‘Get up.’ Sinclair’s voice startled her out of her dream. He had shed his coat and looked slightly sinister in the black polo neck and black trousers. He pointed to the padded stool. ‘Over there, Miss Loften.’ She went to sit on the stool but he shook his head. A smile touched his mouth, briefly. ‘Bend over it,’ he ordered. ‘And part your legs a little.’
She obeyed, feeling rather undignified. She could not see him but she heard him. A drawer opened and shut. Then he was next to her again, kneeling. Quickly he fastened her wrists to each of the stool’s legs with a heavy silk cord.
‘Obedience,’ he said. ‘That’s just to remind you not to move.’
It wasn’t really uncomfortable. Her knees were on one of the thick rugs. It was simply humiliating. She could hear him moving about, but could not see him. She heard the clink of a glass. She tried to twist her head, but she was tipping too far forward and the stool’s enclosed sides obstructed her vision. She was certain he was looking at her, and the thought made it difficult for her to keep still.
Then she heard him walk across the room. Heard the door open and click shut. She was alone. She pulled at her bound wrists. Probably if she had really tried she could have freed herself. She waited. Nothing happened for such a long time that she began to seriously consider working her wrists free.
When he finally returned she heard the clink of cutlery and glass. Although she could see nothing, she knew that he had put a tray down on the table next to the armchair. She waited for him to untie her. Instead she heard the faint creak of the chair as he sat down. The gurgle of something she assumed to be wine being poured into a glass. The sound of a knife cutting.
‘Stop wriggling,’ he said, as she tried to twist round. ‘You’re eating,’ she accused.
‘How perceptive of you, Miss Loften.’
‘Did it occur to you that I might be hungry too?’
She heard him stand up. The sound of his footsteps coming towards her. She saw his feet, in their elegant, handmade, black leather shoes, inches from her head. A piece of chicken dropped on the floor near her head. If she had stretched forward she could have picked it up between her teeth.
‘So eat,’ he said.
She stifled an impolite retort. The chicken stayed where it was.
‘You’re not that hungry,’ he observed.
He picked the chicken up and went back to his chair ‘It’s very tasty,’ he said, after a few minutes. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
By now the leather boots were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight around her knees. She tried to stretch.
‘Keep still,’ he said.
‘How long for?’ she asked.
‘Until I’m ready for you,’ he said. ‘And keep your legs apart. I want to see more of what I’m getting later on.’
How much later, she thought. Now she was beginning to get cramp in her legs, and pins and needles in her arms. She heard the clink of the wine bottle again. Despite his orders to keep still, she wriggled angrily.
‘Thirsty?’ he asked, politely. Again she heard him coming towards her. There was a clink of china against glass and then he put a saucer filled with wine on the floor close to her head. ‘Drink,’ he said.
‘Does it constitute a breach of our agreement if I don’t?’ she asked tightly.
‘Certainly not,’ he said, lightly. ‘I’m just being a good host.’ She was tempted to lap up the wine, but her pride forbade her to do so. After a moment he picked up the saucer.
‘How long would you really hold out, Miss Loften?’
‘You mean you’re not going to try and find out?’ she challenged.
He laughed softly. ‘I’ve got a feeling you’re tougher, and more stubborn, than you look. Now if I was a lord of the manor in the old days, and you were a rebellious servant, just think how interesting that could be? I could keep you prisoner for days. Weeks, even. Until finally you’d do anything I asked. You’d beg for food and lap water from a saucer like a cat.’
He was very close to her now. His fingers smoothed over her bottom, first softly then with increasing intensity and pressure. Under the magic of his hands she forgot all about her previous discomfort. Kneeling behind her, he slid his hands up under her body and massaged her breasts with his long fingers. She could feel the silky, smooth cloth of his polo neck shirt and the hardness of his muscled chest against her back.
She could feel the bulge of his cock pressing between her buttocks.
His hands moved down to stroke between her legs, his finger finding, and sliding over, the moist little bud of her clit, leaving it to find her breasts again, pinching her nipples into erection. He kissed the back of her neck, first lightly, then nipping her skin with his teeth.
‘Want it now, do you?’ His breath was soft against her skin. ‘Well, you’ll have to wait. Wait until I’m ready. And I like to hear you ask for it, lady. Remember that.’
Being bound no longer felt uncomfortable. Now the delicious feeling of being helpless excited her. His hands moved downwards and he found her clit again, erect and swollen now. Positioning his finger accurately on its sensitive tip, he pushed back against her pubic bone, driving her to a frenzy with strong circular movements. She made inarticulate moaning noises, deep in her throat.
‘Ask me,’ he murmured. ‘Ask me. You want me to fuck you? Ask for it nicely.’
‘Fuck me,’ she moaned, writhing under him.
‘Louder.’
She repeated it louder. And again. Repeated it in a frenzy of frustration until he was satisfied. Swiftly he unzipped and entered her just as the waves of pleasure were beginning their unstoppable rush and her body began to shake. His thrusts suddenly became less controlled. Her orgasm overtook her and she lost herself in waves of intense sensation. When her body had stopped trembling and she relaxed, she realized that he was still close to her, holding her, although he was no longer inside her.
‘Good, was it?’ His voice was low and intimate.
She murmured something, afraid that forming words would break the spell.
‘And for me,’ he said.
She realized suddenly that this was the closest they had been. This warm afterglow, with his body covering hers, was deliciously intimate. She wanted it to last but he broke the spell by standing up. In a moment her wrists were untied. His hand on her arm helped her to stand. She felt a stab of regret.
‘Have a glass of wine,’ he said. ‘And I’ll take you home.’
When she settled into the car again she still felt comfortably at ease. She felt as if their relationship had changed. But Sinclair did not seem to feel the same way.
‘Not long to go now, Miss Loften.’ He sounded both cynical and amused. ‘Think you’ll last the distance?’
‘I’ve lasted this far.’
‘A lot can happen in a short time.’
What was that supposed to mean, she wondered, as she let herself into her flat. It almost sounded like a warning.
A note in her diary reminded Genevieve of her conversation with Georgie. She was hesitant about ringing. Did she really want a night out in a lesbian club? Would she really enjoy it? Then she remembered that apart from her activities with Sinclair she had not had a social evening out for months. Maybe it would do her good to relax, chat, drink some wine, and not have to think about the approaching end of the ninety-day agreement. She phoned Georgie, who sounded delighted, and they made arrangements to meet.
‘We’ll go to Goldie’s,’ Georgie said. ‘Parking’s useless, I’m afraid. Can you take a cab?’
Armed with detailed instructions, Genevieve found Goldie’s without any trouble. Georgie arrived on time in another cab. The club entrance was down a steep flight of stone steps, with a discreet sign outside. A large female bouncer nodded to them, stone-faced.
‘Goldie owns the place,’ Georgie said. ‘You’ll see how she got the name when you meet her.’
Georgie was a walking advertisement for her own talents. Her leather trousers were skintig
ht and she wore a snug white T-shirt. Genevieve herself wore a pale sleeveless dress, fashionable but understated.
The club was lit by subdued wall lights with multicolored shades. Smoochy music murmured from the speakers, and several women were dancing. Tables stood round the side of the small dance floor, wooden partitions giving the occupants a measure of privacy. A bar ran along one wall. A good-looking young barman smiled at them, but it was only when ‘he’ spoke that Genevieve realized the elegant ‘young man’ was a woman.
‘Hi, Jan,’ Georgie said. ‘This is a friend of mine. She’s never been to a queers’ club before.’
Jan nodded cheerfully, and did not seem offended by Georgie’s description of the club, but Genevieve felt distinctly awkward and was glad when she was able to hide herself in the shadows of one of the tables by the wall.
‘I thought “queer” was an insult?’ she said.
‘Depends on who’s using it,’ Georgie said. ‘And I wanted to let Jan know, in the nicest possible way, that you were straight. Otherwise she’d have been over here as soon as she came off duty, chatting you up.’
‘How do you know I’m her type?’ Genevieve asked.
‘Any beautiful woman is her type,’ Georgie said. She glanced up. ‘Look, there’s Goldie.’
An enormous woman had appeared behind the bar and was now talking to Jan. Apart from her size, the other extraordinary thing about her was the amount of gold jewelry she was wearing. Earrings dangled to her shoulders, her fingers were hidden under glittering rings. Chains covered her chest, and bracelets heavy with charms were pushed halfway up her arms to make room for the wide slave bangles on her wrists. Genevieve calculated that if the gold was genuine Goldie should have been kept in a padlocked safe.
‘It’s genuine,’ Georgie confirmed when Genevieve questioned her.
‘Isn’t she afraid of being robbed?’ Genevieve asked. Georgie shrugged. ‘If you asked Goldie she’d probably say “easy come, easy go.” She loves wearing the stuff, but I don’t think she’s hung up over it. Mind you, she very rarely goes out. This place is fully alarmed, and Billie’s here most of the time, too.’
‘Billie?’ Genevieve questioned.
‘You saw her on the door,’ Georgie said. ‘No one gets in here unless Billie approves. You wouldn’t have got in without me.’
Genevieve remembered the hefty ‘doorman’. ‘Are they—er—lovers?’ she asked.
Georgie grinned. ‘No. Just friends. And business partners. Lesbians can be friends with each other, you know?’
‘Oh, stop being so touchy,’ Genevieve said, good-humored. The music changed to a brighter beat. A couple of women began to dance with each other.
‘Things get more lively later on,’ Georgie said. ‘That’s why I brought you early. I didn’t want you getting embarrassed.’
‘The orgies start later?’ Genevieve inquired, smiling.
‘That’s right,’ Georgie agreed. ‘Billie won’t let you in unless you’ve got a ten-inch dildo in your handbag.’
Genevieve sat back and enjoyed her drink. Two more women walked onto the dance floor. They were dressed plainly in T-shirts and skirts, but they were as poised as ballet students. Interpreting the music’s beat in a series of rhythmic and sinuous movements, they moved slowly round each other without touching. It was graceful and theatrical. Genevieve was so engrossed in watching them that she did not notice the two new customers at the bar until a loud laugh from Goldie caught her attention. She leaned forward, and looked round the wooden cubicle partition.
A man and a woman stood together. The woman looked like a fashion model, in a figure-revealing, knee-length dress. She had the kind of stunning red hair no one could ever get out of a bottle. It cascaded to her shoulders in glossy waves. The man looked relaxed and elegant in a dark tailored suit. He was talking to Goldie, but he had one hand possessively on the redheaded woman’s bottom. As Genevieve watched, she saw his long fingers massaging his companion’s curving buttocks. Not only did Genevieve know that this was definitely a man, she knew his name. It was James Sinclair. She drew back so quickly that Georgie looked at her in surprise.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I didn’t think you allowed men in here.’
‘We do,’ Georgie said. ‘Mostly gay men, but unless Billie knows them really well they have to come in with a genuine club member. We don’t get many straight men. Most of them only want to gawk at the freaky women who don’t like cock, and this isn’t really a voyeur’s club. Why? Who’s just come in?’ She peered round the cubicle. ‘Oh, that’s Marsha. She’s an actress, or a model, or whatever takes her fancy. I don’t know who the man is.’ She glanced at Genevieve. ‘Do you?’
‘Er—yes.’ Genevieve felt she had to admit that much. ‘But not all that well,’ she added hastily. ‘I know him from work. And I don’t want him to recognize me.’
‘Relax,’ Georgie said. ‘Sit back. No one will see you.’ Genevieve could accept that Georgie did not know Sinclair. He had probably conducted all his dealings with her over the telephone. But what was he doing in this kind of club?
And with a ravishingly good-looking woman like that? It was quite obvious from the way he was fondling her, and the way she was reacting, that they were more than just good friends.
‘Marsha certainly isn’t gay,’ she observed, tartly.
‘She is sometimes.’ Georgie glanced at Genevieve and grinned. ‘Marsha swings both ways. Fancy her, do you? Want me to arrange an introduction?’
‘Certainly not,’ Genevieve said, primly.
She toyed with her drink and then peeped quickly round the side of the cubicle again. Goldie had moved further down the bar to talk to another customer. Jan was pouring a drink. Sinclair leaned towards Marsha and whispered something, and Marsha laughed. Sinclair lifted the heavy fall of her shining red hair and it was obvious from the way his head was moving, and from the way Marsha squirmed with delight, that he was using his tongue in and around her ear, probing and caressing, kissing her lightly, while his hand flattened against her bottom and pulled her closer to him.
‘Hey, you two,’ Goldie called from the other end of the bar. ‘Why don’t you just hire a bedroom?’
Genevieve heard Sinclair laugh. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.’
They left the club together and as she watched them Genevieve realized that she was furious. And jealous. First Jade Chalfont, and now this redheaded bisexual. Or maybe Jade Chalfont and Marsha whatever-her-name-was. And who else? She sat there silently fuming. Then she remembered the torture implements at the bondage club and suddenly the idea of Sinclair chained to a rack or a flogging post seemed positively attractive.
‘Hey?’ Georgie touched her arm. ‘Loosen up. So you like him. So he hasn’t noticed you yet. Maybe he will. But even if he doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world. You’ve already got a fella, haven’t you?’
Have I? Genevieve thought. It looks as if I’m just one on a long list of Mr. James Sinclair’s available playmates. What was he going to do with redheaded Marsha that evening? What was he doing at that precise moment? Was he driving, telling her what he had arranged for her later? Or was he sitting in a taxi with his fingers smoothing the soft inner skin of her thigh, finding the warmth higher up, tempting her legs apart while the driver, oblivious to what was happening in the backseat of his cab, headed for whatever destination Sinclair had planned.
Would he take her home? Would Marsha strip for him? Or would he strip her? Would she end up naked, bound to the door, with Sinclair looking her over with that possessive, slightly cynical and infuriatingly attractive smile, as he decided which part of her body to stimulate first? The thought of him was making her wet. She hated him! She hated Marsha! She swallowed the remainder of her drink and slammed the glass back on the table.
‘Really fancy him, don’t you?’ Georgie said quietly.
‘No, I don’t,’ Genevieve snapped back. ‘I hardly know him.’
�
��If I was into men,’ Georgie said, reflectively, ‘I think he’d be the type I’d go for.’ She glanced at Genevieve. ‘But I wouldn’t get ulcers over him. Or over a woman either, come to that.’
‘Well, I am into men,’ Genevieve said. ‘And he’s definitely not the type I go for.’
‘How do you know?’ Georgie asked innocently. ‘You just said you didn’t know him all that well.’
‘You can see what he’s like. A conceited womanizer! A male chauvinist pig!’
It had spoiled her evening. She tried to put it out of her mind but it was impossible. Although Georgie attempted to entertain her with amusing anecdotes, Genevieve cut the evening short. Leaving Georgie with her friends, she took a taxi back to her apartment.
She tried to forget what she had seen. She tried relaxing in a warm bath (which somehow did nothing to relax her), and then watching a DVD. Unfortunately she picked one with a leading man who looked vaguely like Sinclair. She switched the film off.
She was angry with Sinclair for being able to affect her like this, and angry with herself for being affected. She knew that she had no claim on him. He had never said that their agreement, even while it lasted, was exclusive. She had simply assumed that he was not seeing any other women while he was seeing her. He had not forbidden her to see other men. As long as she was available when he wanted her, she thought, he probably did not care what she did in her spare time.
Even that angered her. She realized that she wanted him to care. Damn him! What was he doing in a lesbian club with that redheaded bitch in tow? What was he doing right now? She felt her body shiver as she imagined his mouth moving over Marsha’s body, his hands exploring, expertly, finding different ways to turn her on.
The Ninety Days of Genevieve Page 22