More than a year since they last met, since they last fucked. Four hundred days of drought, of carnal famine. Both of them are ravenous, driven to the edge of delirium by months of teasing, by all the succulent possibilities of future flesh. He feels drunk with the prospect of all they might do together, and is sure from the careful words she shares with him that she feels the same.
And then, two weeks before they are due to meet, she messages him out of the blue:
“Would you be disappointed if I said I just want naked, raw, animal, sweaty, thrilling, tear-off-clothes-and-go-at-it sex? I don’t want nice, mannered, measured, thinking or thoughtful. I want to fuck, desperately and wildly. I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to DO.”
How could he be disappointed? He’s being offered a ringside glimpse inside the crater of Vesuvius as she erupts, as she detonates. And yet, deep inside him, something feels crestfallen, thwarted, as the more imaginative possibilities of their encounter dwindle back into the recesses of his imagination.
He replies immediately. “Of course not.”
He types it with a clear conscience, because the thought of her volcanic passions unleashed upon him still makes him hard in moments.
They meet under the statue of the lovers at St Pancreas.
“Corny,” she drawls, smiling, as she walks towards him, her coltish gait calm, confident.
“I’ve always wanted to do it,” he answers. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get a chance.”
He leads her toward the station’s exit. She raises a quizzical eyebrow as they pass the escalator down to the Northern Line. “Feeling claustrophobic today, are we?”
He ignores the gentle jibe.
They step out onto the busy street. She takes a step towards the taxi rank, but he takes her hand in his and draws her in the opposite direction.
“Now you’ve got me really perplexed.”
He pulls the key fob out of his pocket and presses the door release button. The BMW at the kerbside flashes its indicators.
“We *are* going to the hotel?”
He smiles. “Eventually.”
“Eventually.” She says the word as though she’s trying it on for size. “I see. And are you planning on telling me where we’re going to first?”
He opens the heavy driver’s door. “Have you something against surprises?”
“That depends on who’s doing the surprising.”
He drives east along Euston Road, paralleling the river. The noon sun blazes off to their right, but the climate control keeps the interior comfortable. At the A10, he heads north for around five miles, then indicates right and drives through the middle of an expanse of reservoirs.
“I’m lost,” she says.
“Good.” The note of satisfaction in his answer is evident. She knows the city so much better than he does, so this reverse is a victory of sorts for him. She smiles to herself. She knows that by the end of their time together, she’ll have regained her authority.
He takes another right, then another, so that their course is reversed, only now with the reservoirs all to their right. He follows the narrow road for around a mile. She spies the grassland and the trees ahead, and suspects where they are headed. Her pulse quickens.
He pulls the car off into the trees and presses the button on the dash to silence the engine. She lets the window down a few inches. The warm air outside invades at once. There is noise all around, but it is distant, as though they’ve found an oasis of peace in the midst of the chaos. A train hurtles by, close enough for her to feel the vibrations. She wonders whether it’s travelling into the city. Are there people like her onboard, headed towards some secret assignation? Silently, she wishes them well.
“Time to get out,” he tells her.
He doesn’t say anything in response. He opens the door, climbs out and lets the door shut again with a thunk. She gets out and closes the door behind herself. The sun beats down through the gaps in the trees, dappling her skin with its flickering heat. The shadows of leaves sway across her body like the caresses of ghosts. She closes her eyes and breathes in.
He comes up behind her, scoops her long mane to one side and presses his lips to the nape of her slender neck. She shivers. It seems like eons since she was touched sensually, sexually, by anyone but herself. She keeps her eyes closed and lifts her face to the warmth overhead as his kisses move down the side of her neck towards her shoulder. She can feel his erection pressing against her buttocks, and she moves against it, welcoming its unyielding declaration of her desirability.
Guilt claws at her, trying to shred her mood. She turns away from it, banishes it from her mind. She doesn’t want to die regretting that she didn’t have more sex, and she knows that she is well behind the curve when it comes to averages.
Fuck guilt, she thinks. You had your chances.
So she grinds her buttocks slowly against his loins as he kisses her, already plump between her thighs and aching to feel him invading her succulence. His hands find hers, and then he slides his upwards, inch by inch, his palms against her arms, the tips of his fingers drawing parallel tracks along the flanks of her trembling belly. His fingers slip onto the slopes of her breasts and she shudders again as he homes in on the taut nipples through her dress and her bra, making her gasp aloud for the first time. He cups the fullness of her flesh, moulds it to his soft-but-firm grasp, uses it to draw her more firmly against his hardness.
He presses his mouth to her ear. “I’m going to undress you now,” he breathes. “I’m going to strip you naked. Right here.” His warm breath makes her shudder exquisitely, but not as much as his words, as the daring promise they carry.
His fingers move to the back of her dress. He draws the zip downwards with a confident hand, and then he is brushing the dress from her shoulders, allowing the material to fall down her long, pale body. He doesn’t move to pick the dress up, doesn’t guide her to step out of the pool of discarded material. Instead, his hands move to the clasp that fastens her brassiere. He flicks it open and eases the straps over her shoulders, catching the bra before it falls to the ground, dropping it at the bottom of the car’s windscreen. He cups her bare breasts, filling his hands with her, brushing his palms across the proud nipples until she groans with the teasing pleasure of his caresses.
He crouches behind her, kissing his way down the centre of her spine. He pauses in the small of her back, and she feels his tongue for the first time, lapping at the flat expanse.
“You taste of salt,” he tells her in his deep voice. “Salt and desire.”
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties and draws them down her long legs. He guides them to the floor, then silently coaxes her to step out of them. She stands trembling. She’s never felt so naked in her life.
“Turn around,” he says. “I want to look at you.”
She turns slowly, her face a mixture of disquiet and desire.
“What if someone comes?” she whispers.
“What indeed?” He smiles with such lecherous confidence, she can’t help but wonder if he’s secretly hoping that will happen. The double meaning of her question only comes to her later, when they’re driving back towards the sprawling city, her cunt plump and full of his come.
He looks her nude pallor up and down, the sweep of his gaze somehow making her feel even more naked. Then he steps forward, slips his hand behind her neck, brings her mouth to his. Their kiss burns from inception, their lips melding hungrily, effortlessly, as though it were only four hundred minutes since they last did this, four hundred seconds. His hands rise to her breasts again, and he takes the hard nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling them with just enough force to make her knees quiver on the edge of buckling. He understands the hardwiring between her nipples and her cunt very well, and he exploits it ruthlessly.
Now he presses her back until the cool metal of the BMW’s wing halts her progress. He slips his hands behind her thighs, then lifts her onto the edge of the bonnet. The car’s suspension creaks a little as it sinks. The sound brings her back to where they are. The noise of traffic all around them, close but distant. Somewhere, children are yelling. She imagines a family coming upon them, the parents’ horror, the children’s’ bewildered fascination. She should come to her senses, stop him, demand he take her back to the hotel where they can fuck in blissful seclusion and anonymity. She says nothing, in part because she is afraid of ruining the mood … but mostly because, right now, fucking in their hotel room would seem paltry by comparison.
Heart thudding, breathing fast and shallow, she watches him descend her body until his mouth is poised before her sex. She trembles with expectation, in anticipation of the delectable sensations that are about to possess her, overwhelm her. Her lover parts her thighs, and he looks up into her eyes for what feels like forever before he dips his head. His tongue lashes across her clitoris like the slowest and softest of whips, and she cries out before she can stop herself. He tracks down through her cleft, his tongue greedily pressing into the moistness, until her finds the entrance to her quim. He scarcely pauses before he plunges it inside her, as though he means to fuck her with his tongue. She grasps his head in both hands and presses him against her.
“Fuck! Fuck!” she half-whispers, half-cries. Thoughts of discovery are gone. If someone did find them right now, she would ignore them until their curiosity was sufficiently outraged. They could call the fucking police if they wanted to. She wouldn’t give a damn. She would stay right here until they snapped the handcuffs over her wrists.
Fuck the world.
He licks back along her cleft until his lips and his tongue find her clitoris once more. He suckles upon it softly, drumming the tip of his tongue against the bud until the exquisite sensations building within her explode. She bucks against his mouth, lost in the eddies of her orgasm. Her mouth opens to cry out, but she has no idea how much sound she spills.
She wants to collapse back across the bonnet, to luxuriate in her climax. Instead, she feels him drawing her forward, turning her round. His hands find her shoulders, press her down until her breasts are pressed against the metal. His hands are on her buttocks, and she feels them opening her, then the unmistakable smoothness of his glans raking its way through the lips of her sex. She’s still coming when he thrusts himself inside her, and the delicious violence of his invasion plunges her into another orgasm.
Now his powerful hands are at her waist, and he is pistoning himself into her, pulling her back to meet each savage thrust. His cock is hard and merciless in the pursuit of its own desire; hers seems almost incidental. Yet she is happy to be used. Every nerve ending in her body thrums with electricity. He is fucking her back to life.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he tells her gutturally. She knows how much it arouses him to do so, to mark her flesh with his seed; to claim her, if only temporarily. She doesn’t come with him: that would be too much to expect. But as his flesh slows within hers, she rubs the side of her face against the smooth metal contentedly: there is so much more for her to look forward to before it comes time for them to part again.
He watches raptly as she dresses. She moves with such languid grace. He wishes he could record it better somehow. Memories alone are too ephemeral.
“Allow me,” he says, opening the car door for her. She slips inside as elegantly as she re-clothed herself. He gets in and starts the engine.
“I would have laughed if it hadn’t started,” she says.
He turns the car around and drives out the way they came. Three hundred yards up the road, they see a family – man, woman, two children and a chocolate Labrador – walking towards where they’d parked. She half-laughs, half-snorts.
“Timing’s everything,” she says, giggling like a teenager.
They cross back between the reservoirs and turn left towards the city. Back on Euston Road, the traffic slows them to a crawl.
“So what inspired you to drive me out there?” she asks.
“You said you wanted something raw and animal. Nothing mannered or thoughtful. I figured outdoors was a better place than an expensive hotel room for that sort of sex.”
She draws the tips of her manicured nails along the top of his thigh. “You thought right.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
She turns in her seat to face him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So what are hotel rooms better for?”
He looks straight ahead, his mouth curling upwards. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”