Asking For Trouble (7 page)

‘Did you come then? Did you come with his fingers? Or was it later, when you fucked? Or both? Twice?’

‘No, when we fucked,’ I said. ‘I came when we fucked. I really, really came. I was so –’

‘So horny.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now? Are you horny now?’

‘Yes.’ I could scarcely hear my own words. My voice was like a breath catching in my throat.

‘Where are your hands?’

‘One’s kind of here, readjusting the phone every now and then. And the other . . . It’s near my fly.’

‘Are you masturbating?’

Oh, his voice. It was hypnotist-soft.

‘No,’ I said throatily. As I spoke one of my fingers stole past my open zip and into my knickers. I skimmed across my swollen vulva then withdrew. I felt as if he were watching me.

‘Do you want to?’ he asked. ‘Are you ready to?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said weakly. ‘But I need to –’

‘Touch yourself, Beth.’

It was what I craved. I ached to caress myself, and I don’t know why but I wanted his permission. Feeling freer, I edged into my knickers once again, via the zip of my skirt. With my index finger, I sawed along my cleft – it was so slippery and open – and my moist flesh pulsed in gratitude.

‘Is it good?’ he asked.

I dipped my fingertip into my entrance and stirred a lingering circle there, resisting the urge to penetrate myself fully. ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘It’s very good.’

‘Keep doing whatever you’re doing, Beth,’ he said, ‘and tell me about you and Ben. The train station, behind the red brick thing, and his hand is in your skirt, past your knickers. His fingers are all over you, inside you. Is that right?’

‘Yes, yes. His fingers were so good. I was . . . my cunt . . . it was just melting into his fingers. I could hardly stand. He kept me pushed against the wall, holding me upright with his body. And his fingers worked. There was no one around. I was ready to come. I was groaning, trying to be quiet, just in case.’

‘Did you tell him you were ready to come?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did Ben do?

‘He unzipped. He checked over his shoulders and he unzipped.’

‘Sound effects?

‘What?’

‘Listen.’

I held my breath, my fingers teasing. My clit was fat and tender, like a fruit about to burst with ripeness. I heard the sound of flies being unzipped. His flies. I could picture a crotch, bulging, and the zip unteething over it, gaping to expose underwear. I imagined an erect cock springing out: the erect cock of my faceless man whose name was Ilya. Ilya Travis.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked thickly. ‘Are you sitting? Lying?’

‘I’m on the sofa,’ he said. He sounded so languid and husky, so comfortably aroused and ready for indulgence. ‘I’m lying back.’

‘Me too,’ I replied faintly. ‘Are you touching yourself? Holding your cock?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am.’ His voice had deepened. It resonated with the strain of lust.

‘What’s your cock like?’ I whispered.

‘Very, very hard,’ he said, emphasising each word. ‘Full of blood.’

‘Oh.’

‘What did Ben do?’

‘He fucked me. I lifted my skirt at the front and he got up close, keeping my knickers to one side with his fingers. And he pushed his prick, high and hard, right up me. And then he was just fucking me, fucking me up against the wall.’

‘At Ford train station.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is your skirt lifted up now? Is that how you’re touching yourself?’

‘No. I’m . . . My hand’s in the zip opening. Oh, Jesus God.’

‘Lift your skirt up and touch yourself from that angle, from underneath.’

‘Yes,’ I said, hurriedly tugging the denim from under my arse. I bunched the fabric round my waist, let my legs flop wide and pushed past my knickers into my heated cunt. ‘Ah, God, yes.’

‘Where are your fingers?’

‘Where are yours?’ I asked softly.

‘Wrapped around my cock, moving slowly up and down. I can feel the pressure in my balls. Where are your fingers?’

‘Inside me. My vagina’s so hot. I can feel myself, all wet and . . . and squishy.’

‘What do you think about? Usually, I mean. What do you get off on? What images, what fantasies do you wank to?’

‘Stuff,’ I said, suddenly inhibited. ‘I don’t know. It varies. Nothing special. Men.’ I couldn’t tell him the kind of things I thought about. It was too crude, too sleazy. I didn’t look good in my fantasies. I was an object, a thing abused and humiliated. I couldn’t reveal that. I tried to deflect him. ‘What do
you
think about?’ I asked. ‘No, what are you thinking about now?’

‘You,’ he said. ‘You being fucked at the station. You now, on your sofa, your hands between your thighs. And you and me, and the things I’d like to do to you.’

‘Oh,’ I said breathily. ‘What things?’

‘I like picturing you at Ford station. I’d like to fuck you there, but not hiding behind some building. And not with your clothes on. I’d make you strip. I’d have you naked, out in the open. Maybe I’d tie you up. Yeah, I’d tie you to a pole by the level-crossing. I’d make you face away from me. Your arse cheeks would curve out, pale because they hadn’t seen sunlight. And I’d take you from behind. I’d really ram it up you, fast and hard.’

‘Impossible,’ I murmured, my fingers rubbing gently on my clit. ‘Someone would see.’

‘This is fantasy,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can do anything. A thousand people could watch me fucking you.’

‘Oh.’

‘But then maybe just the two of us would be good. What about somewhere dark and dingy, somewhere I know, somewhere we both know, because I’ve never been to Ford. What about Brighton station? Yeah, Brighton.’

‘Too many people if we’re to be alone,’ I breathed.

‘Nearby then, under the low bridge that goes over the top of that road, what’s it called . . .?’

‘Trafalgar Street,’ I replied. ‘It’s really grim there.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just picture it. The forecourt in front of the station, going across to the taxi place, and diving underneath is Trafalgar Street. It’s dark and gloomy. Above is the . . . the ceiling of the bridge, iron girders. There are pigeons up there and water drips down, even when there’s been no rain for ages. As you walk down the slope, there’s a doorway on the left. Can you picture it?’

‘Yes, I know it. There’s usually a beggar or a smack-head slumped there.’

‘That’s the one. And when there’s no one there, it’s just litter on the step. Say, an empty binbag plastered into the corner, newspapers that’ve been slept in or on or whatever they do with newspapers. There’s a couple of crushed beer cans, maybe a –’

‘It’s horrible,’ I protested. ‘It’s squalid and dirty and –’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But that’s where I’d fuck you. I’d push you up into the doorway, force your face into the corner. I’d stand behind you and scrabble at your skirt. You struggle but I manage to lift it up and I tug and pull at your knickers, drag them down to your knees so I can see your pale little arse. I penetrate you hard and I warn
you to shut up. I give you one thrust, then another and another, pausing in between so you feel every slam of my cock.

‘People might walk by,’ he went on, ‘but they’d ignore us. Oh, they might glance over, but they’d know that you were a worthless bit of trash. “She loves it,” they’d think. “Loves every minute of it.” Or they’d think: “She’s asking for it, the cheap little tart. She deserves a good fucking.” And you keep on struggling, trying to escape, get out of that doorway, but it just makes me fuck you harder and faster. You feel my dick banging high into your cunt and you beg for mercy. And I snarl in your ear: “Shut up, whore. You dirty little slut. You want it. You know you do.”’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasped, partly in shock, but more because my lust had soared violently and my sex was really throbbing. No one had ever spoken to me that way. ‘What else?’ I urged. ‘God, what else? Please.’

‘Take your knickers off.’

‘Yes, yes.’ I shoved them down my legs and whipped them from my ankles. ‘Off.’

‘How are your feet placed?’

‘One’s on the sofa. My knee’s flopping against the back, against the cushions. My other foot’s on the floor. My legs are wide open. My skirt’s round my waist. And now I’m pushing – Oh, Christ. My pussy’s so wet, so hot inside.’

‘Are you wanking?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. I had to stop to take my knickers off, but now I am again.’

I could hear his breath, light and fast. ‘Where are your fingers, your hands?’ he asked.

‘Two are inside me; my left hand – it’s thrusting. My other hand . . . I’m rocking my clit. My clit is so fleshy and hard. Are you?’

‘Wanking?’

‘Yes. Are you wanking?’

‘Yes. Jesus, Beth. The times we’re going to have together.’

‘In fantasy?’ I moaned.

‘Yes. And reality.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘Oh God,’ I gasped. ‘I’m going to come. Any moment.’

‘Have you ever been fucked up the arse, Beth?’

I couldn’t suppress a tiny gasp of excitement. ‘No,’ I groaned. ‘No.’

‘Imagine I’m there,’ he said. ‘I make you kneel on the floor. I make you bend over, your arms and tits resting on the sofa. Your knees are wide apart and I’m raising your skirt, your cute denim skirt, and folding it over your back. I’m being slow and you’re so hungry and urgent. Your arse is bared and you’re jerking it towards me, begging me to fuck you. I slide my fingers into your hot, wet slit. I’m collecting juices to lubricate your arsehole, to open you up so I can bugger you hard, really hard.’

I made a noise of protest. ‘Why don’t you fuck me?’ I moaned. ‘Tell me how your cock feels inside me, in my cunt, not in –’

‘This is
my
fantasy,’ he whispered, his breath quickening.

‘OK. Yes. Go on,’ I urged. My fingers were flying over my clit and I was driving into myself, struggling to slow down because I didn’t want to come yet, not when he was mid-flow.

‘So you’re kneeling, bending over the sofa,’ he said. ‘My fingers are just easing out of your pussy and smearing upward, over that ridge that runs from your cunt to your arse. And now they’re rubbing at your arsehole, relaxing you, making you damp and easy there. You’re scared. You think it’ll hurt. It’s too intimate, too private. So you make a move to escape, but I catch you, twist an arm behind your back, press you hard into the sofa
cushions, curse you. You can feel my knob against your anus. And now I’m breaking through. My dick’s forcing you open and I’m penetrating you. My cock’s sliding right up there, right into your virgin little arse. All your tightness is yielding, and I’m driving deeper into your dark, dark hole until –’

‘Oh Christ.’

‘Until I’m lodged. I’m right up you. The whole length of me is stuffed in your backside. I’m rock hard. It’s the deepest thing you’ve ever felt. As I pull back –’

‘Oh, God. I’m coming. So close.’

‘Yes. Think of it. Of my prick –’

‘Yes, it’s fucking into me. Oh.’

‘Into your arse, Beth. Over and over, pumping to the hilt. Your arse is so smooth. It’s slipping along my prick, really squeezing me as I thrust. You’re so hot, so snug, and you’re screaming and howling. I shove high and hard, faster and faster. You’re so stretched. God, you’re so fucking stretched, Beth. Really tight. Oh fuck.’

‘Yes, oh God, yes. Now. I’m . . . I’m . . . now . . . Ah. Ah. Oh, Je–’ My orgasm lashed out, full force. I panted, gasped, moaned and cried.

‘Oh Christ,’ he rasped. ‘You sound so fucking beautiful. Oh, fuh – aaah.’ He made a long, low groan that twisted to a noise of near-pain. Then it sank into a rumbling sigh. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said softly, his breathing shallow and faint. ‘Ah, yes.’

I couldn’t speak.

Sometimes when I come I feel so shocked afterwards. I feel dazed and numb, like I’ve just been assaulted, like I’ve been picked up and hurled down. I felt like that then: shocked and stunned. The fact that I’d just mutually orgasmed with a stranger down a phone line probably had something to do with it. But it was ecstasy and its aftermath that left me truly reeling.

‘You OK?’ he enquired in a murmur. ‘Nice?’

I still couldn’t speak.

‘Beth? You still there?’

I managed to say, ‘Mm.’

‘You OK?’

‘Mmm.’

‘You sure?’

I took a deep breath and told him: ‘Words fail me.’

He gave an appreciative half-laugh, half-snort. Then he fell silent.

We were like that for a while, quietly recovering, ignoring phone etiquette, which demands someone make a noise.

Eventually I said: ‘OK. I’m OK now. I’ve got my words back.’

‘So,’ he began, ‘you’ve never had anal sex?’

‘No, never.’

‘Why not?’

‘Dunno. Just haven’t. I’m quite happy with the orifice I’ve always used, thanks.’

‘Do you like the idea of it?’

‘I . . . I don’t . . . You tell it very nicely. But –’

‘I can do it very nicely as well.’

‘Oh.’

‘Let me. What I just did in fantasy, Beth, let me do it in reality. Let me fuck –’

‘You’re moving too fast,’ I cautioned. ‘Slow down.’

‘Is that no, then?’

‘Slow down means slow down,’ I replied. ‘Call me old-fashioned but I generally like to meet a guy before I agree to drop my knickers, let alone offer up my arse to him. My virgin little arse.’

‘How very principled,’ he said. ‘We should meet.’

‘I might not like you in the flesh.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, as if he were thinking it over. ‘Maybe not. Perhaps we should leave it here then. We met on an abstract plane, fantasised, and it was perfect. Finito. Nothing after that to taint the memory.’

Was he serious? Was he trying to call my bluff? I
desperately, desperately wanted to meet him, and I knew I’d like him in the flesh. I’d only said I might not just to tease him. I was simply playing, ever so slightly, hard to get. I didn’t expect him to take my words at face value and back down. I’d expected him to banter, to persuade me that he was stunningly beautiful and well worth meeting.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, praying that I wasn’t taking too big a risk. ‘End on a high note. Finito.’

He paused. Then he said, ‘Yeah, it’s probably best. And it’s probably best not to discuss it too much. It’ll only bring the high note down.’