STRIP GIRL
Aishling Morgan
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
By the Same Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9780753537282
www.randomhouse.co.uk
This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe, sane and consensual sex.
First published in 2006 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Rd
London W6 9HA
Copyright © Aishling Morgan 2006
The right of Aishling Morgan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
www.nexus-books.co.uk
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC
ISBN 0 352 34077 0
ISBN 978 0 352 34077 1
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
STRIP GIRL
‘Yes!’ he grunted. ‘That’s you, Sarah, my dirty little tart … my filthy dirty fat little tart.’
She was in orgasm, his words burning in her head, her resistance gone, and she was babbling, the awful words breaking through a final pang of despair.
‘Spank me, Giles … spank my bottom … spank me, punish me … oh shit!’
Her orgasm exploded in her head, the awful admission only making it stronger, and she was still rubbing at herself and sobbing in ecstasy as he pulled his cock from her vagina and finished himself off all over her upturned bottom cheeks and in the crease between. As she sank slowly down onto the bed she could feel his spunk trickling down into the tight dimple of her bottom hole, for the second time. He spoke.
‘You are such a trollop, Sarah. I think I’m falling in love with you.’
By the same author:
THE RAKE
PURITY
VELVET SKIN
DEMONIC CONGRESS
CONCEIT AND CONSEQUENCE
MAIDEN
CAPTIVE
INNOCENT
PRINCESS
TIGER TIGER
PLEASURE TOY
DEVON CREAM
PEACHES AND CREAM
CREAM TEASE
DEEP BLUE
SATAN’S SLUT
NATURAL DESIRE STRANGE DESIGN
CRUEL SHADOW
TEMPTING THE GODDESS
SIN’S APPRENTICE
WHIPPING GIRL
SCARLET VICE
WENCHES, WITCHES AND STRUMPETS
THE OLD PERVERSITY SHOP
One
Sarah Shelley made a final set of marks with her brush, setting the number 302 on the heavy paper. Céleste du Musigny was nearing perfection: her face was a poem in confidence and poise, her hair a cascade of utter black, her body lean and taut and strong, her breasts high and firm, her hips in exact proportion, her legs pure grace. No, Céleste was perfect, projecting so strong a character from the page that Sarah found herself blushing for having drawn her heroine naked, and was immediately amused by her own reaction.
‘I apologise, Mademoiselle du Musigny,’ she said, once more dipping her brush into the Indian ink. ‘I shall correct my error at once.’
She was smiling to herself as she began to paint on an elegant black cocktail dress. Naturally it was unthinkable that Céleste should be nude, even in the presence of her creator. Céleste was dignified. Céleste was refined. Céleste would have absolute confidence in her body, but would go naked only in the presence of some favoured lover, strictly off the page. Sarah, on the other hand, might very well go naked in the presence of Céleste. In fact it would be appropriate, save that to paint naked would have felt foolish.
A few practised strokes and Céleste was decent; more than decent in fact, she was exquisite. Sarah paused, wondering if it was possible to make Céleste anything other than exquisite. Perhaps drawing 303 should show Céleste in sloppy jeans and an inkstained top, more like her creator? No; while Sarah felt a complete ragamuffin in her day-to-day work clothes, Céleste would come out as the darling of Montmartre and the Rive Gauche. Besides, it would be an unthinkable liberty to attempt to spoil Céleste’s poise.
Smiling for her own fanciful imagination, Sarah sat back, sucking her brush and immediately regretting it as she realised it was still full of ink. A moment with tissues and water, and she returned to her thoughts. Yes, Céleste was perfect, at last. All Céleste needed was a buyer.
As always, the thought of her efforts to make her art work commercially broke Sarah’s mood. Rising, she went to the kitchen and began to make coffee. Mak had left everything out before going to work, including the milk, which she returned to the fridge after just a moment’s hesitation. Refusing to play mother to her flatmate was all very well, but sour milk was vile. It looked like being another hot day too, with the sky pure blue save for a pair of vapour trails and the air hazy above the rooftops of Stepney.
Céleste, Sarah reflected, would never have lived in an attic flat in Stepney, except possibly while working undercover as the moll of some dangerous East End gangster. If Céleste condescended to live in London at all, she would choose Chelsea, or somewhere equally expensive and fashionable, not Stepney. Céleste would have money, and accept it as her natural due, while Sarah had nothing, less than nothing when her student loan was considered.
The faint clack of the letterbox broke into what was threatening to become a depressing train of thought. Sarah continued to make her coffee, telling herself she was not going to rush downstairs and see if it was the post, a resolve that lasted only as long as it took to scatter a spoonful of granules onto the milk. Knowing full well that she was almost certain to find nothing more interesting than a pizza menu, and that if it was post it would more than likely be a bill, she hurried down.
It was the post, mostly for the other flats, but two for her, one announcing that she might be the winner of an improbably large sum of money, the other a large brown envelope in her own handwriting. Unable to wait, she tore the flap open, as hopeful as ever despite knowing full well it was likely to be yet another rejection. The heading immediately caught her eye: Ehrmann and Black, the parent company for the Daily Watch and a host of other publications. Below was a brief note, from a Mr Bowle, the arts editor, asking her to come in for an interview.
<
br /> Settling herself against her pillows, Sarah waited until the bang of the flat door signalled the departure of Mak. There was no hurry at all, with the interview at twelve o’clock and the Ehrmann and Black building just a ten-minute train journey away, yet she was already full of nervous tension. Everything was ready, her portfolio laid out the night before, along with the blue summer dress she had decided to wear. Looks shouldn’t count, but they did, and Mr Bowle would undoubtedly spend his days surrounded by smart fashionable young women, women who didn’t have awkwardly large breasts and the sort of bottom that had earned her the nickname ‘medicine ball’ at school. The blue dress made her look rustic, but that was an improvement on bulbous.
Not that she was actually fat, but if anything her slim waist only served to make her bust and bottom look bigger still, a source of constant embarrassment since puberty. Where most women could maintain as much or as little sexual display as they pleased by adjusting clothes and make-up, for her there was little option but to show off, and with a figure about as unfashionable as it was possible to imagine.
She gave a low sigh as she pushed the bedclothes down. The top she’d worn to bed had ridden up around her waist, leaving her hips and belly bare, with just plain white panties to cover the bulge of her sex. She was certainly feminine, that much was undeniable, as was her response to her own body, a blend of embarrassment and arousal. On impulse she pulled her top higher still, up over her breasts as she turned to see how they looked in the mirror. Big.
Actually, ‘big’ didn’t really do her justice. Her breasts were absurdly large, two great heavy balls of female flesh, like something from the most primitive forms of male-oriented pornographic art, or some of the Japanese Manga she had seen at college, in which every woman had huge pneumatic breasts. Yes, she could very well be a Manga girl, holding her top up for the inspection of some eager Japanese boy with floppy black hair and a huge straining erection.
It was rather a nice thought, although not one she’d have admitted to, even to Mak, for all that he was forever trying to persuade her to be more adventurous. That was all very well for him. He was gay, and highly attractive, which allowed him to go through multiple partners the way she went through cups of coffee. Even had she wanted to, that sort of behaviour was impossible for a woman, and yet …
… and yet it would be nice, even if only as a fantasy. It seemed to be a standard of Hentai Manga that the girls needed to be coerced in some way, or to display themselves by accident and have the boys take advantage. That would be good, because it would take the choice out of her hands. Perhaps she would tear her dress on the way to the station, right off, so that she’d be left standing in the street in her panties and bra? It would be unbearably embarrassing, unthinkable in real life, but as a fantasy, rather nice.
Sarah closed her eyes, wondering if she should masturbate, and telling herself that it was a good way to make herself feel less tense. Not that there was any real choice, as she was already stroking her breasts as she imagined going bare in public. Her bra would have to come off, obviously, and her panties, because naked was best, naked in the street as she made a pathetic and futile effort to cover herself, with just two hands and her pussy, boobs and bottom to conceal, leaving her no choice but to have something showing.
Another image came to her, a common one from the coy US girlie art of the ’fifties; a pretty girl, exposed in public, trying in vain to cover the V between her legs and a pair of large breasts. It was just the sort of image that had always fascinated her, as did any erotic art that focused on female embarrassment. Usually the girls’ sexual characteristics were exaggerated, but with her body it really would be impossible to cover herself, her hands hopelessly inadequate to the task.
Feeling a little silly but strongly aroused, Sarah got up, peeled off her top, pushed her panties down to the level of her thighs and struck the same pose in front of the mirror. It was hopeless. She could cover her sex, but the bare spread of her hips and her lowered panties made her look both lewd and vulnerable. Her breasts were barely hidden at all, even the outer curves of her big areolae showing a little.
It felt right though, for her, stripped of her dignity in public, maybe even as a punishment, so that men could enjoy the view, maybe women too, maybe Céleste du Musigny. After a while – but only when everybody had enjoyed a good stare – somebody would give her a coat, not out of gallantry, but so he could get the introduction he needed to seduce her. He’d take her back to his flat, give her a large glass of whisky, and … and talk her into showing her breasts again, into taking his cock out, into sucking it, into letting him rub it in her cleavage.
Sarah lay back on the bed, her eyes closed, her fingers busy on her nipples and between her thighs. Her panties were in the way and she pushed them further down, to her ankles, but not off. They felt better down, keeping her exposure constantly in her head as she masturbated. Maybe he would be Japanese, some firm confident young businessman from the city. Oh yes, he’d soon have her panties down and his cock between her breasts, just like in the cartoons, fucking her cleavage and coming all over her face.
She cried out, wriggling her body into the bed as her pleasure rose towards orgasm. Her legs came up and her ankles came wide, deliberately rolling herself up with her panties stretched as taut as they would go, imagining them pulled down to show her off the way she was, her huge breasts flaunted, her thighs spread to display her sex as her fingers worked in the slippery folds, even her bottom open to expose the rude pink anal star between her cheeks.
All it needed was a man, a man obsessed with her body, so urgent for her he couldn’t control himself as he worked her over with his cock. He’d put it in her mouth, between her breasts, between her bottom cheeks, rubbing on the slippery little hole between, definitely in her pussy. She’d beg him not to do it inside her, and in return he’d whip it out at the last moment, to pull himself off all over her face and in her mouth.
At the thought of having a man come in her face Sarah’s body arched in orgasm. Her mouth came wide in a wordless cry of ecstasy as she imagined gout after gout of sperm erupting into it and over her chin and neck and cheeks, and she was rubbing hard at her sex and clutching her breasts as shock after shock ran through her, until at last it was over. She subsided, to lie shivering on the bed, her eyes still shut, her mouth curved up in a contented smile. It had been good, one of her best, and if there was a trace of disappointment that it had been alone, again, then she knew full well she would have done it anyway, partner or no partner. Masturbation was nice, harmless and free and deliciously naughty.
Sarah took her time in the shower, then drank a leisurely coffee as she dried herself and brushed her hair. After twice changing her mind, she settled on the simple blue dress she’d chosen before, pulled on over a brand new lacy set of bra and knickers, chosen simply because they made her feel good, and to be dressed as well as possible went some tiny way to calming her nerves.
She found if hard not to fidget on the train, and it was worse still as she waited in the marble reception hall of the Ehrmann and Black building. Everybody looked exactly as she had feared, brisk yet relaxed, casual and confident. Even the receptionist looked as if she had stepped straight out of an expensive public school, svelte and impossibly neat, with her blonde hair up and her chic black skirt suit a perfect fit.
Every time the lift doors opened Sarah found herself looking around with a nervous smile, but none of the people who emerged took the slightest notice of her, until two men stepped out and stopped, glancing around. One was perhaps fifty, bald, with a thick brown moustache, his shirt front pushed out by a substantial paunch, his suit expensive but crumpled. The other was much younger, and taller, with untidy straw-coloured hair and an amused expression on his rather bony face. He was in shirt sleeves.
Sarah stood up, promptly dropped her portfolio but managed to catch it before the contents could spill out, and turned her smile to the two men. The older one noticed, his eyes flicking from her face to
her chest and back in a manner with which she had become all too familiar. And it seemed to her that his smile held more than a little of the lecherous as he stepped towards her.
‘Sarah Shelley?’ he asked, extending a hand. ‘Hugh Bowle. Pleased to meet you.’
She took it, a somewhat clammy grip, but a strong one. The other man had also approached and his eyes had also moved to her breasts, but with frank appreciation rather than the shifty manner of his companion. He favoured her with a wolf-like grin.
‘Giles Compton-Bassett,’ he said, his voice exactly the upper class drawl she had expected. ‘I’m your writer.’
‘My writer?’ Sarah queried. ‘But I haven’t been interviewed yet, and –’
‘No need for that,’ Bowle interrupted her, starting for the main doors. ‘Come and have some lunch.’
Sarah hesitated, wondering what she should do with her portfolio, but Hugh Bowle’s hand was already on her hip, just high enough not to be actively objectionable, and she was being steered across the foyer. Giles Compton-Bassett fell into step on the other side of her, speaking as they stepped out into the plaza, with the towers of Canary Wharf rising up on three sides.
‘I’m hoping you’ll work with me anyway, but your art’s great, so unless you turn out to be a complete flake, you’re in.’
‘Um … thank you, I think,’ Sarah managed, ‘but I thought my story …’
‘No good, doll,’ Bowle cut her off. ‘All this feisty woman spy stuff is out. Too ’nineties. Anyway, who’s to spy on, except the towel heads, and they’d spot her in a minute. We need something classic, something the boys’ll get off on.’
‘Have you read the old Wicked Wanda cartoons?’ Giles asked.
‘By Ron Embleton, yes, I know his work,’ Sarah admitted, ‘but wasn’t that a bit – a bit –’
She wanted to say ‘dirty’, but she knew it would be the wrong word. It seemed that she had the job, or at least a job, a job as an artist. Something she had been working towards for years now seemed to have dropped in her lap. Everything was happening too fast for her to take in, but she finally managed to find the right words.
Strip Girl Page 1