The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  She dressed with a sense of apprehension. Black underwear, black dress, high-heeled shoes—and the leather face mask. She clipped the diamond choker round her neck and pulled on the long black gloves. She wanted to trust Sinclair. She did trust him. And yet a little voice at the back of her mind suggested that maybe he was now going to try and find assignments that she would not like. And eventually one that she would refuse. That would be his victory. And his excuse to transfer his interest totally to Jade Chalfont.

  The taxi driver arrived promptly and gave a brief toot of his horn. She wrapped herself in the fur coat and went downstairs, once again feeling grateful that she lived in an apartment block where she very rarely met any of her neighbors on her way to the street.

  The driver looked unsurprised at her appearance. Clearly he was used to picking up fares in strange clothing.

  ‘Club Bacchus, isn’t it? You performing, or watching?’

  Genevieve felt nerves flutter in her stomach. ‘Performing,’ she said.

  ‘You want the stage door, then,’ he said, pulling away from the kerb.

  Obviously he knew something about the Club that the receptionist had not admitted over the telephone. Genevieve wondered whether to question him, but her pride would not let her.

  The taxi finally turned into a side street. Genevieve had a brief glimpse of the front of the Club, with its discreet illuminated sign, before the taxi stopped in a darkened alleyway.

  ‘Have a good time,’ he said.

  He did not seem to expect any payment, but waited until she knocked on the anonymous-looking door and it opened, sending a shaft of light out to the pavement. Obviously satisfied that he had delivered her safely he accelerated away again. Genevieve saw a tubby man with a shock of black hair that looked like a toupee, gazing at her critically, but without surprise.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Which act are you?’

  His voice was curiously high-pitched. ‘Striptease,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t brought a costume. Collecting it here, are you?’

  ‘I’m wearing it,’ Genevieve said. She opened the fur coat but he hardly bothered to glance at her.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to share a dressing room. Don’t mind that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Genevieve began.

  He turned and walked away. ‘Right. Follow me.’

  ‘Wait.’ Genevieve was determined to make some sense of her predicament.

  The tubby man stopped and turned. ‘What exactly happens here?’ she asked.

  He stared at her. ‘You do your striptease,’ he said. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was told this was a club for wine connoisseurs,’ she persisted. ‘Obviously that’s not true.’

  He seemed to be trying to decide if she was serious. ‘It’s your first time, right? You’ve done a strip before?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ she said quickly. ‘But not in a wine club.’

  ‘They’ll be drinking something stronger than wine tonight,’ he said. ‘Tonight the Club Bacchus becomes the Club Bacchanalia. Right? Tonight Mr. Roccanski entertains his friends. Or rather, you do. You and the others. The other performers. Right?’

  ‘Who’s Mr. Roccanski?’

  ‘The owner. Most of the time this is a legitimate club. Members only. The best wine in London. But every so often Mr. Roccanski likes to arrange something special for selected guests. Invitation only. Strictly private.’ He smiled for the first time and winked. ‘And uncensored. Right?’

  Right! Genevieve thought. She was beginning to understand.

  ‘And the entertainers?’ she asked. ‘Are they professionals?’

  ‘Some are,’ he said. ‘Some are amateurs, like you. The main thing is, everyone enjoys themselves. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ she agreed. She followed him down the passage. Now she could hear the muted sound of a dance band.

  The tubby man stopped by a door. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘What about your music? You want the band to play?’

  ‘I’ve got a CD,’ she said.

  He held out his hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll make sure it’s ready for you. You’ll be called in good time. You want a drink—ring the bell. Right?’

  She looked at the various doors along the passage. It reminded her of being backstage in a theatre.

  ‘Is this really a wine club?’ she asked.

  ‘It is now,’ he said. ‘But it used to be a nightclub. Cabaret and all. Mr. Roccanski didn’t alter much. You’ll have all the trimmings for your act.’

  He pushed open the door. There were two naked men in the room. Genevieve stared at them in startled amazement. One was well muscled and shaven-headed and, Genevieve had to admit after giving him a quick look, very well endowed. The other was reed-thin, with a thick mop of curls. The rest of his body was devoid of hair, making him look delicate and vulnerable.

  ‘Don’t worry about Carl and JoJo,’ the tubby man said. ‘They wouldn’t know how to do it with a woman, even if you fancied them.’ He grinned at the two men. ‘Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ the curly-headed man said. ‘Knowing and doing are two different things. And I wouldn’t do it with you either, ducky.’

  The tubby man blew a mock kiss and closed the door. ‘I’m Carl,’ the shaven-headed man said to Genevieve. ‘The pretty one over there is JoJo.’

  ‘I’m Marlene.’ Genevieve used the first name that came into her head.

  ‘What’s your act?’ JoJo asked.

  ‘Striptease,’ Genevieve said. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘We fuck,’ JoJo said. ‘To music.’

  Carl slipped unselfconsciously into a black posing pouch, pulling it tight so that it gave him an impressive bulge, and then began to buckle on a pair of chrome-studded leather chaps held up by a wide belt.

  ‘It’s very artistic. A class act.’ He picked up a white satin pouch and tossed it over to JoJo. ‘Here, get dressed. We’ll be on soon.’

  ‘Is this how you earn your living?’ Genevieve asked.

  Carl laughed. ‘It’s how we pay our bills. I’m an actor. JoJo’s supposed to be an artist.’

  ‘Don’t be bitchy,’ JoJo said. ‘I’ve sold two pictures this year.’

  ‘To friends,’ Carl said. ‘That doesn’t count.’ He pulled on a pair of biker’s boots and picked up a leather cap ornamented with chains. ‘It’s one way of earning some money. We fuck each other anyway, so we figured we might as well get paid for it.’

  ‘Unlike you rich amateurs who do it for fun,’ JoJo added.

  ‘What makes you think I’m an amateur?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘The mask,’ JoJo explained. ‘You don’t want to risk being recognized, do you? Your husband might even be out there in the audience.’

  ‘I’m not married,’ she said.

  ‘Boyfriend then.’ JoJo shrugged. ‘Or are you a dyke?’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Carl said. ‘He’s just jealous of your fur coat.’

  ‘I know a man who’ll buy me a fur any day,’ JoJo pouted. ‘And if you’re going to be nasty to me, lovey, I’ll pack my bags and go straight to him.’

  They began to bicker and swap insults in a familiar way. JoJo tucked his cock and balls into the posing pouch, pulling on the side laces so that the pouch bulged like a padded codpiece.

  ‘Don’t tie knots,’ Carl warned, watching him. ‘You know I can’t undo them when we’re performing.’

  ‘Rip them, macho-man,’ JoJo said. ‘You spend enough time in the gym. What are those muscles supposed to be for?’

  Genevieve suddenly remembered Lisa’s complaint about the kind of men she saw in the weights-room. Carl would have met her requirements, at least visually. She stifled a giggle. Poor Lisa, her charms would be wasted on Carl.

  Carl rubbed his hand between his legs. ‘I’ll show you what this muscle’s for when we get out there, pretty boy.’

  ‘Oooh, promises!’ JoJo mocked.

  A bang on the door interrupted them. ‘Two minutes,’ a voice
called.

  ‘The bright lights are calling,’ JoJo said. He turned to Genevieve. ‘I bet you’re on after us. Something for the gays, and then a treat for the boring old straights. That’s the way they usually work it.’

  They left the dressing room together. Genevieve heard the music stop. There was a brief silence and then she heard a new, harder beat. She guessed this was Carl and JoJo’s music. Suddenly she was curious. She had never seen two men making love.

  She left the dressing room and walked down the corridor towards the music. Once through a double door, she was standing by the side of a small, round stage, but hidden from the audience by heavy curtains. A man stood checking a printed list. He glanced at her briefly.

  ‘What’s your act?’ he asked.

  ‘Striptease,’ she said.

  He consulted his list. ‘You’re next. When the lads have finished.’

  A spotlight swept the stage, catching and holding Carl and JoJo in its circle of light. They began to dance, both of them moving with professional grace and confidence. Carl strutted and posed, while JoJo was sinuous and yielding.

  The act involved Carl pretending to force JoJo into sexual obedience. As Genevieve watched, Carl tugged the younger man’s satin posing pouch and ripped it off. He twisted JoJo round, displaying him. JoJo now had a sizeable erection. Genevieve heard a murmur of approval from the darkness. Then JoJo reached backwards, and when the two them broke away from each other, Carl’s black posing pouch had also been removed. The sight of Carl with a massive erection between his leather-clad legs brought more sounds of delight, and some applause, from the audience.

  The action became more erotic. JoJo was forced to his knees in front of Carl. He used his mouth and his hands on his partner until Carl, apparently out of control, swung him round and brought the affair to its conclusion. Grasping JoJo round the waist and bending him forward, his dark leathers a stark contrast to JoJo’s white skin, Carl entered his partner, and as both men shuddered to a noisy climax the lights went out.

  The performance had not really aroused Genevieve, although she admired the men’s dancing skill, but it was obvious from the audience reaction that they had thoroughly enjoyed the display. The prolonged clapping and cheering gave her a twinge of nerves. Would her striptease seem rather tame after such an explicit sex scene? The stage was still dark when the man with the list came up behind her.

  ‘Give it a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘Let the gays out there rearrange themselves, then you’re on. We’ll put a spot on you and then start your music. Okay?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘Not nervous, are you?’ He sounded sympathetic.

  ‘Will anyone be interested in a striptease, after what they’ve just seen?’

  ‘You bet they will,’ he laughed. ‘Not everyone gets turned on by two blokes making out. I don’t, for a start. I’d much rather watch you.’

  With that to boost her confidence, Genevieve stepped on to the darkened stage. It was an eerie experience. As she stood for a few moments waiting for her music to begin she could hear the sounds of the audience as they shifted in their seats; she heard the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversation. It was obvious that no announcements were being made. Each new act was a surprise.

  When the spotlight picked her out with abrupt clarity, Genevieve was reminded of the last performance she had given for Sinclair. Was he watching? She assumed so, but there was no way of telling. She had a brief glimpse of the faces that surrounded her, like pale blobs in the darkness, then the first bars of her music beat out of the speakers, and before she even thought about it she began to dance.

  Once again she blessed the day she decided to go to Thea for advice. Thea had given her the confidence she needed. Her body moved seductively as she strutted and turned. The audience were silent, but she sensed their tension as they watched each garment revealing more of her body.

  It was a strange sensation, performing in front of a group of total strangers. She knew that stripping was usually considered to be degrading, but it made her feel powerful. The idea of all those unknown eyes watching her was exciting. They were captives, and she was their jailer. She was controlling them, controlling their reactions, controlling exactly what they would see, and when.

  For the first time she really understood the teasing aspect of the strip. She understood what Thea meant when she said some women stripped for themselves and not for their audience. Genevieve was very aware of the audience, and what she was doing to them. She wished she could have prolonged her dance but she was limited by her music. When it stopped, she felt a brief stab of disappointment. She stood naked on the stage for a moment, wearing only her shoes, the leather hood and the diamond choker, and then the lights blacked out.

  She felt someone touch her arm and guide her off the stage. Two people swished by in the darkness carrying something bulky. Genevieve thought it looked like an old-fashioned vaulting horse. A man and a woman followed, the man in an evening suit, the woman dressed as a maid. Curious, Genevieve lingered near the stage. The man guiding her tried to hurry her along.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. She noted that the woman was masked. ‘What are they going to do?’

  ‘Spanking scene,’ the man explained. ‘The maid drops a glass and it breaks. So she gets upended over the horse. It’s a popular act.’

  Genevieve remembered her own experience of an erotic spanking. The memory excited her. The idea of Sinclair administering the slaps excited her even more.

  ‘Come on,’ the man hassled her. ‘Your client’s waiting.’

  ‘Client?’ Genevieve forgot all about the act that was about to begin on stage. ‘What client?’

  ‘How do I know?’ He sounded annoyed now. ‘You made the arrangements, not me. Table five.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Genevieve said firmly. She suddenly realized that her companion was not carrying her clothes. ‘And where’s my dress and underwear?’ she added.

  ‘The instructions said you go straight to table five,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about wearing clothes. You’ll get them back later. Your client wants you as you are.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I don’t blame him, either.’

  ‘Do you know who this client is?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  Did she? She assumed it would be Sinclair, but what if it was a stranger? What if Sinclair was planning some more voyeuristic fun? Would she mind? She had already made love to Bridget while he watched, even though she had been unaware of her audience at the time. But Bridget had been a woman, which somehow made a difference. And it had been her choice. She might have made love to Zaid, if that had been what he wanted—he had reminded her strongly of Sinclair. But that would have been her choice too.

  Was she going to be given a choice this time, or was she going to be pushed into someone’s lap? Could she make love to a stranger while he watched? Did the business deal really mean so much to her? Once again, at the start of the ninety days she would have said: yes. Now she was not so sure.

  Her mind was so busy with these thoughts that she hardly noticed the audience reaction to her progress. On stage the erotic games were beginning but heads still turned as she passed the numbered tables, although no one made any attempt to touch her.

  Tables on the side of the room were set back against the wall, in shadowed cubicles. She reached number five. And gave an audible sigh of relief when she saw Sinclair.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘I’ve stripped you quite a few times, but seeing you do it to music still turns me on.’ He shifted to one side. ‘Come and sit here.’

  She realized that the seat against the wall was wide enough for two. When she sat down she felt the smooth cloth of his trouser leg against her bare skin. On stage the maid had dropped the wineglass and was being ordered to take her punishment. While she protested and struggled (although not very effectively), her black dress was pushed up to revea
l silk stockings, suspenders and lacy knickers that were soon down to her knees. The man bent her over the padded ‘horse.’

  Genevieve found the performance arousing. She could identify with the girl, and she knew both performers were enjoying the situation. The girl was certainly there from choice, her mask proved that. When the man’s palm smacked on her upturned bottom Genevieve felt a thrill of excitement.

  Sinclair turned towards her. His hand slid along her inner thigh. He gently eased her legs apart. His palm stroked her flesh but his eyes were on the couple on the stage.

  ‘You might have told me that you were planning this,’ she said.

  ‘Planning what?’ His fingertips moved to her kneecap. ‘This?’ He drew light patterns on her skin.

  ‘For me to meet you here,’ she said. The last word ended in a stifled gasp. He had traced back over the curve of her thigh and ended up between her legs again.

  ‘Why?’ He pushed his other hand round her back and under her arm, cupping her left breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple, playing with her for a few moments before moving his hand away. ‘Did you expect to meet someone else?’

  ‘I never know what to expect,’ she said. ‘You make the rules.’

  He leaned over and circled her nipple with his lips. His tongue flicked insistently while his other hand continued to explore the warm center of pleasure between her legs.

  ‘Would you still have come, if you thought you’d be meeting a stranger?’

  She wriggled involuntarily. His fingers were moving faster now, expertly. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You’ve always got a choice,’ he said.

  She leaned back and stretched out her legs under the table, one leg bent outwards to give him easier access. ‘I wouldn’t know who I was meeting—until I got here.’

  ‘But if you did know? If I told you to come and allow a complete stranger to enjoy you?’ He entered her fully with a finger, then with two fingers. His thumb excited her swollen clit. ‘If I told you to let a stranger do this?’

  She did not want these questions. She wanted to abandon herself to the sensations that were claiming her.