Eighty Days Amber (15 page)

My breasts pressed firmly against his chest, his cock nestling between my thighs. The furrow between my lips was moistening, his erection twitching, growing.

Like the quiet before the storm, the music flooding through the loudspeakers slowed imperceptibly, each note leaving a question in its wake.

Would I? Could I?

He took my jaw in his hand. Assaulted my gaze with his own.

We stood locked together, engaged in a silent battle of wills, a wordless conversation in which his intent was clear.

His eyes were brown and as dark as the deepest river. His pupils dilated as the blood of his arousal rushed to his extremities.

A pen squeaked against paper, the rasp of the ball scratching its trajectory of judgement in slow upward and
downward motion. Whether Madame A’s or Madame B’s it was impossible for me to tell as he still had my chin and with it the direction of my stare trapped in his hand.

The speakers flared to life once more and I was swept away by my golden boy, my feet following his as inevitably as summer follows spring, our bodies coiling together for the first time like two flames pushed inexorably towards one another in mutual combustion.

He danced with skill, grace, precision, his steps quick and sure, his legs long and elegant, engaged in a complex series of kicks and flicks between each of our open embraces.

With every turn I was swung powerfully to and fro, away from him, towards him, in perpetual staccato motion. It was the dance of the conqueror, the rhythm of the hunt and the hunted.

His cock had grown to fullness and its length and girth was like nothing I had ever seen. The sheer size of it made me expel all the air in my lungs in one quick gasp. A hot flush spread like a forest fire from my loins to my chest and face, suffusing my skin with a pink glow, causing my pulse to quicken, speeding the flow of the juices that were gathering like a tide in the valley of my cunt ready to embrace him.

He pulled me tightly to his torso again. His penis now completely engorged and pressed hard against my abdomen. Out of place, waiting for entry. I resisted the immediate desire to drop to my knees and take it into my mouth. To run my tongue over his shaft, from its base to its tip, to feel every ridge and each prominent vein, to choke on his length, to bring him to his climax, filling my throat with his hot fluid.

My body responded to his touch in animal fashion. An instinct as natural as any other. My nipples were as hard as
his cock and throbbed painfully, seeking the comfort of his hot lips and the ferocity of his teeth. I was wet with desire.

Another turn, another spin, another jump into his arms in vigorous gymnastic style.

The control was mine when the moment came and I raised my leg to achieve a vertical split, allowing him to follow with a thrust so severe it penetrated my very core.

For a few seconds, each as long as an hour, we stood like that, my legs stretched apart into one rigid pillar that followed the line of his torso and stretched above his shoulder into a perfect airborne pointe, his rigid cock encased completely by the tunnel of my vagina, which stretched to accommodate him with welcoming hospitality.

We were not fucking but conjoined. Each locked to the other in a dance step that was as old as time. I could not move without breaking away from his shaft so instead I surrendered and he carried me, propelled on the spear of his erection.

His expression remained unchanged throughout. The only sign of his exertion – or was it emotion? – the beads of sweat that gathered on his forehead, reflected in the glow of the harsh stage light like raindrops in a shimmering mirage.

He did not reach a climax. Neither did I. The dance ended when the music came to a dramatic halt and we remained locked together until the assessors coughed in unison, a reminder that we were engaged in a carnal show for the benefit of an audience and not each other. I could not suppress a sigh when he extracted himself from my grip and left me hollow, vacant.

He turned to our judges, gave a slight bow and then strode to the exit without a second glance.

The faceless women acting as judges of sorts did not
express any opinion, but their lips seemed to have moved from the straight geometric lines that they usually sported to a slightly upward expression, which I hoped indicated approval.

I had a day’s grace to recover before performing my next act, the Inca Priest sacrifice.

Again I began with Debussy. It was my lifeline, the piece of music that put me at ease in preparation for another unknown fuck.

For this set I had selected a Gregorian chant. The music was not remotely Peruvian, but the heavy, sombre tone suited the ritualistic intention of the show to follow and I found the choir of monastic voices trilling in deep melancholic cadence both soothing and seductive.

My Inca Priest, unlike the music, hailed from South America and he was dark haired, muscled, well hung and as beautiful as my previous partner, though he did not move me to arousal in the same way, and I was glad that on this occasion I had thought to pre-lubricate my entrance to facilitate the passage of what I knew would be another over-sized penis, as being hung like a horse was apparently one of the prerequisites for male members of the Network.

He had a large and ornate cross emblem tattooed on his chest. The cross lay inside a pair of wings like the spine of a bird. It was a half Christian and half pagan motif, which lent another note of mysticism to the show. The Network’s assessors had chosen my partners well.

The dance culminated in sex as they all did, but on this occasion I had added an extra element of shock value which I had not described on my check sheet so that it would be as much of a surprise to the two madames as it would to my eventual real-life audience.

When the moment came and the Inca Priest pierced the small bag that I had inserted deep into my pussy and the fake theatrical blood ran down my legs in a parody of Virgin sacrifice, the onlookers’ hiss was audible even over the throb of the loudspeakers.

They remained wordless, but I retained no small thrill of satisfaction at having elicited some sort of response from my two seemingly emotionless spectators.

The surprise was all mine when I met the partner in my third and final act, the Ballet School Instructor, and discovered that though identified in the catalogue as male, he had not been born a man in the anatomical sense.

He was tall and slender, his alabaster skin contrasting vividly with his dark, short haircut – a crop that accentuated the delicate line of his jaw and high, cat-like cheekbones. He had eyebrows as fine as a moth’s wings and a feminine curve to his chest suggesting the presence of breasts, however slight they might be. He wore flesh-coloured tights that did not in any way conceal the obvious bulge beneath them, but it wasn’t until he pulled down the stockinged fabric to reveal a harness and a dildo that I realised I was about to be impaled by a strap-on for the first time.

The experience of penetration was not diminished in any way by the knowledge that the instrument responsible was faux rather than flesh, and again I was impressed by the perceptive examiners who had reviewed the brief description of my proposed act and read into it the mixture of severity and femininity that encapsulated the Russian ballet instructors who had so affected my training.

‘You did well,’ said Assessor A, or Assessor B, with the barest hint of a smile on her lips when my third act had reached its finale.

And so, with the selection and training rigmarole complete, the next step on my journey began.

I packed my bag again.

Packing and unpacking had become such a regular occurrence in my life that I no longer allowed myself to become attached to the cities or the houses that I lived in or the friends or lovers that I gathered in each. I’d been born under a fickle star, and I supposed that moving from place to place was a part of my make-up as much as my flat chest and long, curly blonde hair. There was no point in becoming sentimental about it. Each new adventure was one of life’s seasons, ever changing. I may as well shake my fist at the rain or grow tired of the sun shining for all the good that it would do me to complain about going on the road again.

The Network folk had somehow managed to obtain a convincing set of fake documents for me. With my spurious paperwork I was now able to travel and work around the world to my heart’s content, and I began to see myself as more than a dancer. I was a nymph, a creature of the night, a woman of fire, a living promise of sex. Sometimes I wondered whether I was even real, or just the product of someone else’s dream. A teenage boy’s fantasy gone wild.

My dreams of fancy were abruptly shattered when Madame Denoux confirmed my first booking, in London. Someone there had booked the Ballet Instructor scenario. My departure from New Orleans was not to be in the direction of Paris, Milan, or any of the other glamorous cities that in my mind were places of intrigue and mystique. I knew London was a grey place, but I firmly intended to bring some colour to the place.

6

Dancing Alone

It was raining when I flew into Heathrow.

As it had been raining when I left Seattle, and for almost every day of the eight weeks that I had spent there completing the recruitment process with the Pleasure Network.

The similarity in weather conditions between the two cities brought me a small degree of comfort.

I peered out of the tiny window from the comfort of my plush armchair in first class at the city of London flying up to greet us through a layer of fine mist. It was hard to tell from such a height, of course, but the buildings seemed lower and less uniform than those in New York. The city was split in two by the long silver thread of the Thames River that wound through it. I could make out just one of the landmarks that I was expecting to see: the London Eye glowing whitely in the centre and adding a touch of frivolity to an otherwise sombre tone, an addition that I had always thought odd. Why would a serious town have a piece of architecture that would be better suited to a fun fair or Coney Island as one of its major sights? Such a thing would never happen in St Petersburg.

‘Your first visit to London?’ asked the woman sitting next to me in a clipped voice that could have hailed from anywhere. She was wearing a cream silk blouse buttoned almost up to the neck and on her feet, neatly crossed at the
ankles, a pair of tan loafers. Her scent carried a definite note of tobacco, and lemon zest.

‘Yes. I haven’t had the chance to travel much through Europe.’

‘You will enjoy it,’ she replied authoritatively, as if I hadn’t any choice in the matter.

She was reading a small book bound in soft black nappa leather with a duck-egg blue satin ribbon bookmark attached to the spine. The type of book that begs to be picked up and stroked. She leaned back and closed her eyes as we dropped through the sky and the plane began to judder as the pilot prepared for landing. I craned forward to read the title:
Scarlett’s Allsorts
, printed in brass letters in an old-fashioned font. The woman woke again, and began to read. I caught just half a line over her shoulder:
My body felt like it was singing
. I smiled.

The line set a dozen half-baked thoughts and images freewheeling through my brain, like a flock of birds headed skyward, upset by the arrival of a stone flung into their midst. What did the woman look like naked? I wondered. What type of lingerie did she wear? Not girlish, I considered. Nor old-fashioned. Plain, classic, well made and unfussy in black, cream or beige, perhaps slightly high cut in the knickers.

She stood up and stretched to reach her bag stored in the overhead locker. It was square, plain black with a solid zipper, almost a briefcase. She slipped the book into the side pocket. Her trousers were tailored and sat at her waist, emphasising the straightness of her figure, which lacked almost any sign of feminine curve besides the bulge of her breasts. Her hair was silvery grey and cut into a sharp bob. She flicked the stray locks on each side behind her ears
impatiently, displaying the roundness of her lobes, each one sporting a small pearl stud. I guessed that she was in her forties, though she might have been fifty. It was so hard to tell.

‘Is this yours?’ she asked, holding my black tote. I nodded as she passed it down to me.

I slipped into the aisle behind her, where I stood admiring the length of her legs and tight shape of her backside until the flight attendant announced that we were free to disembark and the short line of people ahead of us began to move.

We were the only women in first class. All the other passengers were men, most of them squat, pallid and uninteresting. They regularly threw both of us curious glances that I ignored, but at least none of them gave me a business card and suggested that we ‘come to an arrangement’ as the strange man in the seersucker jacket and knotted brown tie who accompanied me on the flight from New Orleans to Seattle had.

‘Thank you, Miss Volk,’ said the air hostess in a nasal twang that I barely comprehended as I squeezed past her to exit the plane and took my first steps into Britain, barely a step or two behind my silver-haired companion.

Tomorrow night’s set would be a breeze. I was booked to perform the Ballet Instructor, and the length of his tightly harnessed hard silicone dildo was bound to slip right in if my current mood was anything to go by. I felt slightly lightheaded watching the pair of loafers ahead of me walking up the ramp towards Passport Control in quick, sharp steps. She wasn’t wearing socks, and the flash of her bare ankle was enough to make my pussy throb.

Today I was travelling with a German passport. It would
be the first of many times that I would pass through customs with false papers. The man who checked the photo page and scanned it through the machine asked few questions and barely glanced at my picture before waving me through. He had a pock-marked face and a thick, square-cut jaw like a superhero who had fallen on hard times.

The grey-haired woman was waiting for me by the baggage carousel.

‘Are you a woman of the people, Miss Volk?’ she asked.