The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  It had given her a few temporary doubts about the clothes she normally wore for her striptease, but when she tried on the whole outfit she was surprised at the erotic contrast between the bondage hood and her conventional dress. She had a feeling that Sinclair had anticipated this. To complement the tiny studs she decided to wear her diamond choker and had to admit that the sharp glitter of the stones set against the dull sheen of the leather looked striking.

  She stared at her reflection in her full-length mirror. Stripping was supposed to be a submissive act, the slave girl disrobing for her master’s pleasure. But dressed in black, with the hood masking her hair and eyes, she looked far from submissive. She altered her stance and made it more aggressive. She imagined herself in thigh-high black boots, holding a whip. Mistress Genevieve, strict dominatrix? The idea amused rather than aroused her.

  She took the hood off and put it with the other clothing that she had received from Sinclair. At the end of the ninety days, she thought, what would she do with these things? Would she ever wear them again? She realized that she could not imagine dressing up for anyone except Sinclair. For a moment the realization frightened her. How had she allowed him to come to mean so much to her? It was ridiculous. Perhaps it would be a good thing when the ninety days were up, and their strange relationship ended. Maybe she would be miserable for a few weeks, but she would get over it. You always got over it. A few weeks missing him and then she could get on with her life again.

  ‘We should see our moggie pictures up on the hoardings soon,’ George Fullerton said, putting a cup of coffee on Genevieve’s desk, ‘and in most of the pet lovers’ monthlies. If that cat’s face doesn’t double the sale of Millford’s tasty cod morsels I’ll run them another campaign for nothing.’

  ‘Did you tell them that?’ Genevieve asked, smiling.

  ‘No,’ Fullerton admitted. ‘And if you do, I’ll deny it. But you must admit we were lucky to find that animal. It has character. It even seemed to like posing.’

  ‘She,’ Genevieve corrected.

  ‘Sorry, they all look the same to me.’ Fullerton sipped his coffee. ‘If it was female, no wonder it enjoyed all the attention.’

  ‘That’s a sexist remark, George,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Fullerton agreed. ‘And here’s another one. How’s your charm working on James Sinclair these days?’

  ‘I’ve seen him socially,’ Genevieve said carefully. ‘He hasn’t mentioned anything about Japan.’

  ‘Well, he’s keeping you in the dark then,’ Fullerton said, ‘because I know he’s definitely going. He’s been buying into multimedia, and he’s got his own interesting little team of whizz-kids, the kind of brilliant dropouts who spent their college days listening to dreadful music and smoking illegal cigarettes. People who won’t conform, and conventional firms won’t touch with a ten-foot pole. People who sit there fiddling around with their electronic screens and then suddenly come up with ideas that make someone a millionaire. In this case Sinclair, if he’s lucky.’

  ‘I thought he was a millionaire already,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Fullerton said. ‘On paper, anyway. But I don’t suppose he’ll say no to doubling his profits. The point is, if this Japanese visit is successful it will certainly involve a worldwide marketing campaign at some point. And it would be very nice if Barringtons were involved.’

  ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Fullerton said. He paused. ‘Jade Chalfont is also going to Japan with Sinclair.’

  ‘With him?’ Genevieve repeated, unable to keep the shock and anger out of her voice.

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Maybe you heard wrong.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Fullerton agreed. ‘But don’t forget she could be a very useful companion, and Sinclair has never been shy of using people. The fact that she’s also with Lucci’s might be pure coincidence.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, George. They must have given her time off.’

  ‘She could have holidays due to her,’ Fullerton soothed.

  ‘Do you mean they’re actually traveling together?’

  ‘I really don’t know their travel arrangements,’ Fullerton said. ‘I just know that Sinclair is going to Tokyo, and so is Miss Chalfont. At the end of next week. On the same flight.’

  That evening Genevieve was tempted to phone Sinclair, and then suddenly realized that she did not know his private number. Angrily she contacted inquiries and a recorded voice confirmed what she had already guessed: he was unlisted. She flung herself down in a chair, but she was forced to admit that phoning him would solve nothing. What would she have said to him? How dare you go to Japan with Jade Chalfont? How dare you go with an employee of Lucci’s? How dare you go with any woman except me?

  She knew she could not say any of these things. They would make her look jealous (which she knew she was), and they would also show the extent of his control over her. She had no intention of letting him know that. Her pride would not allow it. Perhaps it was a good thing she did not know his number. He would probably have answered her questions by telling her to mind her own business. She would have ended up looking not only jealous but stupid, because, she had to admit, it wasn’t any of her business what he did in his free time, or who he did it with.

  But she hated the idea of Jade Chalfont escorting him round Tokyo, impressing both him and the Japanese with her knowledge of the country, the food, the customs and the language. Sinclair would hardly travel out with her and not see her at all during his stay, business meetings or not.

  And what else would they do? Genevieve wondered angrily. Jade Chalfont was a sexy woman. If Ricky Croft had been telling the truth, she had not been averse to buying erotic pictures and offering them to Sinclair as a gift. Would she have sex with him? Genevieve drummed her fingers angrily on the arm of her chair. You bet she would! Anyone would. You’d have to be blind not to find James Sinclair attractive.

  She tried not to imagine them together. She had seen Jade in a figure-hugging leotard so she knew the woman had a good body. Although she had never seen Sinclair completely naked, her imagination, and her memory of the many times his body had been close to hers, filled in any gaps in her knowledge. She could picture both of them, without any trouble. And the more she tried not to, the stronger the mental images became. What kind of fantasies would they play out? Would Jade, the kendo sensei, play the submissive role? Why not, Genevieve thought. She did, despite her strong belief in equality in everyday life.

  Her anger prompted her into another fantasy. Suddenly the idea of acting as a dominatrix did not seem so ridiculous. Mentally, she dressed herself in her black leather corset, her boots, long gloves and the hood. She wore black leather pants, too. She was in control now. Sinclair would see only the parts of her body she chose to show him. She armed herself with a nice, pliable whip.

  She imagined him waiting for her in a room containing just a bed. A brass bed with a plain mattress covered by a white sheet. He would wait there for her until she was ready. When she came in he would begin to apologize. He had not meant to upset her, to offend her. She would cut off his words with an imperious flick of her whip, and order him to undress.

  He would strip while she watched, which, she thought, would make a nice change. Since he had never done it in real life, she took her time over her mental picture show. First the tie, then the jacket. He would have to fold everything neatly. She imagined a table where the clothes could be laid. The shoes and socks would be next. Then the shirt, slowly. The trousers, even slower. She pictured him wearing just his briefs. Black, she decided. He could keep those on. For now.

  She pointed to the bed. He went over to it obediently and lay facedown. He had done this before. She had taught him exactly what she expected from him. She walked over to him and ran the tip of the whip down his spine, enjoying the reaction it brought. She tapped his buttocks. He knew what that meant and began to wriggle ou
t of the briefs, still lying flat on his stomach. It was a bit of a struggle. She knew he was already getting hard. Finally he tugged the briefs over his swelling erection and pushed them down to his knees, where they stayed, a black restraining band.

  She admired the taut muscles of his bottom. Not an ounce of spare flesh here, or round his waist. His thighs were long and lean. She prodded him, stroked him, massaged his shoulders and ran her hands down to his buttocks, kneading them roughly. She heard his breathing quicken. Reaching between his legs she checked his erection. As soon as her fingers touched him, he groaned in frustration.

  ‘I think you’re ready,’ she told him. ‘You know what to do.’ He reached up and held on to the bedposts. She was surprised at the satisfaction it gave her to imagine the whip landing on his waiting bottom. The first blow would have cracked down hard, and made him yelp with surprise, and probably relief. The following strokes would not be so hard, but they would sting. She was not out to cause extreme pain. She wanted to arouse him, and to humiliate him a little. Each stroke was retribution for the women he had had before her. She was sure there were plenty. And the last five, a little harder than the others, were for Jade Chalfont.

  By now the fantasy had aroused her as well. She even considered using the vibrator, but she did not want to break her mood by getting up. Instead she leaned back in her chair and imagined Sinclair turning over, his erection massive and upright, ready for her. She would sit astride and ride him, controlling the depth of his thrusting to suit herself. She would not let him touch her with his hands. She would not bother about his pleasure. And if he did not come in time with her, she would slide off him, maybe give him permission to obtain manual relief, or maybe do it herself. Perhaps she would make it a rule that he did not come inside her during these sessions, just to see how good his control really was.

  Her own relief came faster than she anticipated. She had barely started to touch herself, and was preparing to enjoy imagining tantalizing him still further, when she felt her body shuddering with orgasmic tremors. She allowed the sensations to build up and flood over her. Her body stiffened and shook. She groaned, closed her eyes, and felt her hips thrust forward involuntarily. She wished Sinclair was there with her. She wished it was his hand that was pleasuring her. She forgot all about hating him because he was going to Japan with Jade Chalfont and not her. Or hating him because she suspected he was simply using her, and would never see her as anything other than a dispensable sexual partner. She simply wished she would see his face when she opened her eyes.

  ‘Long time, no see.’ Genevieve looked up and saw Ben Schneider standing in front of her, a can of beer in each hand. He put one can down next to her glass of cola. ‘What’s that rubbish you’re drinking? Not on the wagon, are you?’

  ‘No. I don’t drink alcohol during lunch.’

  ‘Since when?’ Ben dipped a fingertip into her glass and tasted it. ‘Good God, you’re right. It’s Pepsi or something. My stomach’ll never stand the shock. I know you’ve turned into a real lady since you joined Barringtons, but you haven’t gone teetotal, have you?’

  ‘Not completely.’ She smiled. ‘Just at lunchtime.’

  Ben tapped the beer can. ‘Good job I didn’t open it. Take it back with you. Remind yourself of the good old days, when you did your drinking with the working classes.’ He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I like the new hairstyle, too. Makes you look older, though.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘Time has not diminished your charm. Are you still drawing comic strips for a living?’

  ‘Time has not diminished your charm either. They’re graphic novels. Artistic stuff.’

  ‘You’re actually making a living?’ she teased.

  ‘I’m surviving,’ he said. ‘But the thing is, I’ve never been happier. Leaving advertising was the best move I ever made.’ He let his deep brown eyes rove over her. ‘And judging from the obviously expensive suit, and that ruinously expensive bag, and the smart haircut, joining Barringtons was a good move for you too?’

  ‘I think so,’ she agreed.

  He swallowed a few more mouthfuls of beer. ‘And do you still see our mutual pal, the frustrated genius, Ricky Croft?’

  ‘Last week,’ Genevieve said.

  She was wary now. Ben Schneider had been a good friend and a drinking companion when she was just starting in advertising and he was fresh out of art school. Their paths had crossed several times since, but she had a feeling that this meeting was not pure chance. Ben had never been in this pub at lunchtime before.

  ‘Have you given him any commissions?’ Ben asked.

  ‘You’re joking!’ she said. ‘You know what he’s like. Totally unreliable.’

  ‘I’ve been told he does some—private stuff. Have you bought anything off him?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she said. ‘What’s all this about?’ She pushed the capped can of beer aside. ‘If you want information, you don’t have to bribe me with alcoholic drinks. But I’m sure I can’t tell you anything about Ricky that you don’t know already.’

  ‘You can,’ Ben said. He leaned across the table. ‘Who damaged him?’

  ‘Damaged?’ she repeated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somebody beat him up.’

  ‘When?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. A couple of days ago. He’s got a nice black eye and some nice big bruises. He says he was mugged, but no one believes him. Apparently he hasn’t been to the police, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, which is unusual for our Ricky.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d know anything about it?’Genevieve asked.

  Ben avoided her eyes, which made her even more suspicious. ‘There was a rumor—just a rumor—that James Sinclair was involved. One of your clients, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ she said. She was going to add: not yet, but decided against it. ‘And even if he was, how does that tie in with Ricky?’

  ‘You know Ricky’s been doing the rounds, trying to flog dirty pictures?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He showed some to me.’

  ‘Rumor has it that he might have also offered them to Mr. Sinclair.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting James Sinclair was so offended that he beat Ricky up?

  ‘Hardly,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’d be reaching for his chequebook. Mr. Sinclair does have what you might call a reputation, although a lot of it has probably been exaggerated. I take it he’s never made a pass at you?’

  ‘My relationship with Mr. Sinclair is strictly business,’ Genevieve said, demurely. And, she thought, truthfully.

  ‘You’re probably not his type,’ Ben said.

  ‘And what is—his type?’

  Ben hesitated, considering. ‘Slinky, sexy ladies, I’d guess,’ he said. ‘Rich women. Exotic types.’

  ‘Politicians’ daughters?’ Genevieve prompted.

  Ben grinned. ‘You heard that story too, did you? I did as well, but I’m not sure I believe it. Well, not all of it, anyway.’ He looked at her mischievously. ‘I would have said Mr. Sinclair was more likely to go for someone like—er—Jade Chalfont.’

  Genevieve smiled. ‘You may be out of advertising, Ben, but you certainly keep up with the gossip, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I try to,’ he said. ‘I’m not having much luck with you though, am I?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know anything about this,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine Sinclair thumping anyone without a very good reason. Probably the rumors are wrong.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘But most people think they’re true. Not that they feel sorry for Ricky. He’s been a pain in the arse lately, pestering people for jobs or offering them his masterpieces.’

  After Ben had left, Genevieve sat thinking about James Sinclair and Ricky Croft. Why had Ben Schneider come to her for information? He obviously kept up with all the latest advertising gossip, and would know that Sinclair was not yet a Barringtons’ client. Were there any rumors going ar
ound about their private arrangements? If so, who had started them? Had Ricky been spreading gossip that, although he did not know it, might turn out to be uncomfortably near the truth? Everyone knew she had once given him a commission—although she had regretted it ever since. Had he mentioned her name as a reference, despite her warning? In fact, she realized, if he did go around telling people that she had recommended them as prospective purchasers of dirty pictures there was nothing she could do about it.

  If he had approached Sinclair with such a proposition, and used her as a reference, would Sinclair really have punched him? It was a nice thought, especially when she remembered Ricky’s last batch of sadistically pornographic drawings. Serve the little creep right. But was it likely? She had to admit that she did not think so. Why should Sinclair care anyway? As far as he was concerned she was also quite willing to use sex as a bargaining tool.

  Perhaps the rumors were totally wrong. Maybe Ricky had simply got drunk and fallen down the stairs. Maybe someone had beaten him up because he owed them money which, knowing his lifestyle, was highly likely. Or maybe he really had been mugged.

  The idea of Sinclair defending her honor was a pleasant one. What price equality now, she thought wryly. Here you are, a modern, independent businesswoman, in the upper wage bracket, and you’re secretly delighted at the idea of a knight in shining armor riding out to do battle on your behalf.

  But, she realized, she found the idea of her knight in shining armor stripped and stretched out submissively on the bed, even more appealing. She smiled to herself. No wonder her poor brother Philip claimed not to understand women. She wasn’t sure she even understood herself.

  A curt message on her voicemail told Genevieve when to expect the taxi that would take her to the Club Bacchus. Wear your mask, it instructed her. You probably won’t have time to put it on when you arrive.

  She wondered if she was going to be pitched straight out onto a stage. She imagined a crowded room, men drinking, noise and smoke. Suddenly the idea of performing for an audience did not seem so attractive. But the Club Bacchus, she thought, was not a pub. According to the snooty-voiced receptionist it was a high-class, members-only venue for wine connoisseurs.