Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  “You didn’t shave. Ah. I like that.”

  “Would I dare to defy my Sir?”

  He slides his hand into my hairs and he hisses between his teeth when he feels my naked, wet heat. I’m positively molten.

  “I love it when you’re like this.”

  “And I think I love it back.”

  We’re against the wall and Will pulls me to him. He puts on a condom in record time and I raise my leg. He eases into me, and his weight presses so temptingly against my clit, I cry out at the sensation. It’s painful but sweet, heady pain as I widen and stretch.

  “More…”

  “Sure?”

  “Give me all you have.”

  I feel myself get wetter and wider. I encourage him with a wide-eyed stare and he smiles as he screws me tighter and I want it more than oxygen.

  “Ah. Hidden depths,” I purr.

  “I want you.”

  “I want that cock to stay at the party. Shall we? Sir?”

  His cock presses deep between my moist, hot folds and I have him fully to the hilt and harder than he’s ever been. It’s the biggest head buzz ever. I moan at the sensation of widening as far as I can to accept him and I close my eyes, relishing having him in the deepest part of me. I’m the hottest and most turned on I’ve ever been in my life. My gaze sweeps the room and takes in all the instruments of kink. Seeing it all turns me on and takes me higher.

  I gasp and moan out in my ecstasy as Will drills me with his powerful thrusts.

  “Good, baby?”

  I can’t answer in words—only moans.

  I rise on my toes as he stays deep in slow, steady fulfillment. Is it too much to hope that tonight we might conquer my burning ambition of satisfying him? Full-on penetrative sex and orgasms for us both in a manner that lasts long enough to blow his world.

  He pulls out then jams straight home and I shout his name.

  He does it again and again, moving in a slow deliberate pace that makes me pant and moan over and over.

  “Wow,” I whimper. “More. Harder. Take me.”

  “This is all I’ve wanted…”

  He grasps my butt as he claims me, to raise me up, and I take him as deeply as I can. I’m fully engaged and accommodating him now and it’s rocking both our worlds. He’s inside me—joined as I squeeze him with my legs. I want to stay like this forever. And yet…

  “I love this.”

  Wow the L word. Fuck.

  “One glance at you tonight. I knew. You’ve done this.”

  He rams into me again, again, again, again. We’re both making noises that tell me it’s crazy time. But the sex is stellar and this is what we both wanted and knew we’d have. Fucking magic.

  The sex explosion of my life.

  As if to emphasize his words, he thrusts into me, presses and stays as his mouth finds my neck and he kisses me meltingly. Then he slams again so forcibly that I yelp. It’s a good yelp but a loud yelp and I don’t even care as he’s drilling into me and we’re noisier than the school orchestra on a good day. It’s pleasure, it’s desire and a need for more.

  “Fuck me, Will. I want it. I want you.”

  I’m urging more as he fills me full and deep as delight bubbles through my veins. My clitoris is responding to his magic as my excitement starts to peak. I relish each moment he thrusts into me, taking me higher. I cry out his name against his ear as he claims me against the wall, pinioning me to Paul Bates’ passion room as if I’m an autumn leaf on a nature wall chart. He makes me feel at one with nature. Synergy—a whole human being because of his organic, electrifying touch.

  I think I’m in love. Body, soul. The works.

  “Oh God, Izzy.”

  I can tell Will is near the pleasure pinnacle, as every muscle and sinew are tensed to the brink. His pace builds to frenetic mayhem and, even though it’s rough, I welcome the rush. Being pounded this way is life-affirming and I relish the way I gasp as he crashes into me and my clitoris absorbs each thrust. The power of our orgasm is like a tsunami of need that’s swept us into oblivion. Will thrusts, moans and growls with his desire and he judders against me as he comes deep inside my pounding pussy.

  “Baby. Yes. Baby.”

  He clings to me, spent. His pace, once frenetic, swiftly calms as we cling drowning in the moment as waves of steady pleasure continue.

  The climb was a mounting buzz. The aftermath is bliss meets nirvana.

  My inner vixen is buoyed beyond words that he’s succeeded here. I know the battles and scars he bears.

  “Thank you. I love you,” he says against my ear. “Next time. Kinky shit. Guaranteed.”

  Um. Wow. Love?

  My heart is thundering and not just from the sex. But I’m not quite sure how to voice my surprise.

  “You okay?” he checks.

  “More than okay. I knew we’d be good.”

  “I want to stay down here forever. I want this again.”

  “I’d love to. But there’s a house full of guests. Hold that thought for later.”

  And I think I am, I’m totally in love. And more scared than I’ve ever been before. Love, fuck. Love.

  This has gone to a new level—one that’s scarier than I’m ready for and I fear I’m over the threshold and into the no exit zone without knowing I’ve taken this route.

  Will’s my danger zone. He’s a man who scares me because I suspect he has the power to deeply scar me. I hide my true wounds well. So well nobody realizes I’m fragile beneath the surface. I lost the center of my world—then I lost trust in myself. It’s a place I never revisit.

  I staunchly cover these innermost weaknesses. Yet they are hanging together at heart by a thread. How do I cope with opening such secrets? Can I resurrect my defenses? Can I risk my heart against all odds?

  * * * *

  We’re leaving our lair when we run into a search party of one. It’s Annie James, hotpants and all. Of all the people to come find us… Why am I not surprised? Just when I think I can’t hate her more—whoops, I managed to ramp up the loathing.

  She pouts cherry-glossed lips that I swear must be no strangers to Botox. “Will, I’ve been looking for you for ages. What’re you doing down here?” She puts her fists firmly on her hips. “What have you been up to? Don’t tell me Izzy’s commandeering you yet again!”

  “Headache pills,” Will segues and I push my hand to my temples and wince without prompting.

  “Migraine. Must’ve been brought on by the punch. It’s got plenty of thump behind it.”

  There’s one person here I’d like to punch. And it’s not the male in our midst.

  Annie narrows her eyes. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve been too busy dancing. And we didn’t finish what we started, Will.”

  I find myself wondering if she’s noticed that my corset laces have snapped in the middle due to the eager fingers of my beau or that my previously sleek ponytail’s been ravaged by Sir’s firm attentions.

  “I have host duties, I’m afraid,” says Will.

  “Then Izzy shouldn’t be hogging your attentions with her headaches. That getup does look a bit tight, Izzy. Not surprised your head hurts. You’ve probably caused nerve damage,” Annie snarls at me.

  “Like your hotpants. Vintage is very you, though. Nice to see a woman showing her age.”

  Basically this woman needs a good bitch-slap and I’m wondering if now may be the time. My, but that woman is a spiteful cougar into the bargain.

  Annie’s eyes narrow but she runs on, “Will, there’s been unpleasantness in the grounds. And as one of Izzy’s friends is involved, it would be best if you come without her. She’s, after all, a biased party. It’s been a fight. And I understand the police are on their way.”

  “Who?” I ask immediately.

  “Joe… No. What was her name? Mo? I can’t remember. She’s dressed up like a guerrilla and frankly it’s a huge tip-off to her character. Highly appropriate given her violent tendencies. She claims she caught some prowler in the bushes, though
I struggle to believe it. And she foolishly took things into her own hands. Your security boys have intervened but I think we need police involved. She kicked the man in the privates.”

  “But is she okay? Before you play judge and jury and get it all wrong.”

  “Yes. Though I think she gave as good as she got. The police have been called because I told them to get right on to it,” Annie says.

  It’s the last thing that Will needs. To have cops and prying eyes crawling into his private life. Especially given what I now know about what lies below stairs. He may have a point.

  “Let’s go see what the fuss is about,” Will tells her, but his eyes are on me.

  As we head for the stairs, he whispers near to my ear, “Play it cool. You’re great in a crisis. Help me sort it out, please?”

  And I will. “Of course.”

  Because he’s my hero. In more ways than his costume and his playroom moves.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There’s garbled shouting going on outside the main doors of Hangley Grange, and I don’t need proximity to recognize Mo by the language flying like nunchuks. As I get closer, I can see a flashing blue light outside the gate. Shit.

  You leave a party for some hush-hush sex and all hell lets loose, complete with the boys in blue.

  I feel like I’ve walked into a No Sex Please, We’re British production.

  I pull Will aside quickly. “I’ll talk to the police. Let me do the schmoozing, okay? It’ll be fine. Nothing untoward—you’re entitled to have a house party even in a mansion.”

  Will nods and we split up to each fulfill our roles in diplomacy.

  I reach Mo and, as I do, her shouting turns to floods of tears. Which is going to play havoc with her warpaint let alone her mascara. It’s only then that I notice she has a torn top and the massive shiner of a black eye is not face camouflage gone wrong.

  “Mo! What the hell happened here? Who did that to you?” I’m incensed. When I first heard Annie’s claims, I thought it was probably bluster, but seeing a black eye on your best friend fires you up for repercussions.

  “Photographer. Filthy scum. And he denies everything,” says Mo.

  “Bastard!”

  “Bastard’s too good for him. He even tried to do a runner. Though my tae kwon do worked wonders. He took a right doof in the nads!”

  The man in question is sprawled on the grass. I can hear his moans and see his abject pain. Two of Will’s car parking attendants are keeping him down. He does, indeed, have cameras—a bag full, in fact. They’re now lying beside him. He looks less than pleased and I wonder what the hell he was after? Shit—why are we having papping stalkers here?

  I hug Mo to me and I let her have the cry she needs.

  “And her!” Mo says with volatility, pointing at Annie. “She was a chocolate teapot in a crisis. Bloody nutso woman tried to fight me off him and jumped on my back. I saw him skulking by the cars so I followed him and he tried to jemmy open the back cellar door round the back. Found him when I nipped out for a fag with Jack. He was looking a bit peaky.”

  “Who was peaky, Jack?”

  Mo nods and I realize I haven’t seen him. He’s kinda hard to miss in his massive Arsenal top hat.

  “He okay?”

  “He’s inside with Dibs. He had a sore chest and he was breathing bad.”

  Shit, not again. Both gates have opened and there’s an ambulance with paramedics and a police car coming up the drive. The evening keeps dishing out surprises of the nasty kind.

  This is proving to be quite a party. And not in the way I’d have thought. There have been incredible highs. I suspect this dip isn’t one of them. And suddenly I feel the need to run and find Jack.

  * * * *

  The policeman, as it turns out, is related to one of Dibian’s neighbors and she recognizes him straight away His name is Rod O’Leary and he also used to be a prefect when Dibian was a trainee teacher. I’m pretty sure Rod the Plod is a nickname he doesn’t care to have reiterated, so I don’t use it. I keep it all under lock and key in my head.

  As policemen go, we got a good one and his partner in crime is a doppelganger for Samwell Tarney of Game of Thrones fame, whose frame suggests he’s more accustomed to pen pushing and doughnuts than baddie chasing. And while he looks like he’s the jolly, amiable one, maybe he has a surprising, vicious side when it comes to questioning suspects.

  Mo is in the vast dining room with Rod, making a statement. Her tears have turned to pert interest and I think it’s due to seeing Rod in his shirtsleeves—he has gym-honed arms and rigid pecs. Rod’s quite something to behold in a uniform and Mo is so very easy, it’s almost a sin. She smiles as I enter to offer moral support and raises her eyebrows in a silent ‘Wow, he’s lush! I’ve got a good one here!’

  “So we have attempted break-in. Assault. Car damage in order to steal goods,” I can hear Rod saying as he scribbles in his pad.

  “And he swore at me. Called me a dumb army bitch and to eff off to Afghanistan.”

  “I merely wish to record your version of events at this stage. We will investigate fully,” Rod says with the tight lips of the mother superior at the convent-of-our-lady-of-the-perpetually-strained-patience. He gives her a sly wink, which I’m pretty sure isn’t in the policeman’s protocols manual.

  “You’d better be interviewing him too? Secret snapper camera-toting scumbag that he is. He was up to no good, whatever he says! Find out what he stole from Tarquin’s car!” Mo says.

  “Mr. Endermann and the perpetrator are also being questioned in the lounge down the hall. Rest assured, madam, we want to get the train of events recorded. Do you want another cup of tea to calm the nerves?”

  “No. I’d kill for a double Jack Daniel’s and a plate of vol-au-vents, though. Did I tell you I’m a chocolatier by trade—I’ll make sure you’re fully reimbursed for your troubles in chocolate ganache truffles.”

  Again, Rod flashes her a proper pert grin. I think he’s interested. Though it could be Mo’s double F boobs in a clingy army vest that’s the cause.

  “Perhaps once the questioning has been completed.” He watches her as if he’s veering toward the selvage edge of his patience’s pinafore fabric.

  “I’ll get tea for you both,” I interject. “And biscuits. Tea and biscuits always help steady the nerves! Especially Wagon Wheels,” I say and I take this as my cue to go and find out what’s happened with Jack.

  Unfortunately, if the photographer assault surprise is bearable, Jack’s situation is the biggest downer of the night.

  * * * *

  Jack is lying on a couch in a bedroom on the ground floor. He has an oxygen mask on his face and his complexion is ashen. His eyes are shut and Dibian is holding his hand as paramedics simultaneously talk reassuringly, but also give instructions.

  It’s clear, within only a few moments that he’s on his way to hospital.

  “I’ll go with him,” says Dibian, nodding on fast speed. “You stay here and sort out the rabble. Do I need to let any relatives know?”

  I shake my head. Jack has nobody I’m aware of who’ll need to know right now. He does have a sister in Southend but I don’t know her address or contacts.

  I notice Dibian’s headdress is gone, her gaudy Carmen outfit now covered up by someone’s gray cardigan. I can see when she looks around and her eyes meet mine that she’s had a shock and there are telltale mascara tracks. I go to her side.

  “What are they saying?” I ask simply.

  “Not a heart attack, but definitely a heart problem.” Her eyes probe mine in silent communication that it’s serious. Being managed but serious nonetheless.

  “Are you sure you want to go? I’ll go.”

  “As much as you mean well, my darling, you’d scare the natives. I wouldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I’ll handle it, darling.”

  “You’re a fantastic woman, Dibs.” Shit. I feel it come on me. I’m crying. And I never cry. Well, that’s a lie, isn’t it? I cried when I was
ill. It seems in moments of true weakness and big life problems I do crack.

  “Shall I come and keep you company too?” I ask. “I don’t give a shit if I look weird. I can borrow clothes from Will.”

  She looks at me and nods.

  “Go and get changed. I’ll ask them if you can come in the ambulance.”

  “You go in the ambulance. I’ll get a cab. Text me where you are.”

  We hug.

  I long to hug Jack but he’s so still. So quiet. There’s lots of tubes and things stuck to him.

  I’m suddenly very scared. Like an icy tap’s deathly drip down my spine, and some horror instinct that I don’t even want to face yet that’s telling me—you have to go, he may not rally. Go or you’ll regret it.

  Fuck.

  “I’m going to get dressed and sort a taxi now,” I tell her, wiping stray tears away with nothing but my fingers. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”

  Sometimes, as I know too well from experience, you don’t get a second chance in life. Some moments are drama, pathos, tragedy and you have to go with it and take it and stoically step up to the parapet. I’m so very afraid that this could be such a time.

  Like it was with my dad. Like it was with me.

  Jack. Please. Don’t die tonight. Please.

  Fuck.

  * * * *

  When I get there an hour on, wearing a pair of Will’s combats and a T-shirt and sweater, the hospital is what hospitals usually are.

  Me and Dibian sitting, huddled for warmth, waiting for news that doesn’t come. The hospital is new and, like every recently furbished hospital up and down the country, it’s clean, crisp but uniformly nondescript. They may as well have a sign that says ‘Warm Welcomes and Reassurances Left at Home’. This is a land where a vending machine is your only highlight. But I guess hospitals aren’t there for our entertainment, are they?

  So far all we know is Jack has some kind of heart condition. He hasn’t suffered a heart attack. But definitely some kind of coronary episode—Dibian related that the doctors are most worried about a possible problem with his arteries. Apparently, his legs were starting to turn a dark shade. It doesn’t look too good. And that revelation leaves us both feeling more than a little grave.