Authors: Janine Ashbless
‘Ash!’ I hissed, scandalised but grinning from ear to ear. My expression changed when without warning he bent still lower and gently, but with great precision, bit my pubic mound. Sensation flashed through my body like an electric shock and I jerked wildly against the bars. As the lift rattled to a halt he did it again, teeth on damp, fragrant cotton, and this time I did come; a magnesium flare of an orgasm that was there and gone in an instant. I cried out too, mostly in shock. ‘Oh my God,’ I whispered as I recovered.
Smiling that smug bloody smirk that men get when they’ve brought you off, Ash opened the doors and ushered me out into the corridor. I was glad the building seemed deserted. I had to zip my trousers up before I led the way, my legs unsteady enough to make me weave a little. The kissing didn’t speed our progress up either. Miranda’s door, surrounded by plants in Chinese pots, was locked of course but after we thumped up against it in a clinch I knocked loudly, just in case she’d been in the bath or something and not heard the buzzer.
‘Miranda!’
No sound came from within. Ash took my hand and ran my open palm firmly over his trouser crotch, making clear the state of play there. I nearly gave up on the idea of getting into the flat at all, I was so distracted. ‘Oh, that’s
nice
.’
‘Nice?’ He cocked an eyebrow, clearly pained by my faint praise.
‘Nice and hard.’ I squeezed his shaft through the fabric.
‘Ah.’
‘Your come tastes good too,’ I murmured. ‘As I remember.’
‘I’m pleased you like it.’ He was having some difficulty speaking.
I grinned, taking it slowly. ‘I’d like a great big chocolate cake for my birthday, covered in your cream.’
‘Really.’
‘I’d like to take a wedge and smear it down my tits and down between my legs and I’d like to lick chocolate icing and your jizz off my fingers.’
‘Ah. Who gets to lick the cake off?’
‘You. I’d make you get down and eat it out of my pussy.’ I was torturing him now, barely moving my hand.
‘Make me? So you’re into that?’
‘For my birthday I’d tie you up in red ribbons and make you eat me out.’ I pouted thoughtfully. ‘If it was your birthday you could do it to me.’
Ash’s face was a picture. ‘Where’s the key, Avril? Or am I going to have to fuck you right here in the corridor?’
I retrieved the key from its hiding place under a pot and we bundled through the door. Miranda’s flat was as I remembered it: a corner apartment, open plan, the kitchen area in the far corner. It smelt like a branch of Lush. A framed poster of Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus
dominated the wall over her bedhead, which was the only one that wasn’t put to shelving. The whole place was mounded with stacks of books and papers – books on every horizontal surface, and clothes dumped on top of the books. It was impossible to tell if the laundry was discarded or merely stored there. The one thing Miranda really needed more of in her life was wardrobe space.
‘Looks like she’s tidied up,’ I said weakly.
Ash shucked off his coat. ‘What’s that door?’ he asked, nodding at the only other one in the flat.
‘Bathroom.’ Then I called, for the third and last time, ‘Miranda!’ getting exactly the same response as on previous occasions.
Ash was nothing if not cautious. Reluctantly he released me to go over and check and I took the opportunity to double-lock the flat door and dump my outer layers, stowing the rucksack under a dining chair. ‘She’s fairly laid-back, your friend?’ he asked as he returned.
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Then she won’t mind us using her bed.’ Ash picked me up bodily and dropped me on the duvet, among heaps of Miranda’s underwear and rumpled dresses. My squeal was only a token protest and was cut off anyway as he moved down on top of me and captured my lips. We wrestled the clothing off one another as we kissed. I was more successful than him as I didn’t have the bed to contend with, and managed to get him bare from the waist up. I raked my nails down his ribs, mesmerised by the pink tracks I could leave on his ivory skin. Ash shuddered rewardingly. He pulled up my top and sports bra to my armpits and sucked my puckered nipples until they pointed stiffly at the ceiling. He licked down my flat belly to my navel and gave it what was indisputably oral sex, while my trapped pelvis heaved frantically beneath his heavy body. Then he sat back up between my feet, picked up one of my ankles and, holding it high, stripped the laces out of my trainer. Yanking off shoe and sock in one motion he pressed his mouth to my instep and kissed it, letting me feel teeth as well as lips there.
I cried out, shocked by a gesture that felt, weirdly, more intimate and daring than anything he could have done to my pussy. Ash bared the other foot and licked from instep to big toe, making me squirm wildly. Then with swift impatient movements he pulled down my trousers and threw them aside. For a moment he looked down with predatory satisfaction at my legs and the pink thong that was so inadequately concealing my swollen sex, then he lowered himself to the bed, lifting my legs over his shoulders, and kissed his way up my silky inner thighs to my
muff
. I was entirely overwhelmed: by the sight of him breasting between my thighs as if I were a sea he were swimming through; by the way he brushed his nose and lips to the gusset of my panties, revelling in my scent; by the burning charge his touch sent through me.
My poor knickers. After what I’d put them through they were already drenched, barely containing their sticky-slippery contents. Ash ate me through the cotton, all heat and teeth and friction, driving me wild with his determination not to rip off the little triangle of fabric and press home between my lips. Sometimes his tongue would delve behind the elastic and tease my slit, but then he’d pull out at once as if I were some precious virgin who had made him promise that the clothes had to stay on. He reduced me to squirming, gasping, writhing desperation. My panties were soaked in equal measure with his saliva and my eagerness. I put my hands on his head and tried to hump up against his mouth but he chuckled dirtily into my pussy and drew away, kneeling up on the bed. His boots were making a hell of a mess on the duvet but I was incapable of worrying about Miranda’s laundry right now.
‘Thought this was what you said you wanted?’ he murmured, opening his flies and easing out his tumescent cock from its red-gold nest. He cupped his balls with one hand.
‘Yes,’ I moaned, stretching out my hand. He let my fingers brush his length briefly. After all these years I’m still amazed that any part of the body so soft can get so bloody hard. He was hard like rock – and all for me. I anointed the tips of my fingers with the dewy moisture that oozed from his cock’s slitted opening and then brought them to my own mouth to lick the salty-sweet lubricant, frantic with want. I think something inside him broke then. Something icy and obdurate and frightened to let go. I saw the look in his eyes.
He said nothing as he came down over me. He didn’t bother
to
remove my wet knickers; he just eased the gusset aside with his fingers and entered me as I spread my thighs to welcome him. Both of us were still partly clothed and it underlined the urgency of our rutting. We kissed again but I broke to groan from the pleasure of feeling him move on and within me. His cock was so hard and so, so good. Like waves we heaved together, deep-ocean waves that have the power to level islands, but roll slow and strong, their violence hidden across hundreds of miles until they approach the shallows and curl to white-topped foaming breakers. I ran my hands across his skin and gripped his thighs with mine and felt his lips on my jaw. I heard the breath catching in his throat. His fingers bit into my shoulders like he’d never let go. ‘Avril,’ he groaned under his breath.
It was good. It was better than good. How much in life can you be really sure of? We make our best guess, but even our own hearts deceive us. It’s so hard to know what path to take, what battle lines to draw, to know what is wanted from what is good, to know inspiration from impulse, to know risk from self-destruction. As I fucked with Ash, as we explored and ransacked and possessed each other, I was sure. Absolute conviction held in my every fibre that here, with the magician with the copper hair and troubled eyes coloured like the woods, whose voice was hoarse in my ear and whose gentle hands were grown fierce on my skin, the man who filled me and pressed me down and lifted me higher with every stroke, above everything else in the world, it was truly
right
.
9: Snared
I WOKE HOURS
later. Ash had spooned up behind me as we’d dozed off and I could feel his warm skin against my back and see his arm draped over me, his hand resting on the duvet by my breasts. I lay for a moment, wondering if that arm was protective or possessive or simply cosy.
Like everything else he did Ash’s fucking had been careful, committed and so intense it was almost unsettling. He wasn’t a man you went with for a bit of a laugh. In his own way, I thought, he was as just as emotionally dangerous as Michael – the two of them had a lot in common. Now, I added ruefully to myself, more than ever.
I slipped from under his arm and sat up on the edge of Miranda’s bed. I expected Ash to stir but he rolled face down in the pillows, his breathing deep and even. Night had fallen and I guess the unaccustomed luxuries of a soft mattress and a warm room were too much for him. The glow of the bedside lamp picked out the shape of his muscles, the gloss of his skin and a strange scar on his back: a puckered sunken scar, perfectly round and about the size of a penny, close to his spine in the region of his right kidney. I wondered briefly what it was. My fingertip hovered over it. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to lick my way down his spine and sink my teeth into his biteable arse, but I was busting for the toilet. Reluctantly I scurried for the door.
A few minutes later, safely enthroned in the bathroom, I took the time to look about me. The room wasn’t cold but it
was
a bit stark, tiled to the ceiling on all four walls in white, with white and chrome fittings. I’d have like to have drawn a bath and sunk into its soothing waters; I’d seen more action with more partners in the past 24 hours than I could usually claim in months, and my muscles were starting to protest. Sadly, Miranda did not possess a bath, but instead the whole of one end of the room was glassed off to make a magnificent shower cubicle. My casual interest gradually sharpened. It would be nice to get back into the bed scrubbed and fresh and smelling of perfumed soap. I love dirty, but I love clean too. First one then the other, turn and turn about.
Flushing the cistern I went over and experimented with the taps until I had a good strong cascade of warm water. Miranda had a fine stock of shower gels and soaps, and I happily let the water strip the salt and the ache from my skin as I lathered up with a bar smelling of coconut and ginger. I was busy shampooing when the door opened and Ash, muzzy with sleep, ambled in and lifted the toilet seat.
I stopped what I was doing to watch. I like to watch my men piss – it feels voyeuristic and transgressive and dirty on my side, and there is something irreducibly masculine about the way they do it. I admit I envy them the ability to take a leak standing up. It has so much more grace and dignity than being obliged to sit, I thought, feasting my eyes on the muscled lines of Ash’s bum and legs, and, of course, they get to handle their cocks while they’re at it. Lucky bastards. He pissed with force, a strong golden jet. I think Ash felt the weight of my gaze because midstream he cast me a sideways glance and a sleepy, knowing smile. My stomach made a funny little squirming dance at that look.
After pressing the flush Ash came over to the shower cubicle and slipped inside with me. I was just rinsing off, and he traced the wet ringlets of my hair. Then I pulled him under the shower
jet
and helped the water caress him. He stretched and eased his muscles and ducked his head under the spray to soak his dreadlocks. I loved the way he scrunched his face up as he lifted it to the shower’s fierce caress, and the way the water flicked from the ends of his hair when he shook his head. He reached for the bottle of shower gel but I got there before him, squeezed it onto a big violet shower scrunchie and then used the nylon blossom to lather up his chest and shoulders. He submitted with a grin, not interfering or distracting me, just resting his fingertips on my waist. Stepping round behind him I scrubbed him with firmer strokes, revelling in his muscular back and his hard arse. I slapped his bum just to see the suds and water go flying. I raked my nails through the hairs on his thigh. His body was a great big toy for me to play with and he did not resist. When I slipped a soapy hand between his cheeks and right underneath he shuddered but spread for me. I was gentler there, respecting the more sensitive skin, cupping his scrotum in my slippery hand and rolling the balls tenderly in their sac. I was very thorough; these things are important.
Then I knelt behind him and scrubbed down the long lines of his legs, pressing my fingers hard into the muscle. His calves were like rock. Soap made up for the roughness of his hair, making everything slick and frictionless. Ash grunted and purred. I found out how much he was enjoying the attention when he turned to look down on me and his semi-hard erection bobbed in my face. Grinning, I ignored it and took up his feet one by one, resting each against my thigh as I poured on the shower gel and massaged his soles and his insteps and up between each toe. He had to stretch out his arms to the walls while balanced on one leg, supporting himself with fingertip pressure. The smile on his lips was touched with surprise. If he was ticklish he didn’t let it show, but that’s what you’d expect from Ash.
When I was sure he was completely clean I stood and lathered up his torso again, just for luck, paying special attention to his nipples and the tattoo on his hip. ‘This drives me crazy,’ I said as my fingers stroked the inked curves. ‘Is it magic?’
He shrugged. ‘Not in that way.’ Great white creamy blobs of foam were running down his abdomen and thighs. He looked perfect. I’d saved his crotch for last, a treat for myself. I had the most indecent grin on as I squirted the shower gel over his jutting cock, admiring the aesthetics of the pearlescent goo on his flushed member. Ash groaned with anticipation. Then I put the bottle aside in order to lavish both hands and all my attention on soaping him up, mixing turgid cock and soft balls and the coarse coppery thatch of his hair in one glorious slippery, sudsy melange that my hands couldn’t get enough of. Ash bit his lip. Strange things were happening to his breath, and in very short order there was nothing halfway about his erection.