Asking For Trouble (10 page)

‘I called earlier,’ he said. He unbuttoned the second. My cleavage was bared. It gleamed with a thin film of sweat.

‘I was out,’ I replied thickly. I could hardly speak. My tongue felt as it were moving in honey. My throat was in knots.

‘I know.’ He smiled, eyes down as he undid the third button, then the fourth.

He wasn’t slow and tantalising. He was just unbuttoning me with confident efficiency. I marvelled at his cool. It thrilled me utterly and I played up to it, accepting the downward crawl of his fingers with docile passivity. When my top was half-open, he eased the blue crochet from my shoulders and neatly tucked the fabric either side my breasts. My black bra was bared and he scooped a hand into one cup. The feel of his warmth on my flesh made me moan faintly. He lifted one breast free, then the other.

My nipples were bullet-hard. My groin was aflame.

My exhibited tits, half-framed in blue laciness, jutted awkwardly above underwire and rucked-down bra cups. Ilya’s eyes trawled lazily over them.

‘It was hot today,’ he breathed. He spanned thumbs
and first fingers below each half-globe and began massaging upward. The callused balls of his thumbs grazed over my nipples and flicked gently at their stiff resistance. Sensation fizzed there and plummeted to my sex, swamping it in humidity. His caress was exquisite, so tender yet so firm.

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘It was hot. Very hot.’

‘Did it make you feel horny?’ he asked.

With the same workmanlike detachment he’d shown in unbuttoning me, Ilya reached for the wavy hem of my skirt, fluffed it up my leg and then, holding the material against my thigh with his forearm, slipped his fingers into the gusset of my knickers.

I moaned. ‘Yes,’ I said breathily.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said in a whispered acknowledgement.

His deft fingers split my labia and he drove two deep inside me. He held the position.

‘You’re very wet,’ he said in that deep husky voice. ‘Very ready for me.’ He teased the forward wall of my vagina. ‘That wasn’t the plan, Beth. You weren’t meant to be ready for me. You weren’t meant to be all juicy and full of lust.’

His two fingers churned in my molten hole and he nuzzled into my neck. His lips brushed over my ear. ‘You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you?’ he murmured, his closeness blurring his words. ‘I bet you’ve been ready for ages, haven’t you?’

‘Mmm,’ I said in feeble agreement. Greedily, I pushed my groin toward him, pressing my clit to the heel of his hand and rubbing. He pushed a third finger into me, stretching me apart, and began shunting in and out. His sliding hand pressed back on my bud. I groaned, my pleasure mounting

‘You sweet little slut,’ he said softly.

I groaned again to show I liked his dirty talk. If it’d been a man I knew saying such things I might have heard only play-acting and cringed at his attempt. But I
didn’t know him, not in a dull, what-do-you-want-for-breakfast sense, and his words sounded good, unforced. I liked being a horny bitch, a sweet little slut. I liked being cheapened.

I heard the clink of a belt being unbuckled.

‘You need fucking,’ he said gently. ‘You really need fucking, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, my eyes closing in bliss.

I heard his trousers drop, felt him step out of his shoes and lower clothes. Swiftly, he dragged my knickers down to my ankles and hitched up my skirt. I opened my eyes, about to suggest the bedroom, but, before I got the chance, I felt his cock between my thighs. With barely a position-seeking nudge, his glans was at my entrance.

‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘Condoms.’

‘It’s OK,’ he cooed. ‘It’s OK.’

No it’s not, I thought, and he penetrated me in one easy glide. His bone-hard length rushed upward, slipping open my wet flesh and filling it.

My cry of protest softened to a moan of delight and my thoughts of big diseases with little names evaporated in a fog of brain-numbing lust. I clamped my muscles to his thick girth, fluttering my pulpy heat around his shaft. He gave a low-throated noise of enjoyment and cupped my arse while I struggled to get rid of my ankle-shackling knickers. Ilya lifted me, pressing me up against the wall.

My sandals clattered to the floor.

I gripped his hips with my inner thighs and then he was fucking into me, slamming up a series of ruthless, measured strokes. Every thrust jolted me, made my tits judder, my feet bounce in the air.

‘Jesus,’ I gasped, and he crushed his lips to mine, coaxing my mouth wide with a hot, probing tongue. I placed my hands either side of his face then stroked over his head. His close-cropped hair bristled on the up-stroke;
on the down-stroke, oh, it was velvet-smooth, so warm and sleek.

‘Tell me a fantasy,’ he said, breaking the kiss. He wasn’t even breathless.

‘Oh Christ,’ I said, half-complaint, half-excitement. I couldn’t stop caressing the roundness of his skull and I pulled his head close, running my hand up and down, from nape to crown.

Between my dangling spread legs, he pumped steadily. My back bumped and shuffled against the wall. My clit throbbed.

‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You hot little bitch. Tell me. Imagine we’re somewhere else. Where is it? Tell me.’

I struggled to think. Ilya paused, his body held still on the withdrawal, his biceps curving as he balanced my weight. I panted and stuttered incomprehensibly, clutching his wide shoulders.

‘Fucking tell me,’ he snarled. Then he rammed his cock into me. One. Two. Three.

Three punishingly strong jerks that made my womb quiver, my senses spin. ‘Tell me,’ he repeated. ‘Stop being so fucking coy.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I gasped.

And as he powered into me, I spluttered out words.

‘I like nasty things . . . cheap things. Sleazy. Sordid.’

‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘More. More.’

He fucked me faster, harder. I felt the tension gathering in my thighs and lapping within.

‘I’m going to come,’ I wailed.

‘No you’re not,’ he snapped, and he held still, clasping my upper body to his T-shirted chest. Hugging me tight, our groins locked beneath the fuss of my black skirt, he butted open the living-room door.

‘The windows,’ I protested, as he carried me past them.

‘But I’m not at home,’ he replied smoothly, somehow knowing where my bedroom was and making for it.

There, carefully, he set me down on the bed edge,
leaning with me so his prick stayed hilted. The room was shadowy because the curtains were drawn.

Ilya drew back a touch, one foot on the floor near my own, the other on the bed, his thigh supporting my hooked-up leg. I was half lifted from the duvet and I raised my hips further, seeking his thrusts. He smiled down at me and, one-handed, reached back to drag his T-shirt over his head.

A cloud of dark hair covered the scoop of his pecs, fading to sparseness on his hard, flat abdomen. His twinkling eyes meandered over my body, over my wrinkled clothes crushed this way and that.

His nudity contrasted sharply with my thrust-aside garments. He was magnificent and comfortable, while I was strategically exposed, hectic and lewd.

With unwavering control, Ilya ground into me. His thrusts were angled from a low point. He was avoiding my clit, the swine.

‘Tell me,’ he said kindly. He gave a quick strum of my clitoris with his thumb just to demonstrate that he was the one running the show. Intensity whirled in my groin.

‘Well?’ he said, his pelvis swinging in long, lazy lunges. ‘How sleazy? Do people watch you in your fantasies?’

‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Sometimes. Often.’

‘Where? What’s the setting?’ Teasingly, he brushed the nub of my clit once more.

‘Oh God,’ I wailed, frustrated by the fleeting upsurge of pleasure. I screwed my eyes shut. ‘Different places. Please. I . . . strip joints. Squalid, dingy rooms. Tacky pink neon. Me stripping, the centre of attention. Lecherous men. They all want me.’

‘I love it,’ he growled, his cock plunging, his tempo building. ‘What do they do?’ He reached a hand out and kneaded one breast. I could sense him restraining his urgency.

‘Yes, oh fuck. Different things,’ I cried, urged on by his
quickening rhythm. ‘Sometimes they beckon me over. Or I sit on the stage, spread my legs. They crowd around me. Stuff notes in my knickers. Someone cheats, stuffs his fingers in my cunt. I groan. I like it. They laugh because I’m so wet. They . . . They say coarse things. They egg him on.’

‘Go on, give it to her,’ he suggested, his voice rich and husky. ‘She loves it, the randy little whore, the dirty little slut.’

‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘Yes.’

‘Give her all your fingers. Someone hold her legs still. Let’s see that greedy wet pussy taking all his fingers. Go on, harder. Make her beg for mercy. Make her beg for cock.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said in a near-scream.

He rewarded me. Wild and eager, he hammered his prick into my depths, a finger near the root of him rubbing my clit. Ecstasy raced through me, shivering and urgent. It bunched around my core, tighter and tighter, and I howled and cried as my release exploded in one giant, delirious, starbursting orgasm.

Oh fuck.

Ilya thundered on, grunting and pumping. His lips were stretched in a rictus of torment, his head thrown back, his neck corded and taut. On a prolonged groan, he came. I felt the tension in his body and the deep shudder of his thrust, and, to my utmost relief, I didn’t feel the gush of him ejaculating.

When he withdrew, I saw the rubber wrinkling on his prick, its teat drooping with liquid. I just hadn’t felt it. I guess my vagina wasn’t concentrating. Thank God one of us is in control, I thought. He was obviously the type of guy who can distract you with one hand and slip a sheath on with the other. Expertise. I like that in a man.

Ilya snapped off his rubber, then flopped down beside me.

‘Words fail me,’ he said, harking back to our phone call.

‘Mm-mmm,’ I replied.

We lay there, silent except for our short, fast breath. No small-talk, no big-talk. Just a meaningless fuck. That was the deal, wasn’t it?

After a while, Ilya said, ‘I liked your fantasy. Have you got many more like that up your sleeve? Maybe I can help fulfil them.’

Satisfaction had sobered me up and I struggled with a niggling embarrassment.

I wasn’t too keen on baring my innermost fantasies. They weren’t exactly clean and sweet. Besides, I didn’t know if I wanted them fulfilled. I might like the image of being fucked in some graffiti-scrawled toilet, but that didn’t mean I actually wanted it to happen. In reality, it would probably be piss-stinking and grim as hell.

So I liked seedy, sleazy low-life, but I liked it where it was: in my head. Ilya obviously didn’t. He wanted me to open up so he could make it happen, make my bad dreams come true.

If I’d realised how well suited he was to do that – to drag my dangerous, dirty fantasy down to his dangerous, dirty reality – I might have kept my big mouth shut. But I didn’t. Bit by bit, I told him everything.

‘Variations on the theme,’ I mumbled.

‘You mean the sleazy theme?’

I shrugged. ‘Suppose so, yeah. I’m not really a Seychelles beach type of girl.’

‘I can tell.’ He grinned. He rolled on to his side and rumpled my top over my breast, squeezing my flesh through the blue crochet web.

‘So what is it about sleaze?’

‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘Haven’t really analysed it. I just like it.’

‘But what is it that you like? Have you got a thing about neon or something?’

‘No, I just like picturing things where I’m being used, objectified, degraded, that kind of stuff. It’s liberating.
I’m in someone else’s hands. I’m not being me. I’m made cheap. I’m just a thing for sex, a body, an orifice. And fantasy, I guess, is all about –’

‘I thought you hadn’t analysed it.’

‘I haven’t. But I’m trying to now.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Ilya, wearily dismissive. He flopped on to his back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘I prefer the visuals. What about rape fantasy? Do you go in for that?’

My pulses gave a shocked little leap. It didn’t seem right that a man should speak those words in such a free-and-easy tone, especially after having just cut short my attempts at self-analysis. Well, I knew more about this subject and I wasn’t going to let him have his kicks for free.

‘Yes,’ I said boldly. ‘And I don’t have a problem with it. Well, not much. I’m not proud of it or anything, but I know it’s common. Maybe I’ve got some deep, primeval guilt about sex. I dunno. I don’t think I have, but . . . Yeah, I get off on the idea of, of being forced, of not being responsible. But it doesn’t mean I want to be raped. It’s just fantasy. I imagine it, so I’m the one in control. My . . . my rapist, he’s just a puppet. He does whatever I make him do. It’s –’

‘Any accompanying visuals?’ asked Ilya.

‘No,’ I said tetchily. I shrugged my top further on my shoulders.

Ilya leant into me again, propped himself on one elbow and regarded me with direct curiosity. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll rape you.’

My heart flipped over. He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. Oh God, what was I doing? Who was this guy? Why was I trusting him with things like this?

Then Ilya smiled, and added, ‘If you’ll let me.’

My fear sank away and I breathed a sigh of relief.

If I let him, then it wouldn’t be rape, would it? It would be me pretending not to want him, pretending to resist, pretending it was violation. It was nothing major. Just a role-play. He was OK. He understood.

‘Well, you’d have to ask very nicely,’ I replied, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Hmm,’ he mused, easing back from me a touch and then gazing beyond into nothing. He pushed his hand under the buttoned half of my top and began circling it over my stomach. His touch was absent-minded – as intimate as a familiar lover’s or as distant as an executive’s playing with desk toys. I didn’t know which. Maybe they were one and the same thing.

‘What about whoring?’ he asked, returning his eyes to mine. ‘That’s cheap and sleazy. Do you fantasise about that?’

‘What?’ I laughed. ‘About me shivering my tits off on a street corner?’

‘With a punter.’ He smiled. ‘Down an alley. Back of a car. Hotel room. Whatever takes your fancy.’