by Nicole Dere
But not now. He felt the heat of shame spreading up through his body and squirmed in the comfortable bucket seat, his ultra sensitive awareness sending tremors of recalled pain from the tiny fissure of his anus. As on countless occasions during the past four days, he experienced that feeling of horror, of weak helplessness, at the trauma he had undergone with that wicked little bastard, John.
How could he have let that, of all things, happen to him?
He stiffened, knuckles white on the wheel, and from his clamped jaws an anguished groan escaped. And merged with all the tormenting guilt and revulsion, was the tormenting realisation that he’d loved everything he did and had been done to him. The latent thrill of being helpless, the violation of his manhood, and the unique excitement of passivity while being remorselessly penetrated, which had turned his preconceived notions of gender, of sex, so totally upside down.
He had lain there after the shuddering agony of that withdrawal, and sobbed brokenly, unable to move a muscle except for the involuntary trembling which ran through him. He had lain there, aware of his nakedness, his sense of being conquered, of being possessed by the slim figure who so fascinated him. It should have been he, Michael, who was the macho male role player in this homosexual relationship. He had only allowed John to seduce him in the first place because of the striking resemblance to Felicity. The alluring John, with his dramatic beauty and his body slinky and desirable in her silken scraps of clothing - that’s what had tempted him beyond endurance.
So how had he wound up adopting the feminine role? Though it scourged him to recall, it had been so all the way through. He’d lain helplessly while John tossed him off that first time... and the second. And still subservient, he’d been pushed literally to his knees to perform fellatio, to pay homage to that prick jutting so weirdly and wonderfully from the black silk of Felicity’s underwear. And all of that had led, inevitably, to the moment of awful truth when he had finally and fully surrendered his body to the spearing pain, and the terrifyingly thrilling climax of his total submission.
He had given up completely, weeping like a newly deflowered virgin, letting John tend and be tender, cleansing and soothing him, folding him to sleep in his arms.
It had been the following afternoon when they eventually rose from bed. Michael had used the excuse of work to escape. ‘Call me,’ John said, and Michael had nodded, blushing, and fled - fled to a three day nightmare of solitary drinking and weeping and self-flagellation; mental only but stinging nevertheless.
At the meeting, in a complex out along a seasonally quiet M25, Michael impressed no one, and gave several food for unquiet thought by his general air of lassitude, and a lack of that flair which had marked him for discreet fame.
‘Under the weather, eh?’ one of his cohorts suggested, with a knowing grin.
‘Roll on January,’ another, more senior, exclaimed sourly.
Michael’s mobile beeped softly, and Louise’s voice buzzed in his ear. ‘A Nicki Lowther’s been phoning for you. Says she wants you to get in touch with her, urgently. She sounds very upset about something.’
‘I don’t know a Nicki Lowther,’ he replied quietly. ‘In what connection?’
‘Private. That’s all she said. But she was very insistent.’ She gave him the number and rang off. An inner city location. He got away from his colleagues and found a chrome and upholstered chair in the bare outer lobby of the business centre. He stabbed out the number and identified himself when his call was answered.
The voice sounded young and extremely tense, unsteady with emotion. ‘I have to see you. Can we meet now? Right away? I need to talk.’
‘Look, I’m afraid I don’t know what this is all about, er, Miss Lowther. I can’t...’
‘I’m Stella’s mate. Christmas Eve? You can’t have forgotten, you bastard. I want to know just what you did to her.’
Scarcely knowing why, he found himself agreeing to drive over to the address she gave him, which was a penthouse apartment in former dockland. He recognised her at once when she opened the door to the luxury flat. She was wearing what appeared to be the same outfit he remembered; the black T-shirt and jeans and those ugly boots.
He realised as he entered that this was Stella Priest’s pad, and he glanced about warily.
‘Don’t worry,’ Nicki Lowther said sarcastically. ‘There’s no one else here. Stella’s pissed off to Scotland again. She won’t be back until New Year. I’m all alone. So you can have a go at me as well, if you want to.’ Her jaw lifted and she glared at him with a childish defiance he found almost endearing.
Nicki Lowther’s rather awkward, adolescent grace, and her gamine looks which bordered on the emaciated, had been her passport to a world far removed, at least socially and financially, from her humble North London background. Though even that background had itself contributed to her initial success, for her nasal London twang went along with the grungy image the commercial world was looking for then. Catalogue modelling clothes for a company who aped the more exclusive garments of the catwalks had been her first breakthrough assignment. Then came advertisements for a variety of goods, from wrist watches to sanitary napkins, all of which, the moguls decided, would do better if pushed by this fashionably urchin, unfulfilled look.
More and more people began to know her face, with its sulky pout and angular lines, though no one knew her name, and she soon got her chance to encroach on the outer edges of the really big money. She was taken on as a clothes-horse for a new name among the designers, an effete young man who was himself trying to achieve his own entrance into big-time. The show was in New York, and Nicki swung with great strides down the catwalk with some really famous names, dressed in the seemingly shapeless swirls of flimsy, semi-transparent materials, the thin straps slipping off her hollow shoulders, showing the pink little pimples of her almost flat breasts, the flowing femininity a striking contrast to the laced leather combat boots.
It was these blown up shots which Stella had first studied, when she was delving into the possibilities of A Woman’s Touch, long before Felicity’s name had even come up for the co-starring role. And it was Stella who got Nicki a small, but possibly seminal, part in the production. She had flirted with the youngster, seen the possibilities of a dalliance, before she had become diverted, then preoccupied, with the challenge of converting Felicity. Possibilities which were revived, then fanned rapidly into flame, when she and Felicity had broken their relationship at the beginning of December.
‘I gather you don’t remember me,’ Nicki grinned, when Michael had somewhat uneasily accepted the offer of a drink. He stood watching the vista of loury rainclouds from the panoramic sweep of the windows, and the tossing porcupine mastheads of the yachts in the choppy marina. ‘I was actually in A Touch,’ she continued, ‘but I guess you were too busy watching your girl wrestling with Stella, eh?’
He frowned, summoning up his unpleasant manner at her aggressive style. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’ he asked bluntly.
‘You. And what the fuck went on the other night at that poxy studio do. Did you shag her?’
Suddenly he wanted to hit out, to hurt her. And she looked so vulnerable, for all her bravado, that he knew he could. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I shagged her. After I put her head down the loo. And it wasn’t rape. She bloody loved it, believe me! Whatever she might have snivelled on about afterwards.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ Nicki muttered, so forlornly that Michael was taken aback. ‘She didn’t. She never said a word. But I knew something had happened. She hasn’t been the same since.’
To Michael’s surprise her head sank and her thin shoulders began to shake. She cried like a desolate child, and he felt his anger dissipate, felt the hollowness of his cheap victory.
He pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to her, feeling embarrassed by the unbridled display of emotion. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to upset yoursel
f. I’ve no intention of going anywhere near her again.’
She took it, dabbed at her eyes, sniffed, and then blew her nose loudly. She handed it back to him, keeping her head down. ‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t bank on that.’ Her flat voice sounded resigned. ‘I don’t think she’ll let it go at that.’
Michael let her keep the hanky, not through any real chivalry, but because he didn’t fancy putting it back in his pocket after she’d filled it. ‘I told you,’ he replied hastily, alarm bells beginning to sound. ‘It certainly wasn’t rape, in spite of what happened. She didn’t fight me off. No way.’ He was startled by the tearful, dark eyes which lifted to meet his, naked in their hurt and appeal.
‘I know that!’ she cried tormentedly. ‘You don’t have to rub it in, you sod!’
He wondered what on earth she meant. The tears had started again, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Her frame shook with a convulsive sob, then she made a great effort to stem her fit of weeping.
‘Look,’ she said, in a surprising contrast of tone, as though she was now making casual conversation. ‘Would you like to fuck me... now?’
‘Eh?’ He gawped at her blankly.
‘I think you heard me. Would you like to fuck me, here and now? Do what you like with me. Anything you like at all.’
His mind raced. ‘What on earth for?’ he said stupidly.
She scowled fiercely. ‘What the fuck do you think for? Because you fancy me. Well?’ She glared at him. ‘I’ll even fight back if that’s your kick.’
He blushed deeply. Could she know about him and John? No, it wasn’t possible. And yet her cute precociousness, the defiant jut of her chin, her boyish hips and breasts, all combined like a taunting challenge flung down to him; a gauntlet to his doubtful masculinity. He felt rage and desire spark simultaneously. ‘I’m a man, love,’ he spat viciously. ‘I don’t shag lesbians.’
‘You shagged Stella!’ She sneered insolently. ‘Who knows? I might even like it like she did! And you might like shagging a queer!’
‘You little bitch!’ He started forward; did she know or had she inadvertently hit a nerve? She flinched a little but stood her ground, with that contemptuous smile.
‘A bit of rough stuff first, eh?’ she goaded. ‘That turns you on, does it?’
‘Get your kit off,’ he said tightly.
The smile remained as she slowly crossed her hands and pulled her shirt off over her head. Beneath it she wore a sleeveless vest, plain white, like a boy’s. She sat on the edge of the long sofa, and spent an age unlacing her boots and tugging them off. Then she stood and pushed down the clinging jeans. As Michael expected, her briefs were very plain too; white cotton like the vest. It was all she wore now, save for the thick woollen socks of speckled grey, which hung in folds about her ankles.
‘Very sexy!’ he sneered, and felt a mean sense of triumph as he watched her look down at herself, and the redness that spread up from her slim throat.
‘Bastard...’ she whispered, and, quickly as she could, pulled off the socks and underwear and stood before him naked, her hands clenched into fists, stiffly at her sides. Her breasts were extremely small, with tiny immature nipples. Her narrow hips were in keeping with her wiry frame, and he stared at the curve of her mound, devoid of hair, with only the faintest suggestion of a shadow to indicate that the pubis had been shaved. The upper peak of her labial lips stood out, the smooth swell of the tight divide lacking any substantial folds of tissue, thus enhancing the impression of youthfulness.
‘How old are you?’ Michael demanded involuntarily.
‘Old enough,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been around, don’t you worry. I know what to do and what goes where.’
‘Do you?’ he snarled. ‘Right then.’ Their eyes met, and held in competition to outstare each other as he quickly slipped off his jacket and tie and tossed them aside like a hasty stripper. Shirt and vest followed. He sucked in his stomach, aware of the muscled curves of his torso, but then he had to stoop and fumble clumsily as he dropped his pants, pulling off his shoes and socks, hopping slightly as he dragged the last off his feet.
She was studying him as intensely as he had her. His prick curved out, thickened in semi-erection, the helm protruding from its ring of foreskin. He was bigger than John, he thought suddenly, then blushed at the idea that had sprung into his mind unbidden.
Her dark eyes were wide now, and he was savagely comforted by the look of fear he could plainly read on her young face. But at the same time he too experienced a wave of apprehension as he wondered whether he would be able to perform; the last few days had been pretty traumatic, to say the least.
She cleared her throat. ‘Do you want to go to bed?’ she asked huskily, sounding extremely uncertain. She was still standing rigidly to attention, hands clenched at her sides.
He felt his prick lurch and stiffen slightly, responding to her nervousness. He gave an ugly grin. ‘No, this’ll do fine. I don’t want any dyke’s den to fuck around in.’ He saw her flinch at his cruel words, and savoured the reaction. He stepped forward and sank into the soft cushions of a wide armchair, lewdly letting his legs loll wide apart. ‘You know enough about pleasuring another dyke. But do you know anything about pleasing a man?’
Another dark flush swept over her features, but she knelt at once between his thighs and rested her elbows on them. ‘I told you,’ she whispered, ‘you’d be surprised.’ She pursed her shining lips in a blatantly sexual provocation and took his penis between both palms, rolling the column between them. The muscles of the shaft throbbed and it leapt within her touch. The neat fingernails scratched lightly along its veined length, and it beat strongly, the helm swelling to an engorged purple. She bent forward, and Michael suppressed a moan of weakening pleasure at the feathery caress of her tongue. She lapped at the glans, over its spongy surface, tracing the flanged edge where it joined the shaft, then down towards the yeasty bag of his balls. His belly lifted automatically, his prick rearing like a lance, painfully roused and pulsing against her nose and damp forehead.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped, while she licked at him feverishly, from root to the tip.
She grasped it firmly near its base, and guided the seeping helm to the O of her lips, which slid over the slippery dome and drew him in deep, a gagging snort coming from her working throat. There was a loud plop when she finally slid her mouth up to release him and gasp for air. She swallowed him again, and again his belly rose to meet her and he moaned in helpless joy. He felt once more that insidious surrendering of himself, and the reminder of what he’d done with John evoked a sudden swell of rage and shame that gave him the strength to drag her away from his erection, just in time to forestall the premature eruption he knew was so near.
She cried out in confused alarm as he spun her round and, lifting her bodily, flung her down with her face buried in the sofa, her dipped back raised. He clung like a limpet and eyed the raised and narrow buttocks, deeply pronounced as they tightened in trepidation. In his mind, he saw again the slim desirability of John’s supple frame.
His prick reared against the taut rounds and his fingers scrabbled hungrily, pressing them apart. He thrust his column into the divide and stabbed at the tiny anus. There was a muffled protest. He squeezed a hand around her hip, seized her hairless mound and manipulated her sex lips. With finger and thumb he spread them and felt the slipperiness of her inner slopes, and nuzzled his penis into the entrance of her vagina, which gripped him with an uncomfortable tightness. Uncomfortable for both of them, for he heard her gasp, and then felt her instinctive reaction to his deep thrust. He felt that tightness yield, felt himself sink deep, felt the soft embrace of the moist passage. Highly stimulated by the clenching buttocks that nestled into his groin, he drove on aggressively to the explosive bliss of a quick climax.
He withdrew at once from her collapsed body, leaving a glistening trail of fluid across the fold of her buttock and t
high. The cheeks of her bottom hollowed and her hips ground in compulsive rhythm. He watched her hand squeeze between her tummy and the sofa. He watched the elbow pump rapidly. And he watched her fingers in the squelching wetness he had just vacated, until there was a wailing cry and she slumped in sobbing exhaustion, her head buried in the crook of her other arm as it lay limp amongst the cushions.
Chapter Twenty
When Reeves appeared in the foyer of the hotel, Felicity was already waiting for him. She was standing by the large raised circle of a marbled flowerbed with its exotic array of greenery. Her face was pale, and she could not quite hide the expression of pain as she walked, a little stiffly, towards him.
‘Can we go right away?’ she asked tightly. He smiled and nodded, offered his folded arm with old-world courtesy, and they made their way slowly back outside.
In the spacious rear of the car she shuffled uncomfortably, trying to keep the pressure off her bottom, where the vivid weals of the caning were still burning fiercely. She tried to rest on one hip, leaning sideways, and bit her lip at the throbbing ordeal. Reeves was eyeing her in the rearview mirror. The glass partition was lowered.
‘Had a rough time, miss?’ he asked sympathetically. When she blushed he smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s okay, miss. I know a fair bit of what goes on. You don’t have to worry, I won’t breathe a word. I’m too well paid to risk stepping out of line. But I take a lot of the girls out to rendezvous like this one. And they often come back in a similar state to yours. You can take your things off if you like; make yourself comfortable. There’s some stuff in the fridge there - cold cloths and a packet of those wet-wipes. Takes the sting out of the tail, if you get me.’
She blushed even more, but nodded appreciatively. ‘I’ve already bathed my bum once. Up in the hotel room. But it’s still sore.’
