by PJ Adams
“Would you...?” He was holding out a menu towards me and it trembled in his grip.
I left it hanging there. “I’ll have the lamb, thank you,” I said.
“You’ve been here before?”
I just smiled. I’d seen it on the table just past Porter’s shoulder, a juicy lamb shank on a bed of some kind of mash, the meat just falling away from the bone at the slightest touch.
“Starters?”
“No. Thank you.” I started to soften towards him, feeling bad for the bating.
“Wine? How about the Chianti?”
§
“So,” I said, as the waiter retreated. “A private view at a very in art gallery, late dinner at some quirky little restaurant that’s probably vying for a Michelin star... Is that how you normally do it? Is that the technique?”
“The dress, cut perfectly to showcase that sensational body of yours. All the clever little touches, the eye contact held for just long enough, the back of the hand brushing against my thigh as we pass. The seemingly innocent questions and comments; the unwillingness to expose yourself by, for example, letting slip that you actually know Monastero’s work – that you’re something of a fan, truth be told. Is that how you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Seduce a man.”
The wine waiter came and presented the Chianti to me so I could check the label. It was a good one, a Classico Riserva. I nodded and he poured a little for me to taste. Very dry and tart, a taste of cherries, a hint of violets. Porter clearly had good taste... unless he'd been snooping on me. I gave a brief nod for the glasses to be filled.
“Tastes like flat cherryade,” I said to Porter. “So... where were we?”
“Seduction.” He reached for his wine, we raised glasses and chinked, eyes locked.
“Ah yes,” I said. “Your technique. What makes you think I like... whatever his name was?”
“Her name,” he corrected. “Sylvia Monastero. You published her book. And I saw the way you looked at her work. You were engrossed, seeing it up close like that.”
“I was being polite.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“It’s my technique.”
He chuckled.
“You sounded more confident than that,” I said. “You knew I’m an admirer of Monastero’s; you didn’t just deduce it from how I looked at a photo or two.”
“I do my research,” he said. “I make the effort where it’s needed and when the return is worth the investment. Sometimes... well, it doesn’t take much. Others you have to work at. Like you.”
“That’s probably the seediest thing you’ve said all evening – which is saying something – and yet somehow you make it sound like a compliment.”
“That’s my technique.”
§
We skipped dessert and Porter had an espresso.
“Caffeine at this time of night?” I said. “Is it past your bedtime?”
“That sounds like an invitation.”
“You’re starting to sound desperate. Pleading isn’t attractive, you know.”
“You want decisive? You like a man who takes the lead?”
I raised an eyebrow. Let him interpret that however he liked. We’d been sparring throughout the meal, and it was a strange mix of exhilarating and exhausting.
He thought I’d been giving him a hard time. I could tell.
He thought he had me hooked and he was reeling me in. I could tell that, too.
And he was right.
He had his phone out and for a moment I thought he was going to call a taxi, but instead he was typing something on the touch-screen.
Slightly irritated, I reached for it and took it from his hand. If he could be rude, I could very easily be rude back.
“A hotel? You have the gall to sit here booking a hotel?”
He didn’t seem fazed.
“These smartphones are good,” he said, smiling. “You can find and book a room in no time at all.”
“You’ve gone for the Arcadian hotel and spa?” I said. “Only four stars.”
“It should be a five. It's good.”
“‘...beautiful parkland setting’.”
“Landscaped by Capability Brown. Only about a ten-minute drive away at this time of night.”
“You think you’ve got it all sewn up, don’t you?”
“You’re only protesting because you want to carry on with the game,” he said, leaning forward and resting his chin on the knuckles of both hands. “It’s okay. I like to play that game, too.”
I looked again at his phone. I’d snatched it from him before he’d had a chance to press the booking button. I tapped the screen with my thumb, closed the page, and slid the phone back across the table.
He reached for the phone and his hand closed over mine. “You booked?” he asked. "Or did you cancel?"
“That would be telling,” I said. Then: “Just ten minutes away, you said...?”
§
Sometimes ten minutes can be over before you’ve even noticed; others, it can be like an eternity.
That night, ten minutes was always going to be too long for me.
When he pulled my chair back for me, and supported my bare elbow as I stood, his touch was like electricity on my skin. Standing so close, his citrus after-shave was heady, exotic. It was as if I could feel his heat. Suddenly, I was unsure if I could walk steadily, if I could even carry on standing.
Passion gets me like that, sometimes. It takes me over. I know people have called me a slut, but when the physical is so overpowering for you there’s a simple choice: you either repress it or indulge. You have to live life, for God’s sake: why would you not?
We’d talked earlier about technique, about seduction. As Porter had said, you vary your approach depending on the situation: sometimes a lot of effort is required, and sometimes... well, as my journalism lecturer had found all that time ago, sometimes all it takes is heaving breasts and a girl with her hand down your pants.
Outside, the redeveloped industrial complex was quiet.
As the doors swung closed behind us, I reached up, hooked my hands behind Porter’s head and pulled him into a deep kiss. His lips were hard, narrow, and his tongue drove deep into my mouth. He tasted of coffee and wine, and his embrace was like iron, locking me against him, pulling me close.
Immediately, I was intensely aware of my breasts squashed against his shirt, his jacket hanging open. My nipples were stiff, like pebbles trapped between us. He was hard instantly, pressing against my belly. I squirmed against him, wanting that hardness to move lower, wanting to grind against it and satisfy the need that was suddenly close to overwhelming me.
Breaking for air, I freed one of my hands from his head, leaving the other deeply tangled in his hair. With my free hand, I reached down, running my knuckles across the ridged muscles of his abdomen, sliding my fingers into the top of his trousers so that my middle finger reached down far enough just to touch on the hard base of his manhood.
Stepping back, away from him, I turned and headed towards the huddle of parked cars across the yard from where we stood. “Come on,” I said. “A girl has needs.”
§
He followed me. He had no choice: my hand was still hooked into the top of his trousers.
We came to a low, slate-gray sports car, and Porter fumbled in his jacket pocket for his keys.
Impatient, I turned him, pushed him back so that his legs hit the bumper of the car and buckled, and there was nothing he could do but fall back onto its hood.
For a moment I thought a car alarm would sound, but there was nothing.
My hand was still hooked into his waistband and now I pressed down with my palm, found hardness, and started to roll the heel of my hand from side to side.
"Oh baby... Yes."
It was urgent by then. The whole thing was. No time for subtlety, no time to linger. All that could wait.
With a hand on his chest, I pushed him back against the car, and then, with
the grace of a baby deer I hitched up my dress – not that it needed much hitching – and clambered on top of him.
The metal of the car was cold and hard on my knees and shins, but I didn't care: all my attention was focused elsewhere.
That hardness was a solid ridge, now lying flat against his belly.
I ground down on his shaft, but that wasn't enough. That would never be enough after such an evening of verbal foreplay.
He seemed taken aback at first, surprised to have met his equal, perhaps; he got over that quickly, though. Now his hands were on me, one curling round behind my neck to pull me into that hard-lipped kiss again, the other running down over my ribs to my waist, then round to the small of my back, pulling me even harder against him.
His fingers locked in my hair, he tugged sharply, jerking my head back so that his mouth could work down my stretched taut neck. Even now, it was a game, a battle, first him taking control and then me. I had the trump card, though.
I popped open the button at his waistband, then slid his zip down, pressing against his shaft as I did so.
“Oh yes.”
Now that I could get to him more easily, I started to explore his manhood. It was like that first time with Harry, when I just dropped to my knees and studied his towering cock. This time it was my hand that did the exploring, sliding along the shaft. It was hard like a poker, and broader than any I’d encountered before. And long!
“So big,” I sighed.
I had to have him. Now.
I pulled his shorts down far enough to free his cock, pulled my thong aside and swung that monster of a cock out to meet me. The head was swollen, bulbous, the size of a baby’s fist. And wet, so wet as I slid it against my waxed smooth mound, teasing my clit, sliding him between my labia, back and forth.
His hands were on my hips now, encouraging me to swing backward and forward against him, sliding that hard shaft against my wet heat.
Every time I reached that swollen head, Porter gave out a long, low groan and I felt a thrill surge through my clit and into my belly.
Over and over, I ground against him. I could easily have come like that – I felt it building, deep inside me, an intense, physical rumble, a tightening...
I stopped, his cock throbbing against me, betraying just how close he had been, too. He pushed. He wanted to keep going, wanted to fill the space between our bodies with his hot juices.
I met his look and gave a small shake of the head.
I needed him inside me. I needed him to fill me with that massive member.
I took his neck tie in my fist and jerked it sideways, upwards, and he coughed a little then stopped. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and his eyes bulged.
I pulled harder, held him still, and the only movement was the throbbing of his cock against me.
Was it just the shock, the surprise? Or did I actually cut off his breathing there, for a short time?
I certainly intended to.
§
Hypoxia is the medical term. Depriving the brain of oxygen to heighten sexual response.
It’s a very risky thing to do. It’s foolish. Irresponsible.
And in the recipient it induces a giddy high, an intense rush, that amplifies every sensation of orgasm. I’ve heard it’s like cocaine, only more so. I’ve heard it’s like nothing on this Earth.
I’d never actually tried it until then, that spur of the moment rush of mad adventure when I seized Porter Swaine’s neck tie and pulled it harder than I had really intended.
§
His whole body tensed. His back arched, bucking me upwards, almost throwing me off. It was like riding a bucking bronco.
The head of his cock had shifted and now it was pressing against my wet opening, dipping in and out as I started to roll my hips. God, even just the head of it was huge, stretching me.
I needed more.
With the next swing of my hips I pressed down more firmly and suddenly he was inside me, starting to slide deeper. Every sensation of our combined movement was magnified through that hard shaft that was stretching me tight. Every throb and pulse, every tightening.
And slowly, slowly, I lowered myself onto him, around him.
It felt like I was going to split in two, and still he slid deeper.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, the movement almost imperceptible, but then his hand clamped around my wrist, and I relented, loosening my grip, allowing him to breathe. And then he was fully inside me, and my bare mound was against his groin, my clit pulsing, right on the edge.
I pulled on his tie again, and with one more exhalation he groaned.
I started to move, raising myself high so that his long shaft was almost free of me and then sliding down on it again, faster and faster.
And then there was a loud, metallic popping sound and the car below us shifted, its hood buckling under our combined weight and thrusting.
It only distracted me for a moment, and then I was back, riding my bronco as he bucked hard against me, each thrust filling me like I’d never been filled before.
When he came, his whole body arched upwards like a bridge, and I rode him, impaled on his manhood. As I clung to him, there was a hot, wet explosion deep inside me, and as he subsided, I slumped down on top of him. A second spurt of juices filled me and then he started to grow soft inside me, his cock still throbbing with orgasm.
I looked at him and saw that his eyes bulged and his mouth hung open and then that hand tugged at my wrist again. I let go of his tie, and he gasped raggedly.
“Oh... Oh my God,” he said.
I dipped my head and kissed him, stilling him, gently probing his mouth with my tongue, and all the time I felt that massive cock transforming inside me, still filling me but now soft, almost like it had become a part of me.
I pressed down, my clit against the coarse knot of hairs at the base of his shaft. I don’t think my body had ever felt more sensitive.
The slightest movement, the slightest shift of his body, of his cock inside me... each triggered a rush of sensation through my body.
He sensed it. As I would learn, he was a man who could read my body’s responses like a book.
He didn’t thrust. He barely moved.
All he did was bring his hands down to my hips, and hold me tight against him as he filled me.
And that was it. That was all it took.
That pressure, that touch.
It started in my belly, a tightening like cramp but without the pain. A tightening that stole through my body in the blink of an eye. A tightening in my pussy, squeezing that gorgeous cock.
I clung to him as my body was taken over by my climax. So damned intense!
And then, just as I thought that would be it, a single intense wave sweeping through my body and then retreating, I felt another contraction in my belly, another wave, and I was clinging to him, crying out loud, completely lost to the sensations that were rushing through me.
§
We stood, straightening our clothes, lost for words.
Finally, he said to me, “You did press submit to book that room, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “The Arcadian? Of course I did.”
Then I looked down at the car. The hood was dented, bowed deeply inwards where we had been. I pointed towards it, wondering if he’d noticed already or not. “Sorry about the car,” I said.”
He looked down, then made a dismissive gesture. “These things happen,” he said. “And anyway, it’s not my car.”
With that, he smiled, took his keys from his pocket and pressed something. Immediately the lights of a car in the next row flashed twice.
“Shall we...?” he said, reaching for my hand.
§
We set the ground rules from the start.
“You’re a cheap, lousy man-slut who only ever thinks about getting his end away.”
“Don’t ever call me cheap.”
We were having fun. We were just playing around. He was quite clear on that.
We both were.
Stolen moments. Fictitious business trips. Lunchtime encounters. A snatched blow-job in his car. Phone sex and webcam sex. Lots of that.
“You really are a bitch and a slut,” he told me one time, when I’d been teasing him. I looked at him on the screen of my laptop. The view showed him from the chest up, but I could see that his hands were busy elsewhere.
“Just like you,” I said, and it was true. We both were. I’d never met anyone whose mind worked just like mine. The dirty, risky fun; the blunt humor; all the little digs. I hadn’t had so much fun in years as I packed into that month with Porter.
“And if you cared about me at all,” I said, “you’d show me exactly what you’re doing...”
§
She hated me, of course.
Rebecca. The wife Porter had walked out on only a week before.
I could tell from the first look, the glance across the bar, eyes skipping over us, then darting back to Porter and then to me. That look said, So you’re the slut who stole my man, even though it wasn’t like that at all: she’d lost him a long time before I ever appeared on the scene. She probably even understood that, but I was there, in public with Porter, an easy scapegoat.
“You really want me at this book launch?” Porter had said a short time earlier. “It could be awkward. You know Rebecca’s friends with Maggie.”
“Maggie said you should come.”
And so we were there, standing at the bar of that historical pub, when she walked in, glanced at us, did a double-take and then gave a look that by rights should have killed. Then Maggie was all over her, and the moment had passed, and I was left with the feeling of being the other woman again.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite like that before. Porter and Rebecca were separated; I was here with my man quite legitimately. And yet it felt seedy, shabby.
This thing, whatever it was... it was supposed to be fun. Complications should never have been a part of it.
“Ooh, frosty,” said Simon Darby, nodding towards Rebecca. He was an old friend of Porter’s, his business partner and a guy I’d never really warmed to. Too smooth, too arrogant, too two-faced. I know: Porter’s a smooth, arrogant cheat, too, but a girl can have double-standards, can’t she?
