by Jade West
She splutters, her eyes flashing involuntary panic, squirming just a little as she strains for breath that won’t come.
I kiss her. Plunging my tongue inside her breathless mouth as she chokes for me.
She should fight, but she doesn’t. Her hands grip my shoulders, her fingers digging in so tight, and I know she’s struggling against the panic, struggling to let this be.
Her eyes are scared and raw, welling up with tears as she battles the urge to wrestle her way free.
And it’s beautiful.
It’s fucking beautiful.
I wait. Steady. So fucking steady.
I feel her going there, watch her so intently as she calms.
She smiles as she reaches the other side of panic, the quiet place I know so well.
“Trust me,” I breathe, and she blinks. The tears flow.
I know she feels herself slipping, I know the pull of the void. Her fingers loosen their grip on my shoulders. Her eyes flutter, holding onto mine.
And then, in those final moments of consciousness, she strokes my face. Her thumb sweeps my cheekbone with a tenderness that defies reason, defies everything.
I count down from five, savouring the way she’s slipping away from me.
And then I let her go.
She comes back in a heartbeat, gulping in a long rasp of air as her eyes come back to focus. I’m still inside her as she splutters, still inside her as she turns her head to the side and coughs and gasps and gulps until her breathing returns to normal.
I stroke the hair from her forehead, then tip her face to mine.
“Ok?” I ask.
The girl underneath me smiles, and then she giggles.
It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.
“Do it again,” she says.
Melissa
I want to die in his arms. I want his eyes to be the last thing I see. His beautiful voice the last thing I ever hear.
But not tonight.
I’m euphoric, giddy as my breath returns to normal, and he smiles at me. He actually smiles.
I don’t think he realises he’s doing it, the lines at his eyes crinkling as he brushes the hair from my forehead.
“Ok?” he asks.
I smile back, because I am. I really am ok. Better than ok.
I giggle because this is crazy. This shouldn’t be good, but it is. It’s so good I can’t stop grinning.
“Do it again,” I say.
He’s still inside me, and I love how it feels. I love how all of this feels.
“Soon,” he tells me, and then he kisses me.
I love how he kisses me.
I love how he breathes into my mouth as he pushes in deep.
I love the way I’ve made him so horny. I’ve definitely made him horny.
It’s different when he fucks me this time, frantic and desperate, his skin clammy under my fingers as I hold his face to mine.
“Please…” I ask, and I don’t know what I’m asking for.
He does, because he gives it to me. Deep thrusts that make me cry out noises that don’t sound like me.
I hold him so tight, my lips on his as he shudders and moans, and he’s so close, his eyes right in mine, as I feel him lose control.
He tenses. Grunts. And I feel it. I feel him come.
I made him come.
It’s only when he stops that I realise how sore I am. How tender my pussy feels.
It’s only when he pulls away and pulls me up with him that I realise I’ve bled over the perfect white bedding.
Horror. I’m so horrified I try to wipe it away with my fingers, but the pink stain just smears worse.
“I’m so sorry…” I tell him. “I’m really, really sorry, sir.”
My eyes are wide and scared as they meet his, because I don’t want him to be angry. I don’t want to disappoint him.
But he’s not angry.
His eyes are dark, but they’re not angry at all.
He stares so weirdly, and my heart races, because I think he knows. I think he knows who I really am.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he tells me.
But he’s still staring. Still thinking.
I’m burning up. My cheeks on fire as I bluster a smile.
“I’d better get, um, cleaned up a little…” I say, and head for the bathroom.
Alexander
“I’m really, really sorry, sir.”
I can’t stop staring at her, can’t tear my eyes away from the sweet panic in hers. The hunch of her shoulders as she frantically tries to wipe her blood from the sheets.
As if I give a fuck about the sheets.
She’s beautiful. Too much of a delight to be real.
So it can’t be real. She can’t be real.
She tells me she’d better get cleaned up a little, and I watch her retreat to the bathroom. She smiles before she closes the door behind her, and it makes me smirk to myself to think of her dithery fingers wiping herself clean.
I plan to head in after her, but I need a moment. I’ve already clocked her bag on the dresser, and I’m straight over before she can catch me in the act.
I make sure the door is still closed before I undo the clasp and take a look inside. A purse, which I don’t open. A phone with a locked screen, an older handset, nothing special. A lipstick, a hairbrush. A little velvet bag, some chewing gum, and finally, slipped into the hidden pocket, her passport.
I flip it open quickly.
Amy Leigh Randall.
Age twenty-one, just as she said on the video.
I note her address. East End, but not in too bad an area. Her photo looks older. Her hair is longer and light brown, her face glowing natural with barely any makeup.
I shove it back in her bag.
Amy Leigh Randall.
It’s not a name I recognise. Not one that’s ever crossed my path before – I’m good with names.
I smile to myself.
Her familiarity must be a welcome illusion, my mind playing tricks on me.
A lucky find. Fate some may say, although I don’t go in for that shit.
I guess Claude just came through this time. I’ll forgive him the extra charges after all.
This was the best half a million I’ve ever spent.
I turn the bathroom door handle.
Melissa
Alexander Henley is in the room next door.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can’t believe this is real.
I’m still bleeding, but it’s not so bad. It’s pale now, and mixed with… him… his cum… and I didn’t think it would be possible to want him any more than I did before tonight, but I do. I want him more than ever.
I never want this to end.
I touch my neck, run my fingers where his held me tight, and I smile.
I feel so alive. Never more alive than I did when I felt myself slipping away. Scary, and exciting, my heart pounding in my chest as he choked off my air, and then… peace.
Calm.
A blackness creeping in. My ears ringing.
And him.
I hope this isn’t it. I hope we’re not done already.
I’m wiping myself for the final time when the door opens. I clench my thighs when he walks in, and he sees me. He sees and he tips his head.
“Feeling ok?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I tell him. “I feel great.”
I get to my wobbly feet and flush the toilet, so aware of how naked I am under the hard lighting.
He watches everything. The way I soap my hands in the sink. The way I shake them, then dry them on the hand towel. I watch him right back in the mirror, burning everything to memory. The broad strength of his shoulders. His dark nipples on his toned chest. The trail of hair over his belly, to his cock. His cock is still hard.
I’m pretty sure that means we’re not done already.
I fluff up my hair before I turn to face him, trying to strike my most confident pose, even though I don’t feel
confident at all.
My skin prickles as he steps closer, tipping up my chin to examine my throat.
“No marks,” he says. “Good.”
I wouldn’t care if there were. I wish I could find the words to say that without sounding like an idiot.
His hands rest on my shoulders, and I realise how big he is compared to me.
“You must be thirsty,” he says.
I nod. “A little.”
It makes him smile, and it’s only fleeting but it’s addictive. I love to see him smile.
“Come,” he says, and takes his hands from me. “Champagne.”
I follow him back through to the bedroom, hoping I’m not still dripping pink. He tops up my glass and hands it to me, and he toasts me with my glass of mineral water from earlier.
“To your first time, Amy.”
“To my first time, sir.”
He clinks my glass, and I drink down the bubbles. It’s good. The champagne is really good. I tell him so.
He examines the bottle. “You like? I’m not much for champagne myself.” He reads out the name on the bottle, some posh French word.
I shrug. “I’m not really much of a drinker… especially not the good stuff. I normally stick to juice. Less of a hangover.”
He nods. “Indeed. I’m of the same mind myself.”
Mr Henley takes a seat in one of the armchairs by the dresser, as though sitting naked in a hotel room is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is to him.
He gestures to the chair opposite him, and I sit, wondering what he’s thinking. Wondering where this is going.
“What brings you here, to a stranger’s bedroom, Amy?”
I smile. “I didn’t think you enjoyed small talk.”
He tips his head. “I don’t, but I’ll make an exception now we’re… acquainted.”
I shrug. “Not much to tell. I thought it was about time. I thought the money would be… useful.” I meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to be a virgin anymore. I thought this would be… memorable.”
“And is it?”
“Memorable?” I feel the grin creep across my lips. “Oh, yes.”
“And what now?”
“I hope we do it again,” I tell him honestly. “The night is young, right?”
His dark eyes twinkle. “Yes. The night is young.”
“And what about you, Ted?” I ask. “What brings you here?”
“A bad divorce and peculiar interests,” he tells me. “That and a sixty-hour working week, plus the added bonus of finding almost every human being I come across thoroughly intolerable.”
I nod. Smile. “Yep, I guess that’ll bring you here. I hope I’m not too… intolerable…”
“Not at all,” he tells me. “So far you’ve been thoroughly entertaining.”
“So far so good.” I laugh.
“So far so very good.” He takes a sip of water. “Are you at college? Studying?”
I shake my head. “No. I wanted to be a lawyer, but I, um… it didn’t work out. Maybe sometime soon, though.”
“A lawyer?”
I practice my poker face. “Criminal, yeah. I’d love to be a criminal lawyer.”
He smirks. “I’d rethink that if I were you. It’s really not all that glamorous.”
I let my eyes widen. “You’re a lawyer?”
“I’m Ted Brown,” he tells me, as though it’s an inside joke. “I sell stationery.”
“And what else does Mr Brown do besides sell stationery?”
He laughs a little. “Mr Brown strives towards world peace, and fucks pretty little virgin girls in expensive hotel rooms.”
I laugh along with him. “Then I guess Mr Brown is very good at selling stationery.” I gesture to our surroundings. “He must be.”
“Mr Brown is very good at a lot of things.” His eyes are dark again.
I take a breath. “I don’t doubt it.”
He opens the dresser drawer. My heart thumps as he pulls out a briefcase, one of the ones I know so well. He unclips the catches and I see the set of sex toys I’ve been thinking about non-stop since I found them in his bedroom. He hands me an envelope. A thick envelope.
“This gets the practicalities out of the way,” he says, then lowers himself back in his seat.
I nod. “Thank you.”
I realise this could be my moment. Maybe my only moment.
I take my handbag from the side and make a mountain of pulling my things out to fit the envelope snugly. I act like I’m clumsy, juggling my lipstick and purse in my splayed fingers as I slip it inside.
And then I let the little velvet bag tumble. I watch it fall, watch it bounce on the carpet between us, then scrabble for it as he does, making sure I’m a couple of seconds too late.
“Phew,” I breathe as he hands it back. I jangle the bag. “Thank you. I really don’t want to lose these.”
He takes the bait. “These?”
I shove everything else away in my bag. “You’ll think it’s silly,” I tell him.
“Silly?” He raises an eyebrow. “If that’s a bag of white powder, then maybe so, yes.”
I laugh. Then I tip the crystals out into my palm.
His poker face is good, but his jaw tightens.
“I keep them for luck,” I tell him. “Stupid maybe, but I love them.” I hold the little red stone up to the light. “This is garnet.”
“From Rajasthan, I imagine,” he says. He takes it from my fingers. “They mine most of the gemstone grade quality there.”
My belly flutters. “You know about crystals?”
He holds out his hand and I offer him another, the green one.
“Malachite,” he tells me. “They have the most incredible vase made out of malachite at the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg. It’s really very impressive.”
“Have you been?”
“Yes,” he says, and reaches for another. I give him the amethyst. “Very pretty. I have an extraordinary piece from Siberia. It’s the very deepest purple. Stunning.”
“You collect them? Really?”
“You could say that.” His eyes meet mine. “What a coincidence.”
I shrug it off. “Oh, I’m not a collector. I don’t really have the funds. I just love them.”
“Love them enough to carry them in your handbag.” He smirks. “I may collect them, but I don’t carry them around in my pockets, so I think you win.”
I smirk right back at him. “I may carry them around in my bag, but I don’t have an amethyst from Siberia. I think you win, Mr Brown, sir.”
He tips his head, stares at the palm I’ve been so carefully rolling my quartz in. “And that one?”
“Oh this one?” I meet his eyes, determined to make him see what I want him to see. “This one’s special. It’s my favourite. I carry it with me, all the time.” I laugh. “Normally in my hand like an idiot. It’s like my lucky charm.”
He holds out his. “May I?” I hand it over gladly. My heart thumps as he holds it up to the light. “Rutilated quartz.”
“Angel hair, yeah.”
He squints as he stares inside, and he looks so serious. “This is a very nice specimen.”
“Thanks.” I will him to hold it in his palm like I did, will him to roll it in his fingers.
Will him to like it.
He does roll it in his fingers. He really does. “I can see why it’s your favourite.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Very nice. I don’t have one. I’ll have to put it on my list.”
I act surprised, even though I know his collection by heart. “You don’t?”
“No. I’ve not yet had a specimen come up that I liked.”
I shrug. “Guess I got lucky with mine.” I hold out my palm, and he places the stone back in it, but my fingers grasp his before he pulls away and flip his hand over. I don’t let go, not for a long moment. “Keep it,” I tell him. “To remember me by.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“Please,” I insist. “I have more, at home. Maybe it’ll bring you luck too.”
I’m sure he’s going to protest. His eyes burn mine, but my smile is easy. “Please, Mr Brown. I’d like you to have it. A memento.”
Mr Henley smiles. A proper smile this time. It lights up his eyes. He grips the stone between his fingers and examines it some more. “Maybe I’ll have to take to carrying one around in my pocket after all,” he says. “For luck.”
I raise my glass. “For luck.”
When he holds it up to the light for a second time I feel it in my tummy.
Mission accomplished.
I down the rest of my champagne.
Alexander
Extraordinary.
I run my thumb over the cold smoothness of the quartz, staring unapologetically at the delightful creature whose cherry I just popped.
I shouldn’t take her lucky crystal. I should thank her for her generosity and hand it back, but I don’t want to. It’s so smooth in my palm, so pretty under the light. Not rare, or expensive, or even high grade. It’s just a plain old tumbled-quartz gemstone from any old hippie shop in town, and yet I’ve not wanted a crystal as much as I’ve wanted this one for a long, long time.
I’ve not wanted a pussy as much as I’ve wanted this one for a long, long time either.
Her eyelashes flutter as she catches my gaze, her breath quickening as she registers my intent. She places her empty glass so gently on the dresser, then drops her other crystals back in her handbag.
My case is still open, my collection of toys in full view, and I feel like a cunt as she looks over them. I feel like a cunt for bringing them here to this girl’s very first time.
She makes light of it. “That’s an, um, interesting collection…”
I bluster it away, make to close it and take it out of view like it’s nothing, but her hand lands on my wrist and squeezes.
She’s close. Her eyes big and transfixed. Her breath shallow.
“Show me,” she whispers. “Please.”
“You’ve done enough,” I assure her. “I paid for your virginity and I took it.”
She shakes her head. “You paid for more than that.”
“And I’ve already got my money’s worth.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “Really, Amy, you don’t need to do this.”
