by Ashe Barker
“But I’ve never hurt you by accident, before now…”
“I’ve ruined everything. I’m sorry.” God, what an idiot I am.
“Not entirely ruined, I’d say. My ego is battered. I usually manage a lot more finesse than this. But I guess I can survive it if you can…”
“Your ego? What about my poor bum from your bloody ruler? I’d punch you in the ribs if my hands were free. That’d make us even.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Eva, once more, you absolutely amaze me.” Raising himself onto his elbows again, he cradles my head in his hands, his eyes holding mine. “Are you sure you want to continue?” At my nod, he smiles widely. “Thank God for that. I would have tried, love, I would have really tried. But I think it might just kill me to stop now. Has the pain gone?”
“Yes,” I whisper, nervous again.
“Okay, we’ll take it slowly from now. Let me know if I hurt you again.”
He slowly, gently, slides backwards, withdrawing from me. The friction against my inner walls feels strange, definitely not unpleasant. He stops, just the tip of his cock still inside me, then presses forward again, very slowly this time, filling me gradually, stretching me. I sigh. That glorious internal friction is even better now, and I take in his full length again. I can feel his cock nudging my cervix. It feels indescribably sexy, sensual, intimate. Fabulous. And it doesn’t hurt.
He is very, very careful, as if afraid I might break, every tense, bunched muscle exerting control. “Okay?” he asks, his eyes holding mine. “Any more pain?”
I shake my head, unable to speak, just wanting to savor this new sensation. “Again?” he asks.
At my slight nod he repeats the action, the gentle withdrawal and slow thrust forward, and this time I can’t contain my gasp of surprised pleasure. I could really get to like this.
“Is that good?” he asks softly. “More?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
His eyes never letting go of mine, he softly, sweetly sets up a rhythm. My moans of delight are swallowed by him as his mouth catches mine, his tongue plunging deep to mimic his cock, now smoothly stroking inside me. The feeling is beyond good, so intense, all the sweeter for being shared. His breathing is harsher now, his brow creased in concentration and pleasure. I start to soar, the now-familiar early tug of orgasm again gripping me. He rolls to take his weight on his right elbow and using his left hand he reaches down between us, his fingers stroking my clit in time with the rhythm of his cock, now pumping firmly in and out of me. I grasp his shoulders, holding on for dear life, only now realizing that at some point he has released my wrists from the leather straps, and I am free to touch him, too. I’m thrusting and gyrating my hips to meet his, and I’m sobbing with need, pleading with him for more. More what?
He knows. “Do you want me to fuck you harder, Eva? Faster? Deeper?”
“Yes! Please, yes….”
He does, showing me no mercy now as he pounds into me, angling his thrusts so that his cock hits just the right spot, which he has so accurately located previously with his penetrating fingers. I am desperate, reaching for my climax.
“Come for me, angel,” he whispers. “Come. Now.”
The dam breaks, and I am once again soaring, joyously shattering, convulsing around him. With a curse, muffled as he buries his face in my hair, he shudders, jerking in his own climax. He thrusts once more, twice, then he is still. Instinctively, I brace myself to take his weight, but he quickly rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. I’m draped over him, sprawled across his body, his cock still deep inside me.
One by one, my senses return. I can hear—the only sound is our heavy breathing, slowly returning to normal. I can feel—his hand gently stroking my back, my bottom, no longer sore. If I open my eyes I can probably see, but that’s too much trouble just now.
I feel incredible. And confused. Full of joy, certainly—elated, exulting in what has just happened, what I’ve managed to achieve, how bloody glorious it was. And I am desperately sad that it can only last a few weeks, then I’ll go back to being lonely.
Lonely? Where did that come from? Am I lonely?
And I can hear one word in my head, going round and round as if on a loop. A familiar word, a name, spoken by a long-forgotten, always loved and always remembered voice.
‘Angel’. My daddy.
Nathan breaks into my thoughts. “Well, Miss Byrne, that was quite a ride,” he murmurs. “Hey, are you okay?” Tipping my face up with his fingers he sees the tears streaming down my cheeks. I hadn’t realised I was crying, but now I can’t seem to stop. Seems the floodgates didn’t just apply to my orgasm.
I’m embarrassed again, not sure what’s happening, why I’m feeling so emotional when I never have been before, over anything. Even when my father died, I didn’t really cry, just bottled up the aching loss and went back to my books. I’ve no idea how to start to deal with any of this. My instinct is to hide, so I jerk my chin away from his hand and bury my nose in his beautiful, sculpted chest, now sobbing uncontrollably as a lifetime’s worth of pent-up emotion pours from me, spilling out onto this beautiful man. I vaguely expect meaningless words of comfort, more apologies, anything to stop me crying. But instead he just tightens his arms around me, saying nothing, holding me close while I let it all out.
When I am finally quiet, he gently eases me off him, disengaging. I had forgotten he was still there, deep inside me, and I do feel a sense of loss now, even though his erection had become distinctly less imposing. Rolling from the bed, he quickly removes the condom, and through my slitted eyes I see him tie the end in a knot, then quirk his lips at the bloodstains on the outside of it. Proof positive of my virginity. How could I have thought he’d be fooled for a moment?
He strides across the room, through a door into what I suppose must be the en suite. Yes—I hear a toilet flushing, running water, then he is back, carrying a box of tissues and a flannel. Sitting on the side of the bed, he pulls me, unresisting, into his lap. He gently wipes my face, first with tissues, then with the warm, damp flannel.
“I don’t think you were crying because of me. Were you, Eva?” I shake my head. “Okay, good. So, can you explain the tears?”
“No. I’m not sure. Maybe some of it…” My voice trails away as I try to put the pieces in order. Moments pass. He doesn’t press me, just waits for me to be ready. I work it through in my head logically, as I always do, in that way I am usually so good at. Working out causal relationships, sequences, making sense of problems, finding solutions. And I am amazed, in awe at what I have discovered, about me, my memories, what I need. He has unlocked so much more than just my repressed sexuality. I say the one thing that makes sense to me.
“’Angel’. You called me ‘angel’.”
“Yes.” He nods—I suppose remembering those moments just before he came—but says nothing more, giving no prompts, waiting for me to explain.
Sniffling into his chest, I draw a deep, shuddering breath and continue shakily. “My daddy was the only one to call me Angel. I was…reminded of him. I loved him. Very much.”
“You miss him? Still? It’s been fifteen years since he died.”
I stiffen in his arms. “How did you know that?” I am shocked, genuinely stunned. Has he been checking up on me? How much more does he know?
“You told me, that first night you showed up at Black Combe. When I made fun of your name. You told me he died when you were seven.”
Ah, right. He has an amazing memory for details. The way I do.
“I’m glad I put you in mind of someone you loved. But, sweetheart, you have to know my attitude toward you is a long way from being fatherly…” He is grinning, teasing me again. How sweet he can be when he wants to be, and he knows just what I need, how to get me through this.
I stumble on, trying to explain, to make it make sense to him too. “I’m not used to…anything like this. This has been a hell of a day for me. What happened this afternoon, in your office, was so overwhelming
. And then I’ve had such a lovely evening. And now, here, we’ve… I mean, I’ve waited so long for a man to want to… And you were wonderful. Brilliant.”
“Ah, my ego is restored. And, honey, let me tell you, you’ve been hanging around the wrong men if no one ever offered to fuck you before. Still, my gain…” Suddenly switching tack, he goes straight for the jugular. “Tell me about your dad. What was he called?”
I hesitate, but hell, we’ve got this far. “Charles. Charlie. His name was Charlie Byrne. And—I haven’t said his name out loud, not even talked about him, since I was seven.”
“Well, we’ll talk about him now, then. How did he die?”
“He crashed his plane.”
“His plane?”
“He was an RAF pilot. He died when a routine training maneuver went wrong.”
“Shit, that must have been a hell of a shock for you. For your mum too.”
I need to think about that for a moment. I don’t recall my mother grieving overmuch for him. Eventually, I tell him, “They didn’t get on. He was…not exactly a faithful husband. She was very angry with him, always angry. And just before he crashed, they argued. They always argued, but that last time was really bad. Brutal. She said she’d had enough, that we were leaving. I listened from my bedroom in our RAF bungalow, angry myself because she’d never asked me if I wanted to leave. Then he was gone. He came into my room and kissed me goodnight, called me his angel, went off to work as usual and never came home again.” Done with crying, at least for tonight, I draw in a huge breath, then let it out slowly, remembering. “I’ve never told anyone any of this before. No one ever asked.”
“Well, I’m asking now. Your dad sounds like a wonderful guy.”
“My mother doesn’t think so.”
“Maybe not. Not back then, anyway. But you should ask her again. She might tell you something different now, now that the anger has gone. Where did he die? Were you abroad?”
“No. He was based in Scotland at that time. I think he’s buried near Dundee.”
“You think? Haven’t you been to his grave? What about at his funeral?”
“I didn’t go. I was angry too, because he left me. Even though we were going to leave him, it seems. So, I didn’t go. I didn’t cry. I just got on with my life. We had to leave our bungalow soon after that, and Mum and I went to live in London. We were okay—my mum had her RAF pension and some other money she inherited from him. Quite a lot, I suppose, because she never needed to get a job. And we never talked about him anymore. I never talked about him again. Until now.”
He is silent for a few moments, just holding me. Then he kisses my hair. His next words astonish me. “Lots of unfinished business there, I think, my little Eva. How about if we find out where that grave is and go there, say goodbye properly. Maybe your mum would like to come too.”
My mum! I’m here, naked in his bed, my virginity just a memory, and he’s talking about going on a family outing with my mother. I can’t help it—I giggle. “I’m not sure my mum would like you very much.”
He is affronted. “Me? What’s not to like?”
“Well, it might be your whips, your chains, your skill with a ruler…?”
“Well, let’s not bother her with all that, then. Which reminds me, Miss Byrne…” Ah, I’m Miss Byrne again, lovely… “We have unfinished business.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before I find myself face down on the bed. He kneels behind me, lifting my bum up to pull me onto all fours, and slides his wonderful, skillful fingers deep into me, testing my wetness, my readiness. Once more I hear the snap of the foil packet tearing as he extracts condom number two from his collection. A few seconds later, gently opening me with both of his thumbs, he positions the head of his cock between the lips of my pussy, and I brace instinctively. Sensing my hesitation, he caresses my bum, steadying me, reassuring.
“I won’t hurt you this time, Miss Byrne. But please do feel free to scream anyway.”
Chapter Seven
He didn’t, and I did.
Practice makes perfect, they say, and the second time did seem pretty much perfect to me. I came three times, twice as he stoked my clit in time with his firm, controlled thrusting, and the third time as he raised the pace still further, dropping any attempt at control as he attended to his own needs. He stiffened behind me, grasping my buttocks hard to hold me still as he pounded inside me. I trembled as orgasm took me once more, but was still aware when he jerked, his body clenching as mine was. He muttered something along the lines of ‘Holy fuck, angel’, and I felt the heat of his semen filling the condom. It was absolutely wonderful, magical, exhausting.
Afterwards we lay still, no words needed, me tucked up with my back snuggled against Nathan’s chest, his arm loosely around my hips. We slept.
Now bright daylight is flooding the room, the curtains at the floor to ceiling, panoramic windows opened wide to let in the morning. I am alone, lying in his huge bed, stretching like a contented cat, still purring from yesterday’s intensely satisfying initiation into the art of lovemaking. Except he would call it ‘gentle fucking’. What’s in a name? It was gentle. And it was fucking good.
Nathan is not in the room, and I listen for any sign of where he is. Nothing, no sounds of running shower or flushing loo from the en suite, just silence. Disorientated, I glance at the clock—just turned ten. I guess it was around two by the time he finally let me sleep, and I’ve been out cold for eight hours solid. How glorious. I haven’t slept so well since my first night at Black Combe, and maybe not even then.
Refreshed, eager to face the day—and Nathan—I slip out of bed and walk, nude and completely unconcerned, across to the en suite. My natural modesty would usually have curbed such exhibitionism, but today things seem different. I’m less inhibited somehow, and we’re so high up, in any case—the only way anyone would see in would be from a passing airplane. I turn on the shower and step in, leaning my hands and forehead against the tiled wall as the warm multi-jets hit me from all directions, the water streaming down my back, belly, my breasts, my hair, my legs. I relax, rolling my shoulders, my neck.
Then I jump as warm, wet, soapy hands reach around me to caress my breasts. My alarm is short-lived as passion once again takes over. Nathan is behind me, also nude, and sharing my shower.
Another first for me, and this seems incredibly intimate. Oddly so, given all we have done, all we have already shared. I lean back against him, dropping my head to one side to let him nuzzle my neck, whisper in my ear about how beautiful I am, how sexy, how gorgeous, and all the wicked, forbidden things he intends to do to me. I tremble, anticipating.
He soaps me all over, kneeling behind me to wash my legs, my bottom, even inserting the tip of his slick, soapy finger into my anus, just slightly—enough to make me jump and gasp before he withdraws it. “Just testing, making sure you’re paying attention, Miss Byrne. Turn around.”
I do, so he can wash my front. This takes a long time, since he carefully washes every fold and crease, every throbbing inch of me before kneeling in front of me and nudging my thighs apart with his shoulders. He rinses the soap off then leans in to lick the moisture away, only succeeding in making me wetter still. Clinging to his shoulders, I come, helpless, boneless. I would have slid to the tiles below my feet but for his arm across my stomach, pinning me upright against the wall of the shower. When he’s sure I can take my own weight again, he stands to wash my breasts, squeezing my nipples between his slick fingers until I groan with pleasure and pain.
Turning me so I have my back to him again, he soaps my hair, massaging the lather into my scalp. Never have I felt so…so cherished. I was a small child when I last had my hair washed, unless you count Damien and the other nameless hairdressers who’ve battled with my hair over the years, but that was different—that was business. This is sensuous, delightful, intimate.
I close my eyes to savor the delicious sensations, once more leaning forward to prop myself up against the tiles, lost
in contentment. Nathan rinses the lather out, then finger-combs conditioner through the long, curling strands. Then, the conditioner still in, he takes a comb from somewhere and gently de-tangles the smooth, silky waves. Eventually he rinses the conditioner away then turns me to face him again, this time to take my face between his palms and kiss me. Not my mouth this time, not immediately. He drops tender kisses over my eyes, my eyebrows, my ears, my jaw, my chin, before finally, at last, taking my mouth and plunging his tongue deep. Only after long, dragging minutes does he finally come up for air.
“Are you hungry, Miss Byrne? Can I interest you in any breakfast?”
“I-I think I might… No, I…”
“We’ve got bacon, cereals, croissants. Coffee goes without saying. After I’ve fucked you senseless again, obviously.”
Obviously.
* * * *
It’s nearly eleven by the time I am finally seated on a stool against the kitchen worktop, one of Nathan’s shirts covering me. I rummaged through my bags from yesterday’s shopping expedition for some fresh underwear, and I can already feel the moisture pooling in them as his excess semen slides from me. I am learning fast that being well fucked twice within an hour of waking up leaves a sticky mess behind. I do so like this mess.
We had a serious talk earlier, about condoms. To use or not to use—that was the question. Given my obvious lack of previous partners, and the fact that I already have contraception sorted out, that only left Nathan’s not exactly chaste sexual history to bother us. He has regular medicals and volunteered access to the records. I declined, satisfied with the offer. So now, we’re bareback. Hence the mess.
I wrap my hands around a mug of weak coffee, just the way I like it. A warm croissant’s buttery aroma wafts toward me. I break a piece off, nibble it. I don’t much like jam, so I prefer it plain.
Nathan, wearing just sweatpants, shoves wholemeal bread into the toaster, then pours strong, black coffee down his throat. Radio Two is chuntering away in a corner somewhere, the sound just wallpaper, blending hardly noticed into the background Nathan’s copy of Friday’s Guardian is still open on the dining table, where he had obviously been reading it just before hearing me in the shower and taking an interlude to join me. We seem every inch the perfect, companionable, compatible couple, pottering around the breakfast bar.
