Twice the Pleasure

by Portia Da Costa

  Twice the Pleasure

  Portia Da Costa

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  “So, what have you been doing for the last ten years, Caitlyn?” inquires Melinda Johnson, her chin wobbling as she devours yet another of my smoked salmon canapés.

  “Cooking, mainly,” I answer, glancing around. Yet again.

  I’m kidding myself that I’m checking to make sure that everyone seems to enjoying my food. Really, I’m looking for one person. One person who probably won’t even turn up. I’m being pathetic, I know, but if I’m honest, he’s the real reason I agreed to cater this bash. If it wasn’t for him, I most likely wouldn’t have attended at all.

  Unfinished business.

  They say you have to get it out of your system, or you can drive yourself insane and never move on.

  Meanwhile, I have to make nice with people like Melinda—who I never liked back when we were in our high school years together at Walton Wood College, and I’m liking even less now that she’s cramming down my finely wrought hors d’oeuvres at top speed, without even giving herself time to taste them properly. I give her my usual spiel about how well Caitlyn Cooks is doing, but all the time my eyes are skittering constantly towards the door, hoping, hoping, hoping to see a tall, broad, hopelessly handsome man appear—and light up the room with his charisma, the way he always did.

  My hand shakes, and I nearly tip over a tray of mini kebabs.

  The thought of that body makes me tremble. Even after ten years, I can still feel his hot skin beneath my fingers, smell his sweat, revel in the hardness of his muscles and the long shape of his cock beneath his gym shorts.

  I excuse myself. I can’t take any more of Melinda chattering on. She was a round-faced, self-absorbed girl ten years ago, and she’s just the same now, if not ten times as bad.

  Handing the tray to one of my well-trained servers, I rush out of the old assembly hall at a trot, heading for the cloakroom. Then, in a toilet stall, I sit on the flipped-down seat, and take deep, shaky breaths…and remember.

  Damn Drew Hartley! How the hell can he still affect me this way? How sad is it that I still have the hots for him? A schoolgirl sex crush should have fizzled out years and years ago.

  Alas though, it hasn’t. And that day in the gym store seems like yesterday. Or this morning…

  Our little “interlude.” Our moment. Our “thing.”

  A fifteen-minute fumble after I watched him play basketball. The thought makes me cringe, but it still turns me on.

  I can barely remember the lead up to it, or anything that happened afterwards, but I can remember every second, every heartbeat of “during.”

  There’d been a five-a-side football match. An argument. Some shouting. Drew and his best friend Steve facing off against each other like pit bulls; I’ve no idea what about. Drew stomped off, shaking his head, still furious, while the game went on. I slunk off too, after a discreet interval. I knew where he’d go.

  The gymnasium here has an old storeroom, where people used to sneak off to for a crafty smoke, or a beer or an illicit make-out session. I expect they still do…for all three.

  And that was where I found Drew, sprawled on the piled-up mats, his flopping blond hair dark with sweat, and a black look of fury still in his eyes. From somewhere, he’d produced a bottle of mineral water, and he was swigging from it in short, angry pulls.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My words earned me a glare, and I started to back away.

  “No, don’t go…” His look became odd, narrow and assessing, as if he was weighing me up somehow. “Come here…. Have a drink…. I could do with some company.” His sculpted mouth twisted. “It’s only water. I wish it was something stronger, but hey…”

  It was like offering a juicy Aberdeen Angus steak to weak-willed dieter who’d been on lettuce for a week. I scuttled forward and perched on the mat, close but judiciously out of touching distance.

  Me touching him, not him touching me.

  I was eighteen, one giant hormone, and just inches away was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. He handed me the bottle, and I was trembling as I sipped. Especially when he peeled off his gym vest and crumpled it into a bundle to wipe away the sweat from his chest and his underarms.

  Oh God, I almost tipped the water right over my head. I was burning hot, probably sweating more than he was, and desire was molten metal in my belly, surging through my loins as he flung the vest away and turned towards me.

  He was a young god. Perfect, toned, golden, magnificent—everything a woman or a girl could desire. When I passed the bottle back to him, our fingers touched and I jumped an inch into the air as if he’d zapped me.

  His blue eyes narrowed. His stare was complicated. Confused. He looked as befuddled as I felt, and that shadow of doubt, in the midst of confidence, was fatal.

  Before I could stop myself, I leaned across and kissed him.

  For a moment, his mouth was quiet beneath mine, then he muttered something like “Oh, what the hell…” and started kissing me back, sliding his arms around me and rolling me onto the mat.

  It was my dream. The most desired, the most pursued and sought after hunk in the entire year kissing me and sliding his hand up my shirt. Drew could have had any girl at Walton Wood, and he was with me. Touching and kissing.

  His lips were hard and angry, as if he were punishing me for something. But I wasn’t complaining. When his tongue pushed into my mouth, my poor, excited pussy rippled as if his cock was pushing into it, fucking me. I wriggled like an eel, my hands scrabbling and grabbing at him. I was easy, like a little slut, but I didn’t care.

  His big body loomed over me, destiny made flesh. I wasn’t shy or a prude, and I wasn’t even a virgin. But somehow, even when I’d lost my cherry, it hadn’t felt anything like this. His hands cruised all over me, stroking, exploring. They were gentle, but at the same time voracious. And when he cupped my bottom and squeezed me there, I couldn’t help but moan out my hunger into his mouth.

  “Do you like that?” he whispered, pulling back. His eyes were black in the poor light, but full of fire.

  I couldn’t answer, I just wiggled about, pressing myself onto his searching, gripping fingers.

  His lips came down on mine again, harder than ever, and his fingers slid up beneath the leg of my shorts from behind.

  Oh…oh…

  I can still feel the probe of his fingertips beneath the seat of my panties, wicked and searching. He started to play in my anal groove as he kissed me, timing the tickling, flicking strokes with the thrusts of his tongue.

  Here, now, in the present, I whimper as I did then, unbearably excited. I’m just about to whip down my panties and play with myself, when outside my stall, a gaggle of my ex-classmates troop into the cloakroom.

  I bite my lip and close my eyes, struck by the irony.

  I was just about to come that day on the gym mats with Drew Hartley tickling my bottom, when we, too, were rudely interrupted.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Steve Lewis’s voice was harsh and angry. At the time, I was shocked and mortified, and I leapt like the proverbial scalded cat, scuttling away from Drew. But afterwards, I wondered about that anger. Why not the usual ribald, macho teasing? Steve seemed jealous, and not in the least bit amused by his buddy’s amorous exploits.

  “What does it look like?” Drew’s eyes were just as furious. In a slow, calculated movement, that seemed as insulting to Steve as it was to me, he cupped his erect cock through his gym shorts. It had been boring into my belly as he’d played with me. “She was willing…. Why not? Nobody else is.”

  “Well, I’m not willing any more!” My shout rang around the confin
ed space as I ran out, crimson with embarrassment and blinking back tears. My anguish blinded me to anything else but my own disappointment and the undignified experience of just being that casual, willing conquest. I ignored the hard words behind me, another furious argument that didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.

  In the last few days of term, things were a bit awkward at first, but eventually they both apologized. Separately, and more or less in monosyllables. It was a surprise though, and looking back, I doubt that any other stud from our year would have bothered.

  On my return to the assembly hall, in the here and now, I scan the room again and suddenly I’m all aflutter.

  Drew!

  And Steve!

  They’re chatting to Willa Riley and James Adams, and one of our old teachers, Mr. Laurence, all laughing and smiling. I watch them for a few seconds, drinking them both in, but then, spookily, as if they’ve smelt the odor of my nostalgic desire, the pair of them turn as one and look at me.

  Two pairs of eyes scrutinize me across the room. One brilliant blue, the other gray and smoky. Drew was always my lust object ten years ago, but now it dawns on me that I always fancied Steve subconsciously. He’s lean and dark, but well-built and still in fine, athletic shape, just like Drew.

  They turn to each other and nod, and a look passes between them.

  Oh my God.

  I see now what I was naively blind to ten years ago. The truth. The source of their argument.

  Steve was jealous.

  He was jealous of me, making out with his beloved.

  And as the two men make their excuses and the small group breaks up, they move towards me, obviously a couple.

  I feel like turning and running, but I can’t. I’m right in the middle of this party, and it feels like every eye is upon me. People would notice if the caterer just tore out of the room and didn’t come back. I took this gig to see Drew Hartley, but now I’m not sure I can face him.

  I am such a dummy. This whole exercise is pointless. He won’t fancy me now for the same reason he didn’t really fancy me then. He only touched my bottom that time because Steve’s wasn’t available.

  But it’s quite clear he gets to touch Steve’s ass now…that and whole lot more.

  “Hello, Caitlyn…How are you? You’re looking wonderful.”

  And so are you, I want to answer. Despite what I’ve just—finally!—realized, Drew is still every bit as gorgeous as he was ten long years ago. His hair is shorter and he’s groomed and elegant, but beneath his sharp suit I know his body will still be perfect.

  “Er…um…thank you.” I stammer.

  How can my body be so stupid? I’m getting turned on again, even though I know he’s totally off limits.

  “He’s right, Cait…the years have been kind to you. You look amazing. I love you with your hair shorter like that.”

  Steve, always the shyer one, has grown in confidence. And in desirability. He has a new self-assurance, and even though he’s dressed more casually than Drew, he has a similar natural elegance.

  “Thanks…you don’t like so bad yourself…” I turn to Drew. “Or you…”

  They smile, exchange glances.

  “I…er…are you?”

  How the hell do I ask? It’s not that obvious that they’re lovers. I begin to wonder whether I’m imagining things. Nobody is staring at them or anything, and when Steve turns away momentarily to exchange a rude joke with an old pal from the five-a-side soccer team, one of the butchest, hardest cases of the lot of them, there’s no awkwardness. Not a hint of it.

  “Yes…sort of…” Drew says quietly, “But I guess you worked that out even back then, didn’t you?”

  “No…I had no fucking idea! You must have thought I was a right little idiot!”

  I’m cross now, and hot tears threaten to spill from my eyes, as all the hurt and shame from a decade ago wells up in me again.

  “No, not an idiot…Not at all. If anything, I was the idiot.”

  “What, for accidentally feeling up a girl?”

  I’m angry now, and my face feels red. A few people close by turn around, including Melinda Johnson, who looks greedy for a juicy scandal to accompany all those canapés.

  The most stupid thing is that, even though I know Drew prefers men, I still fancy him. I’m feeling those uncontrollable stirrings and surgings down below. That tight, heavy feeling in the pit of my belly and the sticky, familiar sensation of my panties getting damp.

  In fact, oh God, I think I’m more turned on because he’s gay, not less.

  “Let me get you a drink, Cait,” says Steve, laying his hand on my arm. Weirdly, he seems to be the peacemaker now, whereas ten years ago, he was the volatile, jealous one. Not that I could see that at the time.

  “I don’t want a fucking drink,” I hiss, “I just want to get away from you two.”

  I’m behaving like a child. As immaturely as I would have done twenty years ago, never mind ten. The best thing is to get out of here and leave the reunion party to run its own course. Everybody else seems to be having a great time.

  I stalk from the room, painfully aware that I’m not being followed, and rush blindly through the school’s old, familiar corridors. And I end up in the very last place I really should be.

  The gym store.

  Well, maybe it’s the best place. If I can face my demons here, I can probably face going back to the party in a little while, when I’ve calmed down.

  It’s just the same as it always was. A single dim bulb offers poor light, and there’s strong smell of mildew and ancient sweat. I could swear the mats are the same ones that Drew and I rolled about on. You would think an exclusive fee-paying college like Walton Wood could have afforded to renew its sports equipment, but seemingly not.

  I flop down on the nearest pile, and hitch up my skirt a little. It’s a fairly slim-cut one, businesslike and sexy, a part of a good, black, corporate suit. I left my jacket in the car, because it’s warm and my silk blouse shows off my breasts.

  Jesus, who was I trying to impress? And what a pointless exercise: He’s much more likely to ogle Steve’s splendid pecs than be interested in my all grown-up curves.

  I wish I smoked. Now would be the perfect moment for a stolen, calming ciggie.

  But I don’t smoke, and I can’t drink either because I’ve just left all the booze behind at the party. Stomping out, I cut my nose off to spite my face.

  I lie back on the mats and stare at the cobwebs dangling from the ceiling.

  What a mess. I’m pathetic. What was I hoping for?

  Even if Drew hadn’t been gay, he’d probably have been married to some lucky woman by now. With looks like his, he could have his pick of either sex.

  I close my eyes, trying to blank out my own stupidity and ignore the fact that I still fancy a man who fancies other men, plus the fact that I’ve made a complete fool of myself.

  Astonishingly, and probably because I’ve put so much into the food for this reunion and I’ve tired myself out with all the menu planning and speculating and hoping, I start to feel drowsy. What the hell, I might as well have a snooze. I’ve nothing much else to do now.

  I doze and drift, troubled by fitful images of Drew and Steve and me, all jumbled up as if we’re all in here together, doing what I wanted to do with Drew that day.

  I’m not quite sure whether I actually nodded off or not…but suddenly, I’m awake again, on red alert.

  A sharp, clean masculine cologne pushes away the smell of mats and mildew, and a soft—yet forceful—mouth settles on mine.

  My eyes snap open, and I’m looking directly into Drew’s blue ones.

  Fucking hell, he’s kissing me!

  I try to struggle, fling him off, wriggle out from under him, but he’s too strong. Stronger than he ever was ten years ago, with a man’s honed power and muscle rather than just a fit, enthusiastic boy’s.

  And the kiss…the kiss…It’s like magic. Like wine, at the risk of sounding clichéd. It’s sweet
and strong and intoxicating, and in an instant, I forget fight and flight and protests and questions, and just succumb.

  I part my lips, allowing his tongue’s entrance, and at the same time coil my arms around him, pulling both the dream and the reality close. I know I’m being stupid, and acting like the horny teenager I once was, but I don’t care. I’m getting what I wanted ten years ago, and I’m wanting more of it. Everything. All the way. The full monty. And if I can get that, I can maybe go away from here, draw a line in the sand, start afresh and find a good guy without always wondering about the one who got away.

  Drew’s kiss dominates me. He tastes me. Subdues me. He kisses me so hard that my jaw begins to ache while his hands explore my body.

  He strokes, fondles, examines, probes. It almost seems he actually likes it. No, damnit, he does like it! I can tell. I’m not wrong. I’m puzzled, but I’m not wrong.

  The way he almost purrs into my mouth tells me he likes touching a woman.

  What the hell is going on here?

  He’s tugging at my blouse. And I’m helping him. Within two shakes, the tails are out and his hand is inside, searching for my breasts. Finding them. Squeezing them. First one, then the other. Squeezing with finesse and skill, giving pleasure as much as taking enjoyment in the exploration.

  The next minute, he’s unfastened my bra with all the dexterity of a man who does the task every day. How can that be? Surely, he’s more accustomed to getting his mitts inside a pair of jockey shorts rather than a lace brassiere?

  He pushes up the cups and I’m sleazily exposed. He cradles a breast, flicking delicately at the nipple, running his thumb in a tight circle around the pebbled flesh, manipulating it like a maestro of woman-pleasuring.

  And still he’s kissing me, owning my lips and tongue as if he doesn’t want to set my mouth free to ask questions.

  As he switches to my other breast and I groan, the muffled sound I make seems to give me permission to do some searching and exploring myself.

  I run my hands over his suited flanks, his thighs, his bottom. Oh, his muscles are so hard. They’re taut beneath my fingers, but it’s the tension of anticipation and excitement, not discomfort.