‘…there were bare tits everywhere…so I thought, why not? I felt silly with my top still on.’
‘My boyfriend didn’t want me to strip off with all those gorgeous Latin types around, the jealous sod! So of course, I did…’
Genevieve continued on down the corridor, trying not to spill her coffee. Would she go topless? Before she met Sinclair she would have known her answer to that. But he had given her a strange new confidence in her body. Because he was turned on by her, she felt powerful and sexy.
When she reached her office and sat down again she carried on her fantasy. She was on a golden beach, wearing only an indecently tiny white triangle of cloth held up by narrow ties, one round her waist and the other pulled between her buttocks. She was walking, confident strides, her feet sinking into the warm sand, her breasts jiggling provocatively, her hair loose. She was walking towards Sinclair.
He was lying down, watching her, wearing black briefs made of silky material that accentuated the shape of his balls and his semi-erect prick. His briefs were held together by tiny silver buckles on each side. As she drew closer she saw his cock move and swell, straining to be free.
There were other men on the beach, all wearing bathing trunks as tight (but so not well filled) as Sinclair’s. They whistled at her as she passed, told her in detail what they’d like to do to her, reached out for her. She ignored them. She knew where she was going. When she reached Sinclair—and she took her time—she stood over him, astride him. The other men gathered round, silent now, forming a circle, watching.
Genevieve loosened the thong, removed it, tossed it away. She ran her hands down her thighs, then smoothed them over her buttocks, palms flat. Below her, Sinclair released the buckles on his briefs, and when he peeled the cloth away his erect prick was every bit as excitingly massive as she remembered. He slowly got to his knees, the muscles in his slim and powerful body moving under his tanned skin. He knelt in front of her, reached out to touch her. She knocked his hands away and pointed. She wanted his mouth, his lips, his tongue. She reached out and grasped his head, pulling him forward.
The image in Genevieve’s mind was so arousing that she almost groaned. She felt moist and uncomfortable. On an impulse she got up and locked her office door.
Back in her chair again she let her mind return to the fantasy. Her hand slid along her thigh. She had always preferred stockings to tights and now her fingers moved from their silky smoothness to her warm skin, and under the elastic of her panties. She touched herself, gently at first, then urgently, rubbing her wet sex, her finger sliding, finding the rhythm she wanted. It wasn’t as good as Sinclair’s tongue, but it was good. She groaned again.
The picture in her mind changed. Now Sinclair was standing over her. He watched her, smiling that exciting, possessive smile, his eyes traveling over her body, taking their time, down to her open thighs. She rubbed faster, imagining the pleasure and sexual excitement that would show in his eyes. She caressed her swollen clit, and then her body shuddered as the orgasmic spasms rolled over her, claiming her, for a moment making time stand still.
Afterwards, she lay relaxed and limp in the chair, wishing Sinclair was with her, and wondering exactly where he was, who he was with. She did not want to think about Jade Chalfont, but deliberately trying not to do so was like being told not to think of a pink elephant.
She pictured Sinclair with other women. She pictured them dancing for him, and stripping. She pictured them tied to the door in his study while he tortured them to a frenzy with his tongue and his hands. She pictured women lying beneath him, or on top of him; women moaning in sexual delight as his strong, slim body forced them to new heights of pleasure. She groaned softly. The pictures were infuriating, but arousing.
She told herself she was not jealous. There was no future in getting serious about a man like James Sinclair. It was ridiculous to be jealous. She knew she could please him sexually, but
their partnership was a business deal. And she also knew that if she was sensible she would keep it that way. If he knew her feelings were starting to get personal he would either drop her or take advantage of her. Either way she would get hurt. She would lose control.
She stood up, smoothed her skirt and went down to the washroom. When she returned George Fullerton was sitting on the edge of her desk.
‘I brought you a coffee,’ he said.
‘Thanks, George, but I’ve just had one.’
‘You haven’t,’ he said. He pointed to her cup. ‘It’s gone cold.’
Genevieve felt herself blushing. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot it was there.’
‘Thinking about work?’ Fullerton asked.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said.
‘Thinking about Mr. Sinclair?’
A warning bell began to ring in Genevieve’s mind. She knew George too well not to realize that this was leading up to something. ‘Why should I be?’ she countered, lightly.
‘I heard you’d been seeing him,’ Fullerton said. ‘Socially, that is.’ He paused. ‘An antiques fair? Am I right? Rather an exclusive one. Something to do with one of Sinclair’s super-rich pals?’
‘You’re ahead of me, George,’ Genevieve said. ‘I met the man who arranged the fair, but I didn’t know he was one of Sinclair’s friends. We didn’t talk much. It was just a rather nice afternoon out.’
‘Did Sinclair mention going to Japan?’
This time Genevieve was genuinely surprised. ‘No, he didn’t. But we didn’t really talk business.’
‘Well, it could be just gossip,’ Fullerton admitted. ‘But there’s a strong rumor that Sinclair is planning to expand into Japan. If he does, and we get his account, we’ll expand with him.’
‘George,’ she said, ‘I’m certain Sinclair is going to bring his account to us. If he really does have his eye on the Japanese market, he’ll probably wait until his plans are finalized before he makes a move.’
‘I agree,’ Fullerton said. ‘And it would explain why he’s taking so long, and playing the field.’ He paused and smiled at Genevieve, but his eyes were shrewd and hard. ‘Don’t forget that Lucci’s have Jade Chalfont, and she’s something of an expert on Japan.’
‘She does kendo,’ Genevieve said. ‘That hardly makes her an expert.’
‘She’s lived in Japan,’ Fullerton said. ‘Trained there. She even speaks the language. That makes her a pretty useful contact.’
‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ Genevieve said.
‘I make it my business to find out,’ Fullerton replied.
‘Who from?’
‘That’s classified.’ He smiled, and walked towards the door. ‘But people gossip. I’ve found there’s nearly always some truth in ,rumors. If I was you, I’d check out this Japanese thing. Otherwise Miss Chalfont might end up one step ahead of you.’
Genevieve relaxed in her bath, trying to think about Japan. The idea conjured up pictures of dark-suited businessmen bowing formally to each other. Businessmen who would later relax in the intimate privacy of the geisha houses, drink saki and be entertained by the highly trained and beautiful geisha who worked there.
She knew the geisha claimed not to be prostitutes, and maybe this was true for some of them, but for others surely the entertaining of their rich clients did not just stop at plucking the koto and singing a few songs. She remembered reading somewhere that the geisha’s traditionally stiff-collared kimono was designed so that when the woman knelt submissively at her lord and master’s feet, the garment stood proud of her neck and formed the entrance to a tunnel that gave the man an uninterrupted view down the sweep of her spine to the cleft in her buttocks and the shadowy hint of what was beyond.
From there he would presumably lean forward and maybe caress the white smoothness of the girl’s neck. Or perhaps make her sit up so he could open the kimono front wider to inspect her breasts. Or maybe unwind the sash and strip her there and then. And she would bow her head and smile, Genevieve thought. And maybe even say thank you as he
r gentleman stroked and fondled. The perfect uncomplaining female, ready and willing to play. Would Sinclair enjoy that kind of hospitality if he went to Japan? Would his Japanese business friends make sure he experienced all the traditional sights of their country? A visit to a Zen monastery or a Shinto shrine by day; a geisha house at night?
The thought of Sinclair enjoying a submissively beautiful Japanese woman made her angry. Would the geisha be trained to use special erotic tricks? Would she find it exciting to practice them on Sinclair? Genevieve imagined the contrast between Sinclair’s lean and muscular body and a delicately tiny Japanese girl. Imagined the geisha’s expert mouth and hands turning him on. She had read that Japanese women did not find large Westerners particularly attractive, although she was sure a geisha would hide her personal feelings and give good value for money. Would Sinclair find the geisha desirable? Genevieve thought so. There was something subtle and erotic about their pale faces, their glossy hair, their traditional costumes—and the idea that their purpose in life was to please men.
Sinclair would love that, she thought crossly. Any man would. The idea that women were actively trying to turn them on was both flattering and arousing. That was why they liked watching a striptease, wasn’t it? They were pretending that the performer was doing it just for them. Genevieve had played the CD Sinclair had sent her many times, and had even tried dancing to it, but somehow she always felt awkward. Even swallowing several glasses of wine and imagining Sinclair watching her did not help her to loosen up.
In her imagination she could perform like a shameless sexual tease, pirouetting and posing, peeling away her dress and underwear, flouting her seminaked body, writhing to the music’s beat. In her imagination Sinclair watched her with increasing discomfort and finally had to unzip his trousers and drag her towards his lap before her dance had ended.
But when she tried to translate her imagination into action her body refused to behave in the way she wanted. Her stripping routine was awkward and amateur, very far from the fluid eroticism of Bridget’s apparently effortless performance. A performance that he had found exciting.
She realized that she wanted to please Sinclair. She suspected that he did not think she was capable of performing with Bridget’s professional aplomb. She wanted to prove him wrong, partly because she wanted him to find her sexy. At least, sexier than Jade Chalfont, or any of the other women he knew.
The idea of having dancing lessons came to her as she picked at her lunch the following day. Obviously she could never hope to compete with a trained dancer but she felt certain that she could benefit from the advice of a teacher. The problem was that dance teachers did not advertise themselves as striptease instructors. She decided she would pretend to be an amateur actress looking for private lessons to help her prepare for the part of a stripper in her next play. Giving a false name she phoned several addresses, meeting a with a variety of responses, from some bemused but kindly meant suggestions that although the school did not deal in striptease dancing they were sure that something could be worked out, to a snooty ‘we only teach ballet’ and an avaricious ‘sure we can teach you, but it’s not on our curriculum so it’ll be expensive.’
She finally decided on the Academy of Dance and Mime, where the response was first to ask her some questions about her age and experience and then to suggest that although the school did not exactly teach striptease they could probably work out a routine for her, or help her polish the steps she was already using.
Dressed casually in jeans and a loose shirt, her hair tied back, and her costume in a bag, she drove out to the suburbs to find the dancing academy she had chosen. It turned out to be a large Victorian house set well back in its own grounds, once grand but now slightly seedy, its woodwork in need of a new coat of paint. The drive was neatly kept though, and when the front door was opened she was pleasantly surprised by the smiling, middle-aged woman who greeted her.
‘Miss Jones? Please come in.’
The woman had a slight foreign accent and, although she was older than Genevieve had expected, her dark, smooth-fitting dress revealed her figure to be supple and elegant. If she did not dance much now, Genevieve thought, she had certainly danced in the past. Her hair was swept back in a bun, ballerina style.
She led Genevieve into a studio that had obviously been formed by knocking out several of the ground-floor walls. There were practice bars and mirrors, and the floor was beautifully polished wood. A piano stood in one corner.
‘I’m Theodosia Solinski,’ the woman said. ‘Please call me simply Thea. You must tell me exactly how I can help you.’ She smiled. ‘Usually I teach little girls whose mothers believe they will surely soon be world-class ballerinas.’
Genevieve smiled back. ‘I take it for most of them it’s just a dream?’
‘For all of them,’ Thea said. ‘But I sympathize. Even for me it proved to be so. Therefore, I teach. But it is good to dream.’
‘All I want,’ Genevieve explained, sticking closely to the story she had made up for herself, ‘is to look convincing when I play the part of a stripper in this play I’m in. I’ve tried dancing to the music we’re using, but I know it doesn’t look right.’
‘Stripping is an art,’ Thea said, surprising Genevieve, who had imagined a teacher as traditional-looking as Thea might have treated her request for advice with some disdain. ‘Many women, even the so-called professionals, do it very badly. They are in love with themselves. They strip for themselves. They care nothing about their audience. Their performance lacks passion. Or else they are bored. They run from one seedy club to another and perform for ten minutes while they think about their shopping list. Which one are you?’
Genevieve was startled for a moment. Then she remembered her cover story. ‘Oh, you mean in the play? I have to strip for a man I love, or rather someone I want to fall in love with me.’
‘A seduction?’ Thea nodded. ‘You have your music?’ She took the CD Genevieve gave her. ‘I will listen. While it plays maybe you will show me what you have already prepared? You don’t have to take off your clothes. Just go through the moves.’
When the music started Genevieve tried to obey, but she felt repressed and awkward knowing that Thea was watching.
‘Relax, please,’ Thea instructed. After a few minutes she added: ‘Would you prefer to strip properly? Have you brought your costume?’
Genevieve suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought of undressing in front of this elegant woman.
‘I…er…well…maybe later,’ she mumbled, blushing. ‘It’s just the steps I want to learn, really.’
Thea gave her an uncompromising stare. ‘I think the idea of performing for another woman disturbs you. But there will be women in your audience, when you perform your play. And this is not a real striptease. I do not expect to see you naked. Just dance. Dance!’
She turned the music up. The sexy beat throbbed out. Genevieve tried to obey. She did not really understand what was the matter with her, but she felt clumsy and tense. Maybe this dancing lesson had not been such a good idea after all. Thea switched the music off.
‘I think it would be better if you put on your costume,’ she suggested. ‘It will put you in the correct mood. Perhaps it is difficult to feel sexy in jeans. I will show you the changing-room.’
But coming back into the studio in her dress, seamed stockings and high-heeled shoes did not make Genevieve feel better. She still had to perform under the sharp professional eyes of Thea Solinski. That was what was bothering her, not her clothes. She tried to dance again, and stumbled.
‘Maybe my shoes are too high,’ she commented.
‘Your shoes are fine,’ Thea said. She switched off the music. ‘Your attitude is the problem. Have you ever made love to a woman?’
Totally thrown by the question, Genevieve could only stammer: ‘No, of course not.’ She knew she was blushing.
Thea smiled. ‘That answers my question. You have had an affair, or maybe just a single encounter. And you ar
e ashamed of it. Why?’
‘I’m not ashamed,’ Genevieve objected. ‘It was just something that happened. I prefer men.’
‘As I do,’ Thea nodded. ‘But I have had two affairs with women. They enriched my life.’ She smiled briefly. ‘My sex life, too. I think you are afraid to let yourself relax in front of me because you remember your encounter and you feel guilty. Maybe you think you encouraged the other woman, or maybe you are just ashamed that you enjoyed it. But these things are part of life. I do not believe anyone is completely heterosexual. Many people do nothing physical about their desires, or even want to, but nearly everyone can appreciate the beauty of their own sex. Is this shameful? I think not. It’s natural.’ She switched the music on again. ‘Forget about me. Think about your own man, or if you do not have one think of someone you like, an actor, anyone. Pretend he is watching. Perform for him.’
Did she really feel guilty? Genevieve wondered. Before her encounter with Bridget she had always believed that lesbian relationships were rather silly, and definitely inferior to sex with a man. Now she knew that women could give each other intense sexual pleasure. And this made stripping in front of this elegant woman—or any woman—difficult. It was no longer an innocent bit of playacting. She would never be sure if another woman was looking at her with secret lust. And she would never be wholly sure that she did not welcome those thoughts.
Suddenly her inhibitions left her. Why shouldn’t women enjoy their own bodies? Bridget had made her feel desirable. Was that so terrible? Sinclair made her feel the same way. Like Thea, she knew that she would always prefer the sexual company of a man, but she decided she was not going to go through the rest of her life nursing secret feelings of guilt because she had enjoyed an erotic adventure with a woman. So maybe Thea would find it exciting to watch her? What did it matter? It was a compliment. She should feel proud, not embarrassed.
She relaxed, and danced. She imagined Sinclair watching her, but she was aware of Thea too. Sometimes she was rolling down her stockings and unhooking her bra for Sinclair, sometimes for Thea. It did not seem to matter. The music climaxed and Genevieve stood wearing only her high-heeled shoes and her lacy black suspender belt.
The Ninety Days of Genevieve Page 14