by Jaye Peaches
“Others?” I groaned, writhing under his strokes.
“I wouldn’t want you to gag on your mouthpiece. Very unsightly.”
As if I’d grown talons, I clawed at the pillow and dragged it to my chest. I hugged the pillow into a bundle. “My mouthpiece isn’t that big.”
“Yes, that might be a problem. You need to use something larger.” His erection, hardened and growing still, rocked in the cleft of my buttocks. “Then, there is your finger work. A strong grip, but you need to be nimble too. For example, assembling your instrument. If you twist too hard, you might damage what you’re screwing.”
“I’m used to an unoiled instrument. I could do with extra lubrication.”
“Good idea. Nothing like a smooth organ to play upon.”
His innuendos tipped me over the edge as his hand went from a playful tweaking to a serious rubbing. Then, his fine-tuning hit a pinnacle. He pinched my clit. I came, biting on the pillowcase, and his pinning leg stopped me from kicking him.
“Very good, Mausi. You are a good girl for suggesting so many ways we can improve your technique.”
I should have found his little lecture patronizing, but he’d inflamed with me lust, not irritation. He released my throbbing clit and slipped his leg off, freeing me.
“I like having sex with you. You’re passionate and my pussy has been spoiled rotten.”
He laughed. “I enjoy spoiling your pussy.” The laughter ceased. He cocked his head to one side. “That’s it?”
He’d flummoxed me with his directness. There was more raging in my head. I fought those feelings, and my ill-defined sentiments held me back from speaking. If I started to spout out about romantic stuff, would he back off? Micah had whenever I got pushy about romance, and he, as much as I tried to forget him, had become the yardstick against which I measured Stefan. I might come to regret that approach. I opted to play cautiously.
I looked away, hiding my face from him. “That’s plenty, isn’t it? Sex with you is keeping me quite busy. What am I now, your supertonic? One note up on the pleasure scale?”
I glanced back in his direction. His lips were pursed, shaping into a subtle frown. The moment our eyes locked together, his expression bounced back into a smile. Had I witnessed a glimmer of disappointment?
“Sure, my supertonic.” He gave my bottom a slap. “Up. Haven’t you got work?”
I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and sat up. “What about you?” I stared at his erection.
“I’ll keep it safe for you. The harder I am, the more tuition for you.”
* * * *
He dropped me off at the Golden Lily. Waving goodbye, I realized that he now knew where I both lived and worked. His advantages grew in number, while mine remained static.
The text from Fiona arrived mid-morning. I’d forgotten I’d arranged to meet her for lunch. I’d already made an appointment after work at the family planning clinic. Hopefully, they could put back the coil I’d had removed when I’d finished with Micah.
Fiona and I were old school friends. She worked as an administrator in one of the university’s faculties. She’d helped me with shopping when my arm had been in plaster and had arranged for my bicycle to be returned to me after the accident.
We met in a Pizza Express for lunch and quickly ordered. Did I tell her about Stefan? I vacillated. She’d been neutral about Micah, keeping her opinions to herself until the break-up. Her politeness had been initially welcome, but in hindsight, I wished she’d been more vocal—after all, that was what friends were for—giving you the home truths. I’d told her as much after I’d finished with Micah and only then, faced with my red, puffy eyes, had she admitted that she hadn’t liked him.
I toyed with my pizza, flicking a piece of red pepper around on the end of my fork.
“What’s up, Cal?” She’d practically devoured her meal before I’d even started. “Arm still troubling you?”
I shook my head. I’d not thought about it all week.
“Is your bike fixed yet?”
Another shake.
“Well, there’s your problem. Lack of exercise.”
I couldn’t help the snigger. “Exercise isn’t the issue.”
She paused mid-bite. “Ah-ha. You’re hiding something from me.” She waved her final piece of pizza at my face.
“Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say anything about him yet. Early days.” I backed off. I wasn’t ready to talk about Stefan. All I had to tell Fiona would be sex, a little spell of clarinet playing and what else—one meal of pasta?
“Sure. When you’re ready.” She tried to look uninterested and failed dismally.
“You’re right about the bike. It’s not fixed. I miss the freedom of cycling.”
“Time to get back in the saddle. If you’re over Micah, you can be over a broken arm. I’ll take you tomorrow to the bike shop. You finish at three and I’m not working. All you need is a new front wheel and a basket. Unless you can make do without your granny basket.” She gave me a cheesy grin.
I met her smile with one of my own. “Cruel woman.” I carved a piece of pizza up with my knife, my appetite returning. “We’re on.”
* * * *
Stefan sent two texts during the day. The first asked if I had any particular food preferences or dislikes. I replied no curry or almonds. A weird combination, but we all had our foibles. The second instructed me to wear a pretty dress, as he intended to take me out for a meal.
Naturally, I fretted over my wardrobe all evening. Short or flowing, long sleeves or a cool sleeveless? I trooped downstairs to where Talia with her boyfriend George—his adopted English name—lounged in each other’s arms before the television. I held up the choices.
“Which one?” I whined pathetically. “I mean, do I show legs? Or bosom with this one? This one hugs the waist, except my heels don’t go with it.”
I rambled and George’s eyes glazed over.
Talia leaned across his lap. “Callie. It doesn’t matter. He wants in your panties. What about underwear?”
“He said pretty dress,” I hissed back as an uninterested George remained piggy in the middle.
“You think too much. He will not care. You look good in all of them. Frilly undies and no bra. That tight dress will do it.”
I stared at the bear hugger dress. It would work without a bra. Sleek, emerald green and to the knees. “Okay.”
* * * *
The next day, Fiona and I loaded my wrecked bicycle into the back of her Astra. She’d put the back seats down to accommodate the frame. After a short drive, Fiona parked up on the curb outside the bike shop, and I dodged the traffic opening the car door.
The man in the bike shop worked quickly. The frame had survived the impact of the curb intact. The wicker basket ruined, I opted for a metal one to replace it. Fiona rolled her eyes at the accessory.
I defended my purchase. “I don’t have the luxury of a car. Where else am I going to put my shopping?”
The bicycle meant freedom. I could pedal to rehearsals, even Stefan’s house in Grantchester was doable. I was back in business. No more being at the mercy of bus timetables.
I thanked Fiona for the lift, spun the pedal around a few times and pushed away from the curb.
* * * *
With my bicycle tucked away in the shed in the back yard, I waited for the evening in a perpetual state of restlessness. I filled my head with ridiculously erotic images of Stefan screwing me remorselessly in his studio. I had to stop myself from going crazy, so I packed and repacked my bag with unnecessary things, which I presumed he wouldn’t possess—a hairdryer, a mobile charger and a towel, because my mother told me men never have nice towels in their bathrooms.
Stefan collected me promptly at seven p.m. He actually rang the doorbell. I bounded up to the door and found him slouched, his shoulder propped against the wall. I yearned for him the moment I saw his attire—a gray silky suit with the top button of his white shirt undone and no restraining tie. A
few rogue chest hairs poked out under his throat. I hovered on the doorstep, very conscious of my tits hardening against my emerald dress. He ogled them, blatantly. Far from being insulted by his greeting, I immediately knew the dress was a winner. I’d made a good choice. He liked it.
“Hi,” he said, straightening. “Ready?”
I gathered up my woolen knee-length coat and small handbag.
“Um, Callie? Overnight bag?”
I cringed with a rush of warm blood to my cheeks. I’d left it on the bed. I hurried off to fetch the small holdall and its bulging contents. He carried it to the car and deposited it in his small boot.
As I was about to climb into his car, I remembered something else. “One minute,” I said breathlessly. I darted up to the front door, fumbled with my key and went back to my bedroom. A few minutes later, I was in his car with my nearly forgotten Nettie perched on my knee. “I assume I’m going to be practicing?” I grinned widely at him.
Stefan turned the ignition. “I’m sure we can squeeze it in.”
I hummed under my breath as we drove along the roads into the city center. “Where are we going?”
Cambridge had no shortage of restaurants and cafés. He zipped along The Backs, past King’s College and onto Castle Street. Then he lost me with a quick series of turns.
The car he abandoned on a side street, and with my hand held firmly, he led me back toward the river. The restaurant overlooked the banks and appeared unassuming in character. Inside, the décor was minimalist, modern and spacious. I could see it suiting Stefan’s tastes. He’d booked a table in advance, and the waiter pulled out a straight-backed chair for me. I settled into the seat before yanking down my skirt hem. Somehow, the dress had gotten shorter since I’d worn it.
Stefan ordered two glasses of Rioja, without even looking at the wine list. The familiarity unnerved me slightly—who else did he bring here? I grimaced, slightly. A tiny shift in facial nuances. Or so I’d thought.
He realigned the wonky knife on his place setting. “I like it here. I’m a creature of habit.” He’d noted my pout. I had to control my facial features better. His powers of observation far exceeded Micah’s.
It led to a small run of exchanges about our habits and tastes—food, music, which strayed all over the place according to our moods, and clothing. Somehow, that topic brought up his hair.
By then, I’d ordered a starter of melon—my usual, if available—and a slow-cooked blade of beef for my main dish.
“That’s what your hair needs—a scissor blade,” I blurted jokingly. My smirk froze.
He’d furrowed his rather impressive eyebrows. I cursed inwardly. Not the politest remark to make. It seemed that imbibing a few mouthfuls of wine had caused my brain-to-mouth filtering mechanism to disconnect. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply your hair isn’t… It’s just a tad long, perhaps.”
His knitted brows remained fixed and he scratched his goatee with a finger. “True. I have let it grow.” He shrugged and his face relaxed.
I released an audible sigh of relief and it was his turn to grin.
“I’ve said before, you’re direct. I like it. So, in reply, yours could do with a little shaping up too.”
I glared at him. Seriously. My hair! His was a mountain of twirls and loose curls, where mine, at most, could tolerate a comb run through it. “Shape?”
The starter arrived and Stefan waited for the waiter to finish serving us before answering. He’d chosen some concoction of peppers and a greenish sauce.
“It’s thick hair. A little heavy about your lovely face.” He reached over and tucked one of my loose locks behind my ear.
“I don’t want it short.” With fork in hand, I stabbed at a piece of melon.
He removed his hand. “I didn’t say shorten it. Shape it. Make it fit your features.”
“Maybe.” I sulked. He was right. I’d struggled to keep my hair in check and laziness kept me from visiting my hairdresser. “I’ll get it sorted if you tidy yours. I’d love to see it shorter. Less…bushy.”
“All right. You’re on. Tomorrow, we’ll get our hair sorted.”
“Tomorrow? Saturday? You’ll never get an appointment at such short notice.” I snorted.
“Trust me. We will.”
His confidence didn’t surprise me. As he tucked into his peppers, I believed him, and of course, I trusted him. What he said, he did. He came over as that kind of a man.
* * * *
Two hours later, I felt bloated, my stomach extended by beef and my mouth sweetened by lemon sherbet. The wine might have loosened my tongue at the beginning of the evening, but I’d held it check for the rest of the meal. Stefan had switched to water after one glass, citing his need to drive home. Neither of us said anything short of courteous and genial, nor did we delve very deeply into each other’s psyche. It could have been a business meeting between colleagues. A gentle, superficial conversation about little of consequence. By the time he’d walked me back to his car, I’d forgotten the bulk of it.
I thanked him again for his generosity. The food hadn’t been cheap.
“My pleasure.” He squeezed my hand.
The journey to his house ramped up my tension. A nervous, sexually charged anticipation. I expected sex. I couldn’t imagine he didn’t, either. Speech deserted me until he abruptly asked about my bicycle.
“Did you get it fixed?”
I opened my mouth to describe the afternoon’s events at the bike shop and nothing came out. What if he was asking because then he wouldn’t have to give me lifts any longer? He would have the freedom to drive straight to orchestra practice without picking me up. The idea of missing those weekly sessions in his snug car made me think twice about my reply. It wasn’t just the thought of cold bike journeys, legs splashed by puddles, or even the fear of falling off. What made my insides knot with a modest panic was the loneliness.
I glanced at him. He appeared to be concentrating on the late-evening traffic and oblivious to the delay in my answering. I bit my lip. The lie came far too easily. “Not yet. Soon.”
He said nothing in reply.
I went up a notch in sexual tension. He didn’t seem put out by my lack of bicycle. Perhaps we both desired the same thing—company. I knew I did. In fact, I was pretty sure I wanted more. My dependence on Stefan went beyond his chauffeuring services. I’d edged into the overtures of romance. Had he, too?
He dumped my bag at the bottom of the spiral staircase while I hung up my coat. All very laid-back and I wondered if we might watch the television or… The answer came quickly.
Frenetic. The word flashed into my mind as he captured me in his arms. A man on a mission to ravish. He propelled me backward onto the dining table, and at the same time, he smothered my mouth with his lush lips, breathing hot mint, a relic of his dessert, into me between hard kisses. I let him. I gave him all the access he desired. He lifted my skirt and probed beneath, finding lacy underwear, and yanked them down. The fabric floated, brushing over my knees and fettering my ankles. By then, my bottom knocked against the table surface.
He hitched me up, leaving me perched on the edge of the glass, and he hooked his hand around the back of my neck. His little nibbles continued as he played with me, so I played back. I bared my teeth at him and aimed for his earlobe. He growled as I nipped him. In reply, he pinched his long fingers around my slender neck. It was fun, boisterous, the kind of foreplay that ignited me—and him, too, apparently. Reaching down, I stroked my hand over the bulge in his pants. His erection twitched, pressing against the fabric.
The hunger, so different from my earlier appetite, grew with each tweak of his fingers or tickle of his tongue on my delicate flesh. My jugular exposed, he licked his tongue over the pulsating skin and sucked hard. I squirmed, nearly slipping off the edge of the table.
He released his mouth with a gasp and buried his face in the stray locks of my hair. He stood between my parted legs, breathing heavily, while he embraced my breasts with his warm hands.
“I’ve wanted you all evening,” he panted softly. “This…desire I have for you… It’s…different,” he stammered in a very un-Stefan-like fashion. “It comes from deep within.”
I stroked the back of his head, letting him rest on my shoulder. “I know.” Spontaneous words, and they fell out of my mouth as if they had come directly from my heart and not my brain. What did I mean by them? I didn’t understand how he made me feel so alive. Energized. Almost reckless.
He lifted his head and locked his gaze on me, our eyes level. “I have to have you.”
He scrunched my tits in his fingers, and I winced. He let go, stepped back and spread the tips of his fingers on my bare thighs.
“Ready for me, Mausi?”
My pussy clenched. I was, very and probably, beyond recall. I’d unleashed my sex and it had no limits, none I’d found with Stefan—yet.
He scooped up the edge of my dress, drew it over my head and outstretched hands. He’d unveiled me, leaving nothing but my black hold-up stockings and heels on. My bottom rested once again on the edge of the glass table, and I leaned back, spreading my clammy palms on the smooth surface. I swallowed hard as he lowered his zipper. Fully clothed, he exuded sexual attraction in its most manly form. I didn’t want him to undress. The idea of being fucked by a man in a suit made my skin tingle, electrified by pulsating nerve endings.
Stefan’s face screwed up. “Shit. Condom.” He glanced over his shoulder at the cookie jar.
I grabbed at his sleeve. “No problems. I’m sorted.” I smiled.
He reciprocated. “Thank you,” he said sweetly. He undid the top button of his trousers and his hard cock sprang up.
I stared at it, my breaths increasing in pace alongside my heartbeats. He spread my legs wider, opening me up, and I lay back.
“Ooh.” I wriggled as the cold glass touched my back. Shivers shot down my spine and I jumped as he ran a finger along my slit, separating my folds. “Please,” I murmured.
