Follow Your Fantasy
Deeper
by Nicola Jane

HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Nicola Jane 2016

Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover layout design © Becky Glibbery 2016

Nicola Jane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © February 2016 SBN: 9780007548644

Version: 2016-01-29

Your erotic adventure starts here…

Welcome to the thrillingly erotic world of Follow Your Fantasy – a world where you, the reader, chooses what happens next.

As the story deliciously unfolds, exciting, sexy and downright naughty adventures await your every decision…

You might end up in steamy encounters with one man or woman, or more! In hotel rooms or high class casinos, on porno sets or at bachelor parties. Or, if there’s just too much choice, you can always go back and try again.

Remember, even if you choose submission, the control is still all yours.

Follow Your Fantasy is a new type of Erotica which gives the power back to the reader. It’s a collection of short stories based around a central thread and with recurring characters. But the most important character is YOU. Where will your story take you?

Dear Reader,

As you follow your fantasy and begin reading, you'll see condoms mentioned/appear near the beginnings of the stories. Just like with everything else in the book, you're in control. You choose whether you carry them with you into the story as it develops. After, all, this is your imagination, YOUR fantasy.

Happy reading,

Nicola Jane

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Author Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Plot Map

Also by Nicola Jane

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

1

She never calls me, you think.

You pick at your noodles – some shiny, greasy mess from the Chinese take out again – and toy with your phone. It's a well practised routine with recognisable signs you're about to cave in and make the call.

Just like the last times you've given in to the urge for some excitement, food has stopped having any taste and you're restless and ready to scream at the mediocrity of daily life.

Well, the mediocrity of your day to day existence. Giselle's life, you know from the all too limited occasions you've been a tourist in her world, is far from dull. Fancy hotels and film sets and packs of slavering men completely under her control are the routine for your sexy almost-twin.

You toss your phone aside and push the noodles away. If you knew why she didn't call, that might make it easier, you tell yourself.

The first time, of course, you had to call her. She was the one who'd given you her business card after all. The card you'd stuttered, speechless over, knowing even then that she'd seen something in your eyes that you didn't allow yourself to see in the mirror.

Perhaps that was what it was. You look so alike, she just saw herself in you and that was enough for you to imagine what you could be. Unfortunately, the similarities between Giselle and you end at the way you look. Your day starts and finishes on the sofa in your tiny apartment, after a dreary day of commute, office, commute, TV, eat, sleep. Even the day off you've got tomorrow is just another helping of The Same with a side order of Routine. Grocery shopping and running errands is all you have planned.

You can see that Giselle doesn't need you to liven up her days like you need her. But after that last time, when you'd shadowed her in stripping off for a roomful of bachelors, playing with her breasts and sliding your fingers inside her for her pleasure as much as the roaring spectators? After that time, surely she'd have wanted to bring you along again?

Something warm uncurls between your legs as the memories wake up. The roaring spectators as Giselle's brown nipples pressed against yours and she tugs your top down, exposing you to them first. Her fingers playing out what they wanted to do to you, if only they could touch. Her writhing against the men while you took your satisfaction, even as they thought they were the ones being serviced.

Then the silent drive home, the curt goodbye and the packet of money she'd handed you with no more than a 'See you around, doll'. Even though you'd known it was just a cash transaction for her, you'd thought, well, you'd thought…you were a team.

It sounds pathetic even in your own head. The cringey idea of saying it aloud is one of the many things that's kept you from dialling her number. That and a million other reasons why you don't go around wearing designer dresses and getting paid for sex from strangers.

You sigh and shuffle into your bedroom. You tell yourself you're just going to lie down and read a book, but you hesitate at the wardrobe and take another step back into the night it all started.

The red dress. The one that got you mistaken for the escort in the first place. It's hanging in the dry cleaner's bag it's been in ever since that night, out of place among your more usual flowery tops and cargo skirts.

You shrug out of your jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress up over your hips, slipping on a pair of high-heels and zipping it up at the back. A softer featured version of Giselle stares back at you from the mirror. You've let your hair grow like hers and it curls above the tops of her breasts – your breasts, you correct yourself mentally. You wonder…how much could you look like her if you tried?

You pick up base and a blusher brush and shade and highlight your cheekbones and nose to harden the lines of your face. Then you line your eyelids heavily, winging the black pencil out to the sides to elongate your eyes. A few strokes of charcoal shadow and two coats more mascara than you'd normally wear and it's her appraising you. She looks you up and down and turns to admire herself, scornful and confident. The kind of woman who'd make whatever damn phone calls she wanted.

You stride back to the living room, stilettos loud on the wooden floor. The neighbours won't like that, part of you thinks, but, you bet Giselle's have far more noises to put up with than shoes.

Your phone has fallen halfway down the back of the sofa cushion. You retrieve it, and then hesitate before unlocking the screen to…do what? Text? Call? And say what?

Or...

  Text. Get invited to Giselle's house the next day. Get changed in the bathroom.

  Call. Giselle invites you to the hotel with her client.

2

Your nerve fails and you opt for the coward's medium of choice. You type, delete, retype and redelete a message four times before it sounds casual but daring enough.

Hey Giselle, hope you're having a hard night. I wish I was! Last time was amazing. If you've got any more bachelors you need a hand, or a mouth;) with, I'm all yours.

You sit back, now stuck with looking at your phone far more intently than you were at the beginning of the evening. It's nine thirty. She's bound to be busy by now and if she is, she's not going to be checking text messages.

All dressed up and no place to go. Now you wish you'd called but you can't call on top of sending an unanswered text. This is as fraught with rules as dating!

After an hour of waiting, you accept that your made-up reflection is as close to the reality of Giselle as you're going to get and wash your face back to the real you. The you who's going to bed alone.

The sun shining in through a gap under the blinds wakes you up but it's the beep of your phone that makes you open your eyes.

Yeah, last night was a pain in the ass – literally. Next time, call if you want in. I don't exactly have my hands free for text chats

Knowing Giselle, you wonder who it was, where they were. You close your eyes again and visualise her bent over, offering her ass with her skirt up around her waist and her panties shoved to the side. In your mind's eye her face is turned to the left against a wall, but it's your face at the same time. Someone is squeezing her breasts and then roughly separates her ass cheeks, leaving red marks. You mould the mental image of her until it's fully you you're picturing. You lie on your stomach and push back against the imaginary hands, your own hands opening yourself up to the fantasy.

Your phone beeps again, interrupting the scenario that has taken shape in seconds. You open one eye, reluctant to leave it behind fully but then the phone grabs your complete attention. It's another message from Giselle.

So, I'm bored.

Attached to the message is a photograph of a jumble of boxes and plastic packages. The contents aren't easily made out but some of the names are visible. The Bullet… Rabbit…Love Egg.

Even when she's bored, her life is more fun than yours! In typical Giselle style, she assumes you've understood that was an invitation and that you're accepting. Another message comes through.

You know the address.

She's right, of course, although you've only ever met her outside it before. You don't bother with an elaborate routine and just have a quick shower. Your mood is more relaxed than last night when you were dressing up. A simple sweater dress and tied back hair goes with the slick of mascara and lip gloss that are all you do for makeup. At this time in the morning, you guess you're about to see a more fresh faced version of her too.

Her apartment is in a low rise building on the other side of town. It's just urban enough to be trendy, but suburban enough that the last thing you'd think of as you pull up outside is a sex-worker. You wonder what the neighbours make of all the men who must visit.

She buzzes you up without checking to make sure who you are. It's all so normal you're nervous. Other times, you've always met her at night, slipping into a darker version of yourself. But today, everything is more relaxed. Everything except you.

When she opens the door, you see at least you've gauged your look just right. Like you, she's not wearing obvious makeup, her skin looks clean and shiny and her hair is tied in a loose pony tail. The only difference is she hasn't got dressed. She's wearing a loose fitting, silky robe with blue and white stripes, tied at the waist and crossed with a deep V at the neck. As she moves to hold the door, it slips and slides around her breasts, opening to the flat of her ribcage.

'Kind of overdressed for a pyjama party,' she says, even her voice seeming softer than normal.

You pull your eyes up from her cleavage with effort and she's smiling in a way that says everything you do and think is completely predictable.

'Hi,' you say, unable to think of any clever remark. She doesn't make any move to greet you and your automatic twitch to kiss her on the cheek goes undetected. Are you friends? You wonder if that describes your relationship but can't think of another. Co-worker? Lover? Fuck buddy? Some mix of all three for which there is no word maybe, but friends?

But, here you are – invited into her home, so today is a development in some direction or another. You follow her into the apartment, aware from the way the robe clings to the curves of her behind that she's wearing panties. You bet they match the robe. Lounging around the house in classy underwear is apparently not only for models in catalogues.

She takes you into the living room, a sunny space with a lot of pine and white and none of the boudoir feel you'd have expected. Cardboard and foam chips litter the floor in front of a long cream sofa. The plastic boxes from the photograph have all been hacked up with the pair of scissors that are lying on the floor amongst the mess. None of their contents are anywhere to be seen.

She picks something up from the back of the sofa and hands it to you. It's a slippery mass of silk in red and white stripes.

'Matching bathrobes!' You're touched and then embarrassed at how pleased you sound.

'Two for one offer at Nordstrom's,' she says. 'Chill out. There isn't an engagement ring hidden in the pocket.'

You cover the surface wound with a smile that you hope is convincing and look around, uncertain if she expects you to undress now.

'Shy?'

As usual, she calls you on any sign of weakness or hesitation, giving you that feeling of predictability again. You shrug instead of answering her question, which tells her that shy is exactly how you're feeling.

She doesn't seem to mind though and indicates a door to the side of the living room.

'Help yourself,' she says and curls her legs under her on the sofa. 'To whatever you like.'

You cross the room, slip off your shoes at the door and then open what turns out to be her bedroom instead of the bathroom you'd been expecting. It's exactly as you'd imagine the stereotype escort's room and is clearly designed for clients. Black satin sheets are stretched taut on the bed and piled high with cushions. A mirrored ceiling reflects the bed below and fake fur rugs surround it on three sides. There are photographs of nudes on the walls that manage to be both tasteful and explicit. You recognise Giselle in every single one. It occurs to you that, the same photographer could take those kinds of pictures of you with similar results since you look so alike. You're just not sure if you could pull off some of those poses with the same attitude of challenge and come-fuck-me expression.

The bathroom opens off to the side of the bedroom and continues the theme with subtly sparkling granite tiles and silver fittings. You automatically shut the door even though the adjoining bedroom is empty. You can't help feeling self conscious in someone else's house. Your hand is on the lock to slide it closed as if you're in a public place. You pause. Who are you trying to keep out? There's only Giselle here unless she's got a client hiding in her kitchen. Do you even want to keep her out?

Or...

  Lock the door. Use a vibrator alone.

  Leave the door unlocked. Giselle joins you and shows you how to use vibrators. She invites you to the photo shoot the next day.

3

Your fingers need to do less work to make a phone call which gives you less chance to back out.

The second it's ringing your stomach goes into freefall. This was a mistake. If she doesn't answer, you'll spend the rest of the night jittery over whether she's going to return your call and paranoid about why she isn't.

It rings on and you wonder why it doesn't go to voicemail. It shouldn't come as a surprise she's too busy to answer. She's hardly likely to be sitting around, staring at her phone at this time of night. Not like you.

She'll know it's you calling as the one, almost personal, thing she did do once was take your photo and add you into her contacts. She'd taken a photo and shown you it before she saved your number. You'd been smiling, shy, at this sudden glimmer that she might count you as someone she knew, maybe even liked. The innocent expression contrasted with the way she'd angled the shot to take in your braless breasts, the nipples pointing through the thin top you were barely wearing.

She'd shattered that naïve schoolgirl hope as soon as you'd got your phone out to do the same thing with a typically derisive comment. 'Wouldn't want to waste my best sexy voice if I know it's just you, would I?'

You'd pretended to check yours for messages and then stuffed it back in your bag, reminded yet again that this was someone you'd never know even if you had had her breasts in your mouth and played with her until she was wet.

You're halfway to pressing the end call button before you realise she's actually answered it.

'Hey, baby,' she purrs in the throaty voice you've heard her use with clients but she'd never have any reason to use with you.

'Giselle?' It's a stupid question. Not only is it her number you've just rung but you know her voice even if it is the vamped up version.

'Baby, I've been hoping you'd call!'

What? Giselle doesn't sit around hoping for a call from you! You're so nonplussed by her enthusiasm that, even if you'd prepared something to say, the words would be dangling uselessly from your lips now.

'Er…ah…I…' you stall feebly. Now, she's going to remember why she reserves no small amount of disdain for you. And then you start to hear what else is audible on the line.

For a start your ditherings are echoing as if you're on speakerphone. But also, there's heavy, exerted breathing near the microphone. And now you think about it, Giselle's voice had sounded further away than the breathing so it can't have been hers.

There's someone else there.

Then, as if to confirm your suspicions, Giselle starts to pant and moan. You listen in, feeling as if you've been invited to rather than being a forgotten audience waiting for one of you to hang up. Maybe you should hang up though. But, if you know anything at all about Giselle, it's that privacy during intimate moments is not high on her priorities.

The man's breathing is louder and you can hear the light slapping sound of skin against skin. Then she starts speaking again, but away from the phone.

'Want me to carry on?' Her voice comes low and far enough away that you have to strain to hear what she's saying to whoever he is. 'Or want two of us to finish off?'

Two of us? There's someone else there as well? You can't understand why she picked up the phone in the first place. You're just about to hang up when there's a scrabbling sound and she speaks directly to you again.

'He wants us both.'

'Both of who?'

'Both of us! Or both of me, I guess, since you started being my twin.'

'Oh, right!' Now you get it.

'That's a yes, doll?' She doesn’t wait for an answer. 'Get over here then '

There's none of the usual mocking challenge to get you to admit you want to break out of your Goody Two Shoes life before she lets you into hers.

She repeats the hotel name twice without any attempt at giving you details. It's completely in character for her to tell you as little as possible, or to give you some detail solely to unnerve you, but something about the way the call started with such obviously fake delight niggles at you.

"Well?" she asks. She's sounding more and more like her usual self as the call goes on.

Something isn't quite right about the switch from BFF to normal Giselle. It's not the terseness that's the strange part, it's the enthusiasm. Unless that was just for the client's benefit, you suppose. You can either pass up on the offer, although it was more like a command, and pluck up the courage to try again another night, or go and see for yourself what's happening. Whatever it is, it certainly won’t be as boring as sitting at home all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Or...

  Accept. Go to the hotel. Giselle and her companian are watching you in the lift. They ask you to put on a performance for them.

  Refuse.

4

At the hotel lobby, you scope the layout while pretending to look for something in your bag, like your room key. Sailing through as if you own the place is the only way to pass as someone with the money-built confidence to belong here. The slightest hesitation and they'll spot you for the interloper you are.

And an intruder into another world is certainly what you feel like. The high concept white and platinum décor and dim up-lighting is the kind of minimalist design that takes maximum spend. Scrabbling in your bag is not giving off the sure-of-yourself vibe you're after, so you aim straight for the lift which opens immediately.

It only just occurs to you as you press the button for 11 that Giselle has given you a floor number but no room. You'll have to work it out when you get there. Maybe she's got a Do Disturb sign on the door. You wonder what kind of room service you're about to provide.

'In a good mood?' Giselle's voice suddenly asks from above your head. It sounds as if she's in the lift with you and you glance around before you can stop yourself.

'Over he-e-re.' Her voice bounces, sing-songy and patronising, off the metal walls. A panel next to the lift buttons lights up and, for a moment, you think you're looking at yourself but then you realise it's Giselle from the waist up, sitting in front of someone's torso. She's wearing only a sheer red bra that moulds to her breasts and shades her nipples into rosebuds.

'Told you,' she says over her shoulder.

Told who what? But then, it's clear who as a man places a hand on her arm and works his way down her stomach and off camera. The background becomes clear and the wall of the man's chest defines itself with the darker indentations of chest muscles and a line of collar bone. You find yourself wondering how far down his hand has gone and what it's doing.

'How happy are you to be here?' she asks. 'Anton's dying to know.'

The arm moves up and back again and her eyes close briefly in pleasure or pain, you're not sure. As you're thinking what kind of answer to give that won’t sound like you think you're arriving for afternoon tea, the lift bumps to a stop and the panel goes red. You wait for a second, expecting the doors to open automatically but nothing happens. You forget about answering and start looking for a door open button.

There isn't one.

A surge of adrenalin hits your stomach. Whatever answer you could have come up with dies on your lips at the knowledge you're stuck in this small space. Your stomach lurches and you fight to calm the instinctive panic. Someone will call the lift from another floor eventually. Even so, you whip your head round to look for an escape panel or an emergency phone to alert the anonymous reception desk downstairs that you're stuck.

'Relax,' says Giselle, in her all-knowing tone. 'We've got you, haven't we Anton?'

Anton doesn't say anything, or nothing you can hear anyway. But his hand seems to be moving with purpose off-screen.

'You could at least wave or smile or say hello or something,' she mocks again. So they can see and not just hear you. But how?

And then a male voice adds, 'I'm waiting for the "or something".'

You raise your hand to push your hair off your clammy neck, uncertain what she wants you to say.

'Awww, nearly a wave,' says Giselle and your hand freezes in place.

You keep searching the ceiling and walls for a camera but see nothing. There aren’t even any air vents or anything where they could be hidden. You frown at Giselle's image as she arches her back, pushing her breasts out towards the camera she must be sitting in front of. Then you realise the panel itself is like a large iPad with a tiny camera above the screen. They're watching you watching them watch you.

'How much do you want to be in here with us?' Anton asks.

Much more than you want to be in here, that's for sure.

'I really-' you start.

'Show don't t-e-e-ell,' mocks Giselle.

Or...

  Do it. Get invited up, have a threesome.

  Do nothing. The client, Anton, asks you to deliver a jewellery package to Leon. Go to the theatre, have a sexual encounter with Leon and ice-cubes. He disappears.

5

You don't hesitate. 'Yes.'

'My studio's upstairs.'

'That's handy,' you say.

He shrugs and leads you to the back of the bar. 'Who says artists can't be practical?'

He opens a door leading to a narrow staircase and ducks his head under the frame to disappear upwards. You follow, nerves tingling with anticipation as you imagine you're entering a fairytale tower.

The studio is small, mostly taken up by a red velvet cushion heap in the corner and a paint covered table, holding pots, palettes and brushes. An empty easel stands in front of the table but a camera on a tripod has been set up in front of the cushions.

'You do photography as well?'

'I work with both and merge them.' He's already rearranging the cushions, moving some up and others to the sides as he looks back at you as if measuring you for a fitting.

Of course! That explains the very real quality amongst the unreality of his work.

'Do you need the heating on?' he asks as you continue to stand there.

'Oh, right!' You're supposed to get undressed. He turns his back while he goes to the camera and fiddles with it, removing a lens and screwing in another. You hesitate, and wonder if you're being too reckless. You don't even know this guy. But the idea of being painted and immortalised the way the girls in paintings throughout the centuries have been is too powerful and you slip out of your dress and panties.

'Should I…?'

'Make yourself comfortable. I'll help you in just a second,' he says, popping through another door for a second and returning with a bottle of amber liquid and a couple of brushes. 'Sable.' He waves them at you.

You clamber onto the cushions, which are more stable than they look and lay back. 'How do you want me to pose?'

At the moment, you're laying on your side, half curled up with your back to the wall and your arms in front of your breasts.

'It'll come to you, don't think about it.' He comes and sits on the edge of the pile and opens the bottle. A sweet but light smell wafts out and he dips a medium-sized brush into it, lifting it out and shaking droplets back into the bottle, releasing more of the fragrance.

'Just put your arms back for now and tell me your favourite fairy story.'

You think for a few moments, watching the oil as it drip, drip, drips. The studio isn't a tower like any tale you remember but the feeling of being above reality pervades. Towers makes you think of the painting of the girl with long hair…Rapunzel…what's that other one with R…?

'Rumpelstiltskin!'

Julian's eyes catch yours. 'Interesting!'

'I'm not sure it's my favourite but there's something about it all the same.'

'Tell me about it.' He brings the brush up and brings it towards you, to the soft tip against one nipple.

Your mind instantly empties of the half-forgotten story as the brush twirls over your nipple, puckering it even though it touches you with the faintest of grazes.

'I can't remember it now. A dwarf and-' You break off to gasp as the brush leaves and returns laden with more oil. '-a spinning wheel-'

He moves the brush to your other nipple and runs it back and forth across the tip, training his bright eyes on yours and making it even harder to recall the story you've not read since you were a child.

'And something about hair…and…gold.'

'Close your eyes and it'll all come back to you.'

You do, attempting to conjure up images in your mind that are something other than his eyes and your own nipples, hardening as they take on the shine of the oil. It's impossible.

'Wasn't there a King somewhere? Who rescued her?'

'Definitely not!' Julian says, trailing a painted line down the side of your breast. He shifts in his seat and the next brush stroke is broader as it circles from the nipple outwards and outwards in a spiral. 'The King enslaved her, and so did Rumpelstiltskin in a different way. Who would you be slave to? The King with his riches and cruelty? Or the fairy dwarf with his magic power to turn straw into gold?'

'Rumpelstiltskin helps her! I remember!'

'Yes and no. Do you remember what he takes from her in exchange for his help?' The brush moves downwards over your stomach, teasing a path downwards, slipping over your skin, tickling as it goes.

'Jewellery or something, right?'

'In the children's version, yes. But I think he would have taken something only she could give him. This was a creature that could spin gold from straw, remember? He could make trinkets any time he wanted. What could she give him instead?'

'Ahhh!' You'd never thought of that before but it makes perfect sense. Or as much sense as anything could under the bewitching of your senses at the aroma of the oil and the sensation of it working its way to the mound of your pussy. You let your legs fall open, outer thighs resting on the smooth velvet. 'Herself.'

'Again, yes and no. The King let her know he would marry her if she pleased him. That was her only way out of her slavery. From a miller's daughter to the Queen? Obviously, she'd take that way out if she could. But she had to guard the thing both men wanted the most while at the same time securing Rumpelstiltskin's help. So, on the first night – there were three nights in all, you remember? There are always three of everything in fairy tales, just like here.'

He sweeps the brush between your legs, with a gentle pressure at your clit, so fleeting your answering throb comes as if minutes later, and moves down to dip into your pussy and pass lower between your cheeks to your ass. You raise your hips in response – or request.

'My subject is almost ready,' he says. 'What does she do to Rumpelstiltskin on the first night?'

You breathe in and out and lick your lips, trying to gather breath enough to speak instead of the less coherent noises coming from the back of your throat.

'She lets him see her,' you say. 'She knows that she has to keep him from touching her – ah!'

Julian uses the brush as if he's painting you, in smooth strokes up and down, pinning your lips apart as the brush passes and whispers past your clit. You swallow and continue, picturing yourself in a candlelit, stone-walled cell, dropping a coarse, long sleeved robe to the floor.

'Rumpelstiltskin is paralysed, staring and panting. She lifts her long hair from her breast and turns around. The light from the flame plays over her and throws shadows of her curves on the wall. Her ass, her thighs, her breasts. And she's never seen herself because they don't have mirrors anywhere but in royal palaces. She's scared so she's shaking, but she completes one whole turn and, when she looks back – he's gone but the straw has turned to gold.'

'Teasing,' says Julian. You hear the clink of wood against glass and for the moment the brushing stops. 'The next night?'

You bring your hands to your own breasts and slide them over your oiled skin, pinching your nipples as hard as the oil allows before your fingertips nip at the air as they slip off. Your body has heated the oil so it moves like the finest of veils and you moan aloud as a smaller, more precise brush finds your clit. It swells under the brush, so full you can feel it standing up, eager for the pressure to increase.

'The next night, the king has left even more straw than before and she is half scared Rumplestiltskin won't come, half scared he will and about what she might have to give him.'

'Maybe she's scared what she might want to give him?'

'Mmmm,' you agree but the sound turns into a moan of appreciation as the brush swirls around and around your clit in pinpointed circles, closing in on the peak with each sweep.

'This time, he tells her his price is higher because there's more work. She doesn't know what to do, not even what more means because her father has always been so strict with her and she never had a mother to tell her what men want. She takes off her clothes again and when he comes towards her she steps back until she's against the wall.'

The brush is moving faster now, flicking your clit with just enough pressure to excite but not to tip you over the edge. Your hands are still toying with your breasts and you imagine yourself with the cold stone at your back and the ugly, dark-eyed face of the little man staring at you.

'He's watching her so intently she follows his gaze as he licks his lips and she sees that his eyes rest between her legs often. She thinks maybe she needs to show more and all she has left is what's there, under the hair she's started to grow but that she instinctively knew not to ask her father about. So she puts her feet wider apart and she knows immediately that it was the right thing to do as Rumpelstiltskin's mouth drops open and he smiles.'

Julian replaces the soft brush with something small but stiffer and he begins dabbing at your clit as if touching up tiny gaps in his work. You break off again, unable to speak even though in your mind's eye, the dwarf is standing closer, his face level with your pussy.

'He breathes in and then he dips his head forward so he's pressed right up against her. And she's never felt anything there before but her hips push out from the wall and she presses herself back at him before she even knows she's doing it. She can't see his face anymore but she can feel what he's doing.'

'And what's that?'

'His tongue. He curls it up and it's long and rough and he curls it right up inside her.' You can't cope with the dotting motion of the brush anymore. 'Please…your fingers, your cock. I need you inside me.'

'She's very knowing for an innocent miller's daughter,' Julian says and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 'Open your eyes!'

He gets up and everything stops, the tickling, the brushing, the pressure. But your clit is still throbbing, and your eyes flicker open, bleary and unfocused. It takes a couple of seconds for them to clear and, by then, Julian is behind the tripod, adjusting the camera that's pointed at you.

'Carry on,' he says, beginning to click the shutter. 'You're ready. You're perfect.'

You want to beg him to come back and fuck you but you can see that this is what he brought you here for. The canvas has been prepared and if anything else is going to happen, the art comes first. Literally.

You talk into the camera, still holding the images in your mind's eye and letting the story play out as if the characters are acting and you're just the witness, not the creator. 'Rumpelstiltskin's tongue unfurls right into her and it's fat and solid, but flexes and twists and she has to put one hand over her mouth in case she screams and the guards hear.'

Click, click, click. The shutter opens and closes in rapid fire.

'Then he pulls his tongue out, forever pulling and pulling with its rasping surface until he kind of slithers it against her clit. She didn't even know she had another place there. And she's so hot and wet and turned on and all these feelings she's never had that she orgasms into his face. And when he steps back his mouth and nose and chin are shining wet.'

'Good ending!' Julian straightens up and grins. 'Those are going to be amazing shots.'

'That's not the end though, is it?' Your voice is hopeful, almost pleading.

'Of the story? Noooo.'

You let out an aggravated sigh and prop yourself up on your elbows. 'Come on! You can't just take photos!'

'A good artist knows when to stop,' he says, but he comes back to sit on the cushions and you can see his shirt is sticking to his bony chest and an erection is pushing against his tight jeans.

'Lay back again and I'll finish it,' he promises.

You close your eyes and sink back as he starts talking.

'On the third night, the miller's daughter is sitting in a room piled to the ceiling with straw and the King has told her he will marry her for sure if she can turn it all to gold in one night. She's scared she looks different to him after her torrid night, so she keeps her eyes down and tries to look subservient while all the time she's thinking about Rumpelstiltskin and what he did to her. But she knows that whatever it is men want from women, it's more than what he took the night before and that she's in terrible danger.'

You gasp as something hard parts your lips. It's smooth and cool and it's definitely not Julian. But he returns a brush to your clit and you stay quiet as he moves what you realise is the handle of another brush inside you.

'So when he arrives, she asks him what he wants and he says this time he wants her. He tells her he is going to fuck her and she'll be the Queen he fucked. And she says no. He's angry, you know, he tasted her just the night before and he wants his prize. Giving her gold for straw is nothing to him but he wants what he wants. She's clever though. She tells him she will be the Queen he fucks instead. He makes her promise and he says he'll take her first born son if she doesn't keep her word.'

The handle and the brush work together now, plunging in and out, painting pleasure over and around your clit. You work your hips, rising and falling to speed yourself to the edge and over. The miller's daughter didn't get her satisfaction on the third night but you're going to. Everything pulls into the centre concentrated at the tip of your clit and then suddenly expanding outwards to take in your pussy, thighs and spreading upwards across your slick stomach, tightening your nipples and shaking your arms and legs. You cry out and the image in your head vanishes with Rumpelstiltskin's completion of the deal.

You lay limp against the cushions and the handle slides out of you. 'Story's over?'

'Not quite.'

You open your eyes expecting to see Julian stripping off but he's busy re-corking the bottle and wiping the brushes on a cloth.

'She becomes Queen and she forgets about Rumpelstiltskin. Until she has her first baby. Actually, even then she doesn't remember him. But then he appears in her bedroom and demands his price. She's used to her Queenly power now and she refuses. But he says he'll take the baby prince if she doesn't give him what he wants. But she still says no so he makes her another deal. That if she can guess his name, she is free of her debt. She makes two guesses on two days and gets them wrong. But the third day, after she's sent messengers everywhere to learn the name of the dwarf, one of them comes across him, dancing around a fire, singing about his victory and how she'll never guess his name is Rumpelstiltskin…'

Julian gets up and takes his camera off the tripod to bring it back and show it to you. You sit forward and curl your legs up, crossing your arms over your breasts. It's clear that he's not going to jump on the cushion bed with you but you can't complain. That was pretty sensational and, you have to admit, you're curious what the camera caught.

'When she guesses his name, he's so furious he stamps his foot all the way through the floor – here you are.' He holds the camera so you can see the screen. 'And gets stuck.'

He flicks through the images, close ups on your face and long shots of your whole body as well as very graphic photos of your spread pussy, everything gleaming with the oil he painted you with. Even in the pictures where you can see only your eyes, you can tell something is dilating your pupils and giving that glint you saw in the paintings.

'He's even angrier then and he tears himself in half trying to get out.' The last of the pictures whizz past. 'And they all live happily ever after.'

'That's quite the story!' you say, sitting up as he goes back to hook the camera up to a laptop and pulls his easel around.

'It was the way you told it,' he says, distractedly.

You can't help asking, 'Do you ever…ahh, go for the happy ending for yourself?'

'Nah,' he says. 'I never touch, remember?' Now what he said in the bar downstairs makes sense.

'Never?' You can't believe it.

'Nope. This is love, sex, fucking. The work. I'm, like, superstitious about it. What if I know and then I can't capture it here?' He taps the canvas with his finger.

'You can't paint the same thing forever though.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' He shrugs. 'Do you mind? I'm really turned on and I need to channel.' He nods his head towards your pile of clothes. 'This next piece should be up in a week or so. Stop by and have a look. I think you'll like it.'

You get dressed. He's not unfriendly but you can just tell he's entering another mode and, although he smiles when he thanks you and says goodbye, you descend the stairs alone and let yourself back out into the bar. It's not much busier than it was before and you exit onto the street, sure you'll be back to see the painting.

Ten days later, you're at X³ again. Only this time you're dressed as yourself, casually. You find your painting hung in the centre of the wall in the most prominent position. You're instantly recognisable but the strange thing is, he's captured you more than Giselle by painting you as you were under the makeup you had on that night. Your hair swims around your ethereal face and you're reclining with your legs wide, just as you remember, in all your pink and slippery glory, nipples hard and glossed.

But between your legs he's painted something that wasn't there in reality – the grey, stunted form of the dwarf, bending over you on all fours. He has a long black tongue that's so realistic it strains with tension as it laps inside you.

You're not surprised when you look back up at the eyes – your eyes – and see they remember all too clearly the story that was spun that night.

The end

6

In the half hour you've been gone, the queue has tripled. You wander from the end of the queue to the front as if you're inspecting the linee and deciding whether it's worth joining it but, really, your decision rests on the guy who was there earlier. You've remembered who he is now. Jack Rogers, ex football pro, fitness trainer to the stars. Half of any red carpet owes its killer bodies to him and the other half has sampled his – if the rumours are anything to go by.

He's no longer anywhere to be seen and you can't face the queue on the chance he'll even still be in there, let alone unaccompanied, by the time you get in. If you get in.

You've missed your chance.

The end

7

You're used to Giselle making fun of you by now.

"Are you going to keep me in here all night?" you ask, trying to inject a playful tone into your voice and rise above the tormenting teasing that marks so much of Giselle's interactions with you.

"It doesn't look as if you're going to be much use there," she replies. Her breath hitches in her throat and she braces her arms and starts moving against Anton. You wonder if this is what she wanted you to see. The screen isn't big enough, or the camera isn't angled right, so you can't see any of what's going on nor anything else about Anton.

The lift pings and the doors open. You lower your head and see that the screen has gone dark. You're relieved to get out, quashing thoughts that this interaction wasn't fair – even by Giselle's standards. Maybe Anton has more charm in person.

The lift is at the end of a corridor so at least you can only go in one direction. The corridor is surgically white with twists of platinum cable lighting that subtly call attention to monochrome and sepia toned artwork on the walls. The corridor opens out into a penthouse suit that's half taken over by an enormous round bed.

Giselle is naked now, facing towards you on all fours with Anton behind her, her face contorted in what looks like genuine pleasure – not that it's always possible to spot when she's faking. He smiles broadly as you walk towards the bed and then comes loudly and slaps her ass as he withdraws. She scoots to one side, allowing you a good look at his diminishing erection before he sits up against the pillows.

You halt awkwardly. Maybe your arrival was what made him climax but what are you supposed to do if there's nothing to join in with anymore?

You look to Giselle for help but she shrugs, almost imperceptibly.

'Did you bring room service?' asks Anton, his voice revealing some kind of European accent now you're not hearing it through the acoustics of the lift. He has an aristocratic-looking face. The kind of high cheekbones and patrician features that look as if they would only top the most expensive of tailored suits.

'Ahhh…' You hesitate, unsure how flirty to be at this late stage in the proceedings.

'Could you send my mail for me?' he asks to your complete bewilderment. It saves you the effort of thinking how to play it. Again, no reaction from Giselle. You rack your brains trying to think what it might be a euphemism for. French letters? You've got some of course – condoms are always in your bag.

You nod once. It's not an answer but you can't think of anything to say. He doesn’t seem to care if you talk or not, though, and reaches to his left to pick up a smallish, brown package from the nightstand. He tosses it to the foot of the bed where it falls amid the crumpled silk sheets.

'That needs to go to a magician who'll make it disappear.' He laughs at his non sequitur joke. You've no idea what he's talking about still. Giselle flicks her eyes at it to urge you, if not your tongue, out of your paralysis and you step forward to pick it up. It's not heavy but it's padded and you can't tell what's in it.

'I don't – I mean I can't take – I mean - carry drugs if that's what this is.'

'It's the most powerful drug there is.'

What the hell has Giselle been saying about you?

'I don't know what makes you think I'm into that but I can assure you I really don't-'

'Take a look, honey,' says Giselle finally. 'We're all hooked on that drug.'

You unfold the top corner of the package and immediately see something that reminds you how you wound up in this life in the first place. Sparkling jewels. But this is no rhinestone thong, it's the real deal. A tangle of diamonds threaded together on fine silvery metal threads. There's too much of it to be simply a necklace. You let out a deep breath, not even caring that it's audible. It's impossible to say how much this package is worth. Even if it's not looking illegal in an instantly obvious way, you can't walk around with something as valuable as this.

'What is it?'

'Ahhh, so uncultured!' He smiles, showing he doesn't mean to insult. 'You're holding something that has beguiled men throughout history in the hands of the right woman. The story goes that Marie Antoinette was the one who brought it to France. Before her, maybe even as far back as Cleopatra wore it. But we all know what happened to the last Queen of France.' He makes a brief his finger motion with at his throat. 'Napoleon, shall we say, acquired them for Josephine and Josephine had him ensnared forever. I think that was his intention. Powerful men love to be enslaved by women.'

Giselle snorts in agreement. 'Especially rich, powerful men.'

'But surely this can't be the same one. How would you know? How did you get it after Napoleon?'

'Things like this, priceless, beautiful, alluring … they pass from collector to collector. You could say I'm a collector. You might say Leon – the magician – is one too.'

'But what is it?'

'It's an adornment to bewitch men and make you the most desired you've ever been. Leon will be enraptured and you, if you want to take it, you could have the most memorable night of your life, following in the footsteps of the greatest women in history.'

Anton snakes his arm round Giselle's shoulders and begins playing with her right breast, squeezing her nipple between two fingers. Giselle arches her back and flicks her hair in pleasure.

'Why don't you want to take it?' you ask Giselle, eyes narrowed but too curious to inject that much suspicion into your tone.

'I'm already having the most memorable night of my life,' she says and bends her head to lick around the tip of Anton's erection. She winks at you on the way down and, even now, it's hard for you to know if she's telling the truth. But you want to get a look at what's in the package and taking it is the only way to find out what it is.

'The address is on the packet,' Anton says, his voice even, despite the fact Giselle's hand is also now wrapped around his cock. 'Go straight there. No stop offs. No phone-calls.'

'Leon will pay you for your time – or your whatever,' Giselle says and laughs. She sounds like the Giselle you first met – all hard edges and no sense of camaraderie. Not that you've seen her out of business mode that often, but there have been times when she's touching you or you've been playing with her, that there have been flickers of connection. Or all of it has been just a game she plays for her own reasons. Anton probably feels like he's her most valued customer when he's just tonight's most valuable.

'The whatever?' you ask, knowing she loves keeping you hanging with this kind of cryptic comment. 'What's in "the whatever"?'

'A magician never reveals his secrets,' she says.

It’s the second time that word has been used. You look at the package and see that it's labelled "Leon The Great and Powerful" with an address that's a few blocks from here. Whatever 'the whatever' entails, it involves jewellery that's hundreds of years old. You say goodbye and leave them to it.

This time the lift opens, descends, and opens again with no interruption from the screen in the panel. According to your watch, you only arrived at the hotel fifteen minutes ago but no-one pays you any attention as you leave. You drop the package into your handbag anyway, hoping you don't look too furtive, and nod at the doorman as he holds the door open for you.

'Can I get you a taxi?' he asks.

'Yes, please.' The address is only a few blocks away but you don't want to walk around with a priceless antique.

You wait only a few moments for the doorman to hail your taxi but it's long enough to look around in paranoia that somehow the value of what you're carrying is visible. As the doorman is opening the door for you, you notice a guy leaning against a silvery-blue car ahead of you. He's smoking and looks like he's been up all night, for several nights. Even the way he draws on the cigarette looks like it's costing him effort. The way he's half sitting on the rear of the car suggests it's his and when you turn around as your taxi pulls off, he proves your hunch right by stubbing out the cigarette and opening the driver's door.

You turn forward again and then, a few seconds later, mounting unease makes you turn back. Sure enough the blue car is two cars behind your taxi. Why would anyone be following you? How could they actually know what you've got with you?

Or, are they following Giselle? You didn't notice the guy when you arrived at the hotel, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. You've no idea what Giselle was wearing when she arrived so you can't be sure if it's a mix up or not. You can't even really be sure you're being followed. The guy finished his cigarette and it was time to leave, that's all.

You're too unnerved to risk opening the parcel in the taxi. Even if the blue car is nothing to do with you, you can't whip out a pile of diamonds in front of the taxi driver. You run your fingers over the brown paper still hidden in your bag, trying to make out the size and weight of the stones. You don’t have time to explore much longer as the taxi pulls up in front of a nondescript, brown brick building. Somehow you'd expected a more vaudevillian style theatre with red lights around a 'Leon The Great and Powerful' sign. If there wasn’t a number above the door, you'd have thought you'd come to the wrong place.

You step out onto the pavement and see the car overtake you and turn right at the next junction. You look down, making more of putting your purse away than you need to, face turned away from the road as car headlights sweep past. Maybe you should have got the taxi to go a less direct route but it's too late now. What are you thinking? That you're in some low budget film noir?

You shake your head at yourself and hitch your bag onto your shoulder. But even though you think you're overreacting, something makes you hesitate before approaching the building. You pause until the taxi has left, straighten your skirt up and fluff your hair to kill a few moments before approaching the doorway of the theatre. There's only one buzzer next to a metal door and darkened windows. You press and the door clicks open straight away. There can’t be anything suspicious going on in a place that doesn't even check to see who's trying to get in. You tell yourself that five times before pushing the door open and entering.

Weak lights flicker on when you find the switch before letting the door close behind you and you find yourself in front of an unmanned ticket booth with a glass screen. Tatty posters peel away from the walls and the floor has a stickiness that makes your feet feel dirty even through your shoes. You can't hear anyone.

You're alone, really alone where no-one can watch you for the first time since you got Josephine's jewels. Your bag is open in a split second and you peer into the envelope. The strings, as now you can see there are multiple threads of them, lie in a tangle and you look for somewhere you could tip them out onto. Maybe the ticket counter–

There's a cough behind you, back towards the door you came in by, and you jump with a scream and drop the package.

'Forgive me,' says a soft male voice. 'I never can resist that little piece of theatrics.'

You turn and see first only what you already know is there. A corridor with a closed door at the end and smooth walls, meaning no-one could have entered without you noticing. Then you register the outline of a man even as your eyes scan the walls again. He's improbably dressed for a ticket seller, and you'd have guessed him to be the magician just by what he's wearing. Even if he didn't have the ability to walk through walls.

He has a black top hat and his goatee-accentuated face is complete with monocle and a twirling moustache that can only be called whiskers. The rest of his clothes fit the look with a white shirt and a black frocked coat with, of course, a watch and chain looped across his stomach. A red flowered silk handkerchief peeks from the top pocket of his waistcoat. Showtime must be soon.