Asking For Trouble (14 page)

‘Oh yes,’ he said again, and then we were closing in on that moment, on that spit-or-swallow moment.

I felt his prick thicken and tense to its absolute limit. Under that stretched satin skin, he was hard as bone. Oh, please be a gentleman, I thought. Don’t flood my throat.

I fought the urge to pull away, fearing I might be premature. I didn’t want to see him tugging on his tool for those frantic extra seconds. I wanted to satisfy him, but not quite to the bitter end.

His thighs went still and taut. So did I. Briskly, Ilya pushed at my shoulders, snatching himself from my lips. He shoved his hips toward my body, angling his cock at my cleavage, and I heaved my chest up to meet him. On a long groan, his semen jetted on to me in descending
arcs. The white liquor dribbled down the upthrust of my breasts and spread dark stains on to my cheap red dress. I was glad it was cheap.

‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to sound ironic even though I was genuinely grateful.

‘Purely selfish,’ replied Ilya. ‘I want to watch you rubbing my come into your tits.’

‘Any time,’ I purred, kneeling back on to my heels.

The dress stayed more or less bunched round my waist and I opened my knees, wanting to give my punter the benefit of those crotchless knickers. I imagined my vulva, a slit of red shiny flesh framed by a slit of cheap black lace. Exquisite.

With the flat of my hand I spread Ilya’s silky fluid over my cleavage, before sliding into my dress to cover my tits in a sticky caress. I watched him watching me, his eyes locked on the crawl of my fingers as they moved under the fabric. I nudged the spaghetti straps from my shoulders and pushed down the stretchy material so my tits could pop out, wanton and rosy-tipped.

When I’d palmed the cooling juice into my skin, I continued for my own delight, fondling the weight of my flesh, thumbing my sharp, hard nipples.

One hand on my breasts, the other on my thigh, I made a show of arousing myself. I rubbed along my leg and into my knickers, fingers skimming my poor, neglected snatch.

‘Take them off,’ said Ilya, standing up. ‘Sit on this chair and open your legs. Show me your cunt and wank for me.’

At last. Satisfaction ahead. I got up and shimmied my half-knickers down. The dress uncrinkled a fraction and I scrunched it back. The shoulder straps hung sluttishly down my arms. From my shoes up to my waist, I was naked. Round my middle was a wrinkled band of red and my breasts poked above.

I sat on the chair and planted my heels wide. Ilya
stepped back to view the mouth-watering spread of my pussy, pouting lewd and rude from a neat clutch of brown-gold hair.

Much as I wanted to bring myself off with some nifty fingerwork, I resisted and instead decided to play up to him as if we were making movies.

I splayed my tingling labia for him, sawing along my milky crease with one slim finger. Dramatically, I sucked on that salt-sweet finger before inserting it deep into my juicy little well. I didn’t dare touch my clitoris for fear my hunger would soar and drive me from performance to pursuit. I closed my eyes, rolled my head back and ran a salacious tongue over my lips.

Ilya, for some reason still in his T-shirt, watched from a distance, arms folded, as I squelched my finger in and out. His cock began twitching into its second life, then he walked away. Kitchenette again.

He returned, a sly grin on his lips, a bunch of bananas in one hand.

He couldn’t be serious. He snapped off a banana. He could.

‘Stop trying to be so fucking sexy,’ he said. ‘Use this on yourself.’

He held out his hand. A large green-tinged banana curved on his palm.

I gave a nervous, embarrassed laugh and did not take it.

‘Use it,’ he repeated, gripping the fruit and touching it lightly between my spread thighs.

I took it, feeling the heat colour my cheeks. Ilya moved away and lay on the couch, settling back, smirking.

Apart from their taste, bananas have no redeeming features. They are a comedy fruit; they are monkey food; they are a cheap fellatio gag; they are a slapstick staple when their skins are on the ground. Even the shape of them is a dumb smile.

I supposed that was why I was offered one rather than,
say, a good crisp length of cucumber. It was to humble and humiliate me by making me ridiculous, robbing me of all dignity because I had to fuck myself with stupid fruit.

Damn Ilya, but isn’t that what I wanted? To be cheapened and demeaned?

Yes, I did, but I still wanted to be desirable at the same time. Could I possibly be desirable with a banana sticking out of my cunt?

It seemed I had little choice but to try. After all, I was eager to climax, and if it was a banana or nothing then I was going for the banana.

I poised the blunt end at my entrance and slowly curved it in to me. Despite my reservations, it was heavenly to be filled, and I couldn’t stifle a moan of pleasure. Edging my arse forward on my seat, I opened my legs wider and began drawing the fruit in and out. My sex clicked wetly with my gentle thrusts and I was gaining in confidence.

I shut my eyes, wanting to blot out the situation, to forget about Ilya and the obscene picture I was offering him. Instead, I concentrated on sensation. With my free hand I circled the hard bump of my clitoris. My urgency rose and I fretted quicker, plunged the banana faster.

‘Yes,’ said Ilya. ‘Go on. Fuck yourself harder.’

I snapped open my eyes, saw him lying there, his strong thighs lolling, his fist around his engorged cock, nudging ever so slightly. I closed my eyes again and the after-image burnt into my mind: Ilya watching me, his hand moving on his prick in a luxurious half-wank. Thank God. He found it arousing.

It spurred me to new heights and I fucked myself harder. I was frantically close to coming but my banana wasn’t bearing up. It was beginning to lose its firmness, its shape. I could feel it softening inside me, growing pulpy, as if my pussy was a super-fast ripening machine.
In a panic, I thrust it faster and deeper but that only made things worse.

Ilya was chanting a steady mantra: ‘You dirty little whore, Beth, you dirty little whore.’ And I fretted my clit wildly until my orgasm gripped, and I was left as a panting, gasping wreck.

My inner thighs were smeared with warm slush and clammy greying threads. I unplugged the melting banana. It was in a sorry state, its skin split and blackening already, pale-yellow purée oozing from its wounds. Revulsion gripped my stomach.

I stood, holding the thing away from me in my upturned palm.

‘Where’s your bin?’ I asked sharply.

‘You don’t fancy eating it then?’ Ilya said, smiling, still rubbing steadily on his erection.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, giving him a contemptuous glare, and I stalked into his cramped kitchenette and splatted it in the sink. His mess.

As I rinsed my sticky hands under the tap, Ilya came to join me in the red-tinged gloom. I turned to see him whipping off his T-shirt, uncovering that burnished-bronze chest scattered with dark hair. His cock poked upright from his thick black thatch, full of vigour and fleshy lust. He was ready for action. I shook the drips from my hand. My groin, humming with the afterglow of my climax, roared up like a flame.

‘You’re a hot little bit of cunt, aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘I’m so glad we met.’

He moved close, his bare feet making a slight suck noise on the linoleum, and grated his teeth on my neck. There was barely enough space for us to stand side by side. His kitchenette was more like a corridor lined with an L-shape of unfitted fittings. He guided me deeper into the room, condom and T-shirt in one hand.

‘I’m all bananaed,’ I said, making a feeble attempt to
hitch a shoulder strap into place. ‘I feel tacky and horrible.’

He bit the condom package and spat out the edge. ‘You look tacky and horrible,’ he replied without nastiness. ‘Like a good slut should.’

He slid his balled-up T-shirt across the Formica work surface at the furthest end of the room. There was a fridge beneath and my thigh rested against it.

‘Lean over,’ he said, nodding at the work surface and beginning to unroll the sheath down his rigid prick.

I did as told, nudging aside a box of tea bags, an empty juice carton and a bulb of garlic before laying half my upper body on the Formica. My nipples pressed into the cool surface. I flattened my hands to the tiled wall and spread my heels wide, glad of the extra height they gave me. I was as wide as the kitchen, one foot touching the half-wall, the other touching a cupboard. I could probably have gone wider if space had allowed because I was so fiercely ready for the entry of his cock.

I felt Ilya’s hands, first on the crease behind my knees then running firmly up my thighs to caress my arse. He kneaded and pummelled and I thrust my buttocks out in welcome.

‘Such a good arse,’ he said.

And then from nowhere his hand cracked down on my cheek. And it cracked down hard. His hands are broad and work-hardened, and that hand hurt.

I gasped in shock, hardly having chance to register the sting before another hefty slap landed on top of it. Then it happened over and over, faster and faster, a blitz attack on the right side of my arse. He tried a couple of left-handed thwacks but couldn’t get enough force and there was no room to manoeuvre; so he returned to my right buttock, slapping it up to a flaming, raw pitch, spitting his abuse at me – whore, slut, bitch – as his frenzy intensified and his breath grew shallow.

I gasped, yelped, protested; I begged him to stop, not
knowing if I meant it. The blows merged together, making me jump and jerk, shriek and squeal.

The fridge whirred away, oblivious. The air was suffocatingly thick with the sickly scent of banana, the tang of Ilya’s sweat and the pungency of my sex. Still he continued, and my arse grew so sore it felt as if he were flaying the skin from it.

‘Please,’ I wailed, my voice rising to a near-scream. ‘Please stop.’

‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘Fucking shut up or we’ll have the neighbours at my door.’ And he grabbed his T-shirt from the side and crumpled it into my face.

I nuzzled into the cloth and bit down on a mouthful of cotton, smothering my cries to keep the tenants at bay. I wondered if this was it, if this was the point at which he was going to flip into psycho-mode.

My legs began to quiver. My knees were on the brink of buckling. I wanted to heave for breath but I didn’t dare in case breathing turned to screaming. Maybe I should scream. Maybe I should shout ‘cuttlefish’ before he was too crazed to recognise it.

‘Whore,’ he kept saying, snatching words between gasps as his hand cracked away. ‘Cheap – little – fucking – whore.’

Then on a vicious slap my right leg gave way and the boniest bit of my kneecap went whack, hard into the fridge door. A bolt of pain shot through me. I reared my head and sucked in a wheezing stream of air. The agony was so acute I couldn’t even scream.

As suddenly as the slaps had started, they stopped.

‘Shit,’ said Ilya, panting softly. ‘You OK, Beth? Christ, I felt that.’ He rubbed the nape of my neck and tangled his fingers in my hair. ‘You OK, babe?’

His tenderness shocked me more than the assault on my arse had done. We were friends, thank God. He was human again. I pressed my cheek to the Formica surface and moaned for more sympathy.

‘You bastard,’ I whispered. ‘I think I’ve smashed my fucking patella.’

I cocked my leg backward and my knee made a weird popping sound and I felt something twang. ‘Ow,’ I said quietly, setting my foot back down. The pain mutated to a dull throb.

‘You OK?’ he asked again.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Just.’

‘Good,’ he replied. I heard the smile in his word then felt his prick at the mouth of my cunt, where my hot flowing juices were busy sluicing out banana-goo.

He dug his fingers into my thighs and then, slam, his cock was up and in me, sudden and stem. I gasped, the vast pleasure of his penetration overtaking all my aches and pains.

Pressing my hands against the tiled wall, I braced myself as he began gliding into my depths, his big solid shaft filling me with slow steady strokes. I felt the gentle roll of his pelvis as he ground his cock, holding deep when he was embedded, lingering long on each withdrawal. Ah, such sublime control.

He traced a soothing hand over the burning globe of my arse, balm to my singing nerve ends. The glowing heat of my cheek sank deeper into my body and fused with the fire being stoked in my groin.

Ilya’s thumb drifted over to the base of my spine and he rubbed there, sliding up and down in the cleft of my buttocks.

‘Ah, yes,’ I cooed, and his thumb edged further down to my anus. He stirred tiny circles there, a languorous rhythm to match his languorous fuck.

Excitement shivered through me as, oh so gradually, he increased the pressure on my rear entrance. I felt my little hoop of muscle relax, dilating to his massage.

‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘Very good.’

Then he withdrew his thumb and made an exaggerated sucking noise. I knew what was coming next and I was
hot for it. When his thumb returned to my arsehole it was very wet, slippery with spittle. I groaned impatiently as he moistened me, and I rocked back on to his shunting cock, hungry to have that intrusive little digit in my arse.

‘Hey, I’m the boss here,’ he said, and he teased a while longer before giving me what I craved. ‘There you go,’ he breathed, as he pushed his thumb to the knuckle and plugged my orifice tight. ‘Satisfied?’

I uttered a rumble of throaty pleasure. ‘Nearly,’ I replied.

Ilya gave a quick laugh, reaching his other hand around me and finding my clit. He vibrated fast and light on the sweet swollen bud. ‘Better?’ he demanded.

I gasped in answer, and he started corkscrewing his thumb in and out of my rectum. As my orgasm rushed in, Ilya threw all his energy into fucking me hard. I sobbed freely, banging my fist on the worktop as I came.

‘Ah yes,’ he growled, powering into my vaginal quivers. ‘Oh, what a hot little whore I’ve found.’

He gave a few more hard ramming thrusts then, on a roar of ecstasy, he held still, his body shuddering against my buttocks, his prick twitching in my clenching sex.