Inizii

This is new territory. Edgy. Perhaps even dangerous.

I sip some more Pinot Noir, watching her cool eyes appraise mine across the rim of my glass. The sweet flavour of ripe, red fruit only makes my mouth want more. My taste buds crave the richer bouquet of her juices. I fantasise about pressing her back in her seat, pushing her long skirt up out of my way and pouring what’s left of the bottle over her mons veneris. I visualise myself lapping at her sex through her wine-soaked panties, pulling the saturated lace to one side and slowly running my tongue up through a tight, smooth valley that tastes of grape and lust.

Of course, such boldness would probably be considered unseemly here, not to say likely to bring arrest for public lasciviousness. The hotel bar is bright and warm, darkness pressed hard against the outside of the tall windows. Most of the other customers look like business types, bored, drained, stranded overnight. Most have a glass of gin or vodka or whisky somewhere close to their right hands while they peruse tired copies of the Times or the Telegraph. I doubt they’d appreciate the vista of me licking her wine-drenched cunt. But there are a few couples in sight, and though most wear gold on their fourth fingers, I find myself doubting that they’re all married to each other. This doesn’t feel like a hotel for the wed. If my suspicions are correct, their liaisons are as illicit as ours.

Perhaps they would enjoy watching us.

A knowing half-smile plays across her generous mouth. It’s as though she’s looked inside my mind and read the last two pages of my imagination’s script. She has that gift, the ability to x-ray your soul with scarcely more than a glance. ‘Gift’ is possibly a poor choice of word. After all, how much pleasure can there be in being able to consistently predict the future? Maybe that’s why she still wants to fuck me, when so many other men have been cast from her bed, blown away like grains of sand. Do I still possess the ability to surprise her? She sees so much, but perhaps she can’t read me entirely. Is there some secret place inside my mind, lead-lined, impervious to her x-rays? Or is it that she reads me entirely, but still enjoys my particular version of the script.

The irony is, tonight we’re filming her script. She’s already told me what she wants, what she expects. She’s dropped subtle hints via text message, told me with breathless explicitness over the telephone. It’s a new part she wants me to try, and I wonder if I have the credentials to be convincing in the role.

She drains her glass. “Let’s go to the room,” she says. Her voice is like honey, smooth and sweet and beguiling in the way it flows over you. She can make me hard just with one of her drawn out sighs.

I nod, quickly finishing my own wine. I let her lead the way to the lift, enjoying the way her arse moves beneath her skirt as she walks. She moves with a feminine grace, effortlessly seductive.

The lift doors hiss closed. I pause before pushing the button for the fifth floor.

“Open your blouse,” I say. “I want to look at your breasts.”

She arches one eyebrow at me.

“Do it.” There is steel, a bite to my words. Slowly, she does as she’s been told, unbuttoning downwards from the inch or so of already exposed cleavage. Her voluptuous breasts, sheathed in white cotton and lace, are truly glorious. I delight in her mind, her intellect, in her sexual appetites and inventiveness. But I cannot deny her physical appeal, the way my eyes linger over her body, the way they’ve always lingered. I can see that her nipples are rising beneath the lace, and my cock lurches hungrily.

“Touch your nipples.” I work hard to keep my voice firm, unwavering.

She leans back against one of the lift’s mirrored walls, slowly circling her nipples with the tips of her middle fingers. The peaks of her breasts tauten, rising still further. Her eyes watch my face expectantly.

“Squeeze them,” I tell her, and she lightly pinches them between her thumbs and forefingers.

“Harder.”

She hesitates, and then complies. She gasps a little, her body shuddering.

The lift doors hiss open. I’m disappointed that nobody is waiting to get in. We leave and follow the direction signs towards room 545. I allow her to lead again, but I stop her from closing her blouse. Our eyes negate the need for words.

“What about the other guests?”

“What about them?”

The door to room 545 answers the key card first time. I click on the small wall lights, bathing the identikit-furnished room in warm cream. She walks over to the queen-sized bed, turns to look at me, a mixture of scorn and desire on her face.

“Kneel on the bed,” I say. “On all fours. And don’t turn around.”

She adopts the required position. Her feet hang over the edge of the bed. The black leather ankle boots whip at my senses. The long skirt hangs down about her legs like a cloak. I take the hem in my hands and slowly lift it, gradually exposing her calves, thighs and finally her buttocks. She’s wearing a lacy thong, so slight that at first glance I think that she is naked beneath. I draw the skirt up around her waist, plundering her flawless, creamy flesh with my eyes.

“Lovely,” I whisper. I stroke one of her buttocks, marvelling at the smoothness of her skin, the strength of the muscles that lie beneath. I cup her arse in both hands, revelling in the womanly flesh. I fight the urge to fall upon her, to gorge myself on her flesh.

I ease her buttocks apart. A piano’s wire thickness of cotton dissects the two halves of her arse. I follow its path lower, to where the material spreads to conceal her labia. There isn’t quite enough for the task, the fleshy, engorged lips clearly visible. The centre of the material looks damp; when I run my finger over the spot to check my suspicions, she shivers, and a low moan escapes her.

“Do you like that?”

She nods.

I test the elasticity of the thong’s waistband, exploring its lace with the pad of my thumb.

“Very nice. Expensive?”

“Yes.”

I take hold of the thin waistband that lies across her left hip with both hands, and with a sharp twist of my wrists, snap it in half. Before she can move, or even speak, I’ve reached around and snapped the other side too.

“Bastard,” she hisses.

“Yes,” I say simply.

I ease the torn material from between her thighs, lift the moist, gleaming gusset to my nose and inhale deeply. I’m reminded of something darker than the Pinot Noir, something with sultry, earthy depths. I drop the garment onto the bed beside her.

I crouch down at the foot of the bed, my hands cradling her buttocks once more. I ease her cheeks apart again, opening her to my eyes. I relish the way her engorged lips part, revealing the intimacy of her wet, pink inner self. I trace the outline of her sex with a single fingertip, circumscribing the focal point of her pleasure, the event horizon, then draw my finger through the dew-sodden cleft. She gasps, her buttocks writhing sensually.

I lean forward, breathing her in, drawing her scent deep inside my lungs, the ripe, musk swell of enflamed womanhood. The tip of my tongue dips into the opening of her sex, almost overwhelmed by the acid tang of her. I slowly run my tongue up through the ever-moistening valley; stem to stern, clitoris to cunt.

“Oh fuck,” she sighs. “Oh yes.”

My tongue reaches the tightly crinkled rosebud. I lightly circle it with my tongue tip, lap at the forbidden place. With lecherous deliberation, I slip my index and middle fingers inside her cunt, my thumb barely touching her clitoris. As I finger her pleasure, I softly bugger her with my tongue.

Her body quivers, shakes, thrumming with sexual energy. She writhes against my touch, forces herself back towards me, begging for more. When she comes, she screams loud enough for the rest of the floor to hear, and then collapses face down across the russet bedspread.

I stand up, undo my belt and unzip my trousers. My cock is bolt upright beneath my shorts. I quickly strip, watching her body still twitching as she comes down from her climax. I stroke myself slowly. My cock feels like hot, angry steel.

“Kneel up again,” I tell her. Either she doesn’t hear me, or she doesn’t much care what I want of her.

I lean over and bring the flat of my hand down sharply against her right buttock. The crack of flesh against flesh is startling in the quiet room, even though I was expecting it.

“Ow!” she cries, recoiling from the slap.

“Get up on your knees,” I say, keeping the same measured tone. My palm tingles, itches. Already, the red outline of my hand is flowering across her cheek.

She moves as though intending to comply with my request, then hesitates. I spank her again, this time on the left cheek, a little harder than the first time.

“Bastard!” she yells, but this time there’s no lingering as she gets back on all fours.

I position myself at her rear, erect cock reaching out to her, desperate to negate the space between us. I guide my glans between her open cheeks, let it nuzzle the sweet folds of her labia. I tease her with my cockhead as I’d teased her with my fingers, circling the very limits of her sex, occasionally grazing her clitoris. Her gasps grow more pronounced with each orbit I complete.

“Fuck me,” she groans. She reaches back between her own thighs, trying to grasp my shaft, to manoeuvre my cockhead into the portal of her cunt. She understands men - understands me - too well. I may be teasing her, but I’m teasing myself too. She knows that if she can get my cockhead inside her, my own greed will satisfy her desire for penetration.

I grab her wrist, swiftly manoeuvring and pinioning her arm against the base of her spine. I hold her tight, so she’ll understand that struggling is futile. She tests her strength against mine for a few seconds, and then submits.

“I’ll decide when you get fucked,” I growl.

“No,” she moans, utterly forlorn, as I thrust my glans back and forth against her clit. I keep my strokes slow and even. I don’t want her coming too quickly.

Of course, I’m deluding myself if I think I can keep this up indefinitely. Even as I’m stoking her appetites, I’m charging my own. The need to thrust my length inside her is becoming rabid, almost overwhelming. But I continue to tease her flesh with mine, because that’s what she wants: to be teased and taunted, dangled on the very edge of fulfilment. To be dominated and denied. It’s not who I am by design, but I’m growing more comfortable with the part she’s written for me.

The delicious writhing of her buttocks, of her cunt, becomes too much. I reach forward with my free hand, entwining my fingers in her long hair. I pull back, not harshly, but with firm, irresistible power and control. I arch her body back towards mine, like some sensuous flesh and blood bow. And as her body waits, trembling, I fire my rigid arrow into the heart of her, effortlessly spearing the length of her soaking sex with a single shot.

I fuck her long and slow, one hand holding her wrist in the small of her back, the other entwined in her soft hair, arching her body into each of my thrusts. Each thrust is measured carefully to maximise her sensations. I withdraw to the point where my glans is scarcely tugging at her labia, then slide back inside, a flowing stroke that doesn’t cease until my heavy balls rest against her clitoris, until my cockhead is kissing her womb.

Long and slow, long and slow, in and out, in and out. Small diamonds of perspiration gather between her shoulder blades. I want to lean over and taste them, to drink her lust, but our position prevents me, and I don’t want to change anything now. Her sighs and gasps have blended together, become a continuous exhalation of pleasure. She presses her arse back to meet each thrust, wanting it harder, faster, thicker, longer. Crueller. I grit my teeth, holding my stroke together. I want to bring her to the brink and then keep her there, transfixed, caught on the edge between agony and pleasure.

“Fuck me harder.”

“No.”

“Fuck me harder … faster.”

“No.”

“Please … I’m begging … I’ll do anything … anything … anything.”

I don’t answer. I don’t answer because it’s all I can do to hold myself back. My pleasure is as finely balanced as hers. If I let go now, if I fuck her as she wants, hard and fast, I’ll explode in less than a dozen strokes. That would be giving in, surrendering, to her and to myself. And she wanted this, wanted it this way; even if the consuming need inside her body has obliterated the memories of her requests, this is what she wanted.

But an end is within sight. Even with my slow, even strokes, I can feel it approaching. My cock quivers, and she feels it, feels every miniscule tremor.

“Oh yes,” she gasps. “Come in me! Come in me! Fill my cunt!”

Yes, she wants it, wants to feel every hot spurt splashing against her womb. And because she wants it so badly, she won’t get it at all.

As I feel myself about to explode, I withdraw, and she cries out with bitter loss. I press forward so that the narrow opening in my glans is just a few millimetres from the velvet crinkles of her rosebud. As the first jet of seed erupts, it splashes against her asshole, running down over the gaping lips of her cunt and dripping onto the bed. Her own orgasm must have been agonisingly close, for the sensation of my come splashing against her asshole carries her over the edge as well. Her body shivers and bucks as her orgasm rages through her.

Both spent, we collapse to the bed, lying side by side in silence for an age.

“Was that what you wanted?” I ask eventually.

“Yes,” she smiles wickedly. “It was just the beginning I desired.”