Asking For Trouble (21 page)

I slumped back on to my heels, defeated. Ilya released his hold on me.

‘I just didn’t want you to be self-conscious,’ he said gently. ‘That’s all. I thought you’d see the sense in it – in me being a bit . . . sly. You do see the sense, don’t you, babe?’

‘Yeah,’ I sniffed meekly. ‘Suppose so.’

I threw a glance in Pete’s direction. Standing in the pool of light from the TV, he was watching the screen me. I was crying in pleasure-pain as Ilya stretched my oiled arse open with sideways pushing fingers. The picture wasn’t exactly grainy, but it had that camcorder quality: edges not quite sharp enough with something plasticky about the colours.

I was mortified to think some stranger had secretly filmed me.

‘What about him?’ I asked, my anger boiling up again. ‘How does he fit in? And why did he have to come round and deliver the fucking film? Why didn’t you –’

‘We’ve got to pay the cameraman.’ Ilya grinned. ‘Now come on, Beth. Play the game. You’ll love it. Two blokes treating you like a slut. Don’t pretend you’re not hot for it. Turn around. Get on all fours again and watch the video.’

Ilya sank into the armchair and, grudgingly, I dropped
back on to my hands and knees. He was right. Of course I was hot for it – so hot that I was close to combusting. Pete was hot, too. He stood there in the semi-gloom, gaze locked on the TV. His navy jogging pants held no secrets and his cock was sticking out like a flagpole.

On screen, Ilya was urging me to talk dirty. I cringed to hear my video alter ego crying out over the backtrack of Bach, crying out to have Ilya’s cock rammed in my arse.

‘Oh, baby, go,’ said Pete in a low rumbling voice, and his hand drifted to his crotch.

As if he were standing alone, he began stroking himself up and down, cupping the fabric beneath his jutting stem while slowly rubbing the underside of his prick. His complete lack of inhibition made my pussy ache. I wanted a crude, rough fuck from him and I wanted him to growl, ‘Oh, baby, go,’ when he gave it to me.

‘Oh yeah, what a dirty, dirty slut,’ murmured Pete, seemingly in a world of his own.

My video self was propped on her forearms, offering up her backside and wailing for Ilya’s dick: ‘I want your dick up my arse,’ I was saying. ‘I want your fucking dick . . . up my fucking –’

‘You foul-mouthed slut,’ came Ilya’s muted video-voice. I watched his hands unroll a rubber down his stout, veiny length and I listened to myself wailing as his prick penetrated my anus in a slow, deep lunge.

The homiest thing was seeing Ilya’s body: a muscled thigh, the hollowing of his buttocks, the strength in his arms. His face was out of view. The picture was of me, side-on to the lens, and of the important stuff happening to me. Ilya’s expression was obviously not important.

‘This bit’s great,’ murmured Pete, without taking his eyes from the TV.

The image wobbled a bit, zoomed in on my rear, went blurred, then came into sharp focus again. The cheeks of my arse, split open by the heels of Ilya’s hands,
dominated the screen. The wide shiny valley of my buttocks ran down the middle and we got a shot of a larger-than-life cock sliding out of a larger-than-life hole.

It could’ve been anyone but the knowledge that it was me – being buggered by Ilya for the very first time – made it a million times more obscene and thrilling. Heat thundered between my legs as I gazed, awestruck, at the image.

‘Mmm, nice camera work, Pete,’ came Ilya’s husky drawl from the armchair behind me.

I whimpered in feeble objection, wanting someone to notice the flesh me instead of the video me. But the video me was making louder noises. I gazed at my on-screen anus, red-raw and glistening, making a pout round Ilya’s girth as his shaft plunged in and out.

‘Top shot, isn’t it?’ said Pete distractedly, his hand still moving beneath the thrust of his trapped hard-on.

I wondered how many times he’d watched this film. How many times had he wanked to it? And when he’d wanked, had he known that he was going to meet the star of the show?

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Pete softly, as the camera panned out again. ‘The greedy little cow. Look at her go.’

And there I was, reaching back for my clit, my body bouncing, my tits swaying as Ilya’s arse pumped faster and faster. I was howling. Ilya was grunting. My arm was nudging as I frigged myself. I climaxed. It sounded nothing like me. Surely my voice wasn’t so throaty. Surely I didn’t cry and gasp like that.

Oh God. I recalled the next bit: me finger-fucking myself to a second peak. I was torn in two: I wanted to watch myself and yet I couldn’t bear it. If I hadn’t had ‘slut’ scrawled across my back in red lipstick, I might have been a more comfortable viewer.

‘Oh, greedy, greedy, greedy,’ said Pete, his words growing louder. Then he swung around to Ilya.

‘Oh fuck, Illie,’ he breathed, his face energised with
lust. ‘My dick’s killing me. Let me give her one. Let me fuck her. Dirty little bitch, let me fuck her.’

He was already jerking at the drawstring of his baggy trousers.

Anticipation slammed into my groin. ‘Yes,’ I said in a barely audible whisper. ‘Let him.’

‘She’s all yours,’ said Ilya. ‘But, if you can hang on a minute, I’d like to see her beg for it.’ The armchair creaked as Ilya stood up.

‘Oh, yeah,’ enthused Pete, clutching his loosened jogging pants in one fist. ‘Let’s make her beg for it. Beg like a dog.’

‘C’mon, Beth,’ coaxed Ilya, moving around me. ‘Be a good girl. Sit up and beg.’

He had to be joking. He nudged at one of my arms with his foot. He wasn’t joking.

Oh, how low would I have to sink before I got what I craved? As low as it goes, I thought, because, right at that moment, I wasn’t going to let self-respect stand in the way of hunger.

I sat back on my heels, lifting my limp-wristed hands high, and glowered at Ilya. He smiled down at me, his face all shadows and light.

The sound of our video fuck filled the room, mocking me with its unchecked passion. I heard myself reach clamorous orgasm and I was jealous to the point of bitchiness, inwardly cursing that slut on tape who could take her pleasure a thousand times over and take it hassle-free.

‘Put a bit of effort into it, Beth,’ taunted Ilya. ‘Look like you mean it.’

I straightened my spine and half-heartedly flapped my hands.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ mocked Pete, moving a couple of feet in front of me. ‘That’s so disappointing.’

From the TV speaker came the deliciously deep groan of Ilya’s climax, followed by some quieter moans that
soon snapped off into fizz. I glanced at the screen. It was snowy and I was thankful, although I couldn’t work out if my audience had just halved or doubled.

Ilya switched on a table lamp, filling the room with low-watt yellow and smudgy gloom.

‘You wanna see what you’re missing, mmm?’ boasted Pete, circling his pelvis. ‘You wanna see if it’s worth begging for, do you?’

He released his hold on his trousers, stretched two waistbands over the hump of his erection, then dropped his clothes to his ankles. His cock sprang free, ramrod stiff and capped with crimson.

My liquid sex fuzzed like electricity as Pete kicked off trainers and trousers.

‘Go on,’ he growled, pushing his hips forward and stripping off his T-shirt. ‘Beg for it, you little tart. Beg for my dick.’

‘I’m begging, I’m begging,’ I cried brokenly.

‘Like a dog,’ insisted Ilya. ‘Stick your tongue out and pant for it.’

I winced inwardly, casting him a look of distaste. For a split-second I was stubborn, but then I thought, what the hell, it’s only dignity. You get it back – I think.

And so I sat bolt upright, thrust out my tongue and made lots of quick huffy noises as my perky-puppy hands waggled away.

Ilya laughed. ‘Oh, lovely,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

Then all of a sudden Ilya was behind me, wrapping an arm beneath my breasts.

‘Go on, Pete,’ he urged, arcing me backward as if making an offering of my flesh. ‘Put the girl out of her misery. But use a rubber. You don’t know where she’s been.’

Relief made my heart light and my cunt, choked with pulses, blazed up like an inferno.

I scrambled with Ilya as he dragged me towards the sofa then plonked himself at an angle on the edge.
Roughly, he hitched me upward, stretching my upper body across one of his thighs. My knees hovered inches above the ground and Ilya, arm locked tight round my ribcage, kept me that way.

Pete muttered about condoms and I pleaded with him to hurry as I bucked into thin air. Ilya mauled one breast with the hand that held me, lowering his mouth to my ear.

‘You beautiful whore,’ he said in a rasping whisper.

The nearness of those words made my consciousness go hiccup. I had a sudden sense of intimacy – of Pete, rather than me, being the outsider who didn’t quite know the score.

Ilya’s free hand delved past my pubes to my raised clit. Taking the blistering bud between thumb and forefinger, he pinched lightly and rubbed.

‘Yes,’ I howled. ‘Oh yes. Please, Ilya.’

‘Oh, man,’ breathed Pete, positioning himself between my wide, welcoming thighs.

His cock butted at my slippery vulva then he drove in fast, packing my overwrought pussy with stone-solid flesh.

I wailed reckless delight, struggling for balance as Pete launched headlong into a strong, frantic fuck. The urgency of his high-speed pounding dislodged Ilya’s fingers, but in an instant they were back on target.

‘Greedy, greedy,’ murmured Ilya, vibrating my clit as Pete hammered and gasped.

‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ Pete was chanting. ‘Oh, she’s so fucking wet. Oh yes, baby, yes. Take my dick. Take my dick.’

But I drowned him out with my own noises, feeling my orgasm rush and squeeze the very core of me to wring out every droplet of pleasure.

‘Oh yes,’ gushed Pete. ‘Oh, man, her snatch.’ And he was jabbing into my spasms, shunting me higher, and for a moment I thought I was falling somewhere.

But we were all leaning – me and Ilya backward; Pete forward, striving to keep rhythm and depth.

I was near enough sprawled across Ilya’s chest, and his hands were free to roam. Pete swung a foot on to the cushions, clasped the sofa-back and, in a half-squat, continued fucking me, his hips lunging in sharp little jerks.

Ilya mashed my breasts hard, squashing them together and pressing them up for Pete’s rapt gaze.

‘Oh yes,’ said Pete, eyes glued to my tits. ‘Oh fuck, baby, yes.’

With his spare hand, Pete shoved into Ilya’s caress, fighting for a grope of my flesh. He grabbed at the cleavage Ilya had made. ‘I’m gonna shoot,’ he gasped, his rough fingers pummelling and clawing. ‘I’m gonna shoot. I’m gonna –’

And, with a groan that became a roar, he shot. His whole body tensed as his rooted prick quivered to fulfilment.

Then he held himself over us, his gleaming chest swelling in and out as he chased his breaths.

‘You horny cow,’ he said, and he pushed himself from the sofa, leaving my cunt bereft.

‘No,’ I murmured. ‘More. Ilya.’

‘Get up, Beth,’ said Ilya, and I slipped to the floor as he stood. ‘I need to piss first. So lie back.’

He unzipped his flies. Pete laughed knowingly.

‘Lie back,’ repeated Ilya, and he stood there, legs astride, aiming his semi-hard cock in my direction, clearly intent on pissing on me.

‘No way,’ I said, scrambling out of range. ‘You’re not using me as your fucking urinal.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ said Ilya, smiling. ‘Grab her Pete. Keep her still.’

Pete pounced and I wrestled uselessly against his strength, shouting, ‘No, no, let me go.’ I’d had enough of
degradation. I wanted sex and nice orgasms, not stinking piss and mockery.

But Pete gripped my forearms and I was on my back, writhing and protesting. Ilya was laughing mirthlessly, obviously not desperate to piss, just waiting for my frenzy to abate.

‘Open your mouth, Beth,’ said Ilya. ‘I won’t get hard until I’m emptied.’

‘No,’ I shouted, kicking at nothing and trying to wrench myself from Pete’s grasp. ‘You’re a couple of fucking bullies. Let me go.’

I felt Pete relax ever so slightly. ‘Hey, Illie,’ he said in a mildly concerned voice, ‘maybe you should give it a rest. Maybe she’s just not into it.’

‘She’s into it,’ replied Ilya coldly. ‘When Beth says no, she doesn’t really mean no. And if she doesn’t fucking keep still and open her mouth wide, then I’ve got one word to say to her – and she knows what it is – and then she’s out of here and she won’t be coming back. Ever. She’s got five seconds to decide. One. Two. Three.’

I held myself rigid.

‘Four,’ said Ilya.

I went limp and opened my mouth.

Ilya gave a little snigger.

‘Nice one,’ said Pete admiringly as he released me.

Leaning back on my elbows, mouth gaping, I waited for the watery insult.

As Ilya’s piss curved towards me in a shimmering parabola, I screwed my eyes shut.

I felt the point of impact, shockingly warm and powerful, splash on my breasts. Then it snaked up to my neck, as if he were drawing on my flesh in urine. Bathwater heat coursed over my flesh, dribbling everywhere.

When his liquid hit my chin, I quelled the instinct to clamp my lips together. It gushed into my mouth and I locked my throat, swallowing nothing but tasting all the vile sharpness as it bathed my tongue. Overflowing piss
spilt from my lips, trickling down my neck, my ears, and soaking my hair.

‘Mmm, that’s better,’ said Ilya, as his stream tailed off and went drip, drip, drip down my body.

I coughed and spluttered, wiping the back of my hand across my tainted face.

‘I’m ready to fuck now,’ said Ilya, his drained cock thickening.

‘You gonna stick it up her arse again?’ asked Pete.

‘Might do,’ replied Ilya. ‘Or I might let you do the honours.’

‘Suits me fine,’ answered Pete, his hands reaching for me from behind.

‘No way,’ I snapped, pushing myself up. ‘You’re not –’

‘Yeah, but you don’t really mean that, do you?’ laughed Pete. ‘You’ll have to teach me that five-second trick, Illie. Works a treat. We can do what we want with her, can’t we?’

They subjected me to all manner of indignities.