Our Little Secret

by Jenna Ellis

  ‘No wonder you looked so goddamned hot in my dress,’ Marnie says from the other side of the room, folding her arms. ‘You, darlin’, have a magnificent ass.’

  I quickly glance over my shoulder at my bottom. I’ve never described it as great before, let alone ‘magnificent’, or even an ‘ass’, but I laugh anyway, feeling absurdly flattered.

  ‘Now then. Next are these,’ Marnie says. She has the joint in her mouth and she’s peering through the trail of smoke into a small wooden box. ‘Take that hideous thing off,’ she instructs, without even looking at me, flapping her hand at my bra. ‘It’s a disgrace to womankind.’

  I laugh and dutifully slip off my bra, crossing my hands self-consciously over myself at the front as I do so.

  She walks towards me, and now I see that inside the box is a pair of black sequinned nipple-tassels.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I laugh, peering into the box. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, with a grin. ‘These are my favourite bit.’

  I can’t believe I’m standing practically naked in front of her, but Marnie has made it feel so normal, like such a giggle, I suddenly don’t care. Hell, I want to try on nipple-tassels, and this could be my only chance.

  ‘Hold this,’ she says, giving me the joint, forcing me to expose one of my breasts as I move my arm. I take a deep drag. I’m conscious that I’m now bare in front of her, but she doesn’t react. This is cool, I think. She does this all the time. Don’t be a prude. I let my other arm fall to my side, my chest completely exposed now.

  ‘So. You have to put the glue on,’ she says, leaning down. She takes a small plastic tube from the box and unscrews the lid. Her face is close to my breast. I can feel myself shaking. She puts the tiny nozzle of glue against my nipple and a drop of cold liquid comes out. My nipples immediately stiffen.

  I look down at them and at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she smiles, raising her eyebrow, ‘it’s cold, right?’

  She takes the nipple-tassel out of the box and carefully sticks it over my flesh. It’s weird, but I like it. The heel of her hand resting against my breast feels so intimate. I’ve never been touched there before by a woman. I start to tremble in the cold draught from the window. My skin goosebumps all over.

  I watch as she does the other breast, concentrating hard, but now I feel something else as she touches me. It’s so intimate. So strange to be so close to her, but I can’t help feeling excited, too. The fluttery, shaking feeling increases.

  She cups her hands under my breasts and stands back to survey her handywork, checking the nipple-tassels are in line.

  ‘Aren’t you darling,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘Just perfect.’

  I flush at her compliment. I felt cold before from the draught from the window, but just standing here in my thong and two nipple-tassels, a wave of heat washes over me. I smile at her and raise my eyebrows, and then look down at myself with an excited grin. I want to wiggle, but she can tell this.

  ‘No, no, don’t move,’ she cautions. ‘Not until you’ve dried.’

  She takes the joint from me and parades to the other side of the room, dancing a bit to the music. I turn round to face the bed. I guess the corset is next. I can feel my legs trembling.

  I pick it up and, having ditched the joint, Marnie is back.

  ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘Put it over your front. I’ll lace you up at the back, but when you take it off, you undo the front, see?’

  I nod, examining the intricate hooks. Will I be taking it off? I’m more interested in how you put such a boned contraption on.

  I feel her close to my back, and the strings wrench me in and I yelp and laugh. I feel like Scarlett O’Hara, but a naughty version. I put my hands on my tiny waist. It feels great to be so cinched in. It feels nice to know the nipple-tassels are below. I see our reflection in the mirror, Marnie at my back bending over. I see the curve of her bum beneath the gown.

  ‘Edward loves all this,’ Marnie says, in a confidential tone. Her face is near my hair now. I feel the silk of her robe on the top of my arm. ‘He’s a sucker for a girl all dressed up.’

  There’s an edge in her voice that I can’t place. Does she know about last night? Is she talking about me? Or have there been other girls?

  But at that moment she spins me round and her face is so open and sweet, I dismiss the thought immediately. I can’t think about Edward. Not now. Not after last night. Not when this is happening, right here and right now. She pushes my hair back away over my shoulders. It’s such a motherly, proprietorial gesture. She’s loving this.

  She licks her bottom lip.

  ‘You look fabulous. But hitch up a bit,’ she says, still surveying me with a professional eye.

  She grabs the soft flesh of my breast and pulls it up inside the corset, careful not to dislodge the tassels. I feel my crotch flicker and twitch. My breath catches. Her hand is warm.

  ‘Wow,’ I joke, covering it up by looking down at my impressive cleavage. ‘Look at that.’

  ‘Look at that,’ she agrees, impressed. She squeezes the peachy tops of my breasts and makes a jokey, lewd guffaw, but her eyes are somehow serious as they meet mine. Then she strokes her hands over the curve of my waist. ‘How do you feel?’

  Her eyes are narrowed now.

  ‘I feel . . . I don’t know. It’s so sensual and sexy,’ I confess.

  She stares at me again, appraising me. I feel so flattered that she likes what she sees. I wish now I had make-up on, and heels and perfume. I wish I could be even better.

  ‘Put the stockings on,’ she says, flicking her eyes to the bed. ‘Roll them carefully, or they’ll ladder.’

  I like the way she gives me the instruction – like she’s this experienced big sister or something. I suddenly want to learn everything I can from her. I want to shine for her.

  I turn and put on the exquisite stockings, carefully rolling them up one at a time, but I’m so aware of Marnie. I glance at her on the other side of the room. She’s studying an iPad. What’s she doing? She’s not going to take photos, is she?

  In a moment she’s back, then she kneels down on the carpet. Her face is just inches from my barely covered vulva, but she’s concentrating solely on fixing my stocking tops with the suspenders. Even so, I can feel the heat of her breath as she fiddles with the attachments, her warm hand brushing my inner thigh.

  The quivering feeling inside me only grows. I guess this kind of get-up is designed to make you feel sensual, but I’m dismayed by how horny I feel. Maybe it’s just the music and the joint.

  Then, as she’s fixing the back stocking, she puts her hand between my leg to straighten the stocking at the front. The side of her hand accidentally slides against the silk of the thong. Everything beneath twitches. I feel an almost orgasmic flush rush through my abdomen.

  When I look down in panic, to see if Marnie has noticed, I glimpse the full swell of her breasts in her open robe and my mouth goes dry.

  Finally, after she’s put my feather headdress on, I’m done.

  She claps her hands, surveying her handiwork. I can see my own reflection in the dark glass of the window opposite.

  I can’t deny that there has always been an inner showgirl inside me. But my eleven-year-old dreams of one day being on the West End stage always remained a closely guarded secret. The gruelling dance lessons Mum took me to taught me that I would never have the stamina or self-discipline to make that dream happen. But standing here, all dressed up, I feel a remnant of inner hope coming alive. This feels like it might be the performance of my lifetime.

  ‘Now, it’s time,’ Marnie says, arching one eyebrow and staring directly at me. ‘You dance, right?’

  And at that moment I realize that she knows. She knows everything. Because otherwise why would she ask in such a loaded way if I dance?

  35

  I fight down my panic and don’t look at her as she picks up the iPad.

  I’m being paranoid, I tell myself. She can’t know, c
an she? if she did, she wouldn’t be this nice to me. Would she?

  The music changes. Marnie throws her hand up in the air and wiggles her hips, a coquettish Marilyn Monroe move that makes us both giggle.

  ‘Oh yeah. Here it comes, baby,’ she cries as music fills the room. It’s a bawdy tune I’ve never heard, all trumpets and trombones, sliding and suggestive. Its hip-bumping, boob-thrusting rhythm surges through me.

  ‘Go on, dance for me, baby,’ she shouts over the music. She grins at me and claps her hands.

  I sigh and roll my eyes and flap out my hands. ‘I can’t. I don’t know how.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Fuck it, who’s here to judge?’ she shouts over the music. Thank God it’s so loud. ‘Do what comes naturally. Go on. Have a go.’

  She shimmies her shoulders at me to encourage me. I see her breasts jiggle. I reach up and feel the length of the feather through the silk glove on my hand. I feel at once ridiculous and excited, and I can’t fight the power of the music.

  I want to perform. I cock my hips out to one side. I run the glove down the smooth curve of my bum. Marnie wolf-whistles, slides back onto the windowsill and watches me. She claps her hands and laughs. ‘That’s it.’

  I like it that I can make her laugh. I waggle my fingers in the glove and stretch my arm out, imagining I’m some sort of Wild West hooker. I’m performing as much to my own reflection as I am to her. I strip off my glove, then twirl it around my head and throw it at her.

  The gesture is so confident, it gives me courage.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she says. ‘Give me some high kicks.’

  She whoops with joy as I high-kick, then turn around and waggle my bum.

  She wolf-whistles again. ‘You’re one hot lady,’ she catcalls.

  And I feel it. Slowly, with her encouragement, I start to strip. It feels brilliant to perform for her. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, and I’m certainly no Dita Von Teese, but I feel sensual and horny and in my power. I get it now. This is what Marnie is all about. This – this sexual, womanly quality that makes her so attractive. Because right now I feel like I have it, too.

  And it feels great.

  I run over to the chaise longue on tiptoes and twirl seductively on its seat, before putting one leg up and undoing my stockings. I’m hamming it up, but Marnie is loving it, and the more she does, the more I enjoy myself.

  I dangle the stocking over her, running it along her face. It’s a ridiculous gesture.

  ‘Baby, you’re a natural,’ she says.

  I nimbly skip, turn and flirt my way back to the carpet steps, then fumble with the front of the corset, still twirling along my carpeted stage, then I pull the open sides together and slowly reveal my breasts. I feel sexy, like I’ve never, ever felt.

  Eventually I’m back as I was before, in just the thong and tassels, but now I don’t feel naked, or vulnerable. I feel clothed in something invisible. Something that’s womanly and powerful.

  Marnie is standing before me now, staring at me. In fact she hasn’t taken her eyes off me, but I don’t feel embarrassed. I feel thrilled to perform for her. I like her seeing me like this. I know she gets what I’m feeling.

  ‘So what next?’ I grin. I’m out of breath. I look down at the tassels. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want this to end. And there’s something about the tassels. I’ve never really properly celebrated my breasts before, even though they are so fundamental to my sexuality. And here they are. Dressed up for Mardi Gras.

  ‘You sort of bounce on your heels,’ Marnie instructs. She stands in front of me to demonstrate. Her robe is open now, but still covering her. She’s only wearing simple black knickers beneath. I watch her ample breasts bounce, and suddenly I long to see them. I want her to be doing this with me.

  ‘That’s it,’ she laughs, as my nipple-tassels spin. ‘The trick is to do it in both directions.’

  She sort of comedy-wiggles her shoulders, but I can’t. I stick my tongue out of my mouth, trying to coordinate my nipple-tassels swinging the other way, but it’s impossible. And very funny.

  I’m laughing and Marnie is laughing, too. I’m stoned and giddy and dressed as a burlesque dancer, learning from my boss how to tassel-waggle. The absurdity of it couldn’t be funnier. And then I stumble forward on the step, just as I’ve got the tassels to go in a circle. I fall into Marnie’s arms.

  She doesn’t pull away, and all I can see is her lips.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she whispers, suddenly serious.

  And I can’t breathe. Because she says it like you’d say it to a lover. An equal. In those two words she acknowledges our nakedness, or sexuality, our attraction. She doesn’t pull away, and neither do I.

  I feel a kind of thrilled terror of the kind I’ve never felt before. Because with those words, she’s made this real.

  She’s made me hers. But I’m not.

  But then her smile kind of freezes. And then I hear it. What she’s obviously picked up on first.

  ‘Marnie?’

  The voice is faint, but it’s obviously Edward downstairs.

  I gasp, coming to my senses. Edward is here and I’m in a sensual embrace with Marnie, wearing only the skimpiest of G-strings and nipple-tassels.

  Marnie’s eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Oh God. You look so funny,’ she says, registering my panic as I spring away from her. The nanosecond of serious intimacy is broken by her laughter. Like it never happened.

  I grab my clothes from the floor, wrenching my jeans on and hopping into them. I pull on my hoodie, not bothering with the zip, and scoot for the door.

  I can’t look at her.

  I can’t bear this.

  She lolls against the door frame as I charge along the corridor, like a frightened rabbit, to the service lift, praying that Edward is using the stairs.

  36

  I get to my room and press myself against the door. I’m panting, gasping for breath. I’m trembling all over. Marnie’s laughter is ringing in my ears.

  I can’t believe that Edward is here and he nearly caught us just now in her room. What would have happened if he had? Why was Marnie so unflustered? Why did she think it was funny?

  And that moment.

  That moment.

  Hey, you. I can’t get it out of my head.

  But then it was gone so fast, maybe I imagined it.

  I feel sick with the thought that she might think I was coming on to her. That my seductive dance was somehow real.

  There’s a whole load of lines that seem to have blurred, and my actions and feelings don’t make sense at all.

  And that’s what makes me feel so angry. Because she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t care. She gets off on that kind of thing happening. She admitted it herself to me earlier. She’s an adrenaline junkie. She likes living on the edge. She made it very clear what makes her tick. She must have known all along that Edward was on his way home. She must have been smoking that spliff, knowing that any second she might get caught. She must have dressed me up and made me dance, knowing the same.

  It’s all very well for her to live like that, but it’s not fair that she used me like that. For a thrill.

  How fucking dare she, I think, omitting a low growl. I’ve been duped again.

  But it was my thrill, too. I went along with it, didn’t I? It wasn’t as if I checked where Edward was, or when he’d be back. I just got sucked into Marnie’s world, like I was this morning. I feel like I did when I was in the car, all over again. Sick and angry and cross.

  I groan again and bury my head in my hands.

  You look so funny. Her taunt rings in my ears.

  I’m annoyed that I feel like this. Like a fool for running out of there, like I’ve condoned her impression of me as a prude. She clearly enjoyed me being embarrassed, but now, having run away, I’m upset I reacted like I did. Once again, I feel completely wrong-footed by her. I feel stupid and young and immature, like I was only playing at being the kind of mature woman Marnie is.

  Did she
expect me to stay? Be cool about what was going on?

  Clearly, the answer is yes.

  I think of all the models she must have seen. All the private clients she referred to: world-class women who have the money and sex appeal to dress up in the classiest underwear money can buy. And here am I, scuttling around like an idiot.

  Again, I think of the film I discovered last night. Now I know that Marnie smokes, I can’t help wondering whether she set up the film for me to find. She’s such an exhibitionist, I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Is she testing me, I wonder? Could I really have carried it off, if we were found together by Edward? Edward saw me last night in that dress Marnie designed. He wouldn’t have been shocked to find me in her room helping her unpack, but now I’ve gone and made it a huge drama.

  What’s happening now, I wonder? Is Edward in her room? Are they discussing me? In the silence I strain my ears, hoping for clues, but the house is silent. Or maybe I’m too low down on the list of things they need to discuss? After all, Marnie hadn’t even told me she was in this evening. Maybe the minute I was out of her sight, I was out of her mind.

  Perhaps she’ll pretend it never happened. Knowing her, even just a tiny bit, I can imagine her right now, sweeping all the corsets into the crate, stubbing out the spliff, facing Edward after his day . . . where? Where has he been? I can’t even make the most basic of guesses, I know so little.

  Or maybe she’s getting dressed up in a corset herself. She told me that Edward likes a girl all dressed up. Perhaps she’s seized the moment and is dancing for him to that music right now. Just the thought of it feels like a dull ache in my chest.

  I go into the bathroom and move to the sink, washing my face in cold water. Away from the candlelit bedroom and Marnie, I feel dizzy and nauseous. I’ve smoked more in the last two hours than I have in my entire life. I shouldn’t have pretended I could keep up with her. I was showing off. Hoping to impress her.

  But what will she think of me now?