Suzie and the Monsters Read online

  Just Getting Started (Friday)

  The girl in the mirror looks young, maybe twenty, twenty-two years old, too old to still be in school, but young enough not to stand out in the company of older school girls or students, like those standing beside me at the mirror as Forever Red, chosen for its name as much as its colour, glides across my lips. Jenny and Lisa standing to my right, chattering away excitedly about boys and how great it is to be away from home at university, no parents to monitor their every movement. Jenny, next to me, wears a flowery fragrance, Versace Bright Crystal, I think, but underlying that is her natural flavour, rich, raw. Her natural blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail that reaches down to her waist. As she darkens her lashes, her bright blue eyes fixed on their reflections, I step back and peek down at her bare thighs visible between her glittery blue dress and thigh-high leather boots.

  Lisa, blonde but not natural, pale pink lipstick, gold wrap and cheap, strappy golden stilettos, catches me checking out her friend and turns to shout at me, hesitating only while she decides whether to call me a lesbo or a bitch, or some more modern slang that I won’t understand, but it’s a moment long enough for her to look at me, her hazel eyes focussing on mine focussing on hers, the core of my being a perfect calm to absorb the storm gathering in her head. She falters, and I give her a smile full of warmth while my body stays relaxed and unthreatening. She smiles back, a fleeting half-smile, an automatic reaction that leaves her even more confused.

  Even as that brief glimpse of sunshine fades away, I step past Jenny and take Lisa’s left hand in my right, and press it to my chest, or rather to the steel-boned corset that flattens my breasts but accentuates my waist. I hope that the feel of the stays and the red embroidered dragons beneath her fingers will help to distract her from her rising alarm. I can feel her pulse racing. Her skin smells of ylang ylang, her hair of apricots. I continue to project relaxed calm. ‘I’ve dreamed of you, Lisa,’ I murmur, ‘last night, and the night before, on a golden beach, moon full in the darkening sky, stars twinkling through your tangled curls.’ I keep my voice calm, even, and move her fingertips slowly down across the embroidery.

  ‘There is a man beside you, tall, muscular, tanned, holding your hand possessively like a man who has just made love to a beautiful woman, like a man who wants to make love again, and again, all night long, while the waves wash up on the beach around you and the stars race across the black night of your tropical island paradise.’ I lower her hand and release it. I can look away now.

  Jenny has turned to watch us, trying to decide whether I’m a crazy person or just weird. ‘You a psychic or something?’ she asks, with a gentle snort at the absurdity of her question.

  I give her a smile, warm but mischievous. ‘Watch this,’ I reply, and turn back to Lisa. ‘When the door closes, you will wake up. You will forget me. You will forget that you are here with Jenny. You are here to find a man who will make love to you the whole night long. You know no fear. You are a goddess and anyone who rejects you is a fool. The night is yours. Embrace it. Go. Now.’ So saying, I open the door to the dark corridor that leads back up to the dance floor and guide her gently through. The rhythmic thudding of the music almost drowns out Jenny’s plaintive ‘Hey!’ and the stiletto-tapping of approaching girls. The door closes behind Lisa.

  I have been lucky not to be interrupted before, but I had hoped for a little more time alone with Jenny. I grab her blue dress and push her back, and keeping her off-balance on her gorgeous high-heeled black leather boots I push her backwards into a cubicle until she is forced to sit on the toilet seat, and all the while she is screaming complaint and calling me a crazy bitch. I lock the cubicle door and straddle Jenny, capturing the hands that try to push me away. With my right hand I hold both of hers against the wall above her, with my left I hold her head so that I can kiss her, deep, muffling her screams and cries for help.

  And just in time, because suddenly the room is filled with voices, fresh excitement and energy and gossip about this boy or that, one girl relieving herself in the cubicle next to ours while shouting over the door to stay in the conversation. Beneath me, Jenny struggles to get free, to shout or scream or something to make the girls understand her need, but her mouth is trapped by mine and the girls are soon laughing about ‘the couple fucking’. After a minute or two they are abruptly gone, leaving me alone with my prey. I release Jenny’s hands and head, and lean back to get a good look at her. With the girls and possible salvation gone, she has stopped her struggles and is crying, black trails of newly applied mascara running down her cheeks.

  ‘Please let me go.’

  ‘Not until you’ve satisfied me.’

  Understanding creeps across her face, relief that she will be let go, anger at being raped by a woman, part of her planning ways to escape the situation. Eventually: ‘Satisfy you how?’

  Smiling, I stand up and remove my jeans, slipping my feet back into my sandals without once touching the floor. My jeans I hang on the hook on the cubicle door. My Gerbe sheer silk stockings are attached to my bespoke corset, and I wear no underwear. Her sudden look of lust, however, is directed not at my shaven pussy but at my Gianmarco Lorenzi platform sandals, all black satin and velvet with heels like knitting needles, adorable but not practical. Jenny’s feet look the same size as my 37s, so I say, ‘If you do a good job, you can have them.’ For a second she considers this, and then flushes with shame as she realises that she is willing to sell herself like this. People are strange like this. If I just offered her enough money to buy them she’d probably tell me to go fuck myself.

  ‘On your knees,’ I order, parting my legs and pointing at the floor between them. She hesitates, still hoping to escape somehow, and reluctant to kneel at all, let alone on the floor of a nightclub toilet. ‘Now!’ I bark, and she flinches, but obeys. The leather boots make it awkward for Jenny to kneel, but she keeps them on. Her face is level with my pussy, but she looks at it like she has never seen one in her life and doesn’t know what to do. With my hands on her head I guide her lips to their target. ‘Be gentle,’ I tell her. ‘Kiss my thighs, lick my lips, take your time. And if anyone comes into the room then be quiet! If you cry for help I will gag you and tie you up naked and get my satisfaction in ways that you really won’t enjoy. Do you understand?’

  Jenny nods, and starts to cry again, but she gets to work. Her lips on my thighs, first one then the other, and back again, are warm and a tingling spreads up through my womb. I wanted this girl the moment she walked into the club, but that desire has grown into a raging hunger. She is still kissing my thighs, perhaps to tease me, more likely just delaying the inevitable, but I am too impatient now. Holding her head tight, I push her lips against my lips. Her complaint at this treatment is muffled, but it seems that whatever barrier has been holding her back is gone now, for she finally gets to work with her tongue, exploring my labia, twirling lightly about my clitoris and diving into my tunnel, and I am in heaven. Four, five times, the room is flooded with the noises of girls, but Jenny doesn’t pause, my occasional whimpering is the only noise either of us makes.

  I ache to touch my nipples, which are pressing hard against the concealing fabric of the corset, but I have to wait for Jenny’s tongue to bring me to orgasm. I sense she is beginning to tire. ‘You’re doing fantastic,’ I encourage her. ‘Almost there!’ She renews her attack, and soon I am crying out in ecstasy, not caring about the audience on the other side of the cubicle door, until at last, gasping for breath, I release Jenny.

  She stands up and away, and dries her face with toilet paper. The mascara stains are still there. She looks at me warily. I don’t sense anger or hatred. If anything, she is a little excited by what has happened, perhaps even a littl
e proud that she has made me come.

  ‘Take off your boots,’ I order her as I slip back into my jeans. As she bends down to unzip her boots, I am able to slip a hand between her thighs and feel the wetness of her knickers. She gasps and stands up quickly, trying to back away even further from me in the confined space of the cubicle, but I leave her alone and just lick my fingers. ‘Boots,’ I remind her, and she takes them off carefully, not giving me another chance to molest her. It’s difficult, but finally I manage to zip the boots up over my jeans, then I hand the sandals to Jenny, who grabs them as if scared that I’ll take them back. I blow her a kiss as I slip out of the cubicle, and she slams the door shut and locks it.

  The two girls at the mirror are watching me curiously. One is tall with long red curls, with piercing green eyes that study the detail on my corset. The shorter girl has long straight hair almost as dark as mine, a black dress that barely covers anything, pink Truffles with cork wedge heels, with a matching handbag. Even the pink lipstick she is applying, some kind of fuchsia, matches well, and I admire her style. A glance in the mirror tells me my Forever Red is a mess, smudged and no longer red, blended now with Jenny’s peach shade. I take a tissue and start the tedious process of cleaning it off.

  The redhead washes her hands and then heads back out to the dance floor, leaving the shorter girl alone with me and Jenny, who is still hiding, quiet as a mouse. ‘I love your lipstick,’ I say, my posture and expression relaxed, neutral.

  ‘Illamasqua,’ she explains. ‘Atomic.’

  ‘Can I try it?’ I ask as she puts it away.

  She hesitates, then shrugs. ‘Sure.’ She watches me as apply the lipstick, watches my lips. There’s nothing so sensual as lips, and nothing like fuchsia lipstick for attracting attention. Occasionally she glances over at the locked cubicle door, wondering who is in there, perhaps guessing that it’s a man waiting for the coast to be clear.

  ‘Are you here with someone?’ I ask.

  ‘I was. Came with my brother, but he just went off with some slut in a golden dress.’

  ‘Well done, Lisa,’ I laugh. ‘I know a great place just down the street, if you’d like some company. There’s usually a few cute guys there. One or two cute girls too, if you’re into that.’ She looks at the locked door again. She wants to ask me who’s in there, why they’re staying there, but doesn’t. I finish applying the lipstick and hand it back. With our long dark hair and matching lips we could easily be mistaken for sisters.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, and I give her my warmest smile. She grins in response and we leave together.

  ‘Bye, honey!’ I shout through the closing door. I wonder how long it will be before Jenny ventures out.

  It’s fiercely cold outside the club, and neither of us is properly dressed. The corset and jeans, and of course my new boots, provide some protection, but my shoulders, arms and head are exposed. My new friend has retrieved a jacket from somewhere, a shade of pink somewhere between her bag and lips. I’m sorely tempted to drag her into an alley, have some fun with her and afterwards walk off with that coat. I shake my head to clear away this thought. I like this girl. Her legs and feet are bare. ‘Fuck it’s cold,’ she says. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Comatoes,’ I reply, pointing. I’ve never been able to work out whether the spelling error is deliberate, or indeed which spelling error it is.

  ‘Isn’t that where people go at the end of the night?’ she asks with a laugh. It’s an old joke, but gets a smile from me. ‘My name’s Cleo,’ she says, setting off at a brisk pace.

  ‘Suzie,’ I say, keeping pace much more easily in my new boots than I could have in the sandals. ‘So, you got a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  She stops abruptly, angry. ‘Look, I’m straight. I don’t want a girlfriend, and if this is your way of making a pass you can fuck off right now!’

  ‘Hey!’ I say, holding my hands up in peace. ‘I’m not making a pass, certainly not looking for a relationship. But I don’t want to start sending cute guys in your direction if what you really want is a pussy curled up in your lap.’

  Cleo laughs at this. ‘No,’ she says, although I’m not entirely convinced, and starts walking again. ‘So you’re into girls?’

  ‘Girls and boys.’

  ‘Who was that hiding in the cubicle?’ The question finally gets asked.

  ‘Some girl called Jenny. I gave her my sandals in exchange for a good licking.’

  ‘And got yourself a nice pair of boots, too,’ she chuckles.

  ‘You must have been listening for quite a while.’

  ‘It sounded like one hell of an orgasm — I was curious to see who came out.’

  Although it is still early, there is a queue outside Comatoes, but attractive young girls without men don’t obey the usual rules of queuing, this early in the evening anyway. The bouncers know me so we get in without either of us having to show our fake IDs, hers claiming improbably that she is already twenty one, mine claiming that I am only twenty two. That age is a distant memory to me.

  Comatoes is mostly popular with people in their mid- to late-twenties from the nearby finance district. If you sit on the toilet for long enough you’ll get high off all the coke in the air. Cleo and I both look out of place, especially Cleo with her unashamedly pink jacket and accessories which have attracted quite some attention, including from a couple of guys sitting with their mates in an alcove nearby. Before Cleo flees outside in search of a more suitable venue, I take her hand and lead her over to the alcove.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ I say brightly, sounding like a chirpy tour guide in my need to be heard over the music. ‘Mind if we sit with you?’ There are five men sitting on the bench around the table, smartly dressed in dark suits and white shirts, no ties. They look at each other for a moment, then one at one end of the bench gets out and goes to get himself a stool, while the others bunch up until there’s room for first Cleo and then me to slide onto the bench. Pressed close against her like this, I am able at last to identify her subtle scent as the exquisite new L’Eau D’Issey Gold Absolute. God I want to kiss her.

  ‘Have you ever made love to five guys at once, Cleo?’ I shout in her ear instead, and although the music is loud my voice carries around the table. Cleo gasps and jabs me hard in my side, but I barely feel it through the corset. The sexual tension around the table is thick, and Cleo’s face is red with embarrassment. She has five men, all five maybe ten years older than her, not bad looking either, examining her.

  ‘You,’ I say to the man on the stool. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Well, Ben, why don’t you go get us all a round of drinks, and we’ll see where the night takes us.’ He looks amused, and heads off to the bar.

  Cleo looks too terrified to speak, but she’s also not making any attempt to escape or to deny any possible interest in what I have suggested. I work my way around the table asking names. Derek with fair hair, too skinny for my liking. Charlie, red hair and freckles, grinning widely. Robert, built like a rugby player, looks like he’s done this before, and who knows. Tom, sitting next to Cleo, can’t keep his hands still. He looks like he’s desperate to get his hands on her, while Cleo looks determinedly away from him, her nervous eyes flickering between the three other men. I ask them in turn if they they think Cleo is beautiful, this girl barely a woman, a vision in pink and black, and of course they say she is. I tell them about Jenny, sweet Jenny, licking me to orgasm not twenty minutes ago, and I ask them if they like my new leather boots. It’s clear they do.

  Ben returns with drinks, large glasses of house white for Cleo and me, beer for the guys. Cleo downs hers in one go, and finally starts to relax. ‘God, you’re a bitch,’ she says to me and laughs, and the tension and worry dissipates from around the table. They still don’t know what will happen later, but now they’re ready to find out. I can’t stand cheap wine, so I give mine to Cleo and head off to the bar to look for something. As I le
ave, Ben slides into my seat, sandwiching Cleo, and starts to unbutton her jacket. She doesn’t object.

  With no one paying attention to me, I walk past the bar and downstairs to the dance floor with its insane volume of beats and synthesised whistles making conversation impossible, but the hundred or so gyrating bodies made visible by strobing lights are here to dance dance dance with no thought beyond the moment and a chance of meeting somehow a kindred spirit.

  I work my way methodically around and across the room, studying faces. There are a few I recognise from previous visits to Comatoes and other nightclubs in the area, and there’s the fat American who once tried to pay me for sex. Instead I gave him a strip show, having first hypnotised him into believing the hundreds in his fat wallet were only ones, and that’s not all I took from him. I blow him a kiss but he doesn’t recognise me. The face I’m looking for isn’t here. I return upstairs and walk around, examining faces at tables. I see the woman whose jeans I am wearing. She lost them in a bet, but got something pretty mind-blowing in return. She winks at me as I walk pass, and I pat my bum playfully. But he’s not there, the man I need to find. I’m tired of hanging out in nightclubs, sexual adventures notwithstanding.

  I complete my circuit to find the men hustling Cleo out of the club. Catching up with them outside I grab Cleo’s arm and drag her to one side. ‘You really want to do this?’

  She nods. ‘I’m eighteen today. I’m up for some real fun.’

  ‘Guys,’ I say sternly, ‘there are rules. As soon as Cleo says “Stop” you stop, understand?’ They nod. ‘No penetration without a condom, okay?’ Another nod. ‘And no — repeat, no — anal sex without Cleo’s express permission.’ More nodding, but not quite so sincere this time. ‘I’m serious. Anyone even touches her there without me first hearing her yell “Fuck my ass!” will discover exactly why you should never piss off a girl in stilettos.’ Cleo’s staring wide-eyed at me. The men nod more convincingly. ‘Okay,’ I say, and lead Cleo down to the nearby taxi rank.