The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘you have more talent than I expected.’

  ‘I thought about my boyfriend.’ Genevieve wondered if Thea believed this half truth.

  ‘I envy your boyfriend.’ Thea’s eyes wandered over Genevieve’s body in frank admiration. ‘But surely you will not end up like this on the amateur stage?’

  For a moment, as Genevieve responded to Thea’s visual caress, she had forgotten her original story. ‘The stage?’ She came back to the present. ‘Oh, yes. I mean, no. I’ll still keep a G-string on, or turn my back or something. But what I want is to dance properly. That is, sexily. To look professional.’

  ‘Well, you won’t fool a real professional,’ Thea said, with brisk honesty. ‘It’s quite obvious you’re not a trained dancer, but you will probably fool most of the audience, and the men will not be critical. They will just enjoy. But you are too quick, you do not tease enough. Let me demonstrate.’

  She undid the buttons of her dress and slipped out of it. Underneath she wore a leotard and tights. Genevieve hoped that when she reached Thea’s age she would still have a figure as neat and well toned. Switching on the music, Thea began to dance. As she danced, she demonstrated and talked. She did not strip. It was not necessary. She mimed, and her trained body spoke the language of seduction with every move she made.

  ‘You see? When you take the stockings off, don’t remove them at once. Go so far, then turn like this. Show them your derriere. It’s a very nice one, so display it. Then turn out your knee, bend the leg. Let them guess what they could see if you were facing them.’ The first song ended. Thea beckoned to Genevieve. ‘Now, you try.’

  Genevieve danced again, and Thea corrected her. Her hands were light and gentle, touching an arm, a hand, sometimes sliding intimately over Genevieve’s body as she guided her into a new position. Only an hour before, this would have embarrassed Genevieve, but now she accepted it, even enjoyed it. She also knew instinctively that it would not result in any further intimacies unless she offered active encouragement.

  When the lesson ended Genevieve suggested booking another session, but Thea told her with friendly honesty that she did not think it was necessary. ‘All you needed was to relax. Lose your inhibitions. And I believe you have done that. Now it is simply practice.’ The older woman smiled slightly, her dark eyes holding Genevieve’s gaze for a moment. ‘However, if you wish to return, I shall not discourage you. Perhaps as a friend next time? We can have hot Russian tea.’

  It was more than just a social invitation, and both women knew it. But Genevieve also knew that she could not accept. It would have been dishonest to Thea. She did not feel able to enter a relationship that she guessed the older woman would want to be more than just a quick physical fling. She could not juggle two affairs. Not, she thought suddenly, that she could really call her present situation with Sinclair an affair.

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ she said. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘So it is goodbye.’ There was a note of regret in Thea’s voice. ‘But I am always here for you. As a teacher. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Heard the latest?’ Genevieve turned and found herself face to face with a grinning Ricky Croft. She also noticed the small portfolio under his arm.

  ‘Even if I have, I’m sure you’re going to repeat it,’ she said. She pushed past him, her lunchtime rolls in one hand and a glass of cola in the other. The pub was half empty and she found a seat easily. Ricky sat directly opposite her.

  ‘“East or west, is home the best?”,’ he said smugly.

  ‘If you’re referring to Mr. Sinclair,’ she bit into her roll, ‘it’s a rumor, that’s all.’

  ‘He’ll be taking a trip very soon,’ Ricky said confidently. ‘And you can bet he’ll find some time for pleasure.’ His slim artist’s hands stroked the portfolio. ‘The Japanese know how to enjoy themselves. Have you seen any of their erotic prints?’

  ‘No,’ Genevieve said. ‘But I’ve a feeling you’re going to show me yours.’

  ‘You don’t want to see what Mr. Sinclair could be taking with him to please his new friends?’ Ricky opened the portfolio. ‘These are copies, but they’ll give you the idea.’

  Despite herself Genevieve looked at the pages as Ricky slowly turned them, and once again she had to admire Ricky’s skill. The black-and-white line drawings mimicked the Japanese style. They were very explicit. Japanese ladies in, and half out, of their traditional kimonos, were shown stretched out, bent over, upended and even standing on their heads, being penetrated in every available orifice by men with impressively huge penises. The women’s faces looked blandly unconcerned and the men looked inscrutable. Genevieve did not find the pictures particularly arousing.

  ‘Like them?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Women just don’t appreciate erotic art.’

  ‘Your models all look bored,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Japanese tradition,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they think it’s impolite to look enthusiastic when they’re fucking. I copied the faces from original prints.’

  ‘So why bother?’ she asked. ‘It’s a bit like taking coals to Newcastle.’

  ‘Well, my stuff’s more imaginative,’ Ricky said. ‘I bet there are some positions here the Japanese have never thought about. But these are just for the traditionalists.’ He turned the pages again. ‘I’ve got other samples for the—er—less conventional.’

  He displayed more pages. Drawn in realistic Western style and looking like monochrome photographs, these pictures showed Japanese men in modern clothes with Western women, often two or three men with one woman. Although the expressions on the women’s faces seemed to indicate sexual excitement, they did not give Genevieve an impression of erotic desire, but of force. There was something unhealthy about the deliberately posed excesses and the smirks on the men’s faces. She felt that these men were enjoying the women’s humiliations rather than the idea that they were receiving any pleasure, and that they would have continued to pursue their fantasies even if the women had objected.

  In the second set of pictures the women were clearly not enjoying themselves at all. There was revulsion and horror on their faces as the men—some in Japanese World War II uniform, some in suits—tied and twisted them onto various torture racks and benches, lashed them until blood ran, and assaulted them with a variety of crudely designed sexual implements.

  Genevieve reached out and slammed the portfolio shut before Ricky had shown her the extent of his collection.

  ‘You make me sick,’ she said, coldly.

  He grinned crookedly.’ The Japanese love this stuff. Especially if Western women are on the receiving end.’

  ‘There are perverts in every country,’ she agreed. ‘I daresay you could find a market for it over here too.’

  ‘Sure I could.’ He smirked. ‘But it’s difficult to find clients who’ll pay my price. It takes time to do these specials. They’re real collector’s items.’

  The idea of Ricky closeted in his bedsitter, studiously working on these pathologically sadistic pictures, filled her with disgust. ‘Then go and find yourself a collector,’ she said. ‘And do it right now. I’d like to finish my lunch without your company.’

  ‘You mean you won’t help me?’

  ‘Help you?’ She was furious. ‘What the hell do you mean, help you?’

  ‘Give my name to Sinclair,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the last thing I’d do,’ she said. ‘I told you that before.’

  ‘Just drop a few hints.’ He leaned over the table towards her. ‘You don’t have to admit to having seen my work, nothing like that. Just hint that you know an artist who can supply really special pictures. Sinclair’ll know what you mean.’

  ‘Why are you so sure of that?’ she asked, her anger under control now.

  ‘He’s kinky,’ Ricky said. ‘Everyone knows that. People like him love this kind of stuff.’

  ‘Well, I don’t k
now who your sources of information are,’ Genevieve said. ‘But it looks to me as if you’re the kinky one.’

  Ricky’s expression changed. ‘I’ve got bills to pay. No one’ll employ me.’

  ‘That’s your fault.’

  He glared at her angrily. ‘Get me into Barringtons. Then I won’t have to draw dirty pictures.’

  ‘No. I’ve given you a chance already. I’m not giving you another one. You’re unreliable. You’re argumentative. You’ve got an inflated sense of your own importance and the word

  deadline doesn’t feature in your vocabulary. And furthermore,’ she added, when Ricky stood up, obviously furious, ‘if you mention my name in connection with those drawings to anyone at all, James Sinclair included, I’ll have the vice squad round at your door, double-quick time.’

  Ricky backed away from the table. ‘They’d laugh at you. I haven’t done anything against the law.’ But he sounded uncertain, and Genevieve wondered if he had some other, even less savory, pictures stored in his room.

  ‘Just keep away from me,’ she warned. ‘I don’t want to see you, or any examples of your so-called art, again.’

  ‘You’re a bitch, Loften,’ he said tightly. ‘A first-class bitch.’

  ‘Just go away,’ she said in an icy tone.

  He went, muttering insults. The meeting had ruined Genevieve’s lunch hour. The memory of the pictures lingered in her mind. She found it both sickening and sad that there were people who enjoyed seeing women hurt, and gained pleasure from knowing that they were being forced into sexual humiliation and pain against their will. She was even angrier at Ricky’s suggestion that Sinclair was one of those men.

  She wondered again if Jade Chalfont had really given Sinclair any of Ricky’s previous drawings. At least the mock Regency scenes had shown two people enjoying themselves. She remembered that she had found them arousing, and could believe that Sinclair might have liked them too. But she refused to believe that he would want to see what were, in effect, pornographic torture scenes.

  She had been surprised at her own easy acceptance of Sinclair’s mastery during their sexual encounters, although she did sometimes think it might be fun to occasionally reverse the roles. She had to admit that she enjoyed the sensation of being tied up. Of fantasizing that he owned her—at least for the duration of their erotic games. She had enjoyed the distinctly sexy pain of the spanking she had received while straddled across the motorbike. But she always felt safe in the knowledge that they both knew that these meetings were part of a fantasy world, with unspoken rules. However much she protested on the surface, she was excited by his assumption of power. It was fun.

  There had been no sense of fun in the latest batch of pictures Ricky had shown her, and she doubted if the kind of men who would pay to see them would even know what the word meant. She shook her head as if to clear the last traces of memory from her mind, picked up her bag and left the pub.

  ‘I want you at my house tonight at eight o’clock. I’ll send a taxi.’

  Genevieve felt a thrill of anticipation at the sound of James Sinclair’s voice but made sure that none of her excitement showed in her voice. ‘And what am I to wear?’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ he said. ‘As long as it includes the fur coat I gave you. You change when you get here.’

  ‘Into what?’

  She knew he was smiling, although his voice did not alter. ‘Into whatever I provide for you, sweetheart. You can bring your own things, if you’d prefer it. But just remember that the emphasis on this evening’s entertainment will be on getting out of your clothes. I want to see if you’ve been practicing your dancing skills.’

  ‘And if I haven’t?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll send you home,’ he said, ‘and you won’t get the chance to sample an excellent meal.’

  ‘You’re going to cook a meal?’ She was genuinely surprised.

  He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t inflict my cooking on my worst enemy. The meal will be delivered here, if you deserve it.’

  ‘Lights.’ Sinclair clicked a switch and three spotlights illuminated the bare floor. ‘Music.’ Another click and the familiar introduction to ‘The Stripper’ growled out of the hidden speakers. ‘Do you need anything else? A chair, maybe? A mirror? You’d be surprised at the props I can provide.’

  Genevieve was tempted to say ‘a python,’ but she wasn’t sure he’d even smile. He had sounded pleasant enough on the phone but he did not greet her with any show of enthusiasm and she had the distinct feeling that he doubted whether this particular evening was going to fulfill his expectations.

  When she first saw him in his elegant, dark suit and a white pleat-fronted shirt she thought he had changed his mind and intended to take her out. But a quick look round proved her wrong. The room was arranged for her performance. The three spotlights were not there as decorations. A large leather-covered armchair waited in the shadows. On the small table next to it there was a bottle and one glass. Sinclair switched the spotlights off, leaving a shaded standard lamp to provide a warm glow.

  ‘Go upstairs,’ he said. ‘You’ll see a room with the door already open. Take anything you think you could use. Clothes, props, whatever.’

  ‘I’ve brought the things I’ve been practicing in,’ she said. ‘I’m used to working in them.’

  She was going to say ‘dancing’ but changed her mind. Maybe this really was going to be work. He gave the impression that he intended to be deliberately hard to please.

  ‘You sound very professional,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope you look it when the music starts.’

  ‘And you sound doubtful,’ she countered.

  ‘I don’t happen to agree with Margaret that you’d make a good stripper, Miss Loften.’

  ‘And what do I have to do to prove you wrong, Mr. Sinclair?’

  ‘Give me a decent hard-on for a start,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you got one at the Fennington, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Spying on me through some hole in the wall, or wherever it was.’

  ‘I got one watching Bridget,’ he corrected. ‘Not you.’

  It was hardly an encouragement, but instead of feeling insulted Genevieve felt challenged. He turned away from her and went over to the armchair. He poured himself a drink, and sat down. The half light shadowed his already dark face. He watched her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Don’t take too long to change,’ he said.

  Upstairs she was tempted by the exotic, red lace basque, a matching bra, shiny red patent shoes that had been laid out on the bed, and by a choice of sexy dresses (all with convenient zips and fasteners), but in the end she decided to use her own clothes. She felt comfortable in them. She knew exactly how they would react to her touch. The rather severe black dress could have been worn to an office social and she felt that it both suited her, and the way she performed. It gave her act a touch of class. A feeling of being in control.

  She retained this feeling when she went downstairs again. Sinclair had switched off the subdued light and now the spotlights blazed. It was like stepping onto an empty stage, with an audience of one.

  ‘Get on with it.’ His voice came abruptly from the shadows, and almost at once the music started.

  The lights isolated her, and their harsh brilliance was hardly flattering. She was suddenly very glad she had gone to Thea for instruction. If she hadn’t she knew she would have felt disoriented and embarrassed. Sinclair’s attitude was aggressive. It was as if he was willing her to fail. But Thea had given her confidence. Instead of feeling intimidated, she let the music flood over her, eased her body into its rhythm, moved with it.

  Legs apart, she ran her hands over her body. She was not going to hurry. This was not going to be a quick, amateur strip, with her ending up gyrating awkwardly, naked and exposed in the glare of the lamps. She was going to take her time. She was going to remove her clothes at her own speed, and she was going to display just as much of her body as she chose. She knew how many numbers there were on the tape, an
d she knew just how to react to each of them. She peeled her dress off slowly to ‘The Stripper,’ making each movement deliberate, taking her time.

  Free of the dress she felt liberated. She strutted in her lacy underwear. Her panties came off but she wore a tiny G-string underneath, the thin ties drawing erotic lines round her waist and seductively down into the cleft between her buttocks.

  She moved nearer to Sinclair. He was lounging back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, slightly apart. She could see the glint of the brandy glass as he twisted it in his hand. She stood as near as she could without leaving the floodlit circle formed by the lamps. She took her time with the bra, loosening the straps, peeling away the gossamer-thin black lace, covering her naked breasts with her hands in mock modesty, fingers splayed to let the nipples peep through.

  She took even longer with the suspender belt, turning her back, bending over, rolling her stockings down to just above her knees, turning back again. She noticed that his legs were wider apart now, and his hands were still moving, but they were no longer holding the brandy glass.

  She moved out of the light and close to his chair. She straddled his outstretched legs in a position that reminded her of their last encounter in the hotel corridor. But this time she was in control. She put one foot on the arm of his chair, her hips still rolling sinuously in time with the music. She ran her hand along her thigh, toying with the ties that kept the thong in place, but leaving them still fastened, leaving the black silk triangle barely covering the faint softness of her own blond pubic hair, which was just beginning to grow back. When she turned to move away again she felt his fingers close round her wrist. He spun her round.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said, harshly.

  She pulled against him. ‘The music isn’t finished, Mr. Sinclair.’

  ‘You’ve finished dancing,’ he said. ‘Kneel down.’

  ‘I’ve been practicing for all this time,’ she objected, ‘and now you don’t even want to see…’