The Red Collection Read online

  ‘Good girl,’ croons Sir, his hand curling around mine to render guidance.

  I hit the red zone and I shout and jerk and come.

  The next few moments are a blur of moaning and thrashing and pure dumb pleasure. I forget all about The Boutique, and my sales pitch, and my product. I’m just a bundle of feelings and a throbbing, pulsing clit.

  Eventually though, I come crashing down from whatever ‘up’ place I’ve been to, and rediscover the fact I’ve been giving a demonstration. With reluctance, I open my eyes, and meet Sir’s …

  They’re dark, so dark, and full of wicked mirth and what looks like a genuine sense of wonder.

  ‘That was excellent, my dear.’ His voice is arch and full of delight and slightly shaken by that revealing unsteadiness. ‘A very clear demonstration.’ He takes the extremely fragrant Spinetingler from my trembling, nerveless grasp, and runs his own fingertips slowly up and down it. ‘There’s obviously nothing whatsoever wrong with this.’

  ‘Um … no … It seems to be in perfect working order,’ I observe gustily, clutching at the scraps of my composure despite the fact that I’m draped across an armchair with my thighs splayed wide open and Sir’s face is barely a couple of feet from my sex.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ he offers as I wriggle and struggle and try to sit up. He offers his free hand to assist me with my efforts, while he springs to his feet with an effortless elegance so surprising in a big man. An instant later I’m back on my pins again too, albeit somewhat shakily, and tweaking my skirt back down to cover my naked thighs. A look of disappointment momentarily clouds Sir’s wide handsome face as he looms over me, but then it’s gone again, and he’s clearly thinking, thinking, thinking …

  ‘Yes, the Spinetingler is obviously an excellent product for a young lady like you,’ he observes, still fondling the stupid thing, ‘but what about a gentleman? Could he use it?’

  Oh, I can think of a million ways to use it on you, you disgraceful reprobate, I tell him silently, almost hypnotised by the way he continues to examine and as good as caress the silicone cylinder. Beneath my skirt, I get a naughty little renewed tingle in my sex at the thought of some of the things I’d like to do to Sir, and that reminds me that I’m no longer wearing any knickers.

  Where the devil are they?

  I glance quickly around, and notice a scrap of white lace peeking out of the pocket of Sir’s disreputable brown raincoat. I fleetingly consider accusing him of shoplifting, but it’s not really stealing, is it, because my panties weren’t on sale anyway?

  ‘So?’ he prompts, giving the bezel of the Spinetingler a little tweak, then as it buzzes, he casts an almost coy little glance downwards at his crotch.

  I glance too. Then feel really coy.

  There’s a prodigious bulge behind the fly of his charcoal-grey trousers.

  ‘Yes, of course, a gentleman could certainly use the Spinetingler,’ I say, trying to retrieve my efficient, helpful salesperson mode. Which isn’t easy, when I can’t stop snatching quick glances at that whopper down below, and speculating what it would look like outside those elegant grey trousers.

  Sir fiddles with the bezel a bit more, and the pitch of the buzz oscillates up and down. ‘Perhaps another demonstration would be in order?’ he suggests. He doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to play the serious shopper any more because he has a wide white grin plastered across his big handsome face.

  ‘Of course, sir.’ I’m sure my own grin is just as expansive too, and why wouldn’t it be? Any girl would smile at the prospect of getting to grips with a sex toy that promises to be far more impressive than the silicone Spinetingler. ‘Take a seat, and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  He sinks back into the chair that he occupied before and sets the Spinetingler down on the arm, but this time there’s no hiding of his light behind the bushel of his drab brown raincoat. This time, he carefully folds it back out of the way, and then, with no further ado, he unfastens his fine leather belt.

  When his long deft fingers go to the fastenings of his trousers, I forestall him.

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ I say politely, trying to mask the fact that my mouth is watering almost as much as my nether regions are, and that I’m dying to get to grips with his monster.

  ‘Why, that’s very kind of you, miss,’ he murmurs, then snags his lip again. His wickedly long lashes flutter as I dive for his trouser button, and then tease down his smooth-running zip.

  Naughty Sir! He’s not wearing any underwear!

  And boy does what lives in his trousers live up to my expectations!

  The flesh and blood spinetingler easily matches its silicone cousin, and is just as stiff and a good deal rosier and more appetising.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ remarks Sir, obviously not sorry at all, but proud as any typical male exhibiting his pride and joy, ‘I’m afraid your demonstrating had a very stimulating effect on me.’

  ‘No need to apologise, sir. It’s perfectly natural. I have to deal with this sort of thing all the time.’

  ‘Really?’

  Oops! Does he think I’m a slut?

  ‘Given the sort of merchandise we sell here, these sorts of situations tend to arise.’

  Sir licks his lips, and even though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, the ‘situation’ seems to arise even further than it has already arisen.

  I reach for the Spinetingler, even though I’m almost certain Sir has forgotten all about it.

  ‘Shall we give it a try then, sir?’

  For a moment, the hint of what just might be nervousness flits across those gorgeous features of his, but he nods.

  I switch on the mechanism, but keep it at the lowest level. Best not to give the poor man a heart attack, eh?

  Very lightly, I allow the buzzing toy to drift up the length of the underside of his shaft. I barely touch his flesh, but still those big, graceful, long-fingered hands gouge deeply at the chair arms and he cries out an impassioned, ‘Oh dear God!’

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ I enquire, glad that his long, long lashes have fluttered down and he can’t see that I’m grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

  ‘Fine,’ he gasps as I delicately circle the Spinetingler’s buzzing silicone tip around his tip. Which is much bigger and dark as wine with tumescent blood. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘But you’re not looking, sir,’ I point out, withdrawing the toy for a moment.

  ‘I don’t need to look, you silly girl,’ he growls, his hips lifting as if his marvellous dick is blindly seeking its new playmate. ‘Now just get on with it.’

  Ooh, getting testy are we?

  But then again, who can blame him? He’s seconds from detonation and I’m messing about and being very unprofessional. I decide to apply myself – and the Spinetingler – to his predicament. The silicone simulacrum, I slide carefully into his trousers, and apply lightly and delicately to his tender perineum.

  And myself?

  Well, I apply myself to the real thing. The delicious, gleaming, silky, rampant appendage that’s rearing up magnificently in my face.

  Sir’s eyes fly open as I take him between my lips. I can’t speak, because my mouth’s full – very full – but I silently challenge him to find better customer service anywhere.

  And as I work wickedly and tirelessly with tongue and Spinetingler, he utters a stream of the wildest and most midnight-blue profanity.

  But I know he only means it in a nice way …

  A long, shagged-out while later, I stir sleepily amongst the fallout of my sales pitch. The Spinetingler, the Naughty Nipple Clamps, the Pink Furry Love Cuffs, the Magic Vibrating Egg and a colourful selection of even ruder ‘samples’ lie scattered around us on the sitting-room rug, and Sir’s capacious brown raincoat is draped haphazardly across our sticky naked bodies. Over on the telly screen, an adult DVD is playing silently, on repeat.

  Sir groans and his large warm hand curves drowsily around my breast. His win
e-scented breath plays like a zephyr against the back of my neck.

  ‘What would I do without you, my love,’ he mutters, levering himself up and kissing the side of my throat and my jaw. ‘What other woman would indulge a disgraceful old perv like me and play his daft games with him?’

  ‘You’re not old,’ I observe, snuggling back against him and pushing my bottom against a rising erection that attests to a sexual stamina that would put a man half his age to shame.

  He laughs, and nudges me rudely with the thing. Neither he nor I deny that he’s a perv. Because he is one.

  And with every day that we’re together, I’m rapidly catching him up.

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he says as he suddenly leans right over me and starts to fish about under the adjacent coffee table, ‘because I’ve really been shopping.’

  Despite the fact that I find his penis poking against my backside very distracting indeed, I feel a tingle of purely retail-related excitement.

  Sir does very, very good shopping, especially online, and parcels tend to arrive with a delightful frequency.

  Agent Provocateur. The Erotic Print Society. Hotel Chocolat. All my favourites.

  But the carrier bag he pulls out from under the table is unfamiliar. It’s made from shiny blue and gold paper, and it’s little and dainty. After a moment’s hesitation, he puts it gently into my hands.

  The retail excitement turns to a different kind of thrill. Even the unflagging erection nudging my bottom becomes temporarily ever so slightly less of a priority.

  I lift out a small blue velvet jewellery box with the kind of dimensions that are coded into the genes of almost every heterosexual woman in the western, capitalist world.

  ‘Just a small item for madam’s consideration.’ His voice is soft and arch, much as it was during our silly sex shop game, but I also detect a hint of genuine nervousness.

  I flip up the lid, and breathe, ‘Oh Bobby,’ loving him more than ever when I see the box’s dazzling contents.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I declare, then roll to face him and seal the transaction with a kiss.

  Duet for Three

  WHAT THE FUCK?

  What is this? I wasn’t expecting this. When the woman on reception said there was a bit of a ‘do’ on, and I was welcome to join in, I didn’t expect it to be the bastard child of a fetish party, a rave and Northern wedding reception.

  Too weird.

  It’s a biggish room, an old ballroom or something, I suppose, but tonight it’s decked out like a rough approximation of clubland. The music’s a solid wall of complex, juddering sound, and there’s flashing, strobing light bouncing off the walls and the mass of gyrating bodies.

  God, it’s all completely mad. But I like it. I haven’t felt this psyched up in ages. My ears and my toes, and everything else between, are vibrating in time to the hard, thudding base beats, and my groin is suddenly tight with anticipation.

  I suddenly feel an intense desire to get laid.

  Smiling, I stroll towards the small, paid-for bar. I was expecting Strictly Come Dancing in a place like this – a discreet, out-of-the-way country hotel that I stumbled into by mistake when I got fed up of the motorway – but there’s no poncy foxtrotting around here, no way. They’re all throwing themselves around like maniacs, lost in the music, and the sweaty smell of adrenaline is almost solid.

  Yeah, Jason, you could have some fun here … My prick kicks again inside my shorts.

  At the bar, Mr Jack Daniels calls plaintively to me, but I ignore him. The fact I’ve been to a health farm – aka celebrity rehab – is the reason I’ve ended up in this godforsaken place. And I’m not going to undo all the shit from hell I’ve just gone through to get clean. Which means no booze for me. And no fags. And none of that other stuff either …

  But I will allow myself a woman, if I get lucky.

  I say, if …

  At one time, it would have been a piece of cake. I could have had a dozen bimbettes a night if I could’ve coped with them … and sometimes, high as a kite, I did. But I’m not part of a headlining boy band any more. I’m not even recognisable – I hope – as a washed-up ex-member of a washed-up ex-boy band. I’m just Jason Ripley, an average guy who’d maybe like to start again as a real singer …

  So, no JD. I order a mineral water and, as the young chap behind the bar hands it me, he gives me a strange, almost knowing look.

  Hmmm … Well, maybe I’m not as unrecognisable as I thought. I thought I’d be safe now my long, trademark blond locks are gone, along with my shades and/or my bright-green contact lenses. I’m just Mr Man in the Street with short, nondescript brown hair and an unremarkable pair of glasses. And no designer gear any more either, just a plain shirt, off-the-peg jeans and running shoes.

  No, I’m pretty sure the barman hasn’t recognised J-Boy Jones of the Forever Boys from Adam. He’s serving someone else now and has completely lost interest.

  As I sip, I turn my attention to the dance floor. There’s plenty to see, once my eyes adjust to the light and the movement.

  I was right about the fetish party thing. Although there are plenty of folk in ordinary clothes – jeans, smart casual, some quite dressed up – there’s also quite a lot of rubber and leather and all the rest of it.

  A man in arseless leather trousers. A woman in a rubber catsuit. A full-on gimp. It’s all a bit clichéd. But then I think about some of the stupid stage costumes that I wore, which played around with fetish looks. I must have looked a complete berk. Especially as I hadn’t the faintest idea in the beginning what it all meant. These people aren’t famous, or particularly glamorous, but at least I get the feeling that they understand kinkiness and perversity in a way that I never did. I was just playing. These dancers are for real.

  I’m just about dragging my jaw up off the dance floor at the sight of a truly gorgeous drag queen – who, disturbingly, also makes my prick twitch a bit – when a female voice pierces the cocoon of booming sound.

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  My heart jerks. It’s a voice I recognise, despite the music.

  I turn, and it feels like slo-mo. Surely it can’t be her? Why would she be here?

  But it is her. She’s here. And I feel kind of sick inside from a mix of shock jumbled up with guilt … and regret.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ repeats Maria Lewis, a woman I once dated in London. A lovely girl who I really didn’t treat well.

  ‘Maria?’

  An oblique smile, not unlike that of the barman, curves her soft pink mouth and, before I can say anything else, she reaches out and places her fingertips over my lips, to shush me.

  I’m semi-speechless anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. But the warm contact of her skin almost makes my heart stop.

  Fucking hell, she looks amazing.

  I didn’t know her for long, but she was always pretty, and in a far more refined way than a lot of the Z-list slappers that I went through.

  But now, oh hell, she’s just beautiful. Blue eyes brighter. Hair shorter, but blonder and wilder in a sort of sexy shag cut. Her perfect heart-shaped face has an inner glow of mystery, of life, of supreme confidence. And her body?

  Dear God Almighty, her body is just perfection – the stuff of every wet or waking dream I’ve ever had.

  She’s become every inch the superstar that I aspired to be and never was.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ she purrs, the tip of her forefinger pressing heavily on my lower lip for a second, dragging it down.

  I feel as if I’ve just been struck by lightning. And my cock, which was formerly just perky, has turned to iron.

  It’s a wonder I don’t fall arse over tit into the mass of dancing people. I just can’t take my eyes off her delicious bottom as she walks ahead of me, parting the swaying, gesticulating throng like a queen on a progress. Like I said, her body is perfect. And her bottom is more than perfect, if that’s possible. It moves and sways and lilts as if she’s dancing before we’ve even found our spot
. As if she hears the music in her bones and in her heart.

  Was she always this gorgeous? I suppose she must have been, but I was either just too wasted or too full of my own self-importance to appreciate her.

  But I’m appreciating her now. Bloody hell, am I appreciating her.

  Appreciating that marvellous firm arse, those long, long legs in a sleek, short, but elegant little black dress, and her superb breasts, as she turns towards me and gives me that narrow, cryptic little smile again. A smile that seems to combine with the staccato beat of the heavy, Latin-influenced track that’s playing and wind itself around my dick like a serpent.

  Shit, I’m in trouble.

  And then we’re dancing and I feel like a terpsichoreally challenged farmhand with seven left feet, instead of the pretty slick mover I once was. Seeing Maria again has rendered me helpless, almost infantile.

  But she moves like a goddess. A wild, uninhibited poem of graceful syncopation. I can’t remember if we ever danced together when we clubbed in the old days, but if we ever did, I’m sure she never danced like this.

  She commands the space we’ve found ourselves in, carving out more and more with the sheer force of her personality and the energy with which she twists and turns and sways. Her sinuous body seems to interpret subtle rhythms and embedded harmonies that lesser mortals just aren’t equipped to hear. I can hear them, because I was a musician of sorts before I pissed most of it away, but I can’t do with this music what Maria does.

  Fuck, I want her so much.

  Maybe that’s why my own feet and limbs just won’t work properly. Because my hard-on is so ironclad it’s almost agony. It’s as if I’ve been disconnected from all rhythm and coordination.

  She doesn’t look at me. Which is probably a good thing. She seems ensorcelled by the beats, her white arms lifted to heaven and her eyes closed.

  And yet, from time to time, when her eyes do open, she does look at somebody.

  We’re close to the edge of the dance floor, and when – with enormous difficulty – I can shake my eyes away from her for a few seconds, and follow her eye line, I see that I’m not the only one who’s watching her swirl and shimmy.