly good at it.

  She tried to visualize him wielding a sword. It wasn’t difficult. He had the kind of pantherlike elegance that made it easy to imagine him indulging in any sport. She went through a series of costumes. Polo, with its tight, white trousers and glossy boots lingered in her mind. She already knew what he would look like in motorcycle racing leathers.

  She thought about him swimming, climbing out of the pool, his tanned body glistening with water. She knew his shoulders were wide and his stomach flat. She knew his buttocks were tight and there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh round his waist or his hips. She had never seen him naked, but she was certain he would look good. She imagined his swimming trunks reduced to the barest minimum. It was an attractive picture. She stayed with it. Her hands would be on his hips, moving downwards, snapping his waistband. Then she imagined him stripped. She would be clothed and he would be naked. That would make him vulnerable. It would give her the advantage. She would run her hands over his body, exploring. Over his chest, his flat stomach. Her hands would slide down and grasp his balls. She would feel his cock swell as she played with it, rubbing and caressing. She would listen to the sounds he made as she excited him. She would feel his body trembling, slipping out of control.

  Exactly as she was feeling at that very moment. Damn it, she thought, even thinking about him turns me on. But she doubted that he felt the same. The more she thought about him the more convinced she became that he didn’t see any kind of long-term relationship as part of his future. Ninety days were all she was going to get. And a career advancement when she signed him on as a client.

  Or, she thought, was it really if she signed him on?

  However, despite feeling sure that he saw her only as a casual sexual companion, she still experienced a thrill of excitement when she answered the phone and heard his voice.

  ‘How do you fancy an afternoon in the country?’

  Outdoor sex, she thought. Sex in a haystack. Did they still have haystacks these days?

  ‘Do you want me to dress up as a milkmaid?’ she asked.

  ‘Dress smart, but casual,’ he said. ‘There’s only one rule: I want you to shave.’

  That surprised her. If he preferred his women shaved why hadn’t he asked her in the first place?

  ‘I thought you liked proof that I was a natural blonde?’ she said sweetly.

  ‘I like variety,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you going to send me a clothes parcel?’

  ‘Not this time.’ He sounded relaxed. The sexy authority that had colored his voice when he had arranged their previous meetings was missing. He could have been any attractive man ringing her up for a date. ‘I’ll trust your good taste. Wear something you think an Arab millionaire would like.’

  ‘Diaphanous harem pants?’ she suggested, not really believing him.

  ‘You’re not auditioning for a Hollywood musical,’ he said. ‘This Arab went to Eton. He likes beautiful women, and he has impeccable taste.’

  ‘Why have I got to attract him?’

  ‘I didn’t say you had to attract him. I said wear something you think he might like.’

  ‘Same thing,’ she said. She had a feeling he was playing a game with her and it made her angry. She did not want to dress up to attract someone else. ‘If you want me to undress for this Arab, or make love to him, I’m not sure I like the idea.’

  ‘You want to back out?’

  The question came a little too fast for her peace of mind. Was that what he was planning? To force her to break their agreement? If she did, no doubt his conscience (if he had one) would be clear. He could take his account to Lucci’s—and to Jade Chalfont. Or was she being paranoid? Jealous? Insecure? ‘Just explain,’ she requested.

  His voice changed. ‘You know better than that. I don’t explain. I just give the orders. You agreed, remember?’

  ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘But if you don’t give me some idea of where we’re going, how can I choose appropriate clothes?’

  ‘To a private antiques fair,’ he said. ‘Invitation only.’ His voice was charming again, the perfect gentleman. ‘Do you like antiques?’

  ‘I don’t collect them, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’ll be bored?’

  ‘If you mean do I want to back out,’ she said sharply, ‘no, I don’t. I like museums, so I’ll probably enjoy an antiques fair too.’

  ‘Maybe you will,’ he said softly.

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’ll come for you at one-thirty.’

  She suddenly remembered her promise to Mike Keel. ‘Not this Saturday?’

  ‘You’ve got a date?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. When he did not say anything she added: ‘I’m helping at the sports center open day. It’s for the hospice.’

  Why am I explaining? she thought. Why didn’t I let him think some other man was going to take me out? Would he care? Would he imagine how she would beha
ve in bed with someone else the way she so often found herself fantasizing about him? She rather doubted it. Did he ever think about her when they were apart? And if he did, was she just one in a long list of females he could use to satisfy his mental picture show? Did he even need to use his imagination when he seemed to find it easy enough to bribe women into making his fantasies real?

  ‘Lucky for you,’ he said, ‘it’s next Saturday. The twenty-fourth.’ He paused. ‘Would you have backed out of your charity engagement?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Business comes first?’ His voice was slightly mocking.

  She thought that was unfair. He had already reminded her that she risked terminating their agreement by refusing his orders. She did not think the sports center would lose any money if she did not turn up, but she was glad that she would be able to keep her promise to Mike Keel. ‘We have an agreement, remember?’ It was a pleasure to throw his words back at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in a neutral voice. ‘We have, haven’t we?’

  She could not decide what to wear for the charity demonstration. She was not going to play a serious match so she thought she could afford to look a little more glamorous than usual, even if she did not intend to take up Mike’s suggestion and wear a bikini. In the end she chose a tight white top and a short tennis skirt. She twisted her hair into a pleat and applied a little more make-up than usual. She refused to admit that she was doing this for anyone else’s benefit but her own. If people were going to watch her she wanted to look good. If the audience included Jade Chalfont, looking good was even more desirable.

  Mike met Genevieve in the entrance foyer. ‘We’ve got John and Frank Bernson here. If you play a demo game with Frank, John says he’ll give a commentary. After that anyone who wants to can come onto the court and ask questions, or maybe have a go. If there’s enough people interested in learning we’ll start a beginner’s session.’

  The balcony overlooking the squash court was crowded but Genevieve was used to spectators watching her play. Once John began his talk she concentrated on trying to perform the moves he was explaining, and to keep the game fairly slow until the end, when she heard John explaining that squash was one of the fastest racket games in the world—as Genevieve and Frank would demonstrate. For a few moments the two of them obliged, and the squash ball rocketed from the wall like a noisy bullet as they each tried to score. When they had finished, Genevieve was surprised to hear the crowd applaud.