A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel by Chloe Thurlow Page B

going to do, Greta May, going to set you up in a little flat, Hackney, somewhere up and coming, or Brixton. Somewhere with a bit of class.’
    Greta just listened. She knew Bill was enjoying his fantasy even more than he’d enjoyed pissing over her. She ran the water through her corkscrew curls and when she took off her knickers her pussy was so sticky it took all her will to resist nursing the throbbing little rosebud aching to be touched. The hot piss when it had first touched her skin had come as a surprise, a bit like the slap of Richard’s leather belt, but there was no aftershock to enhance the sensation, no follow through, just a glorious sense of decadence and not altogether unpleasant.
    She dried herself as best she could on a threadbare towel. She washed her bra and wrung it out with her knickers. She didn’t have a bag and put them on wet. She dressed in the pink suit and slipped into her pretty pink shoes.
    ‘Well, I really ought to go,’ she said.
    ‘Go? Go? What you talking about?’
    ‘I have to get back to work.’
    ‘Work? You’re going to be working with me now. We’re partners, ain’t we.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I can’t. I’m going on holiday Saturday, and if I don’t get back to work I won’t have a job when I come back.’
    ‘Do what? You mean…’ His voice trailed off. He was shaking with anger. ‘You snotty bitches are all the same, coming down here, leading me on. You’ve taken my money under false pretences.’
    At that he leaned over and grabbed the roll of £20 notes from her pocket.
    ‘Ooo,’ Greta said. She’d thought that was going to come in handy for her holiday money.
    ‘Now bugger off. Go on.’ Bill opened the door and shouted at her as she clopped her way down the narrow stairs. ‘Coming up here, pissing me about. I feel like a right berk, I can tell you. It’s all a big con.’
    Greta wasn’t sure why Bill was so angry. I mean, she hadn’t pissed all over him!
    ‘I’ve been done up like a kipper...’
    His voice reverberated down the stairwell, his words sounding as if they were from a script, from the same mystery play, and he was improvising, finding the poetry in his role.
    She wove her way around the horse posts and hurried back through Soho, the drummers steadily drumming, the boys in saffron chanting, Bill’s gruff voice ringing in her ears. She had allowed herself to be humiliated with such ease she couldn’t help wondering how far she may have let him go, how far she wanted him to go. Is there a limit, she asked herself, and answered readily that she really didn’t think there was. She had been repressing her natural instincts for so long she was like a coiled spring about to be sprung, a rocket primed and ready to fire. She glanced up as if in search of herself flying across the heavens. The sky was pure blue like a sheet of silk, the day sweltering, and she arrived back in Bond Street sweaty, hot and 20 minutes late.
    She rushed off to the lavatory, hung her soiled undies on a hook and that feeling that had come to her when she stood naked in Camden Market came to her again as Madame Dubarry watched her climb the aluminium ladder in the basement in search of a size 7 summer lace-up that was on the stock list but had vanished amongst the untidy shelves.
    ‘We’re going to have to stay behind and sort this out,’ Madame Dubarry said and Greta noticed as she looked down that Madame’s carmine lips had been freshly painted.
    The short man requiring a size 7 was to be disappointed but he grinned from ear to ear as Greta leaned forward and let his nose slip for a moment between her warm breasts.
    She steadied him on his shaky legs. ‘Why don’t you try again tomorrow,’ she whispered. He nodded like a bird dipping its bill into a lake and Greta thought it’s so easy to make other people happy and, when you make other people happy, you feel happy yourself.
    She discovered during the course of the afternoon that if she went down on her