Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  ‘Never.’

  She bit her lower lip. Little teeth marks dented the tender skin then started to fill out again, redder than before.

  ‘Your Jake the same? Permanently up for it? You know, permanently hard? Going at you morning, noon and night? I worry that he’s just like his dad.’

  I giggled, shocked at the question, and hitched myself up on to her quartz worktop.

  ‘Oh, Christ, Sophie, stop it, no, not exactly morning, noon, and – Christ, I can’t talk to you about that –’

  I crossed my legs. I was wearing spotty stockings that day. She looked straight at my crotch and I blushed. Was she imagining her son going at me, right in there, up that hidden hole? Did she catch the fact that my pussy was bare, damp lips spread open where later she’d be blending mangoes for Martin’s supper? My thighs felt hot as they stuck together. I turned her camera ignorantly upside down and pretended to study it.

  She sighed, looking at my face now. ‘I just want to test Martin, that’s all. He promised he’d go easy while I’m in New York, to prove to me that he can.’

  Sophie has endless legs, all taut and toned. She’s been working out recently so she’ll fit in with all those cougars across the Pond, but she’s always been gorgeous. A while ago she stopped wearing trousers, other than jeans, when she’s working, and now she wears these sensational fluid dresses and skirts which make her look sexy and young like a girl. Since Jake told me how he has a thing for Japanese anime schoolgirl cartoons I’ve ditched all my trousers, too, and now I only wear skirts. Except unlike Sophie’s mine are very short.

  ‘What about the age difference, though?’ I tipped more wine into my glass. ‘Won’t he suspect something if he catches me hanging round here?’

  ‘Come on, Suzanne. You’re not a baby. I’m instructing you to think of something to say or do so that Martin lets his guard down.’ Sophie smiled but looked sad. ‘And I’ll have you know we were childhood sweethearts. I was still a teenager when we had our Rick. Martin’s only just fifty.’

  ‘Yeah, but to a 22-year-old that’s pretty ancient, no matter how cool he is.’ I shrugged prettily to take away any edge of rudeness. ‘But what I mean is, I’m a baby to him. Wet behind the ears. Thick. He’s cleverer than me.’

  ‘Ooh, but you’re going to make such a cute little honey trap.’

  Sophie patted the sofa next to her and next minute I was cuddled up against the lovely soft breasts curving out of her caramel cashmere cardi as she wrapped her arm round my shoulders. Oh, God. That’s when I knew exactly what my problem was. Is. It was like when I had that monumental crush on Regina Sanchez at school. I couldn’t take my eyes off her in class, in games, at meal times. She was all flashing blood-red ringlets, Spanish swear words and silver bangles. I was all badly permed mousy hair, 10cc records and freckles. But I got to kiss her in a school play. Not quite the chaste kiss the nuns had in mind. God no. It made me wet my pants –

  But Sophie? Do I have a crush on Mrs Epsom? I nudged myself up against her so that the curving side of my breast was touching hers. My nipples pricked. I could see them through my Hello Kitty tee shirt. I glanced to see if hers were hard, but I could only see a suggestion of her cleavage. I could smell her musky perfume and the tang of her lipstick where she’d bitten her lip. She’s my boyfriend’s mother, for Chrissake. So voluptuous and full and knowing and scented and unlike any other mother but so sweet as well and I wanted to touch and kiss her. Just like that time when I was pressed up, crotch to crotch, against Regina Sanchez. Then felt her tongue in my mouth.

  ‘But what the hell are your husband and I going to talk about?’ I couldn’t do what Sophie wanted. But she squeezed me tight, up into the scented warmth of her armpit.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she said, in that low, ex-smoker’s voice of hers, ‘I’m not sending you on this assignment to talk!’

  I thought spying would be the easy part. So I stalked Martin for the first two days after she’d gone. Mornings, lunch times, evenings, sometimes on the tube, sometimes hiding in their neighbour’s driveway, watching to see if he was with anyone. He wasn’t, but I took pictures anyway to study later for evidence. A mysterious woman lurking under the lamplight, maybe, or blowing kisses from a window. Actually I was really pleased with the way Martin looked in his suit, the way he sauntered with one hand in his trouser pocket groping for the house keys, his distinguished profile as he glanced up at the sky. The images were brilliant when I altered them to monochrome. Like stills for a film noir.

  But on the third evening he wasn’t there. At work, or at home. I prowled round the house and even climbed onto the roof of Sophie’s studio in the garden to peer into their bedroom, but the lights were off.

  ‘Fuck this for a lark,’ I muttered to myself, stomping into the wine bar on the corner of their street. It was empty. A big-built girl in regulation tight black skirt and even tighter crisp white blouse, her white blonde hair coiled in Princess Leia plaits, was bending over the tables, lighting candles. Her hips thrust from side to side as she gyrated to the deep beat of the background music. I perched up on a bar stool and texted Sophie: Zero to report – M good as gold.

  ‘Yah?’ The fraulein glanced over her shoulder as if I’d said it out loud. She kept her bright blue eyes on me as she yawned, arched her spine, rotated her neck and stretched her arms above her head.

  ‘A bloody enormous white wine, please.’

  ‘Sure.’ She marched across the wooden floor towards the bar. Her shins bulged like a dancer’s. Her skirt slipped into the crack between her high, tight buttocks.

  ‘And some slippery, slimy olives.’

  ‘Good camera.’ She leaned over the counter with the hors d’oeuvres. ‘Can I see the pictures?’

  ‘There’s nothing to see!’ I tossed my phone down. ‘Just need a drink.’

  She nodded sharply like an SS officer, reached a muscled arm up to get a glass down from the rack above our heads. Bent down to the wine cooler, big breasts pushing together to make a deep cleavage and tumbling like a sensuous log roll against the few tiny buttons. Her strong, impatient movements were strangely comforting. I fiddled about on the stool, my own spindly legs splayed wearily apart. Mission unaccomplished.

  ‘Bad day?’ she barked. Every part of her body was toned and taut, and yet her breasts had a different life of their own. Now she was upright they had bounced upwards too, hoisted and contained inside the crisp white cotton. They were too soft to be false, but they still had a jutting, cartoonish perfection. Body builder Barbie. I thought of Sophie’s breasts. I’d never seen them even half bare. She was far too sophisticated to flash her flesh. But she must have known how tantalising it was, the way the silk and cashmere she favoured clung to those promising outlines.

  ‘Bloody awful, and frankly boring.’ I fiddled with the mobile phone. Why hadn’t she replied? ‘Can’t seem to do anything right.’

  She took out a new bottle, beaded with jewels of condensation, and ran her hands up its cool green sides. She made it look like a sexy weapon, holding it like a policeman’s baton, nudging it between her breasts as she unwrapped the seal. The cold against her skin made her nipples stick out. They were massive. My own tits are smaller than hers but exquisitely, painfully sensitive. Jake calls them his puppies, which has started to irritate me. When we’re married I’ll have to train him out of it. He likes me to walk straight in to the room where he’s either working at his desk or sprawled on the sofa watching the rugby. He likes me to stand in front of him, lift my skirt like a lap dancer – always a skirt, like I said, for easy access, like a hooker – without a word, spread my legs to straddle him, and sit on his cock. I’m supple enough. I can still do the splits. I wrap my legs round his hips, grab him by the hair as he yanks up my shirt and grinds my tight nipples into his greedy young mouth, always wet with beer or the stinging juice from the grapefruit, or oranges, the citrus fruits he’s always peeling and eating and which make him so glossy and healthy.

  I closed my eyes in the
wine bar, sucking on an olive, and the leather seat of the stool squeaked under my bare thighs. I wriggled at the thought of my handsome, horny fiancé’s breast fetish. It was autumn, but I wasn’t ready for tights. I lifted one leg to hitch my woollen hold ups over my knees. They were really striped hockey socks like something out of St Trinian’s. I knew they were kinky, because men stared at them in the tube, the way they went over my knee and up my leg, just failing to meet my mini skirt.

  I pulled the stocking up slowly, loving the scratch of the wool over my tender skin, then held my other leg up like a ballerina so the air circulating in the empty bar, no one looking, could tickle my bare snatch. Yeah. Commando Barbie. The habit started as a dare at school. Regina Sanchez of course. I’ll never forget her lifting her school skirt in choir practice and showing us the luxuriant black Spanish triangle between her legs as Mr Soames took us through the Faure Requiem –

  ‘Found the corkscrew.’ The barmaid’s voice sliced through the silence. I opened my eyes and saw her grasping the bottle between her knees and staring straight up my skirt. I kept my leg up and looked into her blue eyes then down at those huge breasts, squeezed tight together. She blinked slowly and looked down to fit the corkscrew into the bottle. I thought of my Jake grinning, licking his lips before taking in a nipple to suck but then suddenly it was Sophie’s nipple he was sucking. In my tired mind’s eye I saw her holding up her shirt or jumper in front of him, letting her nipples, surely they would be pale and elegant, grow hard and red in the cold air. Then weighing one breast in her hand, taking Jake’s head tenderly with the other, she was pushing her nipples into his grown man’s mouth.

  The cork shot out of the bottle with a delicious pop, and as I thought about Sophie suckling her son my pussy popped, too. I lowered my leg and came, quickly and secretly with a tiny moan, right there on the bar stool.

  ‘Now isn’t that just music to the ears! And Christ, my little pashka, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes in that twisted school ma’am dominatrix get-up.’ The door banged shut behind the newcomer and he started to tug at his tie. His other hand reached across the bar to flick undone one of Olga’s over-exercised buttons. ‘Your boss ask you to dress like that to give us punters stiff ones?’

  My lips had gone dry. I could only wriggle my damp pussy, and watch.

  ‘No. I choose how I dress.’ The fraulein leaned low towards him, her mouth glistening and open. Her finger trailed into her cleavage. ‘And I dress only for you, Marty –’

  ‘Hello! Stop! It’s me!’ I banged my knees closed. There was a loud squeak of flesh on leather as I tried to stand up, but I was stuck to the seat. Creamy wetness lined my sex lips, slicked inside my thighs. Under my warm bottom the seeping juices were like glue.

  Martin turned sharply, his cheeks ashen beneath the dark shadows of encroaching beard. His eyes flared with shock, then anger. I’d never seen that look before, and it scared me. But just as violently it was gone, his face smoothed back into its easy urbane lines. ‘Suzanne! Christ! What are you doing here?’

  Olga glanced sharply from him to me. There was a high flush on her cheekbones as she splashed the wine into my glass. ‘She wants to drink, of course.’

  ‘I was – hoping you’d let me in to the house,’ I stammered, spilling wine down my chin as I drank. Sophie would never swig like she was on the lash in Falaraki. I swallowed, and coughed, and my eyes watered.

  ‘I’ll have a Sauvignon, please, Olga.’ He smiled at the bar maid. She poured him a glass and glared back. He held her china blue eyes for a moment as if he was taming her, and she did that slow blinking thing with her eyelashes.

  Then he turned back to me and I wriggled uncomfortably, the stool suddenly too small, too high. And too wet. I realised I hardly knew the man. In the few months I’d been dating Jake, his father was mostly away on business. We’d certainly never been alone together. There was always Jake, and his brothers, and Sophie, and our friends, always celebrating something at their home or in a restaurant or in the gallery. I had never, for example, noticed he had a livid white scar across one eyebrow. Or how dark his eyes were, like slate.

  ‘Jake wanted me to get a couple of things to send to him –’

  ‘Touching. But they’re in New York, Suzanne, not the North Pole. There are shops. Surely Sophie could have taken some stuff out with her?’

  I sipped this time. The wine was singing nicely in my head. I wanted more. ‘OK. I confess. It was an excuse.’

  The mobile phone lay idle on the bar between us.

  ‘You don’t need an excuse, Suzy. You’ll be family soon.’

  ‘I’m lonely without him, Martin!’ Christ, where did that come from? Martin was watching me so intently, I found myself doing the eyelashes thing, too. The heat of embarrassment crept up my body. ‘You know. I’m so frustrated at night.’

  I crossed my leg, too late remembering that my fanny was bare, but he didn’t flinch. Just kept looking straight at me like a very handsome, rather stern headmaster. I even felt a warm tear trickling down my cheek. It was like I was melting. Eyes. Yes, nose sniffling. Pussy still leaking –

  ‘You miss sex with my randy son?’ Martin drank some wine slowly and glanced very briefly down at my legs, crossed demurely now. I flushed hotter, wondering if the strip of thigh above my stripy socks made me look like a tart. ‘Don’t blame you. If he’s anything like me he’ll need it at least three times a night. But I’m still not sure why you came to me.’

  ‘I think she was watching for you.’ Olga had one hand on her hip, her Slavic eyes lasering us both. Her tongue ran slowly across her lower lip as if she was about to take a bite of a very tasty meal. ‘She is in this street every day, like a little spy.’

  ‘You’d better come home with me and sort yourself out,’ Martin said, smile fading. He stood and took my hand. His fingers were warm but strong as a vice round mine, which felt tiny. He laid a tenner beside his already empty glass. Payment for my assignment, I thought giddily. ‘Can’t have my future daughter–in-law wandering the streets in this state.’

  ‘Before you go, Marty.’

  Olga pushed the camera over to him and slowly, calmly, he started to scroll through the display. I gripped the edge of the counter, whimpering. My heart hammered in panic. I was in deep shit. It was all there. Pictures of him calling goodbye to the security guys at his office, crossing roads, buying newspapers, paying taxis, pulling off his shoes in the sitting room at home, gazing out at the twilight before the electric blinds slid across the double height glass wall –

  Martin slipped the camera into his trouser pocket, leaned his elbow on the bar, and rolled his sleeves up casually. ‘Perhaps we’ll stay for another one, dumpling.’ He winked at Olga. ‘While I work out what to do next.’

  My body shuddered with relief. But my mini orgasm earlier had left me edgy and unsatisfied, and now my bladder was pulsing with urgency. ‘I need to piss. Where’s the ladies?’ I had to work out how to get the camera back and me the hell out of there.

  Olga opened her mouth to tell me but Martin put his hands on my shoulders, sitting me down again.

  ‘Not so fast, young lady.’ His arms were strong and muscled, like Jake’s, and streaked with dark hair. ‘You have some explaining to do.’

  I went weak under his hands. ‘Can I have the camera back now, Martin? Sophie leant it to me to – to practice some techniques she’s been showing me. You know how much I admire her. Everything about her.’

  He frowned and tapped his fingers on the bar.

  ‘All pictures of you, Marty,’ hissed Olga, her fingers touching his.

  ‘Can you shut up and mind your own business? Olga?’ I snapped, sliding off the stool. I turned my back to her so that I was between Martin and the bar. ‘This is about my father-in-law and me.’

  ‘Yeah. Give us a minute, strudel.’

  A surge of anger boiled in my chest. He kept winking at Olga over my head as if I was some kind of minor irritation. She goose stepped or whatever across to
the door and I heard her lock it. I pushed up against him. His body was big and warm and didn’t budge. I started playfully to push my hands into his pockets.

  ‘Oh, come on Daddy, give it back! Pretty please?’

  He looked down at me with a strange, hot look, but this time it wasn’t anger or shock. I froze, with my hands still grappling about on his hips. It was lust.

  ‘Say that again.’ His voice had gone really deep and rough.

  I giggled. ‘What?’

  ‘Ask me again.’

  What must we look like? Me, petite and cute in a chaotic Pixie Geldof kind of way. Dishevelled bleached hair on end, mascara smudged, tartan box jacket falling off my shoulder – and my arms wrapped round my fiancé’s scary pin-striped father.

  ‘Can I have the camera back?’

  ‘Say all of it again. Say Daddy again.’

  I took a deep breath and out came this little girlie whisper. ‘Can I have the camera back, Daddy? Pretty please?’

  He smiled and lifted his arms out sideways as if I was a copper about to frisk him. I reached inside his trousers, fumbling about awkwardly, aware in a flash like a hot rod shoved up my bum that I was in danger of touching his cock.

  He swallowed, but kept his arms up. ‘Keep looking.’

  This time I did touch him through the fabric lining. His cock was rock hard. I felt like I’d been burned. The camera, in his pocket, rested against it. I wrapped my fingers round the camera but couldn’t resist, really I couldn’t resist, running my thumb up that long hard shape, just to make sure. I felt it pulse in response. Martin was very still. I rubbed my thumb up again. His cock was huge. It extended up to his waist band. Excitement swelled in my throat. There was no thought of who I was any more, or whose cock it was. I was down to basics. Just a horny female touching a big, hard, male cock. It made me ready to copulate. Fuck like a bunny. A ball of desire twisted and rolled in my stomach as I rubbed the shape a third time and felt it shift.

  And yeah, the fact that it belonged to someone so totally forbidden made it doubly, triply sexy.