Not sure what to say to that I just quietly moaned, as sex talk had never really been my thing.
Without wasting time, his rough hands worked downwards and unzipped my jeans and inched them off past my ankles as he kissed my thighs, knees and several bruises I had acquired on Saturday along the way.
Light-headed from the champagne, I decided to let go of my hang-ups about my body. I had put on at least half a stone since London and I was conscious of the extra bulge. But it didn’t seem to bother Robert. He was definitely in the zone.
In a moment of clarity, I thought it best not to romp on Parker’s suede couch, so I took hold of Robert’s wandering hands and a bottle of LPR, and led him in the direction of my bedroom.
As I knelt on the edge of the bed, the underwire in my bra dug into my chest, so I unhooked it at the back and dropped it to the floor like I was performing in a burlesque show.
Crawling on to the bed beside me, Robert brushed up to my ear and whispered, ‘Have you any stockings?’
Confused I asked, ‘Do you want me to get dressed up to undress for you again?’
‘No,’ he said, a little embarrassed, ‘I want you to tie one around my cock.’
Not wanting to appear unworldly, I stepped over to my dresser and started rooting around in one of the drawers for a spare stocking. Trying desperately not to spill any Bridget Jones knickers or woolly tights on the floor, I finally found an unopened pair boxed up at the bottom.
Hesitant to open the packet as they cost €30, I turned to him and asked, ‘Do you really want one?’
Leaving no doubt in my mind, Robert jumped off the bed and grabbed the packet out of my hands, ripping the stockings out of the plastic in seconds. Throwing the lot on the bed he stripped himself, leaving a small pool of clothes on the floor and then shuffled up beside me.
His cock, as he called it, was long and narrow. It wasn’t the prettiest I had ever seen. Michael’s had been perfect and not even Michelangelo could have designed it better.
But Michael wasn’t here and Robert was. So long and thin would have to do.
‘I’m going to tie this here,’ he explained as he placed my expensive barely black stocking around the base of his dick, ‘and when I reach orgasm I want you to pull it tighter – it helps to intensify the orgasm.’
Nodding in bemusement I wondered what exactly was in it for me. ‘So what’s a girl get in return for her stocking, then?’ I asked.
‘Patience,’ he whispered, as he pulled me down the bed on to the flat of my back, before removing my matching white lace thong, which he threw to the floor to join the rest of the clothes.
I wriggled my hips with nervous excitement as Robert, his dick neatly tied in a bow, crouched down over me and began to munch his way across my belly and down to my neatly shaved vagina.
‘Tell me what you like,’ he said as he began to stimulate my clitoris by softly nudging it with his nose.
‘What you’re doing there is nice,’ I said, praying that he didn’t want to start a dialogue. But I was out of luck. He was in the mood to talk.
‘Do you like it when I tease you there?’ he asked in between his sloppy vaginal kisses.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s good,’ I offered, trying not to sound too awkward.
‘And how about this?’ he asked again as he started to insert what felt like two fingers inside me.
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s really good,’ I said again, hoping that he would shut up.
But he wouldn’t. The questions kept on coming.
‘Do you want me to lick you harder? Do you want me to do it faster? Does it feel better when I rub you with my nose? Can I stick a finger up your ass?’
I felt like telling him to shut the fuck up, but I was horny now and I just wanted him to get on with it rather than give me a spot quiz.
Then without thinking and almost as a knee-jerk reaction to his interrogation I blurted out, ‘Just worship me!’
Chuffed with himself, as if I had shared a fantasy with him or something, he submissively ducked his head and said, ‘Oh, yes please. I will be your slave.’
Biting my lip so as not to call him an eejit, I snapped back, ‘Get back to work then.’
In hindsight, it was a pretty comical moment, but it shut him up temporarily as he used all his digits to make me climax.
He didn’t succeed.
I faked it.
Somewhat unsettled by his rattle-tattle I wasn’t able to fully concentrate on the job, but it was still pleasant enough once he was gagged.
But just as I pushed him off I saw his dickie bow waving at me.
He looked ridiculous. Letting out a loud laugh, I had to shrug it off as an orgasm aftershock.
I was just lucky I hadn’t made the mistake to point. Not that I think he would really have noticed. He was extremely focused on setting up the second act of our sexual play.
With no wardrobe change he switched location to the full-length mirror on the wall and positioned me in front of it on my knees. ‘I want to be able to see everything,’ he said lustfully as he took up his position beside me.
Let’s make this quick, I thought. If Parker comes home and hears grunts and groans coming from my bedroom he’ll barge in on top of us.
And if he finds Robert wearing women’s clothes he’ll have a field day. I’d never live it down.
Either that or he’ll try to freak me out by asking to watch.
With my right hand I took hold of the shaft of Robert’s dick and gently started to stroke it. With my left I held his balls and massaged with my fingers. And just as I had started to lick the head of his dick, the chatter started again.
‘Oh yeah,’ he groaned, ‘go on, you dirty bitch.’
Not sure I’d heard him right I continued what I was doing and built up more momentum.
But I wasn’t mistaken.
‘You’re – nothing – but – a – dirty – whore,’ he blurted out, jerking as he spoke.
Assuming that it wasn’t said to mean offence, I kept with it. Massaging and licking and rubbing and pulling. In between each lunging motion I looked at him in the mirror. He was snarling and grinding, it was very primal, though a tad gay looking as he posed with one hand on the wall to steady himself, and the other on his hip.
Then just as my mind had started to wonder what Parker might think of this, he screeched, ‘Stick a finger in my ass!’
Snapping back to reality I passively inched my middle finger towards his anus, separating his legs further apart on the way. Wishing I had a pointy stiletto to throw up there – then again, he’d probably love that – I darted my finger as hard and as far as I could.
‘Jesus Christ, woman!’ he screamed, as he fell against the mirror. ‘Did you not think to grease her up a little?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, then tried again. But he wasn’t taking any chances. ‘Just suck my balls,’ he demanded as he took control of his cock and began to pull himself off.
‘Just a dirty bitch,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘Just – a dirty – fuckin’ – whore!’
And just as I thought I had taken enough verbal abuse, he screamed again, ‘Pull on it!’
Not completely sure what he meant, I tugged down on his balls with my mouth. But he wasn’t impressed.
‘The fucking stocking!’ he screamed.
Now praying for this to be over, I did what he said, and as he ejaculated partly over me – now literally making me a dirty bitch! – and partly across the mirror, I pulled on the stocking and winced in case I decapitated his manhood.
Despite his running commentary during the build-up, when he actually orgasmed Robert was mute apart from a few groans.
Pushing me away he stumbled to the bed and collapsed in throes of laughter.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Ha. Yes, sexy. You did good.’
At ten o’clock Parker arrived home mentally drained after spending the day ordering people about. He loved his job, but always came home shattered after twe
lve hours of arguing with art directors over which shade of grey makes a wall look mythical.
Tossing his black Gucci man-bag of drawings across the floor, he kicked off his pointy black Gucci shoes and fell on to the couch beside me.
‘So how is the dark prince of Gucci this evening?’ I asked, trying to appear sober.
‘Fucked. Think pretty Thai boy working the strip in Bangkok. That’s how fucked I am.’
‘Fair enough. Glad I asked.’
‘Sorry pet, how was your day? Are you all right? You look very flushed.’
Although all evidence of my perverse afternoon had been banished, Parker had a sharp eye and was able to sniff out sex at ten paces.
Trying to be evasive, I asked him did he fancy anything to eat, but he wasn’t to be distracted.
‘You’re all red in the cheeks. What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, looking extremely guilty.
‘Listen, I’m not in the mood for twenty minutes of guessing games. Just tell me now because you have the look of boldness about you.’
‘Hon, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Oh-mi-God. That good? Tell me, tell me, tell me.’
Bribing him to make me one of his fabulously sinful hot chocolates, I explained the whole sordid scenario as I watched him make froth on the fancy gizmo on his €3,000 coffee machine.
Studiously he remained quiet through my whole story, and as he popped three large pink marshmallows into my giant mug and handed it to me, he darted me one of his serious looks and told me to sit down.
‘Now don’t get angry with me, but I’ve a theory.’
‘About what?’ I asked, but I didn’t really want to hear his answer.
‘I’m being deadly serious. And I don’t want you to shoot the messenger.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘OK, but you’re not going to like it.’
‘Parker …’
‘He’s gay.’
‘No he’s not.’
‘He’s gay. Well, bi. But he definitely likes boys’ bums.’
‘Grow up.’
‘He’s gay and I’ll prove it to you. Trust me, I’m a fag!’
‘God, you’re full of it sometimes. Listen, I know he’s only a temporary fixture. As far as I’m concerned Robert is my Mr Good Enough For Now guy. Ha! That is if I can afford to keep him in expensive stockings.’
‘Hi, Maddie, can you talk?’
‘Not really. I’ve just told my mother I’m pregnant. She didn’t exactly take it well.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That I was a no good embarrassment like my father.’
‘They’re still arguing, yeah?’
‘When are they not? You know, she almost started frothing at the mouth she got herself so worked up. All this, “you’re nothing but a dirty whore” and that I got what I deserved.’
‘Wow. We’re like two peas in a pod …’
‘What ya mean?’
‘Sorry, hon. I was just thinking out loud. Listen, I just rang to say that I think you’re being really brave.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No I’m serious. I don’t know how I would have handled the situation. I know you hate it when I get mushy, but I just wanted to tell you you’re deadly and that I’m here for you if you need me.’
There was silence at the end of the phone.
‘Maddie, are you there?’
‘Yeah, I’m just …’ sniff, ‘I just …’ sniff, ‘I have to go …’
‘Maddie?’
‘What?’
‘Keep the chin up, hon, it’ll all work itself out. I promise ya.’
6
‘HE’S GOING TO have them lasered for me!’ screamed an excited Parker down the phone.
‘I just left you five minutes ago. What are you talking about?’ My nerves were frayed. It was my second day at work and I felt like I was about to step into a war zone.
I kept telling myself to think of the money, but it was useless. The fear of seeing Maureen again was turning my stomach. That, or the Tropicana orange juice I had necked for breakfast was gone off as Parker said.
‘Jeff. He’s just rung me to say he’ll get that furlining zapped off for me. It must be love.’
‘Hang on, are you talking about his hairy hands again? You can’t be serious? You’re not actually going to push the poor bloke to get the hair on the back of his hands removed – are you?’
‘Yes, it’s gross. I feel like I’m being groped by a giant silverback ape when he touches me. And anyway, he offered.’
‘Mmmm, just out of the blue he offered. You’re such a diva. Listen, I’m very happy for you and your gorilla, but I’m about to walk into my own version of hell. I gotta go.’
The hairy hands saga would have to wait till later. I was standing on the bottom step of an impressive Georgian building which was now my place of work. It had a fabulously huge fire engine red door, with tall white pillars surrounded by delicate stained-glass windows. The kind you see on postcards.
In nature the colour red signals danger. If I were looking at a traffic light it would be telling me to stop. But despite the warning signs I still had to pass the threshold and face the ramifications.
But I had nothing to stress about. When I arrived into the office, Louise told me that Maureen was on annual leave and that I had nothing to do but drag a sack of invites to the post office and answer any calls that came through on Maureen’s phone.
Happy days.
With little to do other than physically be in the office, which was fairly cold and bare with its stark white walls that reached up high to old ornate cornice work and coving, I busied myself with sending e-mails to friends I hadn’t seen in ages.
Catching up on old correspondence was only ever done when I was really bored. And my mates from around the world knew this. But they were guilty of the same crime.
Approximately once or twice a year I’d hear from old pals who had defected to foreign spots as far afield as Australia or Hong Kong. All of whom had gone on to lead much more successful and fruitful lifestyles abroad.
There was Christian, who moved to Johannesburg, who was far from a religious man. He found his happiness down the bottom of a diamond mine instead of helping the missionaries.
He now lives with five Dobermanns, two cleaners, one gardener and ten security cameras, that he sits and watches each evening as he has his dinner alone.
There was also my old friend Anna Maria, who flew down to Sydney while taking a year out from studying Business & Law at UCD, but she fell in love with one of the few straight men on Bondi beach and never returned.
She now has six kids under five, three girls, three boys, with her youngest, Sam and Jake, being six-month-old twins.
Her last e-mail was to say her mother-in-law René was moving in to help out with the kids, and that her husband Thomas had been diagnosed with skin cancer. I had terrible nightmares for ages after, imagining myself in her shoes.
I had visions of myself climbing a mountain of dirty nappies but never quite making it to the top. All the while some shrivelled-up old bat was standing over me telling me I was doing everything wrong.
Argh! It was my idea of hell.
But she felt blessed by all of her healthy children and her ability to produce them.
‘Not everyone is lucky enough to be able to have kids,’ she boasted. I agreed with her, but told her it wasn’t her duty to repopulate on behalf of eggless women across the world.
The last of my globetrotting friends was Jean. She was my best friend from primary school, and to this day we share very little in common, except the aptitude to keep in touch. Despite her mother’s best efforts to split us up, because she didn’t think I was a suitable friend for her studious princess, we always stayed in touch via notes, letters and now e-mails.
According to her mother, I was a bad influence on Jean because her free time would be better spent at home practising her piano scales and read
ing Enid Blyton. Although I only wanted to drag her to the nearby park and climb trees or look at the local flasher expose his bits, I wasn’t deemed suitable company, and to this day I still can’t work out why.
My own mother wasn’t as concerned with my extra-curricular habits. She always preferred me to be outdoors, not because of the fresh air, but so I wouldn’t be in dirtying her house.
I was never allowed to bring friends over to hang out, God forbid ever asking for a sleepover. No, my mother just didn’t like children that much. I think she expected us to pop out of the womb fully functional adults, with impeccable manners and the ability to understand the saying, ‘Only speak when you are spoken to.’
I was halfway through writing a generic e-mail to the gang explaining the ups and downs of life as a single girl in Dublin, when Maureen’s phone rang.
Snapping into work mode I diligently picked up the receiver and in my best phone voice said, ‘Good morning, Tiswell Properties Limited, Eva speaking, can I help you?’
A confused female voice at the end of the phone line asked, ‘Is this not Maureen’s number?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ I explained, ‘But she’s on holiday this week, can I take a message for her?’
‘Oh right, eh, no. It’s a personal call. I’ll ring her mobile.’
‘OK so. Bye now.’ I did my best to sound professional and cheery.
I was just returning to my e-mail, explaining how I’d been the star of an erotic porn movie with a guy called Robert, when Maureen’s phone rang again.
‘Hello, Tiswell Properties Limited, Eva speaking, can I help you?’
‘Is that Eva Valentine?’
‘Yes it is, hiya, who’s this?’
There was silence.
‘Hello. Is there anyone there?’ I said.
‘It’s Annette Barron.’
My heart sank as panic set in.
‘Listen, Annette … I don’t want to argue with you, so I’m just going to hang up.’
‘Don’t!’ she pleaded, with a quiver in her voice. ‘I’m sorry I slapped you before. And I’m sorry I threatened you. I was extremely upset, as you can imagine. But I need to talk.’
‘I’ve nothing more to say, Annette. I’ve already said I’m sorry and I meant it. I’ve no interest in your husband. You’re just going to have to take my word on that.’
Champagne Kisses Page 13
