Read Shameless Exposure Online
Authors: Robert Fanshaw
Shameless Exposure
Eside Media Pty Ltd
trading as Steam eReads
Copyright © Robert Fanshaw 2013
First Published 2013
ISBN 978-0-9923315-5-9
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons living or
dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
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Foreword
Soon after the Eurobonds affair I received an email from Herbert von Wolfswinkle. He explained that around the time the loans were made to Monsaint, Melody had applied to join the Inner Circle. She wanted access to the private parties for stressed-out bankers and politicians. Von Wolfswinkle vetted her application and turned it down:
Miss Bigger lacked the necessary discretion to become a member of our society. She did not forgive me for turning her down. Be careful of that Bigger woman. If she perceives you have slighted her, she will seek to destroy you like she sought to destroy me. Please give my felicitations to your lovely wife Caroline, and tell her she is welcome to visit me at the IMF when she is next in New York. I will be honoured to show her the inner workings of this great institution. Regards, HvW.
I replied to sender, thanking Herbert for completing the jigsaw. I didn’t tell Caroline about the invitation to visit the IMF, or about his warning. I wish I had.
RF
PART ONE
One
I suppose this is a confession, but it’s a confession of stupidity, not unfaithfulness. It was a genuine mistake. Xena told me about the Orgatron Training Centre, how everyone was going, and how fabulous her orgasms had become. I tapped the address into my phone and it came up with a location in Soho. Did Xena say
Old Brompton Road
? Did I mishear and type in
Brompton Row
, or did the phone just anticipate where I wanted to go?
27 Brompton Row was an old shop front painted black. There was no big sign saying Orgatron Training Centre, but I expected it to be discreet. I spoke my name into a crackling chrome box and was admitted to a dim hallway with period décor; dado rails, deep skirting boards and red damask wallpaper. I was met by a maid who spoke poor English.
“Thank goodness you come. Very particular man. Must be red hair.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I had made my appointment for a consultation at the Orgatron Centre a week previously, after Xena had been so enthusiastic about it.
The maid, a small lady from somewhere like the Philippines, couldn’t answer any of the questions I had lined up. I wanted to know how much the course cost, how long you signed up for, whether you could rent an Orgatron before deciding to buy. She just shook her head as if I was mad and guided me into a dressing room full of theatrical costumes. She gave me an ivory coloured corset, silk stockings, and frilly bloomers. She gestured that I should take off my work clothes. I stripped and started to pull on the bloomers but the maid looked horrified and shouted “No! Must be clean for Chinese man.”
I admit I was confused but you don’t know what to expect with new things. As I took a shower I almost decided the Orgatron thing wasn’t for me. But Xena had gone on and on about how brilliant the programme was and I convinced myself the change of clothing must be a symbolic preparation, casting off your everyday life.
The bathroom was decorated with Victorian paintings, nudes attended by gentlemen in top hats mostly. At least the plumbing was modern. I relaxed in a cascade of warm water. I remember the soap was heavenly, an old fashioned lavender brick.
The maid helped to dry me and laced me into the corset. I selected a pair of red and gold bedroom slippers with a small heel from a shoe rack that extended the length of the dressing room. The maid took me up some narrow stairs to a large bedroom, the light almost excluded by heavy blue velvet curtains.
The maid told me to wait. I sat down at an antique dressing table. Looking through the drawers, I found some costume jewellery and grips. On an impulse, I decided to pin up my hair, my reflection framed in a gilded mirror, the mercury showing through around the edges. A shaft of sunlight through the gap in the curtains lit my face, reminding me of an Impressionist painting.
There was a knock on the door. Without thinking, I said “Come in.” A Chinese man appeared in the mirror behind me. He wore a long patterned cloak, tied with a black cloth belt. He stared at my face. I stared back at his Fu Manchu moustache.
“Please, don’t stare,” he said. “Impolite.” He sniffed my neck. “Flowers, very good.”
I searched for the right words to shed some light on a most confusing situation. When Xena had told me I should try the Orgatron Training Centre I had expected something modern, technologically advanced. Yet from the moment of gaining admission to 27 Brompton Row I had been plunged into a world of gas lamps, brocade curtains, corsets and bloomers. The man said nothing more and watched me fiddle with straggles of hair. I felt uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I said. “It’s my first time here.”
“Really? Perfect.”
“I’m keen to learn. My friend has told me about it and I wanted to experience it for myself.”
“On the bed please.” I lay back on the bed, hands behind my head raised on plump feather pillows. I was glad he had not asked me to undress.
“I’m Caroline,” I said. “And you would be? Do I need to read anything first?”
“No talking necessary,” said the Chinese man, sitting on the edge of the bed and carefully opening the crotch of my bloomers. I guessed he was going to give me some kind of examination, perhaps evaluating my genitals for their orgasmic potential before assigning me some exercises and ginseng tablets.
He exposed my genitals and then stared at them. I was glad I’d got Robert to tidy me up with the razor, one of the few jobs he does with great care. He does have some uses. I thought of reminding my instructor that he’d said staring was not polite, but held my tongue.
He didn’t hold his tongue for long. His head disappeared between my legs and I felt him delineate my outer lips, circle the hood of my clit with forensic precision. I felt fingers pull me gently apart and the tongue dart into my hole, teasing and lubricating in equal measure. He was certainly competent, professional even, but I was struggling to comprehend his purpose. Xena had said it was all about delaying orgasm, going without a climax for days on end. If that was the case, he had a funny way of going about it.
In the twinkling of an eye, I felt a slim finger probe my hole. Before the twinkling of another eye, two long fingers were jabbing in and out of me and my knees shot up at the sudden rough treatment.
“Excuse me, I don’t understand…”
“No talking.”
I guessed from what Xena had said that this must be some kind of desensitisation process. I tried to relax, breathing out slowly, lowering my knees, and letting the muscles in my stomach de-tense.
“Very good,” said the Oriental man, withdrawing and then examining his shiny wet fingers. “You ready now. Please, don’t look at me.”
“Ready for what?” I turned my head to one side. He pulled up his gown, climbed on top of me, entered me with one thrust. I gasped with surprise. Xena had said nothing about actual sex. She’d talked about masturbation and machines.
I shifted slightly to improve the angle but he didn’t seem at all concerned about my pleasure. When I started to move along with his thrusts, he stopped and shook his head. He wanted me to lie still and not look at him. I had never had sex like this before. I don’t just mean the Victorian clothing. It was so impersonal.
He was very active, fast in his movements. Yes, professional, was the right word. He sat up and used his thumb on my clit, his penis still inside me. A high moan escaped me, more a squeak really, but he liked that, and rubbed me firmly, making me squeak more. I couldn’t help it. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I could feel a climax coming. Before it did he withdrew, turned me over, and pulled me to the edge of the bed, my feet on the nearly bald Turkish carpet.
I was definitely wet now and pushed back hard on his cock, only to be rewarded with a slap on the buttock. He pushed me into the satin counterpane, and my body slid forward. He didn’t want me to move. This so-called ‘training’ ran counter to everything I had thought about enjoying orgasmic sex.
He entered me again and again, just a little way, withdrawing completely each time. When at last he plunged deeply in and thrusted high up inside me I sighed and my vagina clamped round his slim penis, desperate to hold him in. I sneaked a hand down to my clit and worked myself to the orgasm I could deny no longer. My spasms and cries took him over the edge too. When he silently withdrew, I felt warm come trickle down the inside of my thighs, lots of it.
“Very good,” he repeated. He adjusted his gown, straightened his stage moustache, and placed a pile of clean notes, straight out of a cash machine, on top of the costume jewellery box.
“What’s that for?”
“For you. Very good.”
“But I thought I had to pay for training.”
“No need to pretend now. This all for you. Have already paid maid for the room.”
When I got home I had a deep bath and tried to make sense of the bizarre experience. It was so not what I had expected. I dried my hands and picked up my tablet to read some more about the Orgatron Training Centre
: a charity, a religious foundation dedicated to connecting people with their inner spirit. Founded by Regina Heart, the main centre is based in an ancient castle in Scotland, on an island thought to have once been a pagan religious site. The London training Centre is located in Old Brompton Road.
Not Brompton Row.