Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  ‘So if you’re not Carlo – who the hell are you – Christ, not Vince from the singles weekend?’

  The water slaps beneath the underside of the boat. It could almost be slapping her bare buttocks, spread open on the cushions. Presumably in Casanova’s day they wore delicate lace drawers. Or perhaps Casanova’s conquests came to him well prepared, sans culottes. She could lie here for ever –

  Some revellers run over the spindly bridge above their heads, whooping and shrieking.

  ‘You want me to make you come or not?’ His mouth presses down to silence her. She reaches up to keep his face close. His hair, tied back in a velvet bow, is incredibly silky.

  ‘I know you,’ she whispers. ‘The glass-blower.’

  ‘Fuck, get me out of these trousers,’ he mutters, and pulls back, tugging at the tiny buttons running down the swell of his velvet fly. She squirms with renewed impatient pleasure, watching him unpick each button, the corner of his shirt sticking through the opening, then more corners of shirt and more slices of bare skin. Serena lifts her legs and rests them on his shoulders so through the slits in his mask his glittering eyes can see her open, wet cunt.

  And then he’s ready. Laughter lines groove down either side of his mouth as the mask eyes her silently. The trousers are somewhere round his knees, like a boy caught short, but that’s all the better. Vivaldi’s girl is fully clothed apart from her skirts up round her waist.

  The green velvet falls open and there’s his cock again, and it’s up under her skirt and thrusting into her. The gondola bows sleepily at first, then nods into life, then with its slow, steady rocking it shows whoever’s watching, and there’s plenty of watchers on the bridge above, what they’re up to. The glass-blower thrusts into her, deep and hard, pushing her into the cushions. She lies there, loosened in every sense, doing little, saying less, a good Vivaldi girl. She gasps for breath then gasps with pleasure as fast and furiously he fucks her and yes, he makes her come, and come, and come.

  As she writhes under the glass-blower, milking the last drops of pleasure from him, a huge shadow falls over them. Fists clenched at his sides.

  ‘Up, signorina. Up the stairs to your room.’

  She starts to laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve jumped the wall. I’m free to do whatever I like.’

  The glass-blower sits back on his haunches, idly tucking his cock back inside his breeches. He lifts not a gloved finger.

  ‘Vivaldi’s girls never escape,’ growls Carlo.

  He yanks her up by the elbow, ties her cloak tightly round her neck.

  ‘Stop him! Help me!’ she shouts, but the glass-blower has jumped out of the gondola and is running up on to the bridge. ‘I thought he was rescuing me –’

  ‘You made your choice.’ Carlo marches her across the wet paving stones towards the lemon garden. Already lined up there are Maria and Lucia. ‘He knows. Everyone knows. You belong here now.’

  ‘Your turn for a thrashing!’ Maria hisses as Carlo pushes them all towards the stairs.

  Serena watches Carlo’s massive shadow, climbing the wall behind her. The buckles of his shoes clank. She remembers his hands on her hips, his cock ramming her from behind, the sounds he makes when he’s fucking. Her sore cunt clenches sharply.

  Carlo pushes them all into their room and locks the huge wooden door.

  Mother Figure

  YOU’VE HEARD THE PHRASE all mouth and no trousers? Well, my fantasy made flesh is a man who’s all trousers, no mouth. The silent fuck. Spooky if you like endless sweet talking, but if you like to be in the driving seat, cut to the chase, get down and very dirty before Desperate Housewives comes on, the silent fuck is the business.

  My old friends in the old town wouldn’t recognise me now. I was the perfect wife and mother. A whore in the kitchen, maid in the bedroom, whatever it was Jerry Hall said we should be to keep our very own Mick Jaggers. And a sergeant major at the PTA meetings. They used to call me the commandant behind my back, but I didn’t care. I relished the role. Back then it was only my public face. Now somehow that dominatrix has come home with me, and in the shadows my slut side is having a ball.

  We were all happy as pigs in shit until poor Graham caught me playing away.

  I blame Sara Singer. It was her fault the school caretaker’s lad stumbled over me one Saturday morning behind the scenery. I was butt naked, whipped red raw and tied up in a half-built gypsy caravan when he came to take the Strictly Classroom props down. So it was her fault that my husband, combing the premises for his missing wife, found her being fucked by a monosyllabic but stupendously endowed boy in overalls who couldn’t believe his luck.

  Graham got a good eyeful, though, before he hauled the boy off me. The second time he forgave me actually, because that was when he caught me with Sara Singer herself. We were lying on the grass behind the wine tent at the open air music festival in the school grounds. It was a hot night, but very dark. Sara had her white Louise Sandberg kaftan hitched up round her slim tanned thighs and was sitting on my face. I can still remember the sweet juice of her pussy. The first and last I’ve ever tasted.

  The third time was the worst, because it was at our house. In our bed. Graham caught me with Sara Singer and her gorgeous Dutch husband. Well, mainly her husband. Sara was squatting at the end of the bed, filming us. At the opening of her last exhibition her husband and I were projected, fucking in monochrome slow motion, all over the walls of her art gallery.

  Graham upped and went back to Sydney, and the kids flew the nest with him. Oh, I go down under occasionally. They visit. But they prefer me at arm’s length. Thank heavens for Skype. I can speak to them wherever I am in the house. Whatever I’m doing.

  Sara went back to Amsterdam. So I left the old town and with my very generous settlement came to live in this cute mews house in South Kensington. I’m still on committees galore, but I ditched the pearls and the Alice bands, had a little work done, and none of them, not even Sara, would recognise me now. Oh, I kept the blonde hair. It’s the only natural thing about me, other than my voracious appetites.

  My little sideline is taking in foreign students. For the cash, and the company. They get my profile from the language school, and I wonder what they envisage? Gloomy little house? Grey-haired harridan with a rolling pin? Well, rolling pin’s almost right, as you’ll see. They could choose big host families with dogs and noise and daddies if they wanted, and some, the girls, do. But I get a constant stream of boys. And men. All single, at least while they’re here. All quiet. The ones who speak no English at all are the best because they’re, obviously, silent.

  Have you any idea how sexy a totally silent man can be?

  So they know what they’re getting, at least in outline. And what an outline! Their host mother is an older single woman, sure, but you just watch when I open the door to my little house round the corner from the Natural History Museum, greet them after their long flight from Tokyo or Peru, or their shorter flight from Naples or Moscow, and their eyes fall out of their sockets. Who needs Sydney when there’s so much fun to be had right over this threshold?

  Still wondering what I’m like? Madame Whiplash, perhaps? Close, but no cigar. I’m not so crude. All you need to know is that no one’s ever complained. The students never squeal to the school. I suppose they’d have to chide me if they knew what goes on behind my Kelly Hoppen shades, but they couldn’t fault my teaching technique. And the students, if they were really shocked, could demand another host mother. But they never do. Why would they? The first guy came close to leaving, but eventually I realised that was because he was frightened his cock was going to burst out of his pants every morning. It’s the slippery peacock blue silk dressing gown I always wear to serve breakfast. And the way I did his full English.

  His cock was the only part of him that ever really moved. He rarely even used his hands. Which was marvellous. It made him my sex toy, and he was the blueprint for how I wanted to mould the others. So I persuaded him to stay the full duration.
/>
  I’ve got a feeling you’re thinking seaside postcards now, so if I tell you that Marilyn Monroe is my heroine, will that fill you in?

  My first guest, the guy with the every-morning horn, was Japanese. Shiny suit. Smaller than me, and I’m petite. Handsome, chiselled, very pale almost sickly face, and a very full, purple mouth. Black, hooded eyes. I wondered what made his stare so very deep. After a few days I figured it was because I couldn’t see his pupils. From the moment he walked through my front door his eyes on me never wavered. Any idea how sexy that is? Your every move watched, never missed. Cooking, sleeping, bathing, pissing, he was always there, watching me. I told you I liked them silent? Just once he tried to speak so I gagged him.

  My front door closed the two of us in. This stranger and me alone in here, and the silence and heat seemed to crackle with electricity. It almost paralysed me. I’m usually like a cat on tacks. I can never keep still. Why pole-axed by one small Japanese bloke? It wasn’t him. Not immediately. It was this situation, so new, and intimate to the point of claustrophobia. My small house transformed into a designer den. A glittery cage, locking us both in and shutting everyone else out.

  I showed him his room, prattling on as I always do with the new ones, to cover the shyness, then gave him his supper, still prattling. He looked at my face for a bit, my mouth, made me blush and bite the blood up into my lips. Then his round black eyes swivelled towards my breasts. Well, you can hardly miss them. There should really be a dress code if you want respectable host mothers. Fisherman’s sweaters, perhaps. Painters’ smocks. Dinner-lady housecoats.

  He stared as I was leaning over to pour parsley sauce onto his gammon, and my nipples hummed under my red satin blouse. My nipples are big, and super-sensitive. No question of any surgery there. I couldn’t bear the lack of sensitivity. My husband used to call them his ripe cherries as he bit into them. Poor boy. Anyway, Kyo’s eyes grew very wide. They were like X rays, lasering through my blouse. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over him a little longer, aware of my deep cleavage inches from his face, scented heat pulsing off me.

  Then I sidled away, but the kitchen is tiny, and the more I stirred sauces and shook salt and shined surfaces, the harder he looked and the stiffer my nipples grew, poking through my bra, poking through the satin.

  I left my bedroom door open that first night. I wanted him to see me touching myself, wanted him to come to me across the hall, but he didn’t come in. I got it. After that I always went to him.

  It happened the next morning, and I made him late for school. I turned round from the coffee machine and he was staring at the huge plate of eggs and sausages and bacon as if they were the enemy.

  ‘I know you eat rice in Japan for breakfast. Maybe a little raw fish.’ My thighs squeaked as I wriggled myself up on the kitchen stool. I always wear stockings and suspenders, but I rarely wear knickers. They spoil the kinky line of those straps and buckles. I had just showered, but already I could smell fresh excitement. ‘But this is what we eat in England. So eat.’

  He picked up his fork and watched me as I blew froth across my cappuccino. Then I sat back, crossing one leg over the other with a swish so that my dressing gown fell open. Peeping up between my thighs he couldn’t help but see my bush. That was the Sharon Stone moment that made me the exhibitionist I am today. The naughtiness. The silence. The gleam in his eyes.

  But you can’t have an exhibition without an audience. He didn’t have to look, did he? He didn’t even have to stay.

  But stay he did. Kyo ate his sausages, one by one, his big lips opening and closing, all the while staring at the place where my gown was open. I sipped my coffee, opened my legs, tilted my pussy a little. He chewed, staring openly as a schoolboy. I spread my waxed sex open with one hand to show him the pale pink frills inside. My English cunt. Oh, that made me shiver with real delight. His first, maybe his only, English cunt. What were the pussies like back home? Butter soft lips opening to frills that same dark purple as his mouth?

  I stretched two long fingers up inside, the nails scraping painfully, making me flinch, as they went in. He didn’t budge, or quiver. Just chewed. Didn’t even twitch his feet, or fidget the fingers grasping his fork. My fingers went in, and the breath came out of me, hot, as my cunt closed around my fingers and sucked them in. I pushed them in hard, wanted to hurt myself, started frisking myself, in, out, faster, wet slipping on my fingers, jerking about on the bar stool.

  I thought, Christ, wouldn’t a normal man have done something to me by now? Run out into the street screaming, or called the embassy? Or slammed me onto my back across the granite breakfast bar, ripped open my silk gown and fucked me senseless?

  But that’s not how they do it. He watched, as they all do, and that’s how I like it now, what I make them do, and the more silent and still he was, the wilder I became. My thumb massaged my clit roughly as my fingers fucked me and then I came, in a kind of ragged burst, and at the same time I gave a strange little ladylike screech which shivered off into a sigh.

  He forked the last bit of runny tomato neatly into his mouth. Then he leaned forward, still staring at my cunt, pulled my fingers out, sniffed the salty scent into his nostrils with his eyes closed, as if that heightened his senses. Then he nodded. A sharp, decisive, approving Japanese nod that was more like a salute. Or a subject’s bow before a queen.

  Then he’d gone from the table. I listened as he moved about upstairs, opening drawers, moving furniture, turning on lights, then showering. Again. God he was so clean. Or maybe I made him feel dirty. I was convinced he was packing to leave.

  ‘Kyo? You’ll be late for classes.’

  There was no sound.

  ‘I’ll understand perfectly if you want to find another host mother after that – little display.’

  I heard the creak of his bed. In his doorway was his rucksack, stuffed with books. On his duvet he was lying, white, shiny and naked, like a kind of mini but muscular mannequin. A blow-up boy. My blow-up boy toy.

  I stepped nearer in my feathered mules. One arm was thrown above his head as if in surrender, but the other hand had wrapped round his cock, pulling it into life. He was wearing soft white gloves, the kind that a waiter or a clock maker or an archaeologist might wear. As I got to him he threw that hand above his head, too, leaving his short cock rearing out of the jet-black nest of hair, stiff as a baton.

  My pussy squeezed greedily. A new delicacy, prepared just for me. My own crudité, laid out in a finger buffet. I reached out to touch it, watched it spring back briskly.

  That was when I suddenly remembered my ex-husband’s story about a business trip to Tokyo when he and a colleague had been ambushed in a bar by a group of frisky, drunk Japanese girls. They had dragged the two men into a booth and ripped their trousers and boxers off, giggling and shrieking like homing sparrows and demanding to see if British men’s cocks really were as big as the rumours said.

  But when they saw what Graham and his friend really had lurking in their pants, an electrified hush had descended over the group. Their black eyes and red-painted mouths went all round and open like, well, like astonished little sex toys, because, Graham explained proudly, even when they were semi-erect, British cocks were evidently at least double the size of any they’d ever seen.

  It took a lot of nagging and wheedling to get him to tell me what happened next, because he tried to deny it at first. Said it was his colleague who ended up misbehaving with all that Japanese totty, not him. But eventually, when he saw how turned on I was by the scenario, he admitted the whole hog. How the dreadful pop music had drowned the girls’ wriggling and giggling. How the glitter balls and flashing disco lights in the bar had dazzled him. How the girls had pinned him and his mate down on these sweaty leatherette banquettes and started touching their big British cocks with their tiny white fluttery hands, taking turns to stroke them, wrapping their delicate fingers round them and pumping at them until they were standing up rock hard. How one of the girls had lifted up her pleated
gym skirt to show him her Hello Kitty knickers and her spotty thigh socks, spread her legs and started to lower herself –

  ‘And then?’ I asked him. I was packing sausages into a lunch box at the time. Graham was knotting his tie, getting ready for work. We looked at each other. Only our offspring crashing about in the hall stopped us from grabbing and humping frenziedly then and there on the kitchen floor.

  ‘And then we went back to our hotel with them. Christ, Caroline, you don’t want to hear this. I shouldn’t be –’

  ‘Tell me, Graham!’

  And so they’d gone back to their skyscraper hotel room, he couldn’t remember how many girls there were, they were all drunk on saki, and these girls, still giggling and wriggling, had used their kinky thigh socks to tie the two men down, side by side on the bed, and then taken turns in lifting up their skirts, kicking their knickers off, all identical little black triangles between their white legs, then clambering on to the men’s cocks and bouncing up and down on them all night.

  ‘What did it feel like? Fucking them? What did the girls feel like?’

  I remember Graham tugging at his cuffs, picking up his briefcase, both of us glancing at the bulge in his trousers.

  ‘Like being forced by little tarty aliens. Oh, they were cute as buttons. White, when they were naked. Flitting about our room, flicking through the porn channels, emptying the mini bar, so white they were transparent. And light. You couldn’t feel any weight, like they were acrobats. Maybe they were holding each other up. It was like they were spinning on top of us. And so tight. Their cunts felt like kisses at first, then when we were inside they sucked and gripped tight like wet little fish mouths. And all their movements so fidgety and quick. Slithered up and down like little pole dancers. Like we were the toys, and they couldn’t get enough of us.’

  So. Let’s see if size really does matter.

  The dressing gown slithered off me and I knelt on the bed. I always like to keep my bra and suspender belt on. Apart from anything else it conceals any imperfections. Well, I’m a cougar, not a kitten! And the whalebone accentuates my Sixties-style figure. It’s tailor-made with ferocious, satin-covered corsetry. It makes me both sexy and scary. It’s my battle dress. My uniform. My armour. Most peculiarly of all, I’ve discovered since that morning with Kyo how all that silk and satin and whalebone promises and gives intense pleasure, even if it never comes off. It hides you, holds you in, pushes you out. And a sex toy never touches anything unless he’s told to.