The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  After her eyes had adjusted to the flickering light from the mock torches Genevieve realized why the girl in the foyer had not looked particularly surprised at her outfit. Compared to some of the club’s patrons, her clothes were almost conventional.

  Three women sat by the bar, talking. One of them wore a leather dress that exposed much more of her than it covered. Her two friends were wearing outfits consisting solely of thin

  straps wound and crisscrossed over their bodies. They wore shoes with heels as high as Genevieve’s and none of them, she was amazed to note, had made any attempt at anonymity.

  Sinclair leaned against the bar and ordered drinks. Two men in conventional suits walked over to the trio of leather-clad girls and began to talk to them. The girls laughed and chatted back. Apart from their extraordinary clothes they could have been three friends enjoying a drink on their way home from the office. One of the men edged closer to the girl in the revealing dress but, although he showed a definite interest in her, he made no attempt to touch her.

  A man in a brief leather posing pouch and biker’s boots wandered by, obviously looking for someone, followed by another man wearing a complicated harness that kept his prick strapped against his stomach in a position that Genevieve thought looked distinctly uncomfortable. He also wore nipple rings, a spiked dog collar and a hood similar to her own.

  On the tiny dance floor, couples were moving languidly together, many of them dressed in skintight leather. One woman had chains joining her ankles. Despite this restriction she managed to sway and gyrate sensuously to the music. If she looked like stumbling, her more conventionally dressed companion put out his hand and steadied her.

  In fact Genevieve was surprised at the number of men in suits. The women’s costumes were far more adventurous. She was also surprised at the lack of any overtly sexual behavior. Apart from the various way-out costumes this could have been the interior of any conventional, well-mannered London club.

  ‘Madam’s boots are magnificent.’

  The voice behind her startled her. She turned and saw a good-looking, smartly dressed, middle-aged man standing near her, smiling.

  ‘Would madam permit me to kiss them?’

  Taken by surprise, Genevieve was lost for words. Was this a joke? But the man looked serious enough, almost anxious.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Sinclair said, easily.

  ‘I need madam’s permission,’ the man stated.

  ‘She’ll give you permission,’ Sinclair hinted.

  ‘Well, of course,’ Genevieve said, awkwardly.

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  Kneeling in front of her, the man began to kiss the toe of her boot, twisting his head to run his tongue along the platform soles, licking the high heels. Vaguely embarrassed, Genevieve glanced round to see if anyone was watching. One or two people were glancing her way, but most of the club’s patrons simply carried on dancing or talking. The man who had been chatting to the girl in the revealing leather dress had now moved with her away from the original group, and had his hand round her hips, his fingers probing the cleft of her buttocks. It was obvious from the girl’s expression that she had no objection to his caresses.

  Genevieve looked down at the man crouched in front of her. His attentions were too impersonal to be arousing. Clearly he was attracted to her boots, and not to her. But she did have a sudden vision of Sinclair kneeling at her feet in a submissive position. That, she thought, would be much more interesting.

  Once again these thoughts surprised her. She had never felt inclined to dominate a man before, and certainly believed that she could not have respected a man who would allow her to do so. But she remembered how she felt when Sinclair took command of their sexual adventures, allowing her to simply relax and wait expectantly for whatever new excitement was coming next. Perhaps a man would also sometimes enjoy feeling the same way?

  The idea would have seemed ridiculous to her a few months ago. But, she thought, that was just another example of how she had changed. How Sinclair had changed her, whether he had intended to do so or not. One more example of her hidden sexual personality that he had helped bring to the surface.

  She looked down at the kneeling man. The expression on his face clearly reflected the erotic pleasure he was getting from the scent of the leather, the shape of her foot, the height of her heels. Suddenly he shuddered, his eyes shut, his mouth half-open, as orgasmic tremors shook him. He clung to her legs for a moment and then, with sigh, sat back on his heels and stood up.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Thank you. May I buy you both a drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sinclair said, before Genevieve could say anything. The man ordered drinks and paid, and after a few more casual words wandered away and disappeared.

  ‘Surprised?’ Sinclair sounded amused.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘You must have known some people are turned on by shoes and boots, particularly high heels?’

  ‘I suppose I knew it,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘I just didn’t expect to be involved in it.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘Isn’t he afraid I might meet him again somewhere, and remember him?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Sinclair said. ‘One of the unwritten rules of this club is that people are discreet. That’s why it’s so popular. People feel safe to be themselves.’

  ‘Is that why you come?’ she asked. She felt like adding: have you brought Jade Chalfont here too? Does this kind of scene turn her on as well?

  ‘I’m a member,’ he said. ‘But I don’t come that often. I find it a little too well mannered. And I prefer my fantasies to seem spontaneous.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Even if they often take weeks of planning.’

  Genevieve looked round. She saw a large woman drinking and chatting to a group of female friends. Her booted feet were resting on a man crouched on the floor in front of her. Another man controlled his female companion by a leash attached to a dog collar round her neck. But for all the odd costumes and odd behavior, she realized what Sinclair meant about the club being well mannered.

  There was a strange feeling of decorum about the whole scene. She felt a sense of unreality about this fantasy world that she had never felt when participating in Sinclair’s erotic games. She tried to decide why and realized that it was because the club lacked danger. With Sinclair there was always a sense of the unexpected. A fear of discovery. Here everything was safe. You asked politely for what you wanted. You did nothing that was not requested. There were no surprises. It was all terribly civilized.

  The crowd on the dance floor suddenly parted and Genevieve noticed a small raised stage against the wall. Black curtains were pulled back to reveal a square-shaped frame. It glittered as lights played over it and she saw that there were steel manacles attached to each corner.

  There was a murmur of conversation that stopped when two people stepped out of the crowd and walked toward the stage. One was a small woman in typical bondage leathers: a tight-laced corset, spike-heeled thigh boots, straps and chains wrapped round her body. Following her was a tall man, with the well-muscled torso of a bodybuilder. His tanned skin gleamed with oil. He wore a silky posing pouch that emphasized his sexual endowments rather than hiding them, and a black hood that made him look like an Elizabethan executioner.

  He carried a flexible riding crop ornamented with silver bands.

  Genevieve glanced at Sinclair. ‘Your professional CP couple?’ she asked.

  ‘Professional in attitude,’ Sinclair said. ‘No one here gets paid anything.’ There was a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Unlike you, Miss Loften, they all do it for love.’

  ‘It takes two to make an agreement,’ she reminded him crisply. ‘It was your idea, remember? And your terms.’

  Sinclair did not reply and Genevieve turned her attention back to the stage. She waited for the leather-clad woman to be chained to the frame, but to her astonishment the man turned, knelt and offered the woman his whip, bowing his head in a gesture of obedience.

&nb
sp; As the woman strutted round the stage, slapping the whip against her boots, two volunteers from the audience spread-eagled the man against the frame, fixing the manacles round his wrists and ankles. The woman turned and said something to her partner that Genevieve could not hear. He replied, and she laughed. She stepped back, curved the whip between her hands and then cracked it against her boot again.

  The man, obviously expecting the blow to land on him, jerked in anticipation. The audience took a collective inward breath. The woman paused, then stroked the whip across the man’s buttocks, gently. Again his body quivered expectantly. The crowd was as silent as if they were watching a theatre performance which, Genevieve thought, in a way they were.

  The third time the whip landed in earnest. It drew a bright-red line on the man’s neat, muscular behind. His whole body trembled, shaking the frame. Three more lashes followed in quick succession, each one raising a long, straight mark.

  Then the frame began to revolve, slowly. The woman followed it as it displayed her victim to the audience. Each time the whip landed, the man’s hips jerked strongly, as if he was in the throes of sexual passion. The woman, obviously not holding back, delivered the punishment with enthusiasm, but Genevieve had no doubt that her victim was enjoying his predicament. His erection bulged against his brief posing pouch and when he began to plead with the woman to stop, his voice did not carry much conviction.

  Sinclair finished his drink. It was difficult for Genevieve to decide whether or not he was actually enjoying the fantasy being played out for them. Personally, she had mixed feelings about it. Could she have whipped Sinclair like that? She would definitely have felt uncomfortable about humiliating him in public, and she was certain he would not have wanted it. But in private? She was not sure. It seemed to be taking domination a bit too far. To her it seemed like a drastic—and almost unnatural—role reversal, although she realized that many men found it stimulating.

  But when she thought of Sinclair with Jade Chalfont in Japan, maybe giving her one of those slow and sensual visual assessments that she found so arousing, she felt much more sympathetic towards the idea of such punishment. Suddenly the thought of his body, stripped down to erotic near nakedness and spread-eagled on that frame, seemed extremely attractive. She tried to imagine him in a brief posing pouch and once again realized that she had never seen him completely nude. She had felt the movement of his muscles under her hands as she pulled him closer to her, holding him during the rhythms of love, but she had never been able to explore him fully with her eyes. Would she ever have that pleasure? She doubted it. He seemed unwilling to strip for her.

  The couple on the stage had completed their ritual. The woman released the manacles and held out the whip. The man knelt and kissed it. Then he stood up and kissed the woman on the lips. She laughed and patted him on the rear. He flinched, and she laughed again. Together they came down from the dais and were immediately surrounded by the crowd, who had already started to gyrate as the music rose in volume.

  Genevieve realized that, despite her misgivings, the scene had made her feel sexy. Sinclair was lounging against a bar stool, and on impulse she reached out for him. He was semi-erect, but not hard. Obviously the stage display had only a limited effect on him.

  ‘The rules here are that you always ask before touching,’ he said.

  But he did not move away. She massaged him gently but firmly, and felt his cock swell under her hand. As she continued to work on him, she could not believe that she was actually behaving like this in public. And enjoying it. His dark eyes watched her.

  ‘Turned you on, didn’t it?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Mildly,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

  He glanced down at her moving hand. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘This is turning you on more,’ she said.

  He pulled away from her. ‘Too much,’ he said. ‘And too early.’

  She reached for him again and although he tried to avoid her he did not have much room to maneuver and she caught him, rather more roughly than she intended. He gave a subdued grunt of protest. That’s for going to Japan with Jade Chalfont, she thought, pleased.

  ‘All this is party stuff, really,’ he said. ‘Some people would find it pretty mild. There’s more specialized entertainment if you want it.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll show you.’

  He led her across the dance floor and out into the foyer again. The cheerful receptionist was still there.

  ‘We want privacy,’ he said.

  She reached for a key rack, found a key and handed it to him. ‘The dungeon is free at the moment. But I can only allow you an hour. It’s been booked for the rest of the night.’

  ‘An hour is fine,’ he said.

  He took the key and led Genevieve down a narrow passageway until their path was barred by a heavy door with huge iron hinges. Sinclair unlocked it and, as it swung open, lights sputtered into mock flames on the walls. Genevieve walked forward and the door banged shut.

  The room had stone walls and no windows. The air felt cool. There were so many pieces of equipment standing about that she did not know which one to look at first. There was a medieval rack, sitting and standing stocks, a whipping bench, a strange-looking padded vaulting horse with chains and shackles attached. There were several large metal frames obviously intended to secure victims in a variety of uncomfortable positions. There was even a complicated chair that seemed to be wired up to an electric socket.

  There were hooks on the ceiling, and in the walls, and racks containing an assortment of whips. Genevieve walked round the room, looking and touching, and trying to decide how anyone could find any of this sexually arousing.

  ‘Like it?’

  Sinclair’s voice startled her. She had almost forgotten he was there. She had a sudden horrible feeling that he wanted to use some of this equipment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘A lot of people find this a turn-on.’

  ‘Do you?’ she challenged.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need props like these.’

  He took a whip from the wall rack and showed it to her. She was amazed to see that the leather thongs had small pieces of bone and metal twisted into the end. He swung the whip suddenly. It made a vicious, swishing sound.

  ‘These,’ he said, ‘are intended to hurt.’

  ‘All this stuff is intended to hurt,’ she said.

  ‘It depends on how seriously you use it.’ He put the whip back. ‘But basically you’re right.’ He turned to the door. ‘Come on. Let’s go back upstairs.’

  She was glad to leave the dungeon. It had depressed her. It reminded her too much of Ricky Croft’s pictures, and of sexual pathways that she did not really understand. She was very glad that Sinclair did not seem to be interested in the dungeon’s dubious attractions either.

  Sinclair waited while Genevieve slipped into her fur coat, then followed her up the stairs and into the street again. He took her arm.

  ‘The car’s just round the corner.’ Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked beside him, taking two or three steps to his one. He opened the car door for her. She climbed into the front passenger seat, and by the time he was sitting beside her she had removed her mask and shaken out her hair.

  ‘You looked relieved when we left the dungeon,’ he said. There was a touch of humor in his voice now. ‘Did you think I was planning a session in there?’

  ‘I thought you might be,’ she admitted.

  ‘And you’d have gone along with it?’

  ‘We have an agreement,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ he said, abruptly. He turned. His face was inches from hers. ‘So let’s see you perform.’

  She reached for him, but he pushed her hands aside and twisted his fingers in her hair, forcing her downwards.

  ‘This way,’ he instructed, hoarsely.

  ‘It’s illegal in a car,’ she said demurely.

  ‘Only if you’re caught,’ he said. ‘Get on with it.
’

  She reached forward, unzipped his trousers and took him in her mouth, moving her lips over the length of his shaft. She felt him growing hard. Her position was far from comfortable and he held her head down strongly, almost roughly, pushing his hips upwards and making sure she did not lose contact.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said in a voice so low she could hardly hear it. ‘That’s good. It’s almost as good as when I’m inside you. As good as fucking you.’

  She ran the edge of her teeth lightly against his sensitive skin, then flicked the ridged end of his cock with her tongue, and he groaned.

  ‘Make it last,’ he entreated. ‘Do that again. With your tongue. Do it.’

  For the first time she felt that he was not in control. He needed her. Or maybe, she thought, he just needs the sex. Was it stupid of her to believe that it was only her mouth, her hands, or her body that could turn him on? It could have been anyone. Black-haired, sword-swinging Jade Chalfont. A geisha girl. Any of the dozens of other women he had probably made love to in his life.

  As usual the thought of him with anyone else made her angry. Instead of caressing him slowly, prolonging his pleasure, she worked faster. And suddenly she felt his hands pulling her away.

  ‘I said slow down,’ he said harshly. ‘Haven’t you learned yet to obey orders?’

  He shifted back in the seat and zipped himself up. She glanced sideways at him, seeing his profile against the streetlights. His face was shadowed. For all their previous intimacy, he was still a stranger. She still did not understand him. He switched on the ignition and she heard the powerful engine purring into life.

  She knew he was trying to keep his temper under control but instead of taking her home he drove to his house. Once again she had to clamber awkwardly up the steps in her high heels. He let her into the hall and pointed to the first door.

  ‘In there,’ he said abruptly. ‘And strip. But keep the boots and gloves on.’

  The room smelled just as she remembered it, of polish and leather, a sexy masculine scent. A small table stood by one of the armchairs. There was a padded, box-shaped stool near to it, on small stubby legs. She took off the leather dress slowly. In her thigh-high boots and gloves that came up over her elbows she realized that she must have looked like a hooker. She walked carefully round the room, her heels tapping on the wooden floor. She sat in the large armchair, leaned back and closed her eyes, and remembered the feel of him in her mouth. Thought about how his mouth would feel, moving over her body, lingering wherever he sensed a reaction.