Asking For Trouble (13 page)

Outside, the lamp-lit streets were quiet and the sky was sprinkled with stars.

I glanced up at Ilya’s flat window. The bamboo blind was down and the light shining behind it was red. I smiled to myself. He’d put a brothel-red bulb in, whether as a joke or not I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I liked to see it, different from all the other windows. It was
something for everyone to see, and yet only he and I understood it.

My excitement fluttered as I mused on how Ilya might treat me. I was hungry for more of his insulting, dirty talk; hungry to be his slut and whore.

Leggy and awkward on my borrowed heels, I teetered across the road. The night air was a cool breath, stealing under my skirt and whispering over my exposed juicy sex.

The front gate was open, and I made my way up the wide steps to Ilya’s building, clutching on to the pale wall like a gin-soaked lush. In the gloom of the arched portico, I eyed the cluster of bells and laid a finger to his. I pressed long and hard. My short fingernails were red, and I’d chipped at the polish to enhance my slut image.

‘It’s Beth,’ I said confidently when Ilya’s voice crackled through the circle of tiny holes. Then, with a buzz and a click, the huge, paint-flaky door was mine to heave against and enter.

The lofty hall was in darkness for a moment then, with another click, it was flooded with stark light. Like my place, I thought, with switches here and there to give you rationed electricity. And, like at my place, there were a couple of bicycles propped in the hallway, making the place smell faintly of rubber. But it didn’t look as good as my building. It was shabbier and the carpet was a hideously patterned brown monstrosity.

I wobbled up the communal staircase to the landing, my calves already aching from the shoes. At the end was a slightly open door, and I approached, seeing the brass number plate there. His flat. A touch of chivalry wouldn’t have gone amiss, I thought, piqued that he wasn’t holding the door for me.

I pushed in and the landing light clicked off behind me.

‘It’s Beth,’ I said again, half expecting a stranger’s voice to reply, ‘Who?’

‘I know,’ came Ilya’s voice, and I turned left to its source, seeing a door ajar with fuzzy red light bleeding from it into the unlit hall. Shoulders back, breasts thrusting, I stalked into the room, noticing the window that, had the blinds been up, would have looked across to my window. It felt a little strange.

Ilya was lying full-length on a sofa, ankles crossed, watching my grand entrance. In the crimson flush of the table-lamp, he was shadowy and indistinct, his close-cropped hair tinged with a ruby sheen. He didn’t bother with a smile. He just looked me up and down, hooded eyes flicking in a quick check rather than lingering in a leer. His dark angular face – half-chiselled, half-crooked – was austere, unmoved.

For a moment he became the inscrutable bogeyman of my imagination again, but then I remembered we were playing roles. He was being my detached, arrogant punter and I had to be his whore. Inspired, I strode forward, taking a quick recce of my surroundings as I did so.

First impressions: not good. And it would have been a hell of a lot worse if it hadn’t been for that red light blurring the room’s harshness. There was a very temporary feel to the place, as if it had been let on a part-furnished basis and Ilya was keeping it that way. And there was nothing high on the walls the way there is in most people’s houses. There were no pictures, no tall bookshelves. It was all very low-level, which really isn’t good when you’ve got a high ceiling.

And his fireplace – a sturdy marble affair – was chip-boarded over, with nothing personal or nice on the mantelpiece – just dull-looking junk: a couple of batteries, packet of fags, scruffy stack of paper, that kind of thing.

I was slightly disappointed – not because I’d been expecting Ikea-catalogue swank, but more because I’d hoped to gain a few clues about him: his tastes, his lifestyle, et cetera.

But, apart from that, I didn’t dwell on the spartan, shabby nature of his flat. I simply thought, Oh well, he’s a bloke. They’re not that good at interior design. Anyway, you wanted down-market, Beth. You’ve got it.

Ilya didn’t move from his sofa-sprawl, so I slipped off my mac, cast it on to a sagging armchair, and turned to face him. I stood, legs apart, and struck a hand-on-hip pose. Giving a defiant toss of my curls, I stared boldly at him.

Here I am, I thought. Go on, check out the goods. Objectify me to your heart’s content. Help me shake off the last vestiges of Beth and make me meat, merchandise, cunt for sale – a cunt so greedy that I’ll do it for free.

As Ilya raked me with his eyes, his lips twisted in a vague sneer and he nodded to himself. The beats of my heart shot up.

I could tell he approved. I looked deliciously cheap, so easy and vulgar. How he could he resist such a hot little piece?

‘Well?’ I asked, giving the word an aggressive note. ‘Do you like what you see?’

Ilya stood in a bored kind of way, as if he were forcing himself to go and make a cup of tea.

‘You’ll do,’ he said, and then it was time up on me looking the whore. I had to start playing the whore and I was ready and willing. I was going to slum it beautifully.

‘So, mister?’ I ventured. ‘What do you have in mind?’

Ilya gave a playful half-grin, came to stand in front of me and reached under the hem of my dress. It wasn’t far from there to my knickers, and he gave a murmur of appreciation when his fingers alighted, not on a gusset, but on my moist, brazen sex. He did a cursory exploration, his thumb rubbing over my pubis to find the wisps of gauze and lace that were my underwear.

‘Whore,’ he whispered, and as he spoke he eased a couple of fingers into my vagina.

Lust tumbled to my groin and I gave a faint moan,
tottering slightly on my heels. Deftly, Ilya moved side-on to me, reaching round to cup my waist and hold me steady. We were standing almost at right angles, one of my hips pressing near to his hip, one of my feet placed between his. The heel of his hand rested against my mons, and the fingers within me were motionless, as if he were stopping up a dam.

He stayed that way while he lowered his eyes in blatant survey of my plunging cleavage.

‘Nice tits,’ he said, and he waggled the fingers in my hole. ‘But you’re very wet for a whore. I’d rather you were dry then I could fuck you, maybe with a bit of lube, and I’d imagine you were hating it. Imagine you were sick of cock because you’d had so many stuck up you.’

He moved his lips close to my ear. His breath tickled there.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘You’d visit me with a sore slack cunt because, all night, you’d been taking dick after dick. And the men all want you. Not because you’re anything special but because you’re cheap. Cheap and dirty, and your standards are low. Yeah, you’ll let anyone stick it in you. As long as it’s hard, you don’t care. You’re just a slut. And sooner or later you’ll be taking it up the arse because your cunt’s too fucked to be of use.’

Then he slipped his fingers out of me and walked away, leaving me standing and stunned.

Vulgarity tripped so easily from his tongue and that little speech had been particularly foul. And the shock was that it inflamed me with a hunger I couldn’t help but be ashamed of.

I watched Ilya head for the kitchenette, sectioned off from the room by a half-wall. As he passed his sofa, he dashed his fingers across the back, wiping off my juices. He was feigning contempt; I hoped he was feigning.

I stood there, unsure of what to do. I was desperately aroused and I was embarrassed by that. I wished I were proud of my taste for filth and debasement, but I wasn’t.
Confessing to Ilya had been a first for me; acting it out was another.

It scared me a little that my vaguely expressed fantasies seemed as good as an open book to him and that he could say things to me and do things to me that struck a frightening chord within the barely explored recesses of my dank, dirty mind.

In the narrow kitchenette, Ilya reached a whisky bottle from a cupboard, poured himself a glass, then returned. The slut that was me was obviously not significant enough to be offered a drink. I challenged that.

‘Don’t I get a whisky, then?’ I asked.

Ilya took a gulp.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Your mouth’s going to be full enough.’

He set down his glass on a table and, with his foot, eased a wooden chair from under it, turning it to face me. He unbuckled his belt.

‘I want oral first,’ he said, unzipping quickly and revealing snug grey trunks, their button-flies bulging. ‘And I want it firm and good.’

He kicked off the bottom half of his clothing then perched himself on the chair. His prick jutted powerfully upright. The sight made my pussy swoon, and I was reassured, grateful to my body for getting heated up by something clean and wholesome rather than coarse and crude.

In the bloodshot, bleary room, Ilya sat there, legs wide and waiting for me.

‘I don’t swallow,’ I said, asserting my whore-self.

‘Oh, yeah?’ he challenged. He linked his fingers behind his head and flexed his spine, stretching in readiness for the good time about to roll.

Oh God, I thought, I really don’t swallow. Please respect that. And it suddenly struck me that I didn’t know where one game ended and the other began.

I was playing a game within a game. In the small game, I was acting the whore and a whore can set ground
rules: ‘No this, no that.’ But that was part of a bigger game, one where there was just one rule: saying ‘cuttlefish’ if things got seriously out of order, and knowing that ‘cuttlefish’ was also the big full stop, end of relationship.

I was hardly going to cry ‘cuttlefish’ because of a bit of come in my mouth, was I? Would Ilya exploit that and make me swallow? While I hoped he wouldn’t, it gave me a thrill to think I didn’t quite know what the limits were and that my saying ‘no’ meant absolutely nothing.

So, with a provocative half-smile, I sashayed over to him. Laying my hands inside his knees, I knelt between his open thighs, pressing his legs wider as I lowered myself down. I ogled his erect prick with eagerness and greed. He was unfurled and, in the red-stained room, his glans had a cherry-dark flush to it.

I love cocks. I love looking at them. I love sucking them. It turns me on hugely. I know some women say, ‘Yeah, giving a blow job, it’s OK, but you only really do it in part-exchange, don’t you?’ But I disagree. I genuinely love it.

So I dallied and teased, both for Ilya’s pleasure and for mine, spinning out the moment before I took him deep in my throat. I rubbed my hands along his thighs, cupped and caressed his balls, feeling the taut spheres shifting within their sac. He murmured hunger and edged his arse further forward, seeking my luscious red-gloss lips.

I trailed my tongue along the underseam of his shaft. And, when that clear bead of pre-come seeped from the eyelet of his glans, I gave a couple of tiny, flicking licks there.

‘Just do it,’ growled Ilya, his hips lifting impatiently. So I did, my lipsticked pout sliding down his stiffness.

‘Ahh,’ said Ilya. ‘Yess.’ His voice was laced with bliss and my desire flared up at the sound.

Edging my shins back, I clasped the chair so I was near as damn it on all fours – submissively worshipping the
cock in my mouth just like, I reckoned, a good whore ought to. Again and again, I sucked up and slipped down, working him with firm fleshy lips and a hot dancing tongue. I tasted the slight sweetness of my lipgloss as it smeared along his meaty length.

Ilya made soft approving groans. I felt him lean forward and then his hands were on my dress and he was reeling in the tight red fabric, shuffling it up and over my hips until it was all ruched about my waist.

So, I thought, while I’m busy fellating him, he gets to feast his eyes on my arse, half-concealed by those trashy red knickers. Lucky man.

My head bobbing steadily, I spread my knees wider, relishing the sensation of my labia peeling apart. I dipped my spine and thrust my buttocks high, offering him the best view I could.

I wondered if he would approve of me masturbating. My sex was in desperate need of attention and Ilya was in no position help out. I restrained myself for a moment, thinking that whores service their clients not themselves, and I imagined having another client, fucking me from behind. Foolish idea, because after that I had to touch myself. My clit was thudding and my pussy was so open, so achingly hot.

I reached between my thighs, my fingers diving straight past my split knickers and into my tunnel of slick heat. I groaned around Ilya’s cock.

‘Hey,’ he warned, and he clutched a fistful of my hair. His pelvis reared sharply and he held my head firm as he started fucking into my mouth. His wiry pubes tickled my nostrils, my cheeks bulged and his domed glans butted ceaselessly against my throat. I fought against my gagging reflex, trying to draw back.

‘Stop it, Beth,’ he commanded. ‘Stop wanking.’

Insolent and lustful, I ignored him. My fingers felt too good. I plunged and frigged, rushing my actions because I feared he was about to stop me. And, sure enough, he
did. A hand clawed just above my elbow, and he tugged against my resistance until he’d manage to wrench my fingers from my sex.

‘All in good time,’ he said smoothly, gripping my wrist and raising my arm high. ‘Right now, I want your undivided attention.’

He took my juice-coated fingers into his mouth and sucked up and down, mirroring the slide of my lips on his prick. The fist holding my hair loosened, leaving me free to give him head at my own pace.

Keeping my lips in a shaft-hugging O, I brought into play all the specialities I knew: I lashed with my tongue, teasing the circlet of his foreskin and his smooth sturdy crest; I grated my teeth along his length, oh so gently, suckling on his tip then going down deep. As I sensed him getting greedier, I kept my rhythm slow and steady, my mouth nice and firm.

‘That’s good,’ he kept saying. ‘Yeah, that’s fucking good.’

He groaned even more when I reached between his thighs. His balls were packed solid, tucked up close to the base of his cock. I hammocked and caressed them, stroking a finger back along the ridge to his anus.