by Carla Blake
Sunlight, condensed into spears, thrusts its way through your bedroom window via a malicious deity with perfect aim and neatly slices into my eyeballs. In response I say something unintelligible and bury my head deep within the pillow. It is only then, as I am groaning softly and trying to work out which day it is, that I realise I am not at home. That I am still in my clothes. And with someone lying beside me.
The shock I feel is more effective than strong coffee injected straight into the vein, and I sit bolt upright, automatically feeling for my hair and knowing, just knowing, it is sticking out at all angles.
Bathroom? My head screams and I look around wildly. I spot it through your open bedroom door on the other side of the landing and climbing out of bed, I push my way in, groping for the sink, the mirror, a reason why I’ve woken up in your house instead of my own.
Memory floods back as I am sticking out my tongue, as, unfortunately, does a little of the wine we drank last night in the kind of burp that makes you grimace and think you’re going to be sick. Instead I swallow, swear and quickly rinse my mouth out with water whilst trying to finger comb my hair into something resembling normality.
What have I done? Why can’t I remember?
Did we fuck? Did we do that? I can’t remember! But it seems unlikely. I’m still dressed. I’ve still got my tights on and no way would I have bothered to put those back on after a night of passion.
I creep back into the bedroom and spy my shoes on the floor. For a moment I consider slipping them back on and getting the hell out of here, but I have no idea where I am or where the nearest high street and possible bus, taxi, train might be.
Sod it. I’ll have to wake you.
You don’t seem bothered. In fact you invite me back on the bed and like an idiot I go. I should leave, common sense tries to convince me. I should leave, go home, shower, eat and have a bloody good think about things before I do anything rash. Instead I climb back on board and let you take me in your arms.
Your kiss is as good as I sort- of remember from last night.
And like the kind soul you are, you set about refreshing my memory.
I kiss you back and then, oh then, I remember what I was aiming for last night. I want you. That’s it. I want you. I let this wonderful realization rush through my mind in a repetitive litany of lust as I clasp you to me.
Our clothes are off in seconds. I have no idea how we come to that arrangement but it seems mutual and in no time at all we are naked.
Your body takes my breath away. And your perfume fills it again. Unashamedly I feast my eyes. On your soft skin. Your breasts. The neat triangle of hair nestling between your toned thighs.
You smile and kiss me some more, your hand roaming down the side of my body. I sigh and you lightly brush your fingers over my breast, cupping it and trailing your thumb over my nipple. The sensation makes me groan with want and you squeeze my nipple between thumb and forefinger, sending a clear and sensual message straight down to my aching pussy.
I reach for you, for your breasts and you present them to me. Moving your hands so we can lie nipple to nipple. Our hips touch, meet and press together, the heat from your pussy rising to mingle with mine. I can feel your heartbeat, the rise and fall of your stomach as you breath. I feel you push against me still harder and I want you, all of you and I pull you close, wanting as much of you touching me as humanly possible. We kiss again, entwining tongues and once again I can’t get over the fact that I am kissing you. I can’t believe I am this lucky. Can’t understand how you, who could have absolutely anybody, could possibly be interested in kissing me! It feels so unreal. But God, so bloody right!
You kiss my neck. I know where this is going and I wallow in it.
Your mouth moves down, trailing small, barely there kisses across my skin and I wait, hardly daring to breath as your soft lips find my breast before covering my nipple. Wetness envelopes me followed by the hard flick of your tongue and I feel myself swell in your mouth. I wouldn’t care at this moment if you bit it off.
But my nipples are not the only thing that is swollen and I tentatively raise my hips, hoping you will get my subtle message and allow your hand to start to stray.
Your attention to body language is amazing because stray you do.
Your hand trailing across to my other nipple where you squeeze it into life. Making me gasp and causing my hips to rise again, this time without my intervention. Then your hand leaves my breast to gently stroke my stomach and I feel a kind of sweet desperation. I want you so much and I am so wet. My pussy is throbbing, my insides clenching. If you don’t touch me soon, I’m going to have to do it myself.
“Please.” I whisper. “Please touch me.”
It does the trick. In an instant, your hand is at my pussy. A single finger separating my pink, moist lips to find the heated centre of me. In you go. I love a girl who doesn’t muck about, and you start to fuck me. It is then that I realise you’ve done this before. That, even in the cold and very sober light of day, there has been no discussion as to whether or not this is what we want. Instead it has been a silent agreement. An understanding that we have come here to fuck and that is precisely what we are going to do. Are doing.
A shiver runs through me as I give myself to you. I feel deliciously wanton. The tip of your finger strokes my G-spot and I shudder again, it feels just as if you are touching the underside of my clit.
I arch my back and feel your lips settle over my nipple again. This, of course, only serves to increase the sensations between my legs and I beg you to touch me.
In reply you fuck me harder. Your finger flowing in and out of me in liquid motion. I come. Just a little, but enough to have me grabbing hold of you as though my life depends on it.
You laugh at my response, but I don’t mind. You call me ‘darling’ and I melt.
Your finger leaves my cunt and travels lazily up to my clit.
The feelings you elicit there make me squirm with pleasure and my breath catches in my throat. You suck my nipples, applying just enough pressure to hurt. I should mind, but I don’t. The pain only serves to increase the sensations lower down and I loose myself to your touch. Writhing and breathing heavily as your finger roams round and round and the pleasure mounts and mounts and..
...Oh My God!
My orgasm takes even me by surprise. I actually feel myself gush over your fingers. My insides clenching tightly as mind blowing pleasure literally rips through my pussy. In response, I clasp you to me, calling your name and hearing you call me darling in return. I moan again and ride this beautiful, powerful surge of pleasure right though to the bitter end.
I let you go reluctantly. Slowly. Our bodies peeling away beneath the sheen of sweat we have created. I kiss you, tasting you properly for the first time and realizing you taste faintly of strawberries. My body feels wonderfully used and I sigh, satisfied and fucked.
You though. You must be going off bang.
It’s lunchtime. I watch you from the corner of my eye, as you collect your coat and your purse. You rummage around inside it before you leave and I know exactly what you are looking for. For all your lecturing on diet and exercise, you still like a sneaky fag, don’t you? Just the one. And always after lunch. Never after dinner or sex or before going to bed. Just after lunch. A single cigarette. I wonder sometimes what you get out of it?
I follow. At a discreet distance of course. You leave the building and turn left, towards the shopping centre and your favourite café. It only takes a few minutes for you to arrive and I notice a few of our colleagues are already there, having bagged a good table by the window. Keeping well out of sight, I watch from behind a tall, plastic store directory.
They get up when you walk in and urge you closer. All five of them are wearing the same, grave expression. I wonder if you’ve told them about me and Kerry and decide that you must have don
e. This lot wouldn’t normally have left half drunk mugs of coffee and half eaten sandwiches to greet you.
Tony, the idiot from accounting, puts his arm around your shoulders and guides you into the seat next to his. He looks shyly hopeful but I know he has no chance. He has dandruff for one thing and an irritatingly keen interest in smutty jokes. He is also a man. He hasn’t got a hope.
I climb down from my orgasm in stages, each one helped by the loving embrace of your arms. I inhale your skin whilst you kiss me often and tell me I’m beautiful and sexy and have a lovely body.
I wish I could take the compliment with as much grace and shy smiling as they do in the movies, but I’ve never thought much of my body and I find it embarrassing to hear someone else extol its virtues, so instead I shake my head and tell you, you must be mistaken. My breasts are too small and my legs too short. I can’t even begin to imagine what my hair must look like.
In reply, you laugh and tell me not to be so silly. You think I’m perfect.
I tell you to get your eyes tested.
Then we kiss. Our lips drawn irresistibly together like sensual magnets. The kiss goes on with neither of us wanting to break away and we breath hard through our noses.
My hands wander from your waist. I can’t help it. Your skin commands me, demanding I touch and caress and stroke. I feel compelled to have some kind of contact with you, no matter how slight, and briefly I wonder if witchcraft is involved. You giggle at the suggestion and tell me that if I stop touching you, you will turn me into a frog.
I tell you it will hardly make any difference, I already look like pond life in the mornings, and I kiss you again, my tongue quickly darting into your mouth and stilling you from making some pithy remark.
I kiss your neck and inhale the scent of your perfume still lingering in your hair. You sigh, ever so softly and I open my eyes to look into your lovely face. Your eyes are still closed, your mouth ever so slightly open. The rush of desire I feel for you catches me by surprise and I wonder what it is about you?
Your nipples taste wonderful, swollen and plump in my mouth and I let my tongue dance crazily around them, leaving warm, wet trails, before I cover them completely and apply enough pressure to push them in. You shudder, a shiver of delight coursing down your body and your stomach hitches in. My hand follows, sweeping down the length of your body to rest gently on your inner thigh where I stroke the smooth skin, savouring the silky texture before lightly brushing against the edge of your delicious pussy. You moan as my mouth leaves your breast, then again when I kiss your stomach and explore the shallow indentation of your naval. I stay there for a while, inhaling the soft aroma of musk rising from between the valley of your legs whilst my hand gently applies pressure to your mound.
The moan you give tells me I’m doing the right thing and I move further down to kiss the soft pubes of your fluff. I want you so bad I am shaking myself and I waste no time in maneuvering myself between your beautifully spread thighs.
My tongue is in Heaven. You taste divine. I could live on what you’re producing from your cunt. To make sure I don’t starve, I lap the length of your slit then slip my finger in when you’re least expecting it. The shuddering gasp that escapes your lips makes me smile around the folds of your pussy and teasing your clit, I shove another finger in. Amazed at how easily it disappears into the warm, delicious wetness inside you, I introduce a third, knowing that you must be feeling very full now, and wanting to ensure that when you come, you will have something firm to grip onto.
I lick you. Suck you. Tell you how delicious, beautiful, wonderful you taste.
I fuck you too, as much as I’m able and I feel your muscles clench and relax, clench and relax until your hips start to leave the bed.
And here it comes. Your orgasm. I can feel it building. The tension in your body tightening by the second. You gasp and then tell me what I already know. You’re coming. Then you beg me not to stop. To fuck you harder. To make you come!
I do all of those things and your lovely juices run down my chin and over my fingers. I’m sticky with you and I love it. I fuck you again and you suddenly open up allowing me to move my fingers with ease. Not wanting to waste it, I pump firmly in and out, feeling you move with me and drawing me in ever deeper. My fingers glide without resistance and I tell you I love you, want you, need you in my life.
A gasp and your hands grip the duvet. ‘Fuck me,’ you say and I give one, last thrust, barely able to hold on as you suddenly buck and writhe beneath me, your orgasm taking you, controlling you, tipping you over the edge, making you come…
Someone was kind enough to order you coffee and a baguette before you arrived and now the waiter brings them over. You sip at the murky, brown liquid and pick at the baguette. In the half hour I watch you, you don’t take a single bite.
Tony has his arm around you again and I can see his lips are moving. If he’s telling you one of his disgusting jokes right now, I will bloody deck him, but the fact that everyone just smiles, gives me the impression that it might have been one of his cleaner, less ‘ hilarious’ efforts and I decide to let him live.
Everyone gets up, as if by mutual agreement and Tony slips his arm off you and into his jacket, as do the two other men you’re with. The women, Monica and Sue, haven’t bothered to take theirs off so they just grab their handbags and escort you out of the café. I wonder who paid?
We settle into a routine. At work we are the picture of innocence and looking at us together, smart suits, painful shoes, studied expressions, no one would ever guess that we are screwing each other rigid.
At home though, usually yours, it is another matter and we hop into bed before we’ve eaten, too full of lust to even contemplate ordering pizza or putting the oven on to roast a chicken.
The sex is always, always magnificent and we come loudly, enthusiastically and with declarations of total and unshakable love. I wonder sometimes if the neighbours can hear us and if they do, whether it encourages them to join in. I hope it does.
And it is at this point in our amazing relationship that you start in with the ‘ gotta keep fit’ crap. And it is at this point that I, in an effort to please you, go to the gym and meet someone even more gorgeous and exciting than you.
I didn’t cheat on you though, let’s make that perfectly clear right now. In fact, I even changed the day I went to the gym in an effort to avoid the delectable Kerry. But she just kept on finding me. Seeking me out, turning up on the next running machine to mine. Inviting me to share a coffee with her. Inviting me to share her body.
You didn’t take it well, and to be honest, why should you? You thought we were solid. In love and Hell, I thought that too. But you can’t help who you fall in love with and I fell very deep for Kerry. I wanted to be with her constantly. To see her, if only for five minutes. I thought about her from the moment I woke up, to the moment I fell asleep. And when we made love, it was her face I was starting to pictured above me. Her hands on my breasts. Her voice I wanted to hear calling my name.
I had to leave you because I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t go on living a lie, stringing you along. That wouldn’t have been fair on either of us, but like I said, you didn’t take it well.
If the neighbours hadn’t heard us screwing, then they surely heard us fighting. We screamed, we shouted. We called each other names. You threw a book at me at one point, missing me and knocking a small dent in the side of the lounge door and that was my fault too. As was breaking your heart, leading you on and being a lying, deceitful bitch!
I denied none of it. What was the point? Nothing I could say would make it any better. You had done nothing but love me and adore me and here I was throwing it all back in your face. I was a bitch. But I’d never asked to fall in love with someone else.
My car was cold when I got into it, a bit like my insides. The heater, when I turned it on, did little to chase
away the chill.
I pulled away feeling numb. Knowing I would probably never see the inside of your house again. Or lie in your bedroom. Or make dinner in your kitchen. Or hold you.
And at that moment, I wanted to turn back. I wanted to run up to your door and bang on it until you answered and tell you that I was sorry, that it was all a mistake! It was you I wanted! Not Kerry. I wanted you, and only you and could we please try again? Please! Could we?
But then my mobile bleeped, telling me a text message had arrived and I looked at the screen and it was from Kerry and suddenly nothing else mattered…
Certainly not the massive lorry coming the other way.
You came to my funeral wearing that black dress I’d always adored you in and sat in the middle row of the pews. Kerry was on the other side, well away from you and well away from everyone else I’d worked with at the company. You didn’t look across and neither did she. Instead you cried, big, silent tears. And I cried with you. For leaving you. For not being able to say goodbye. For not being able to tell you how sorry I was.
And for having to watch you return to the office and all those memories.
I know you’re still angry with me. I can see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you clench your lips when you walk by my old desk. It makes me crumble inside and I so want to make it better.
But I can’t. You don’t know I’m here. You don’t see me. You don’t hear me and eventually, you won’t remember me…
The Woods Are Lovely…
Anya Dixon pulled into the small parking area, sixteen miles out of town, and consulted her map one, last time.
Tracing her finger along the thin, brown line, she cut across the unfamiliar landscape, hesitated at the unusual contours and then nodded in satisfaction. This was the place all right, Fenn Hill woods. Sixteen miles from the place she called home and completely unknown to her until a week ago.
