Secret Surrender Page 7

  Alice spread out her arms and legs and lay on her back on her bedroom floor, mind reeling, body helpless, like a starfish washed up on the shore.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JACQUES NEXT MADE contact via a letter tucked into some railings directly opposite Alice’s beauty therapist. She emerged into the street after her bikini wax and her eyes were immediately drawn to the innocent-looking square of pale blue paper neatly folded between two iron railings. He must have watched her go in, and she wondered if he knew what she had had done to her in there: the hot wax that dripped on to her pussy lips, with a sting that was as pleasurable as it was painful, smeared around her arse, going tantalisingly close to the clitoral hood, then being mercilessly ripped off, leaving her most private and sensitive areas exposed to the uninterested gaze of the beautician, her whole pussy denuded apart from that central downy blonde landing strip of hair on her pubic bone. And the skin, although pink and stinging now, would remain baby-soft and sensitive to Jacques’ touch when next they met. With no hair down there, not a drop of wetness was wasted. At any given time, someone could see exactly how turned on you were.

  This time, Alice did not wait until she got home but recklessly tore open the envelope in the street, stuffing it into her handbag and opening the letter in full view of anyone who might be watching: fans, paparazzi – she was beginning to care less and less about whether she got caught and more and more about her next adventure. Ironic, really, as the whole reason for having these adventures with Jacques was to protect her reputation, and her own behaviour was growing riskier all the time.

  You will walk up and down Rue des Mauvais Garçons until I collect you. Begin at nine tomorrow evening.

  The street was in a district she had never visited on foot before, but sometimes glimpsed through the window of chauffeur-driven cars between appointments in more glamorous areas of the city. Often the drivers would apologise before taking her through this tiny cobbled network of alleyways, reassuring her that it was one of the few shortcuts that could beat the Paris traffic in rush-hour. She remembered her naiveté when she had wondered aloud to the driver why there were so many tall women so extravagantly dressed walking down this particular street. He had informed her that these women were in fact transsexual prostitutes. Alice had kicked herself for not realising sooner: had life with Pierre made her blind to the vast spectrum of sexuality that thronged the streets outside the walls of their apartment? There were women dressed as men, men dressed as women, a few exotic creatures who could have been either sex; there were people of every race, every colour and every body type. She had marvelled at the sheer variety of what turned people on.

  On one such drive, hidden from the sleaze in the street by the dark tinted windows of her limousine, she had seen a woman so like Julie that she had cried out with shock and the driver had screeched to a halt. When the girl was directly outside the window, Alice saw it was not Julie. This girl was younger, her skin even lusher and creamier than Julie’s had been, hair redder, curlier and thicker. But her body boasted the same dramatically feminine contours, curves which Alice had a sudden desire to explore, feel and caress. For a crazy second she thought about hiring the girl. She could make an excuse to the driver. After all, what was that window between the client and the driver for if not for closing to create a private space on the back seat of the limousine? But in the time it took for Alice to contemplate peeling the skintight clothes off the girl’s body, to find out whether those skimpy shorts that were tight enough to highlight the slit between her legs were leather or rubber or PVC, the driver had put his foot down and accelerated away and the moment was lost for ever.

  To keep her appointment with Jacques, Alice did not travel in a chauffeured limousine but an anonymous taxi, hired on the streets, wearing a crude disguise of a Hermès scarf that she wrapped around her head to ensure that not a strand of her trademark blonde hair was visible and dark glasses that obscured her distinctive grey eyes. She also wore her pale grey trenchcoat, belted in the middle and underneath a simple wool dress.

  They turned a corner into a narrow street lined with flickering neon signs and women of all shapes and sizes and she knew that she had reached her destination and some kind of destiny, too. Handsomely tipping the cab driver, she extended one foot out of the car, then the other, swinging her pelvis round and keeping her knees together. Even when she was in disguise, Alice’s media training was so ingrained that she emerged from a taxi into a sleazy street as elegantly as she climbed out of a town car on to a red carpet. She caught sight of herself in a sex-shop window, her reflection a translucent ghost projected on to the window that displayed hundreds of pornographic DVD covers. She had to laugh at herself. The scarf, the glasses, the Grace Kelly trenchcoat; she couldn’t have looked more like a famous person desperate to avoid recognition if she had tried.

  True to her brief, Alice began to walk up and down the small streets. She felt like a sparrow hopping alongside exotic birds of paradise. Despite her dark glasses, she could see perfectly because of the neon signs which broke up the darkness of the narrow street. She was so transfixed by the other women that she almost forgot to look out for Jacques.

  She saw him loitering in the doorway of one of the smaller shops. The flickering pink sign spelled out the words Miss Demeanour and it was one of the more female-friendly shops along the street, with erotic lingerie as well as DVDs in the window. He wore a tight-fitting suit which showed off his slim frame and a black shirt and tie. He looks like a pimp, thought Alice, and instantly realised the nature of the game he would play with her tonight. Trepidation and excitement flowed through her.

  Wordlessly Alice followed him inside. He did not speak to her, and she did not dare to say anything for fear that someone would recognise her distinctive voice. Jacques proceeded to go shopping, picking garments off the shelves and rails seemingly at random. He selected white PVC boots that came all the way up to her thighs and a pink dress made of clinging Lycra. It had cutaways at the side and the midsection of the dress consisted of slinky silver chainmail. It was made of flimsy fabric and once on would leave nothing to the imagination. Alice noticed that Jacques walked past the lingerie section without stopping to pick up a bra or any panties. Finally he picked up a long, black wig. The thick tumbling tresses were as unlike Alice’s own fine shoulder-length natural blonde hair as could be. She noted with some relief that the wig also had a thick black fringe which would fall across her eyes and help to further obscure her identity. Jacques paid for the items while Alice pretended to be interested in some of the more tame underwear, demure white lace obviously intended for a wedding night.

  Jacques muttered something to the sales assistant, who nodded, and the next thing she knew, Alice was being ushered into the tiny cubicle. Jacques drew the fraying red velvet curtain closed.

  ‘Strip’ he commanded. Alice disrobed slowly, aware that her body would betray the arousal she felt simply at being so close to Jacques. Her nipples were hot and rock hard and the tops of her thighs were glistening with the gossamer dew that always accompanied his presence. She handed over to Jacques the simple city dress and kitten-heeled slingbacks she had been wearing and in exchange she received the cheap, tacky outfit that he had selected for her.

  ‘Seeing you dress like a cheap whore is going to get me harder than I’ve ever been in my life,’ snarled Jacques. ‘The mighty Alice Daumier, dressed up like a cheap tart. Reduced to a street-walker.’

  As he spoke he manhandled Alice’s body, raising her arms above her head, and cruelly forcing the skimpy pink dress over her head so that the silvery chainmail scratched her soft skin. There was even less fabric than she had thought and barely enough to cover her nipples. The sides of her breasts were exposed, the soft curve of flesh even paler than the rest of her milky body. The skirt was so short that the crease where the top of her thigh met her arse was visible if she bent down even an inch or two.

  ‘Please,’ begged Alice, ‘Please, Jacques, at least allow me the dign
ity of some underwear.’

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he said, amused. ‘This is all about removing your dignity. I’m going to debase you, Alice. Strip away everything you’ve built up since you left me. You’re complaining, but your body tells another story. You’re as horny as I am. Don’t bother denying it, I can smell it on you.’

  He knelt before her and helped her into the white boots. The five-inch heels tipped Alice’s whole body forwards so that she could not have run away even if she had had the courage to. Then Jacques put the wig on her and from his pocket, produced a hot pink frosted lipstick, so lurid and nasty that only a whore advertising her mouth as a receptacle for cock would ever paint her lips with it. It was certainly a far cry from Alice’s usual make-up palette of subtle roses and nude shades. After Jacques had tenderly applied the lipstick in a cruel, teasing imitation of his kiss, he spun her round and showed her reflection in the tiny changing-room mirror.

  ‘You look like a whore,’ whispered Jacques, ‘and tonight, precious Alice, award-winning actress, dutiful wife, you are going to walk the streets and be one.’

  She had known it was coming but hearing him say it was still shocking. She, a pampered princess, was about to take her place in a dirty dance with women of the night. She didn’t want to do it, but she would cope, for the reflection she saw was not her. She would method act her way through this, assume the identity of the woman in the mirror, that hooker with the long black hair, the second-skin pink dress with its metallic midriff and the street-walker boots.

  ‘Now go,’ said Jacques and tucked her handbag under his arm. ‘I will look after this. You don’t need it, and I want to see the cash from your transaction. I need to know that you really went through with this.’ Without her handbag, which contained her phone, her keys and her wallet, it all became real. Suddenly the reality of what she was doing dawned on her. She didn’t know much about the kind of man that went to visit prostitutes, but she expected to have to service a procession of unattractive, sleazy, smelly, middle-aged men who would penetrate her, grunting unpleasantly for a few seconds before driving off into the night and returning to their wives. Alice had never been with somebody she didn’t find attractive before: could she method act a wet and eager cunt? If she wasn’t turned on, would it hurt?

  Jacques pushed her out into the street and vanished. Agonising minutes passed while cars drove slowly past her and passed her over. Alice was acutely aware of the cold night air against her naked pussy and her nipples, hard like two little pebbles, protruding through her slinky dress. Finally, a shiny black Mercedes with tinted windows crawled down the street and somehow Alice knew he was going to hire her. She glanced at the car’s number plate and noticed that it was brand new. She might be about to fuck a gross old guy, but at least she would fuck one with money.

  The driver’s window opened with an almost inaudible hiss and a voice inside asked her how much it would be for straight sex. Alice was relieved that he did not couch his request in the coded language of the streets but immediately realised with a dizzying panic that she had no idea how much to charge. She quoted him 100 euros. The low whistle he let out told her that she had massively overpriced herself and she resigned herself to the fact that he would close the window and drive off into the night before she ever got a proper look at his face.

  ‘You’re asking over the odds,’ he said, ‘but a hard little body like yours is rare on the streets. I bet you’ve got a nice, tight little cunt to go with those pointy little tits.’ Alice heard a peep and the click as he automatically unlocked the back door and she slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘We won’t go far,’ said the punter. In the dark of the car interior she could only tell that his hair was dark and short – like every other man in Paris under the age of fifty. He swung his car round to the right and Alice found herself in a dark, abandoned alley behind some back doors of restaurants. There was no light in the alleyway, and when the stranger turned off the ignition key and dimmed the lights inside the car, it was even more impossible to make out the contours of his face. The thought of being screwed by a man without a face was strangely horny to Alice.

  One thing Alice did know from having played a part in a movie which featured prostitutes was that sex workers always took their money up front.

  ‘Cash,’ she said.

  ‘I was about to pay, don’t worry. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be worth it.’ They made eye contact in the driver’s rear-view mirror. She could only see a pair of black eyes which devoured the very sight of her. His breath grew shallower as he tilted the mirror, allowing his gaze to travel down her body.

  ‘Get in the back,’ he said, tilting the driver’s seat so that she could climb through the gap. She manoeuvred herself through head-first and felt his breath on the backs of her thighs as she eased herself over the gearstick and on to the seat. For a few seconds what light there was was blocked out as he followed her through and sat close to her, running his hand down the bones of her back.

  ‘I haven’t had a skinny bitch like you in a long time,’ he said, and she noticed a huskiness and depth to his voice that had been lacking before. He peeled five 20 euro notes out of his wallet and threw them at her one by one. The paper floated to the ground like feathers, caressing her body. She had to kneel on the car floor to pick up every note.

  ‘That’s right, stick your pretty arse up in the air while you look for your money. Christ, I’m getting hard just looking at you in that pink dress. Stay on all fours. Don’t move. I want to have you from behind.’

  There was the sound of a zip being undone and the tear and snap of a condom being removed from its packet and rolled over a hard dick. Then he was stabbing at her arse and thighs with the tip of his erection. He wasn’t lying about being hard: it was like being poked with a warm wooden truncheon. The featherlight-thin pink dress was barely there as it was, but when he forced it over her arse, exposing her skin, she felt more thrillingly vulnerable than ever. The chainmail scraped her skin like a violent caress. She was excited, but too nervous to get as wet as she needed to be to accommodate a hard-on that substantial. But it didn’t seem to matter to the man. He inserted a warm thumb into her hole, which was only damp, not dripping.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he breathed, ‘I’ve met dirty bitches like you before. Your hobby is your job. You’re gonna love this just as much as I will.’

  He was inside her before he had finished speaking, spreading her unwilling pussy and forcing a prick thicker than she had expected inside her. He mistook Alice’s wince of discomfort for pleasure and thrust into her, hard. As he pounded away at her, to her surprise discomfort turned to a vague warm pleasure. Just as she was beginning to rock her hips in time to the rhythm of his thrusts, he pulled out of her.

  ‘Turn over,’ he said. ‘Get your tits out.’

  Alice rolled on to her back and spread her legs wide, letting him see the pussy that was now swollen and glistening in the half-light. She pulled the dress down so that her small breasts were exposed. He put his hands on them and massaged her nipples. Alice felt the electricity of his touch in her clit as well as her breasts and longed for him to stimulate her there, but knew he was not paying her to please herself. This time when he penetrated her she was ready and greedy for cock, wrapping her feet around his waist and trying to rub her clit against his pubic hair, desperate for the stimulation that would bring her to orgasm with this unlikely partner. But when he suddenly became still and shuddered and swore before going limp, she knew that it wasn’t going to happen. She had gone from unwilling whore to the brink of an orgasm in the space of a few minutes, and although Alice was relieved she had risen to Jacques’ challenge, she couldn’t help feel cheated and disappointed.

  The client pulled out of her and rolled the condom off his subsiding erection. Alice closed her legs, wishing he would leave her alone for just a few seconds so that she could use her own skilled hands to give her her own orgasm, but instead he was zipping himself up and crawling
back through to the front. I will never know what he looks like, thought Alice, as he unlocked the passenger door. Alice made sure that her nipples and pussy were covered by her slip of a dress and left him in his car. He reversed out of the alleyway and was gone in seconds, leaving Alice on her own in a strange back street with a pounding clit, a spinning head and 100 euros in cash tucked into her white boot.

  Staggering back on to the main street, Alice bumped into another girl, and caught her breath. It was the girl, she was sure of it. The one who looked like Julie but was not Julie. She did not realise she was staring until the girl walked up to her and challenged her.

  ‘This is my bit of the street,’ she said. Her accent was educated Parisian and her voice soft and sexy. An idea came to Alice and she acted on the impulse before she had a chance to change her mind.

  ‘I’m not working,’ said Alice. ‘I’m buying. I want you.’

  ‘You?’ The girl looked Alice up and down. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I think I probably am,’ conceded Alice. ‘But you remind me of someone I used to know.’

  ‘OK,’ said the girl, still looking at Alice as though she were insane, then threw back her head and laughed. ‘What the hell. To be honest, it will probably make a nice change from servicing fat, ugly, married men.’

  Alice was quaking with fear and anticipation as she followed the girl down another tiny cobbled back street and into a dark doorway, which gave on to a dark red-painted stairway lit with a string of fairy lights. Alice followed the girl up the stairs, taking care not to trip on the tattered carpet, still unsure of her tread in these ridiculous heels. As she did, she got a great back view of the hooker. The skin-tight leather hotpants she wore left nothing to the imagination; her arse-crack and the soft swell of her round buttocks were inches away from Alice’s face and the fishnet stockings she wore underneath did little to hide an expanse of creamy white thigh. Alice licked her lips as she noticed the tight waistband cutting into the girl’s waist and a spillage of full but firm flesh peeking over the top. And then there was that hair; that long, red, spiralling hair, a burnt-orange mass of curls against the pale soft blue of her denim jacket. Alice could tell that the hair was so vividly red as to be dyed. I wonder what colour her bush is, thought Alice. Dark or fair? Is she hairy or shaved or waxed like me? It had been years since Alice had been naked with another woman and she was excited to be recreating the experience with someone who looked so like Julie. But she was excited for another reason, too: she was being bad and disobedient, getting a petty revenge on Jacques by refusing to play his game by his rules. There would be repercussions, she was sure, but she felt wild and mad and rebellious and horny.