Asking For Trouble (25 page)

‘Is it OK?’ said Luke, cautiously running his fingers over the ground and scanning our gloomy patch. ‘No dead fish or dog shit and stuff?’

‘Ah, the spirit of romance,’ I said, drawing his body to mine.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that –’

‘Shut up,’ I cut in, and I silenced him with a kiss. Luke was much better when he was silent.

His hands moved over me with a surprising lack of urgency – not because he was hesitant or intimidated by me-the-older-woman but because he was mindful of giving me pleasure.

My skirt was ankle length and he caressed my thighs and arse without greedily shoving up material and hunting for bare pussy. When he began roaming under my T-shirt, he paid attention to my midriff before sliding up to fondle my breasts with tender explorations. His kisses were hot and sweet, and sometimes, while his lips throbbed on mine, he just held my face or tangled his fingers in my hair. I wanted, at the very least, those fingers in my knickers.

There was a certain ‘I have studied’ element to Luke’s way of handling me. It was as if he’d learnt that women like lots of foreplay – and fore-foreplay – and that going straight for the jugular of fucking was a fault made only by young, inexperienced men. So he was determined never, ever to do that. He didn’t yet have the sophistication to appreciate that sometimes a jugular fuck is perfectly appropriate.

So once I’d allowed him the luxury of proving that he wasn’t an archetypal, hot young blood, I took the lead.

‘Feel how wet I am,’ I whispered, hitching my skirt up at the front. I guided Luke’s hand into my knickers.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he murmured, and his eager-to-please fingers danced in my folds, coming to an abrupt halt when they located their treasure: the hard bump of my clitoris.

‘You like that?’ he asked, stirring slowly around my bud and making its pulses spread deeper.

‘Yes,’ I moaned, seeking out his zip fly. I undid his trousers and clasped the sturdy thrust of his cock.

Though Luke’s fingers were delightful, I badly wanted his prick inside me. I get so greedy at the prospect of fresh meat, and my cunt was achingly hollow. So, doing
a quick check to make sure we were still alone, I hurried out of my knickers and knelt astride his thighs, my back to France. While Luke encouraged me with mumbled excitement, I dealt with the condom stuff, then impaled myself on his granite-hard length.

I groaned as I sank down. His thickness filled and stretched me and I held the position, drawing deep sighs and fluffing at my skirt to conceal our union.

When I was ready to roll, I rummaged under my skirt, rested my hand on Luke’s pubis and knuckled my thumb into my clit. Perfect. I resisted the upthrust of his pelvis the best I could, pressing down on him so I could anchor my needy bud to my thumb-joint.

Leaning half over him, I moved on his shaft in deep-rooted thrusts, rocking my hips to and fro and telling Luke how good he felt. The slight shunting of my knees pushed awkward, angular dents into the pebbled ground and the stones bashed viciously into my bones.

‘Oh, baby, more,’ Luke kept saying, and he reached to grip me beneath my skirt. He clutched my arse, holding my cheeks apart as he strove to make me lift higher on his stiffness. The night air tingled deliciously in the cleft of my buttocks and I continued grinding myself to the root of him until my clit was scorched with intensity and my orgasm was a dead cert.

‘Oh, yeah,’ drawled Luke as I began to really fuck, rising and falling, bouncing eagerly on his dick.

My tits jiggled under my T-shirt and our groins mashed together, increasingly hectic. We kept our gasps and groans furtively quiet, but even so – with the muffled thud of the clubs in the distance and the irregular surge of the water’s edge – we sounded noisy and out of place. The big pebbles clacked beneath us as we pounded ceaselessly.

When my climax clenched and scattered, it was truly sublime. Maybe it was because of all the enormous night surrounding us; or maybe it was because I’d seduced
someone a decade younger than me; or maybe I had a flash of feeling liberated from Ilya – I don’t know. I just know that my first orgasm with Luke was one I’d remember for a long time, and I gave vent to a wail of pleasure that was far too loud.

And when I crashed the waves didn’t. My noisiness came in a lull of one wave retreating, another about to hit.

‘Oh, baby,’ cried Luke in a voice hoarse with delight. He slammed me down to meet his driving cock until my quick-gripping cunt milked his juices and he came – like me – with a wail that was far too loud. And, like me, it was not simultaneous with the sea.

We froze, our bodies tensed, hardly daring to breathe as we locked gazes and waited. We were like thieves in the night who’d just dropped the telly.

Then Luke broke our silence with an experimental laugh.

‘Wow,’ he said, and normality returned.

‘Wow,’ I said back to him, and we both relaxed, laughing gently at our noisiness and that silly moment of fear.

I eased myself from him.

‘So do you do this a lot?’ enquired Luke, packing his condom under a hefty stone.

‘Do what?’ I said, scrambling for my knickers. ‘Pick up toy-boys and lure them down the beach?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But like, you know, casual sex? One-night stands?’

‘Who said anything about one night?’ I replied, wriggling into my underwear. I tried not to smile as a shadow of concern crossed over his face. ‘I might not have finished with you yet.’

‘Er, you mean like you want us to be on together?’ He frowned as he did up his trousers.

‘Meet each other’s friends?’ I suggested. ‘Go for walks
in the park? Have dinner? Yeah, sounds great. You could teach me how to skate, maybe.’

He looked at me steadily. Then he said, ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it?’

‘You’re learning fast.’ I grinned, and he visibly sighed with relief.

‘I mean, you’re really nice and everything . . .’ he began.

‘Oi,’ I said in a mock-warning tone. ‘Save all the soft-soap for the girls who want it. I’m not looking for anything more than this. OK?’

‘Oh yeah, sure,’ he said. ‘So are you saying that’s it? It was OK, wasn’t it? You came, didn’t you? I mean, like, properly. You weren’t . . .’

‘Faking?’ I laughed. ‘I’m out of practice on that score. Grew out of the habit years ago.’

‘Cool,’ said Luke, brightening. ‘So, like, do you think we’ll get it together again?’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe we could come to some sort of sexual arrangement.’

Luke gave me a broad grin. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Yeah, cool.’

My lilies trumpeted into big beautiful blooms. I had them in a glass vase on a shelf near my desk – away from the window and so out of Ilya’s sight.

There was something obscene about the lilies, especially set next to the demure laciness of half-open carnations. Their pale pointy petals curled back at the tip, inviting you to look deep into the funnels of their streaked, yellow-green throats. They were proudly vulval – the beaver shot of the flower world. And they were also pretty phallic, with bulbous-tipped stamens that started to ooze fluid: a clear liquid, like pre-come shimmering on a glans.

Lilies, I decided, were deliciously pornographic. And
the box they’d been delivered in had a warning to say their pollen could stain. That made them even lewder.

Maybe I was just missing Ilya. He hadn’t contacted me. I hadn’t contacted him.

It was stalemate. Who would crack first?

My first Hot Sex gig went down pretty well. It was more warm sex really, but it was damn good fun.

Clare and Vee were my door whores, kitted out in wet-look leotards, flaunting fishnet-clad arses and Betty Boop cheeks. They took people’s money, offered them heart-shaped biscuits and novelty-shop love potions. (The freebies were Jenny’s idea. She really got into her love theme; I think she was trying to make a point.)

On stage we had a fashion show, a mix of fetish and glitter. We had strippers, male and female; some dirty dancers; a local amateur poet who does a witty monologue called ‘Homage to Self Abuse’; a porno Punch and Judy show; and a whole host of other frolics.

Steve and Joe – multimedia wizards – set up projections as a backdrop: a shifting montage of pervy pictures and dirty words. We had a raffle with a vibrator kit as top prize, some furry handcuffs as second, and a really tacky wank-mag as third.

People liked it. They wanted more. I started to plan my second gig.

Having Luke stay the night was not something I enjoyed. I would’ve preferred to send him packing after sex, the way me and Ilya sent each other packing.

But I was very keen to have him wandering around in my flat, with the curtains open, at a morning hour that would make him a lover rather than a friend. Ilya, of course, would see everything, fly into a jealous rage and call me.

The lilies were beginning to die.

‘So have you read all the books in this flat?’ enquired
Luke, returning to my bedroom with two mugs of tea. He was wearing boxer shorts – for the sake of decency – because I’d asked him to open the living room curtains so the sun could warm the place up. He’d fallen for it.

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Read the lot. Cover to cover.’

‘Straight up?’ he replied. ‘How many are there?’

‘Six hundred and seventy-two.’

He looked at me uncertainly and I returned a smile.

‘Joke?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Joke. I’ve no idea how many there are. A lot. And no, I haven’t read them all. Nowhere near.’

Luke nodded then went to select a book at random from my bedroom shelves. He sprawled on top of the duvet, opening pages in chunks.

‘I suppose I should read things,’ he said quietly.

‘I’ll teach you,’ I replied. ‘We can start with the alphabet.’

He raised his head and gave me a cute-as-hell grin, which I knew I hadn’t earned. I had a pang of guilt about continually taking the piss but then I reassured myself: he’s got to learn not to make himself such an easy target.

Luke cast the book aside, making a comment about the front cover, then launched into some story about the time he and his mates did mushrooms and ended up on the Palace Pier and, like, he started having a really bad trip.

Luke had the attention span of a gnat. I was getting used to his non-sequitur mode of communication.

I sipped my tea, letting him burble on, and when the phone rang in the living-room I was half inclined to answer it, just to escape. But I decided not to bother. The only people I’m prepared to speak to before ten in the morning are people who would never call at that time.

‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ asked Luke.

I shook my head. ‘Answerphone’ll get it.’

So Luke resumed his boring drugs story while I kept my ears tuned for whoever might leave a message. It was Ilya.

‘Hush, hush!’ I snapped, urgently flapping my hand at Luke. He fell silent.

‘I know you’re busy at the moment,’ came Ilya’s tired-sounding voice from the adjacent room. ‘So I won’t bother asking you to pick up the phone.’

A warm, smug glow spread through me.

‘But I’d really like to see you,’ he continued. ‘In fact, I need to see you. Soon. I need to talk to you, Beth. About lots of things.’

My smug glow got even bigger, and I was positively on fire when Ilya asked,
please,
would I go over to his flat as soon as I had the chance.

‘I could always come to yours,’ his message went on. ‘If you want me to, that is. But I’d really prefer it if you came here. Please, Beth.’

My heart danced in delight. He was grovelling. He couldn’t bear us being apart. He was asking, oh so nicely, for me to go back to him. He was even prepared to talk.

‘Who was that?’ asked Luke, observing me curiously as the tape rewound.

I had a stupidly happy grin on my face. I knew I did. I couldn’t help it.

‘It’s my other lover,’ I replied, flexing my spine and stretching my arms wide.

Luke looked at me steadily. ‘Joke?’ he asked, smiling faintly.

‘No, Luke,’ I said. ‘Not this time.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ I breathed, as I reached Ilya at his flat door. ‘What the fuck happened to your face?’

There was a dark stormy bruise on one cheekbone; his left eye was half-closed and, under its sagging, swollen lid, it was horribly bloodshot; there was a cut on the eyebrow above; and, at the corner of his mouth, there was an ugly crimson scab.

My plan to be sternly aloof, slightly distant, then ultimately forgiving flew right out of the window.

Ilya made an attempt at a smile but it obviously hurt too much and turned into a grimace. His right hand was half-wrapped in a crudely fashioned bandage with bits of wadding sticking out. There was another wild bruise on his jawbone. He was unshaven and tired-looking.

‘Spot of bother,’ he said, walking into the sunny living room with a stiff, slow gait.

‘Are you injured?’ I asked, floundering and shuffling behind him. I wanted to touch him, to help him somehow, yet I didn’t dare in case I pressed something that was tender. A sudden affection tore through me, so strong it was like aggression.

‘Bruised ribs,’ he said. ‘Only hurts when I breathe.’ He sat gingerly in the armchair, easing himself down like an arthritic pensioner.

‘Well, what happened?’ I blustered, staring at his misshapen, bashed-up face. ‘And when? Have you got some . . . some ointment or painkillers? Do you want me to do anything?’

‘Like what?’ he replied, with the best suggestive smile he could muster.

I shrugged, feeling utterly useless and desperate to help. ‘Plump up the cushions. Make a cup of tea. I don’t know. Sorry, but I’m a shit nurse. I . . . Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, regarding me with his lopsided gaze. ‘Really. Looks worse than it is.’

‘And what?’ I pleaded, starting to feel frustrated. ‘You had an argument with a bus? Or . . . or I should’ve seen the other guy?’

‘Yeah,’ he said gently. ‘Sit down, will you? And stop doing that thing with your hands. You’re making me nervous.’

I perched myself on the sofa, my hands clamped together, waiting for a story to unfold.

His eye was truly hideous: the lid was bloated, its skin stretched to a lilac-tinged sheen. And the eye trying to peep from under that fattened flesh made my stomach
turn over: to one side of his iris his eye was white and clear; to the other side it was clotted with tiny blood vessels, all spiderwebbing out from a violent red dot.