Butter Wouldn't Melt (5 page)

‘Still . . .,' Andy began, only to be cut off by Den.

‘Yeah, I reckon you're right, Steve.'

‘I am,' Steve insisted. ‘A little thing like her, to him? She's so much cock fodder.'

‘Maybe, maybe,' Andy replied, ‘but he's going out with that fancy bit from Lloyds, isn't he, so I don't reckon he'll bother with Perky Tits upstairs. I will though, just you watch me go.'

‘Not if I get there first, mate,' Den answered him, which led to a buzz of conversation.

It was too muddled for me to follow at all clearly, with all five of them claiming they'd be the first to have me, as if it was a foregone conclusion that I was available, with my lesbianism apparently forgotten or dismissed as unimportant. I was furious, with my head full of ways I could put them down, rejecting their advances in ways that would humiliate them as much as they had humiliated me. Still I was unable to pull myself away, and if I'd thought they'd plumbed the depths of arrogance and crudity, I soon realised I was wrong as Mark James spoke again.

‘OK, OK, simmer down lads. I'm running a book on this, right? This is the deal. You can bet post or ante-post. Odds posted each morning. First one to fuck Miss Double-Barrel wins . . .'

‘What if she's a virgin?' Clive broke in.

‘Who gives a fuck?' Den demanded.

‘I mean, if she won't go all the way but does something?'

‘What do you care, Clive? It's not going to be you, is it, fat boy?'

‘Why not? In fact I feel that she and I have rather more in common than . . .'

‘Boys, boys,' Mark James interrupted. ‘Let's keep on track here. OK, if she makes you come, it counts, hand-job, blow-job, one up the bum . . .'

‘Oh yeah, to stick it right up that sweet little arse,' Steve cut it, ‘then to make her give me bum to mouth.'

‘You watch too much porno, Steve.'

‘There's no such thing as too much porn.'

‘What if I just fuck her?' Andy demanded.

‘How do you mean?' Clive asked.

‘You know,' Andy answered, ‘catch her unawares, skirt up, knickers down and up goes the cock.'

‘Will you lot shut up?' Mark insisted. ‘No coercion, Andy, you bastard. Like I said, if she makes you come, on her own accord, you're the winner, and that doesn't mean wanking off over her, Clive. Only it's graded. If one of you bastards manages to squeeze a sympathy toss out of her I pay out half odds, three-quarters for a blow-job, full odds for a fuck, double if you put it up her bum.'

There was more laughter as I grimaced at the revolting thought of my bottom hole spreading to the head of one of their cocks. Mark was still talking.

‘. . . and you've got to be able to prove it, no bullshit claims. These are the ante-post odds; Richard Montague, 3–1; Mark James, 5–1 . . .'

‘In your dreams.'

‘Shut up. Den Coles, 7–1. Steve Frost, 10–1. Andy Wellspring, 25–1 . . .'

‘25–1? What, so you reckon I'm an outsider?'

‘If you think the odds are good, put your money where your mouth is.'

‘I will.'

‘Hang on, I haven't finished. Clive Carew, 50–1. Right, let's see the colour of your money.'

I caught a grunting noise, probably Clive accepting his poor chances, then he spoke.

‘How about the others?'

Andy answered him.

‘What, old Montague and Lucius Tod?'

‘No, I was thinking more of the girls, if she might be a lesbian.'

‘Good point, Clive,' Den agreed. ‘I'll have fifty on Helen.'

‘I can do that,' Mark answered, ‘if you want to waste your money. Miss Double-Barrel may be a dyke, but the others aren't.'

‘No? Maybe not Helen then, but I reckon Maggie munches muff like Clive goes for the pies.'

‘Could be. OK, Maggie is 10–1; and 100–1 the field.'

‘How about old Prufrock?'

There was more laughter, fading only gradually as Mark spoke again.

‘Fair enough, fair enough, always good to have one for the mug punters. Prufrock is 500–1.'

There was more laughter, and they all began to speak at once as they pressed their money onto Mark. I'd quickly lost the thread of who was doing what, and I no longer really cared. They were betting on me as if I was a horse or a dog, and worse, on which of them would be the first to have sex with me. Mark hadn't even had the decency to offer odds on my refusing all of them, a nasty detail that brought me to the edge of tears.

I walked back to my room thinking black thoughts of revenge, but I knew it was pointless. They would have their little game, and my only satisfaction would be in making sure nobody won the bet. I was sulking badly as I sat down, and spent a long while just staring out of the window at the trains coming and going on the bridge beneath, imagining all five of the men chained to the tracks while AJ and I took bets on who would get run over first.

Only gradually did my anger subside, and as it did a new thought came to me, so disgusting that I immediately forced it away, but so insidious I couldn't make it go away for more than a few seconds. They had no idea I knew about the bet, which gave me the opportunity to make a lot of money, maybe even enough to buy the bike I so badly wanted, just so long as I was prepared to do something dirty with one of them.

It really was truly disgusting, even the thought of taking one of their cocks in my hand and tugging him off. There were other problems too, especially how to place the bet without Mark growing suspicious. After all, I could hardly go up to him and put ten pounds on Steve Frost making me masturbate him, which was about the least repulsive of the options open to me.

Then there was his grading system. Even if I did manage to place my bet, and used as much money as I could get together, maybe £100, unless I did something really filthy I wouldn't get much in the way of return. Steve Frost was ten-to-one, so at half odds I'd earn £500 for masturbating him, nothing like enough for the sort of bike I wanted. At the other extreme, if I let Mr Prufrock stick his cock up my bottom I'd get £100,000.

I ran the figure over in my mind, a huge sum, almost worth it, assuming Mr Prufrock wanted to
stick his cock up my bottom. He probably did, or at least, could be persuaded to try. Unfortunately Mark James would definitely be suspicious and refuse to pay out. I had to set my sights on something more realistic, perhaps sucking old Mr Montague's cock, which would earn me £7,500 and might be explained as giving in to my boss. That would work, and it would be very satisfying indeed to make Mark pay out so much money. How bad could it be? A stiffy in my mouth for a few minutes, a salty swallow and it would all be over, maybe after he'd given me a good spanking . . .

The thought of a spanking brought me up short. I was really considering doing it, surrendering my pride and my dignity for the sake of money, effectively whoring myself. It was an awful thought, unbearable, but as I went on with the filing it kept on creeping back, especially how I could manage to place a bet without arousing Mark's suspicions. Finally, I managed to tell myself that it was a purely intellectual exercise but I wouldn't really do it, and got down to working on the problem.

Only the men who shared the Blockhouse could bet, unless it was extended, but in any case nobody was going to tell me and it didn't seem likely they'd tell any other women. If they did, then I could try to make a deal with one of them, perhaps Helen, but it was far more likely I'd have to enlist a man. That meant one of four: Andy, Steve, Den or Clive. Nobody was going to do it for nothing. They either expected a share of the winnings or sexual favours, possibly both. That meant I'd end up handling not one cock but two, even sucking them, which was as far as I was prepared to go . . .

I'd done it again, considering the prospect as something real, and I had to tell myself firmly that it
was only theoretical as I went on, considering the four men as animals, which made the thought of handling their cocks easier to cope with. Andy was a rat; small, aggressive, with filthy habits and a bad attitude. Steve was a wolf, or maybe a hyena; sly, cunning, impressive in a way but thoroughly untrustworthy. Den was a dog, an urban mongrel; handsome enough but potentially vicious and utterly ignoble. Clive was a panda; fat and soft and a bit silly, but still powerful physically.

There was really only one choice: Clive. The others simply couldn't be trusted, but he seemed honourable, and he'd been the least brash when they were discussing who was going to have me. His comments on my body hadn't been too bad either, because if AJ had told me I had an apple bottom I'd have been flattered. He also had the best odds, at 50–1, so perhaps I could even make a straight bargain with him and suck his cock. At three-quarter odds, and assuming I got him to put a hundred on and he let me keep the money, that would be £3,750, almost enough.

I was still trying to work out just how much of my pride I'd be prepared to sacrifice when I heard the stairs creak. A moment later Mark James poked his head around the door.

‘Hello. How are you getting on?'

‘OK, thanks,' I answered, ignoring my desire to throw something at his head.

‘Fancy some lunch?'

‘It's only just after eleven o'clock.'

‘Oh don't worry about that. Only just now Maggie was saying what a fast little worker you are, and she won't notice at all if we nip out of the back.'

‘I didn't even know there was a back way out.'

‘There's a lot you don't know about this office,' he said, and winked.

That was as much as he knew, and I very nearly turned him down flat, only to reconsider. I didn't want to do anything to arouse his suspicions, after all, and if I suddenly became unfriendly for no obvious reason, it might well do that. Turning down sexual advances was another matter, as surely even an arrogant bastard like him would have to accept that I just wasn't interested. It might even be fun to string him along for a while, just for the satisfaction of turning him down.

‘OK,' I told him, using my best schoolgirl voice, ‘as long as you're sure I won't get into trouble.'

‘That all depends what sort of trouble you mean,' he answered.

I gave him a blank look, pretending I didn't understand.

‘We'll go to Champagne Charlie's,' he said. ‘It gets crowded, but we should be able to get a table at this time of day.'

‘OK,' I said, deciding to play the role of easily led little waif, which I was sure he'd accept.

The top flight of stairs was so narrow we had to go down in single file, me following, and I caught the smug glance he gave to the men who were still in the Blockhouse. Andy returned a look of annoyance and said something to Steve, but I was past the door and didn't catch it. The back door was at the end of a passage where the stairs started down towards Mr Prufrock's retreat. As we passed I caught an odd sound, somewhere between a cough and a grunt, which conjured up an image of him lurking in the dark as he peered up between the banisters in an attempt to see up my skirt.

With a friend I'd have shared the joke, but Mark didn't need any encouragement to talk. He was completely full of words, and full of himself, chatting
casually about the skiing holiday he was planning in Val d'Isere and managing to subtly put down all four of his colleagues and Richard Montague as well before we'd even reached Champagne Charlie's.

It was a smart City bar, all chrome and pale, polished wood, with rank upon rank of bottles behind the counter, mostly champagne, but also other wines and spirits. There were several fridges as well, each with four tiers of bottles visible behind glass fronts, carefully arranged according to brand. I told myself it was just another bar, but it was hard not to be impressed, especially by the prices chalked up on a board. Even a bottle of the house champagne cost nearly half what Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague were paying me for a week's work. As Mark had predicted, it was still quite empty, but that didn't stop him making a show of clicking his fingers for the waiter.

‘Good morning, Mariusz. A bottle of
La
Belle
Époque
, well chilled.'

The champagne he'd chosen cost some frightening amount, no doubt in an attempt to make me feel obliged to comply when he tried to get sex, but I wasn't going to be so easily led. He took me to a table by the window, looking out across the little square behind our building. Fancy as it was, Champagne Charlie's was built under the same railway that ran past Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague, so that everything shook a little every time a train passed overhead.

‘The important thing with champagne,' Mark was saying as Mariusz eased the cork free, ‘is always to buy a vintage. Otherwise you'll find it's too young and sharp.'

There was a faint pop as the cork came free, allowing a creamy white froth of bubbles to escape
the bottle neck and trickle down the sides. Mark winked and grinned, only for his expression to suddenly turn sour. He was facing the window and I turned to look. Andy, Den and Steve were coming towards us.

‘Here are the boys,' Mark said with a strained attempt at jollity.

He poured the champagne before they arrived. I took a sip as they clustered around our table, Andy speaking first.

‘What a surprise to find you here, Mark. Hi, Pippa, has this old goat been trying to get you in the sack then?'

‘I thought . . .,' I began, immediately confused, but Mark stepped in.

‘Ignore him, Pippa. You're with me, so you're fine.'

Andy gave a cynical chuckle. I took another sip of champagne, now confident that I was completely safe. Obviously they were going to try to seduce me, but altogether, in a wine bar, they could only hope to get so far. Steve went to the bar to get another bottle and the others sat down, Mark moving quickly to my side so that I had no choice but to sit with his leg pressed to mine or fall off the seat.