by Alam, Donna
Slowly, as his words sank in, I wondered abstractly how he would know. ‘You’ve done this before?’ I’d asked, raising my head at the smug tone of his answer.
‘Tonnes of times.’
‘Deflowering virgins is your specialty?’
‘Sure. I can go and get my business card, if you like?’
I definitely didn’t want him to move, and all my thoughts suddenly halted as he slid down my body and began kissing his way up my thigh.
‘Deflowering comes with a guarantee.’ His voice was soft though insistent, the subtle press of his teeth grazing my skin.
‘So I can expect to be satisfied?’ My words were part whisper, part plea, and as he reached my centre, breath stuttered from my chest as he blew a breath over me.
‘I really fucking hope so.’
Oh, God, that tone.
I’d expected to feel his fingers, not his lips, my body jolting as his mouth touched my already wet flesh; one kiss and another until it felt like he was making out with me. I was so swollen, so desperate, my body moving of its own volition, pushing up against him as my fingers clawed at the sheets.
‘You’re still good?’ I didn’t register it as a question, but I replied in a burst of garbled words as he lapped and slid a finger inside.
‘Sofuckinggood .’
I ached, every inch of me. I’d never wanted so badly, never felt so greedy, so desperate for more as his lips suddenly became frantic, his fingers fast. I wanted to watch—really I did, but couldn’t find the motor function to prop myself up as he devoured me. So wet . I can still almost hear our sounds; the vibration of his groans, my heavy breath, and the wet slide of his mouth. My limbs grew tight and my back arched as I tried to close my legs, climbing these new heights of pleasure almost reaching the boundaries of too much, too fast.
‘Such a pretty pussy,’ he’d whispered. ‘I want you to come on my tongue.’
And moments later, and for the very first time in my life, I came by some means other than my own hand.
‘God. Oh, God . I’m—I’m—’
I couldn’t process anything but the waves of pleasure, probably crying out multiple times. A rush of sensation and heat spread through me so quickly I thought I’d surely burst. So much pleasure, the room filled with intelligible sounds, and when I finally came to, panting and weak, I had his head in my hands.
‘I should probably write you an endorsement . . .’ My words were hoarse, trailing off at the end as he climbed up my body, pressing wet kisses against my naked skin.
I was naked in more ways than one. And under him.
‘Hang off just yet. I’m not done.’
I don’t think I’d ever heard a man growl, before or since.
He sat, legs either side of mine, grasping a condom that he’d deposited on the bed. And I’ve never forgotten the image of him towering above me in the semi-darkness, the heavy weight of his cock in his hand, his mouth wet and glistening.
But a sudden jolt of nerves tightened my stomach as he began sliding the rubber over his length. Mostly.
‘I’m suddenly not sure this is such a good idea.’ My nervous smile earned me a cocky one in return.
‘We’ll go slow.’ As he settled on his knees, he’d leaned down to kiss me and I could taste myself on his lips. It was strange, but not unpleasant, his words rumbling as he’d said, ‘I’ll make it nice.’ Only nice didn’t cover it as he shifted, sliding his head along my slit and I let out a breathy gasp. ‘So nice .’
And then he was there, inside me—just a little—our chests exhaling an almost synchronized breath.
‘Oh, fuck. Fuck me.’ Balanced on his elbows, he pushed a little deeper, his eyes closing as though in pain.
I closed my own as he’d slid deeper, biting my lip in the place of a grunt. It wasn’t painful—not exactly—but I’d definitely had more fun times. And I’d never been as far as this before.
Drawing back, Rory then pushed a little harder, my insides feeling the punch. He added a little more; advance and retreat, but as he lowered himself on his forearms, the change of angle sent residual sparks flying across my clit.
He exhaled a long curse as I jerked, my fingers now on his ass, silently urging him to repeat the motion. Just repeat . My fingers wandered and my hips rolled, and as he pushed himself up onto his hands, working himself deeper, faster, I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.
The first time you come by the power of someone else is special, but nothing compared to coming filled by someone. He looked so beautiful. Over me . His face a mixture of absorption and joy. Of sweet agony . I was filled to bursting at that moment, fresh, emotional tears spilling. And the knowledge of his wanting—his wanting me—mixed with our joint pleasure was enough to push me over the edge.
Eyes screwed tight, I exhaled tiny, short breaths.
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ I could barely breathe as he began to undulate and grind against me, my hands grasping his hips as though to make sure he didn’t stop.
As he pushed me over the edge and into delirium, his movements became uncoordinated and clumsy.
‘Fuck—that’s. Oh, Jesus Christ! ’ Breathless moments passed where I learned viscerally what the word aftershock meant. ‘Holy fuck. That was—’ Peering down at me, his face morphed from unmitigated joy into concern. ‘Fin, did I hurt you?’
Reaching out to touch his cheek with one hand, I shook my head, using my free hand to wipe away the mixture of tears. Not unhappy, just shocked. Emotional.
‘I’m so going to give you a glowing review, assuming you have a website.’ My words were watery, though we both laughed, causing aftershocks of pleasure to mangle my brain again.
I’d never envisioned how it would be, losing my virginity. Not truly. I’d thought about it, sure. Even came close once or twice, but something had always held me back. Perhaps if I’d known it could be like this, I wouldn’t have waited so long.
Later, after we’d hung out and made plans for the following day, Rory walked me to the end of my street, on my request. I didn’t want to provoke any unnecessary parental questioning by arriving at the front door with a boy in tow.
I’d hopped into bed that night with a light heart and shaky legs.
The rain had done nothing to quell the summer humidity, and I’d spent most of the night reliving fragments of the evening in my head. The smell and the feel of him. The sounds he made as he came. Awake early the next day, I’d breakfasted quickly, dressed even quicker, and hurried out of the door, because the impression of Rory’s hands and mouth—the delicious sensations they’d created in me—left me yearning for more.
Imagine my surprise when I’d gotten to his house and pushed open the garden gate to see, through the window, a girl in his arms. Not a friend or a sister. I’d stood long enough to make sure of that. They were smiling, though I was not, particularly when Rory reached out to twine his finger around a lock of her hair. She giggled and he’d stared at her ample chest, right before pulling her in for a deep kiss. The rest, as they say, is history. By the time I’d left for Thailand, I couldn’t bear to think of him anymore, my memories tarnished, like a cheap Christmas ornament when the glitter wears off.
But I’d been burnt. Hurt. And foolishly, I promised myself I wasn’t going to allow it to happen again.
It was childishness taken to the extreme.
Leaving my memories, I place the picture frame back sensing Ivy’s entrance to the room behind me, judging by the sound of her spoon clanking against the side of her cereal bowl. I say cereal bowl , but it’s most probably a dish containing all kinds of sugar substitutes and additives and possibly around 2% cereal. Good job sugar isn’t an animal derivative. I doubt she’d survive.
‘I think it’s time you and I had a wee chat,’ she says, crunching the yuck.
That’s not exactly a hangover cure.
Six
Fin
Eurgh.
Pep-talk time and my coffee’s gone cold. As I look into her face,
I realise it could be more serious. She’s been pretty quiet all week and I’d thought it was because she’d been busy, but now I’m wondering if she’s been brooding.
Looks like I’m getting the consequences of my actions talk.
‘What’s up?’ I return mulishly, hugging the cooling cup to my chest. ‘Is this about the lumberjack?’ Also known as Rory; a part of my past she has no idea of. Oddly, that moment at the beginning of the week was one that made me feel almost human again. Those moments are few and far between these days.
‘Why’d you ask?’
‘I dunno. Maybe I didn’t behave appropriately.’
‘Appropriate how?’
‘I wasn’t very widowly, I suppose.’ Following her further into the room, I curl myself against the edge of the sofa as Ivy’s brow furrows, the spoon paused mid-air before continuing to her mouth. Then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, she slides into the chair opposite while mumbling something that sounds a lot like, ‘notladihamichum.’
‘What was that?’ I almost don’t ask, mesmerised by the pink and green pieces balanced on her spoon and the bits of—is that marshmallow?—about to become masticated mush.
‘I said,’—she swallows—‘no one’s expecting you to become Lady Havisham.’
‘Pretty sure she was jilted, not widowed,’ I reply, placing unnecessary emphasis on the word.
‘It’s not the circumstances, it’s the reaction. You can’t mothball yourself away at twenty-six.’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Daftie, you’re barely a sneeze away from your next birthday. And while God knows men should be a mile off your radar right now, honestly, I’d be happy if you just popped to the shops once in a while.’
‘I go out. I went to the post office on Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday two weeks ago. And that was the last time you left the building. Why don’t you start running again?’
‘Too cold.’
She harrumphs, narrowing her gaze. ‘I’m not saying it’s not natural, your behaviour, because grief is a strange and terrible thing. But at some point you’ve got to start moving forward, you know?’
My words halt because I don’t know. How do you move on when you feel like you’re stuck? Living in some kind of strange limbo, no longer living your life, but some elderly aunt’s instead? It might almost be appropriate to sit indoors in a mouldy old wedding dress, because I feel ancient enough. How on earth do you move on when you just don’t know where to begin? Or who you’re supposed to be?
‘It’s time.’ She places her cereal bowl down with the gravity of a gavel. ‘And as much as I appreciate your help in getting the salon off the ground, you can’t live with me forever.’
‘What? You’re making me move out?’
‘You need to start to make a life for yourself,’ she says, ignoring my panicked expression. ‘And you need to get a job before your skills become outdated.’
‘I—I’m taking a breather. Sidestepping, or whatever it’s called.’ I’d read an article about it while manning the reception downstairs. That the article was in Cosmo, I decide not to share. ‘Apparently, taking a sabbatical is the new corporate thing.’
Judging by her expression, she’s less than impressed, so I try a different tact. ‘Look, if you need me to start contributing to the bills—’
‘That’s not it,’ she says, waving away my words. ‘Besides, you can’t afford to.’
‘Kick me while I’m down,’ I complain.
‘It’s the truth. But you need a job for the sake of your career, not to mention your sanity.’
‘I’m not sure I—’ Words cease to be available, because I’m not sure, period. Everything is suddenly frightening; this conversation, the future—all of it. My heart begins to seriously pound, and since when have I needed to concentrate to enable continued breathing? Trapped, I think I feel, as I place my cup down and begin to spew words. ‘I thought about doing that waxing course.’
Ivy shoots me another sceptical look, unaware of the turmoil soup I’m currently stewing in. ‘I’m sure Nat meant well mentioning it, but it’s not for you.’
‘Did you know she’s got her—’ I inhale, unable to bring myself to finish the sentence. Why would I bring up that?
‘Clit hood pierced? Yeah, I did.’ The latter comes out in a sort of weary sigh. ‘She’ll have flashed it, I suppose.’
‘God, no!’
‘Then you’re lucky.’ Ivy sighs, mumbling something about that girl having an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.
‘She just told me when we were talking about the intimate waxing course.’
‘Do you really want to spend your days looking at vaginas?’
Her delivery is far from antagonistic and even though it sounds like a genuine question, I still nearly swallow my tongue. Could I change careers completely--become an aesthetician? Do I seriously want to spend my days dealing with hirsute armpits and legs? Butt fuzzy assholes, instead of corporate ones? Or is this just another way of not dealing with a return to the real world?
‘They’re not all created equal, you know.’ Despite the coolness of my tone, I’d been shocked to discover this from Nat. The surreal conversation had left me with the understanding that some women’s undercarriages were decidedly unlike my own. I think her exact words were some look like roast beef sandwiches, made in a really careless café.
‘You think the diversity of flesh is enough to keep you stimulated? You with your first class degree and sparkly work history? Or maybe you’ll add a few items to your menu? Spray tanning, maybe?’
‘I might,’ I answer, raising my chin, worry turning to chagrin.
‘Too bad. You’ll have to find somewhere else to practise your skills. I can’t afford to let you loose on paying customers like the Sweeny Todd of intimate waxing. You’d get me closed down.’
‘Maybe I could do a special?’ Fear of the real world begins to creep into my chest again. ‘Attract people in?’
‘People to practise on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Babe, the women around here don’t want cheap. They want the satisfaction of knowing that, when their husband goes down on them for their monthly meal at the Y, the cost of said waxing was almost as painful to the pocket as the process itself. ‘If we get busy and I need to take on a full-time wax therapist, I’ll need to employ someone experienced. I can’t have Little Mister Muff Mangler working for me.’
‘Little Miss,’ I correct.
‘If the little misses are too hard to wax, the little mister’s back, sack and crack is going to cause you real difficulties.’
‘You’re . . . they . . . you’ll do those here?’
‘Why not?’ she says with a slight shrug. A slight shrug that somehow doesn’t hide her discomfort. ‘I can’t see sixty-year-old Mister Poletti along at the barbers offering an intimate waxing with a short back and sides combo deal. I’d be silly not to extend my client base into the male demographic.’
‘You think Joe Average wants bald balls?’
‘I’m not sure there is such a thing.’
‘But you just said—’
‘I mean there’s no such thing as an average man. Unless you consider them all, one way or another, a bunch of lying scrotes.’.
‘Scrotes?’ I interject, mildly scandalised.
‘Big hairy ball sacs,’ she replies mulishly. Meanwhile, I’m kind of struck dumb. For one, Ivy always tries to see the good in any person, but she’s writing off a whole gender? And for two, swearing, because, hello! She rarely swears, and never without red-cheeks or a stutter. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, rousing herself once again, ‘it’s not much in terms of outlay, so I expect we’ll find out soon enough if the men of Auchkeld are a bunch of manscaping girls. Girlscaping men?’ She shakes her head. ‘Not that it’ll matter to you. You won’t be here long enough to find out.’
‘You know I’m still grieving.’ I immediately hate my pleading tone, not to mention the way my heart rate picks up again, a sheen of sweat damp
ening the base of my spine. ‘I—I’m not ready.’
‘But it’s time, sweetheart. It’s been four months. You have to move on. You’re still so young and I just hate to see you hiding away from life.’
‘I had a life!’ My words are shrill, panic crowding the channel of my throat. ‘I had a life.’ My hands toy with the hem of my Balenciaga shirt, a stray thread providing something else to focus on rather than her. ‘And I know I can’t have that one back, but I . . . I just don’t know how to start again.’ As I raise my head, tears trip and fall from my lids.
‘Oh, Fin,’ she says, shifting from her chair to the sofa. She slides her arms around my shoulders, one hand rubbing comforting circles against my back. ‘I know it’s scary, but you’ve got to try. You need to pull yourself out of this funk, lovely. I get it, you know.’ She sets me back, pushing the now damp hair from my face. ‘You’ve never lived on your own. Never had to support yourself.’
My brow furrows. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’
‘Well, you went from living with your mum to living with me for uni. Then, within a few months of leaving, you went and married Marcus.’
My heart plummets at the sound of his name, weighted like a stone in the pit of my stomach. But I’m not going to cry—I refuse.
‘I went travelling after college. I mightn’t have been living on my own, but the whole experience took courage. And I haven’t forgotten you were supposed to come with me, dropping our plans at the last minute. And I still did it—still went on my own.’ That has to count for something. Belligerence, maybe.
‘I see you come still wearing grudges.’
‘Balenciaga, actually.’ I don’t bother telling her bearing is the optimal term. Shrugging her hands from my shoulders I say, ‘I’m sorry. I understand you had to go.’
Ivy had moved to London when she was offered a traineeship at a top salon. It’s an experience that’s led to jobs all over the globe, even working for movie stars on all kinds of blockbusting movie sets. But back then, we’d had plans to go travelling together after my graduation, only I couldn’t let her turn down her dream job. Especially as she’d gotten to breathe the same air as the fine Chris Pine. It was her dream and it certainly seemed like she was doing what she was meant to. But now she’s back here saying she’s done with all that, and it all seems very strange, giving up a job she’d adored.
