Highly Strung

by Justine Elyot

  “Yes. The full service. I trust your exquisite taste.”

  She simpered, then beckoned to Lydia sternly.

  “We had better go into the back room. I’ll send Lily out front.”

  They went into a room that was, if anything, even more overstuffed with sparkly fabrics than the shop. A younger woman finished her task of labelling the stock and disappeared out to the front, leaving the three of them alone to embark on Lydia’s transformation.

  “I’ll need you to strip right off,” said Maxine briskly. “Chop chop. Milan, come and have a look at the rails with me. I have some ideas, but I’ll need your input.”

  Lydia took a deep breath. She was expected to stand naked in front of this intimidating woman? A woman, moreover, who had dressed the immaculate Tilda Fox-Boyce? She felt small and inconsequential, an inferior shop dummy, but she began to tug off her parka all the same.

  “Don’t worry about Maxine,” said Milan over his shoulder, fingering a pile of corsets. “She has seen every beautiful woman in London out of her clothes.”

  But I’m not beautiful, thought Lydia woefully.

  “And you are beautiful,” said Milan, as if reading her thoughts. “You just need some help to bring it out.”

  She gasped, flushed and suddenly felt super-confident.

  The hiking boots, woolly socks, cheap jeans and fleece were soon piled neatly on a chair, leaving Lydia shivering in sensible cotton underwear. She was very aware of the congealed essences from her cinema adventure that stained the gusset of her knickers.

  Milan and Maxine emerged from the clothing jungle, laden with pieces. They exchanged a glance and smiled while Lydia hugged herself, trying to forget that she was nearly naked.

  “You will be a dream to dress,” exclaimed Maxine. “A lovely figure, and perfect skin.” She put down the clothes and reached out a bony finger, touching Lydia’s cheek. “English rose. You can carry off so many colours.”

  Lydia, who mainly wore brown and blue, simply raised her eyebrows.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Simple white cotton suits you, but we’re not about dressing down here. We’re about glamming up. So take off those undies, my dear, and let’s find that sex kitten inside the shy girl.”

  There isn’t one, thought Lydia reflexively, but then she had to reconsider. What shy girl would have sex with a man while his male lover looked on, cock in hand? What shy girl would let herself be fingered to orgasm in a public cinema? She had never known this side of her existed, but it was there, and now it had seen the light it wasn’t going back inside.

  “I’ll do it for you, if you like,” offered Milan, stepping up behind her and unhooking the bra.

  “Don’t—” She shivered, afraid for a moment that he was going to caress her breasts in front of Maxine, but he simply took the bra off and added it to the jumble of drab clothes she had already removed.

  His hands whipped her knickers down with brisk efficiency. She hugged herself, trying to cover her tendrils of pubic hair, embarrassed at the hopelessly amateur job of clipping and shaping them she had done before her date. She was going to have to investigate wax, as much as the idea dismayed her.

  “I know a marvellous beautician just around the corner,” said Maxine airily.

  Lydia wanted to curl up and die. She stepped out of the knickers.

  “Is okay,” said Milan unexpectedly. “I prefer a woman to look like a woman. Is natural, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  Lydia turned and beamed at him, adoring him one more percentage point, bringing the total to at least three hundred and forty five per cent.

  “Well, it’s not the fashion, but to each their own,” murmured Maxine, rummaging through a pile of the wispiest, silkiest things Lydia had ever seen. She alighted on a pair of knickers that gave the illusion of transparency, and were only visible because of the printed birds of paradise in brilliant blue and gold and the scalloped lace edging. “What do you think of these?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but it was Milan’s opinion Maxine canvassed, not Lydia’s.

  He picked them up.

  “They weigh nothing,” he remarked. “I like that. She can have them.”

  Putting them on was like having her legs breathed on. The silk fluttered upwards and came to rest about her hips, but she could barely feel the tissue-thin fabric. It was the closest to going commando achievable with underwear and it looked so pretty, as if her own skin bore the exquisite pattern of the birds.

  “Turn around,” instructed Maxine, and Lydia twirled, self-conscious as she presented her bottom to the stylist and her lover, but unable to defy them.

  “Lovely,” said Milan.

  The matching bra was of a heavier silk, the cups just crossing her nipples teasingly while the same scalloped lace covered the rest of her breasts.

  “We also have a suspender,” said Maxine. She clipped the gauzy silky belt on, then, once Lydia had put them on, attached it to five-denier, nude, seamed stockings.

  “Walk up and down,” said Milan. “Up to that mirror. Look at yourself.”

  Lydia saw a person she didn’t recognise, with traces of herself lingering here and there. She was glad Milan had not gone for the full vamp in red or black—that was not a look she felt ready for yet, if ever. But the combination of sexy and sweet, tasteful and naughty, made her feel more feminine and fuckable than she had ever done before.

  She laid her cheek against Milan’s hand when he loomed up behind her and took hold of her shoulders, leaning over her to gaze at her reflection. For that moment, Maxine melted away and they were the lone lovers, enjoying their desire for one another.

  “See what a difference it makes,” he whispered, then he growled in her ear, causing her to shudder and visualise herself melting into a puddle on the floor. “If I could have you right here…”

  He let his palms brush down her upper arms before stepping back.

  “A dress,” he said to Maxine. “Something to bring out the curves, yes?”

  “Like this?”

  She handed over a halter-necked piece in royal blue satin, polka-dotted and ruched across the chest.

  Milan grinned. “Just like that.”

  “She’ll need petticoats.”

  Lydia stepped into two layers of stiff netting before slipping the dress over her head. Looking again in the mirror, she was open-mouthed with awe at the sudden appearance of dangerous curves, swelling above and below her nipped-in waist.

  “Every man is going to want you,” said Milan. “I’ll have to watch out.”

  “She looks fabulous,” said Maxine admiringly. “She needs a strong lipstick and something doing with her hair. And some heels, of course. How could I forget the heels? Let me find some.”

  She returned with beautiful shoes in a Mary Jane style, but with a thickish high heel and a slender ankle strap above the T-bar, in the exact shade of blue to match the dress.

  “I never wear heels,” said Lydia nervously.

  “You’ll need to practice your walk, then,” advised Maxine. “Come on. Strut. Wiggle your hips. Put one foot exactly in front of the other—it gives you a sashay.”

  “It’s hard—I have to concentrate,” said Lydia, frowning at her feet.

  “Don’t look at your feet. Shoulders back. Chin up.”

  Feeling as if she were performing a military drill, Lydia paced the floor until Maxine was satisfied she had acquired the skill of walking in heels.

  “Perfect!” Maxine applauded at last. She tied a blue polka-dot scarf in Lydia’s hair, which she flicked out to cover her shoulders. “Gorgeous. You recognised the potential there, Milan. Congratulations. But it’s far too cold to go out without a coat, and that thing she was wearing before is far too offensive to the eyes. How about this?”

  She held up a long black coat in some kind of matted velvet fabric, with faux-fur at the neck and cuffs. Milan shrugged and put it on Lydia, who found that it fitted quite snugly once buttoned, and was both warm an
d striking.

  “My goodness, you are going to slaughter them out there,” exclaimed Maxine. “Shall I just throw the old things away? Burn them?”

  “No!” protested Lydia, but Milan was laughing at the suggestion and nodding his head.

  “Keep them,” he said. “If she ever wants them back, she can come and collect them.”

  Outside the shop, Milan put his hands either side of Lydia’s nipped-in waist and gave her a long, hard look.

  “Maybe I could get my hair done,” said Lydia timidly, too aware of being a sex bomb only from the neck down.

  “Hair done? Why?” Milan seemed lost in a world of distant thought, disconnected from reality.

  “For the opera?”

  “Opera? We’re not going to the opera.”

  “Oh, but I thought—”

  “The time for thinking is over. I have one thing on my mind and one thing only.”

  “The tickets…” But her heart wasn’t in it.

  “I have to take you to bed. Now.”

  He hooked an arm around her waist, hand tapping her hip impatiently. Then he dragged her through the Saturday shoppers and tourists, so fast she had to run, which was difficult in the unfamiliar high heels Maxine had put her in. The long velvet coat flew out behind her, net petticoats swished around her knees, and Milan bore her away to a place that now seemed ten times more appealing than the Royal Box at Covent Garden.

  Chapter Six

  It seemed that all the expensive wrappings and trappings had been bought only to be taken off. The moment Milan got her through the door of his flat he pushed her against the wall and began undoing buttons, his mouth all the while working on her with hungry determination. By the time the coat fell to the floor, her lips were softened and wet from kissing, her cheeks burning and legs weak. He covered her bare arms and shoulders with his hands while he nuzzled her neck. He reached around, found the fastening of the dress, worked on it with lightning speed. The petticoats went the way of the dress; then Lydia stood, or rather swayed, in her precious underwear and barely-there stockings, ready for sex. Ready to be ravished.

  Milan directed his right hand to her breasts, while with his left he gripped the underside of one thigh, pulling it high to wrap around his hip. Lydia whimpered into his mouth as her pubic triangle made contact with his bulging crotch. He upped the ante, grinding it against her, maintaining the high pressure of his tongue inside her mouth.

  The sensual abandonment he transmitted infected her and she lost herself in lust, twisting against him, drawing him in, glorying in the surge of blood and spirit he aroused in her. It was like a delicious, exhilarating version of a fight, a fight that would end in pleasure rather than pain. Lydia found strength she had not known she possessed, struggling to bring him closer and harder, pinching and clutching, biting and kicking, but always forced in the end to submit to his superior power.

  He jammed her thighs apart, unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, then brought one hand beneath her bottom to lift her upward so that her feet left the floor. She whimpered in alarm, but Milan kept her pinned to the wall, firmly in position, so that she let go of her momentary panic and helped him work on getting her legs wrapped around him and her arms holding tight, ready for the act of ultimate contact.

  He was able, though it didn’t look easy, to reach inside a shirt pocket and find a condom while keeping her in place. Lydia hoped he was mindful of her aching spine and already straining thigh muscles and would make this fast and hard.

  Once the condom was on, Milan wasted no time in sheathing himself with pinpoint accuracy, filling Lydia before she could prepare herself.

  She gasped, pinned inexorably by his erection, held against the wall by his quivering body. His heart hammered, through the material of his shirt, against her flattened breasts. His eyes, when she looked up, were dark, almost angry. It felt as if he was punishing her for something. For making him want her? For what she had said about Mary-Ann? For being female, being there?

  Whatever the reason, it provoked him to push strong, powerful thrusts into her, slamming her bottom into the wall, grunting into her mouth.

  There was no tenderness here. All was raw and animal, barely concerned with her pleasure. She began to be afraid, began to try and push him back, but he finished almost immediately, pouring out his orgasm and accompanying it with a nip of her lip that felt as if it had drawn blood.

  He drew back, gasping all over her, holding her so tightly the breath almost left her body, still inside her but softening.

  “Milan,” she said and her voice wobbled, on the edge of tears.

  He dropped his head down to her shoulder and groaned as if in pain.

  “I’m sorry, miláčku,” he whispered. “So sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  He lifted his face, searching her eyes, looking as stricken as she felt.

  “A bit,” she admitted, her throat still thick and tight.

  “I forget, sometimes.” He seemed to be speaking to himself.

  Pulling out of her and discarding the condom, he gathered her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, laying her gently on the bed while he crouched over her, stroking her sweating forehead.

  “What do you forget?” asked Lydia in a broken whisper.

  “That you’re a girl. And girls can’t always take it the same way. Evgeny likes it rough. I’ve got into the habit.”

  “I thought I was going to break.” Tears slid down the side of Lydia’s face. Milan kissed them away.

  “I promise I won’t break you. I am a stupid idiot. I get, what you say, carried away. Too much passion. I must learn to control it.”

  “Violence isn’t passion.”

  “No. You are right, Lydia.”

  He lay down, holding her loosely, as if he thought anything tighter might snap a bone or two.

  “Forgive me. I will be better next time.”

  Lydia let her thoughts gather like clouds as she lay in his embrace.

  Evgeny likes it rough.

  A plague on Evgeny and his complicating existence. Why couldn’t Milan be a simple soul who stuck to one lover at a time? Why couldn’t love be easy?

  “I will run a bath for you,” said Milan. “For the rest of the day, I treat you like a princess. No more rough stuff.”

  Lydia made an inarticulate sound that might have been assent or resignation, and he hopped off into the en suite bathroom and began running the taps.

  She stared at her reflection in the ceiling mirror. The bite had not drawn blood, but her lower lip looked swollen and purplish. Her hair knotted and tangled all over the place and the beautiful bird of paradise on her knickers had been slashed with an irreparable rip across its plumage. Putting a hand to her inner thighs, she wondered if they would bruise—and the same thing went for her spine. Solid supporting walls were not easy on the coccyx during frantic standing-up sex, that was for sure. She would make a note of it.

  The memory of Milan’s brutal fucking was somehow much more potently erotic than the reality, and she began replaying it in her mind while her fingertips lingered at the crease between thigh and groin. Her clit, which had been so rudely ignored during the sex, began to awaken, sending its vibes of longing through Lydia’s body, tensing it up once more after the relief of the end of the onslaught.

  My turn now. She put her fingers on the swelling flesh and pressed, keeping away from the sore area below, watching herself move her other hand to her breasts, palming them slowly and rhythmically.

  “Come on in—the water’s lovely.” She heard Milan’s voice float through the en suite door. He had turned off the taps and it sounded as if he was in the bath.

  “Just a moment,” she said dreamily, rubbing and lifting her hips towards the reflective glass.

  “What are you doing? Can’t you move? Lydia?”

  He sounded concerned and she clicked her tongue in exasperation, hearing him rise out of the bath and step out on to the floor. Couldn’t he wait five minutes?

 
“Hey!” he said, catching her in the act. Dripping wet, with just a towel held in front of him, he looked mouth-wateringly gorgeous and a little bit put out. He shook a finger at her.

  “No orgasms happen in here without my involvement,” he scolded. “Even if I’m only watching. Take your naughty fingers out of your pussy.”

  “Ohhh,” moaned Lydia, who had been rolling closer and closer to a sweetly anticipated climax.

  “If you like, I’ll put my naughty fingers in there instead,” he offered, swooping down close to pull her up off her back and on to her feet. “That’s quite acceptable.”

  “You live by some odd rules,” remarked Lydia, allowing him to lead her into the bathroom, where a bath topped with extravagant foaming bubbles awaited them.

  “They are my rules,” he said, unhooking the bra and suspender belt. “I can’t live by any others.”

  “Life could be hard for you, then,” she said, wriggling back against him as he put a hand over her mons.

  “It has been already. But no more. I live my way, no arguments. And in my life, my woman does not come without my cock, or my tongue, or my fingers inside her. You understand?”

  “Your woman,” snorted Lydia, but then she sighed as he found the needy clit bunched up and hidden inside the folds of her vulva.

  “Mmm, this needs attention,” he said into her hair. “But get into the bath first. We can do that later.”

  “Later!” Lydia did not think she could wait too long, but Milan’s raised eyebrow persuaded her to step into the bath and defer her gratification, at least for as long as it took to get lathered up and sponged down.

  Milan attended to her so tenderly that it was hard to believe this was the man who had almost fucked her through the wall less than half an hour before. Nonetheless, Lydia trusted him, and leant back against him, letting the minor aches and pains dissolve into the frothy water. She breathed in the perfume of foam washes and shampoos while he treated her body like a rare and precious gift.

  “Now you’re clean,” he said, grabbing a bath towel from the heated rail and helping to fold her into it, “we can get you good and dirty again.”