Free The Gift of Girls by Chloë Thurlow Page A

my red bottom and yet, perversely, at the same time, I felt vibrant, alive, my fingers and toes tingling with pins and needles, my body vibrating with new sensations that zinged through my nervous system. My breasts seemed fuller, firmer. My nipples were fizzing fireworks about to explode, and it took all my willpower not to reach for them, caress them, roll the soft pink buds between my fingers as I had done so often in the shower after hockey and at night in the dorm surrounded by sleeping girls. I sat with my shoulders back, knees together, hands over my pussy, the scent of my juices hanging in the air. I was leaking still and was sure when I got out of the car there would be a puddle on the black leather seat.
    Two girls my age in short skirts and off-the-shoulder tops stared into the car as we ground to a halt. They waved their hands like I was a celebrity and I couldn’t stop myself smiling. My mood had lifted. I was on a roller-coaster – terrified one moment, excited the next, apprehensive of where we were going and anxious to get there.
    When I saw the money belonging to Roche-Marshall disappear from the computer screen I’d felt suicidal. There appeared to be absolutely no escape. I had been ensnared by my own greed, trapped in my own labyrinth. When I got the opportunity to save myself by bending over to display my white bottom I had done so really without a second thought. I had stepped from my clothes and slipped with a sense of relief into the shoes Simon Roche removed from that green and gold box.
    Those shoes were another mystery I didn’t think about at the time, but now, looking down at my feet in the car’s footwell, those courtly heels that made my spine arc in a bow and pulled back my shoulders so that my breasts were pushed forward seemed oddly perfidious, a Trojan horse in a game of wits.
    ‘Why did you buy these shoes?’ I asked.
    ‘Don’t you like them?’
    ‘Yes, yes, of course, but I mean, why?’
    ‘They fit all right?’
    ‘Yes …’
    ‘I thought you’d like them.’
    ‘I do, but how did you … how did you know?’
    ‘You know the answer to that question as well as me.’
    ‘I don’t.’
    ‘You will,’ he said with a tone of finality and I let it drop.
    He had asked my shoe size before I stole the money and, if he knew I was going to rob his company before I knew myself, he was even smarter than I thought. Was I so transparent? Did he know that when temptation was put in my way I would seize it? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t know I worked at Rebels Casino. He didn’t know I would meet Sandy Cunningham and take up a life of gambling and theft. He can’t have done.
    It seemed as if from the very first moment when I went for the interview at Roche-Marshall circumstances had contrived to give Simon Roche power over me, the power to do anything he wanted. I had taken off my clothes. I had given him my damp knickers to inspect. I had slipped into those beautiful black shoes, stretched naked over the arm of the sofa and allowed him to spank me. It had been painful, but pain, I realised, could mutate from base metal to gold, from agony to a strange inexplicable ecstasy.
    Perhaps that was the great secret the alchemists had been seeking. It wasn’t spiritual rebirth, it was corporeal. I wasn’t connected to some higher spirit, but something deep and earthy. Like my ancestors who worshipped pagan gods before the Christian missionaries arrived from the Holy Lands, I belonged to the soil, to everything ripe, fecund, pubescent, and Simon Roche seemed to have unmasked my true nature.
    Under Simon’s hand, the tectonic plates had shifted on a fault line running through me and, as his last and hardest spank crossed my inflamed bottom, I had erupted in a vast embarrassing orgasm that sent a tidal wave of magma gushing over my thighs. It is hard to believe that such a thing is possible and I certainly wouldn’t have believed it had Melissa or Sarah told me.
    ‘Ah, about time,’ he