My tired tongue keeps working on her clit while I wet a finger in her vagina and then push it into her arse.
I manage to twist my finger into her and slip in and out of her a couple of times before her head’s off the bed, her chin’s to her chest and she’s spraying my face with diabolical fuck, covering me. She collapses back into bed and I’m wondering what the fuck to do… when an idea presents itself.
She’s so drenched and I am wearing her feral fucking scent… this seems like it was inevitable. I work one more finger into her arse and she grips the bedsheets, groaning for more even though she’s already spent.
I finger her tight pucker and she loosens eventually… and I’ve got three fingers in her, then… fuck, I contemplate a fourth, and somehow, I end up with four fingers stretching open her fucking hole.
She’s rocking again, hands still clutching the sheets, and I contemplate it… then realise it has to happen. It’s always been my fantasy…
I get my thumb in on the action and I’m fisting her in no time, watching as she writhes under my touch, and gradually, I spread my fingers open a little and she judders, shakes, begs, “Fingers in my pussy now.”
My spare fingers find the rough little spot to rub on her upper wall. She goes completely still as I continue and it amazes me each time I feel my own fingers on the other side of the thin wall separating her two channels.
She screams blue murder and splashes me all over again, though luckily this time it hits my chest and not my face. I’m doused equally all over my upper body now.
I want to be in her fucking mouth even though she’s now knackered and largely unresponsive.
I drag her body to the middle of the bed and urge her head back over the side of the mattress. I move into position and dip my balls over her mouth. She groans and reaches out for my cock, stroking the length of me while sucking on my huge balls.
Like she knows my thoughts, she tips her head back a little more and allows me to push my cock in her mouth. It won’t take long… I’m worked up, covered in her cum and aching to fill her pretty mouth.
She lavishes my cock with her tongue and sucks now and again, mostly licking to taste me.
I have to have her or my cock will stay like this in perpetual agony. I start darting my tip into her cheek, willing her to use that tongue to finish me off.
The heat inside my bollocks, the pressure in my entire abdomen… the ache in my arse and my bowels…
She hears my unspoken plea and slips a finger into herself, wetting her digit, then she eases her wet finger into my back passage and makes me spray immediately, filling her mouth with load after load of fiery cum, some slipping down her cheeks and throat, the sight making me spew again.
After I’m done, I feel like a dead man and she crawls up into the pillows and bundles herself up into the foetal position, hugging her legs, her body exhausted. I fall on my back and fling my arm towards her, just so she knows I’m near.
“Are you okay, kitten?”
“I’d hoped you’d be like this… dark, I mean.” She doesn’t open her eyes or reach for the sheet; she’s trying to cling onto her last bit of strength. “Fuck the rest, only a man who can do all that to me and make me feel out of myself is a man I want to be with, nobody else comes close.”
She’s asleep within seconds of her admission and I realise, I wouldn’t have done all that if I hadn’t woken in the night as my true self, uninhibited and clothed in darkness.
Okay, so if that’s what she wants, why wait?
She’ll get dark from now on.
I close my eyes and the vast nothingness catches me as I fall.
Chapter Eleven
~LILY~
I’m listening to Gipsy Kings on the train, knocking my head back and forth. In first class (I tend to treat myself these days), people don’t bother you and anyway, I’ve a single seat and not a chance anyone might sit next to me. I keep bopping and knee tapping and occasionally shaking my shoulders. This is me these days it seems. Nerves are palpable as I ride down to London and the upbeat music is keeping me right.
It’s difficult to even think about what I feel for Theo. He was right there, under my nose, that whole time. I don’t know what I was thinking… ever being with Paul. It feels like a weird, hazy nightmare now and it was only just a few months ago I was pregnant, planning to buy a house with him and – fucking hell – marry the guy.
If I hadn’t accidentally on purpose fallen pregnant and then miscarried, might things have been different? I still ask myself that whenever I’m passing the time of day and a horrible sick feeling in my gut returns – pure, wrenching betrayal. If he wasn’t already having an affair with one of his co-workers, at the very least, he was planning it. Maybe not even consciously, but he was, I know it. He was planning to self-destruct and bring the house of cards tumbling down, because isn’t that the mark of an addict? That tendency to tear oneself down, to wreck your own life before anyone else does…
I’m thinking about it again and I shouldn’t be, but a massive part of me still isn’t over it. Not the love part, no. I realise now that what I was wrapped up in was some kind of toxic, regurgitative cycle where I tried to help Paul become someone better – and he thought for a small window of time maybe he could achieve that – then suddenly, he’d remember who he was and revert right back to bastard mode. Baby or no baby, he was and is a bastard.
And yet I got a window into his world. I saw first-hand how Brendan could be. Paul opened up to me in ways he probably has never opened up to anyone else ever before in his life…
…and he still left me when I needed him most, after I was there for him, cared for him, held him while he cried and tried to show him he could do better for himself by holding down a job, etcetera, etcetera.
With Theo, everything is completely different. When Susan told me she and Theo had spoken about his crush and cleared the air, paving the way for him to move on and look for something real, I felt deep inside me that if he were to find that with someone other than me, I’d be jealous as hell. There was something in his eyes the day we jokingly made our pact to be each other’s back-up… something I never forgot. It comforted me to think he’d always be there for me so even the thought of him being stolen away made me baulk.
I missed him a lot while he was abroad, even while I was with Paul, probably more so because I was with Paul while he was gone and Paul was giving me such cause for concern all the time, but Theo wasn’t here to talk to. He’s always been here for me.
When word gets out about us, I know it’s going to be weird. Paul and me was a big thing but sort of accepted among the group because it’d been going on for so long and nobody ever believed it would ever amount to anything other than this tragic push and pull thing we’d toy with between relationships with other people. That turned out to be more than true.
However, Theo and me are different. He’s different. He’s decisive. We’re going to go the whole hog and it might put a lot of people’s noses out of joint. The other girls tend to view Theo as weird and a bit moody. They’ve never liked him much. He joined our school in sixth form when all of us had known each other for years already. We were almost seventeen when Theo entered our lives – the insanely intelligent artist, photographer, wordsmith and orator who decided at eighteen he was going to drama school. He was always posh – we all knew he lived in a massive house and his mum was famous – and he wore expensive clothes, his hair was amazing and he nearly always had a tan (or was he foreign? none of us ever knew). In truth, what I’m trying to say is that Theo always seemed unattainable. He’s still a mystery, even now. He always kind of turned up, said some funny stuff, drank a few jars and didn’t even get drunk (but pretended to be a little drunk, just to make the lightweights among us feel better, ahem) – but ultimately, he’s always been a presence but not a reality, until now. He’s becoming more of a reality every day I’m with him.
When he took his clothes off at the hotel for the first time, I almost convulse
d just at the sight of him. As male perfection goes, he’s the pinnacle. Buried beneath the baggy shirts and oversized jackets all these years is a body to die for. He has lines… mouth-watering lines. Shoulders that someone should immortalise in sculpture. Pecs that need photographing, constantly… chocolate brown nipples… and that six-pack… and his defined pelvic muscles coupled with the most generous wedge of cock I’ve ever seen… he’s an Adonis. He’s an actual fantasy… and he wants me. I want to be fucked for hours on end by that man and let myself succumb to whatever dark desires he has. I want to get lost with him, really and truly, let him take me in any way he wants and use me as his plaything.
When I saw him up on stage at the theatre, my heart was in my mouth and I saw what he’d been carefully hiding all these years: a beautiful man not sure of his place or his worth. I also saw a great big statuesque behemoth of a man and my heart pounded all the way through. I saw the man of my dreams, a tortured soul, a true lover and my best friend in the whole world – my protector, my sounding board, my potentially dirty gentleman.
When he had to leave the flat early on Wednesday morning to catch his train back to London, I couldn’t let him go without a kiss goodbye. I caught him just in time by the door; though I’d warned I wasn’t to be woken before six, I was awake anyway and alert to him leaving. I stood naked and held my arms around his neck as we kissed. He held my body at my lower back, kissing me tenderly. I knew as we kissed like that, even after fucking like animals only a few hours before, it was true love and I knew that because he was giving me his time despite having just landed the role of his life.
He left the flat and I watched from the window as a dark shadow raced down the hill to make it to the train station in time.
He texted me a couple of hours later, letting me know someone had woken him at King’s Cross to let him know it was the last stop. He’d slept the entire journey.
I’m heading straight for his flat in bustling, vibrant, non-stop Soho. London is a place he hated until it gave him something to cling to. I’m nervous about finding his place and keep checking I still have the key. I also feel guilty because I called in sick today so I could enjoy this weekend (annual leave isn’t possible right now). At work, they also didn’t seem pleased when I put in for a transfer after only just taking on this role. Their training budget is now going to benefit another borough which may or may not recruit me, but in the section where it asked ‘reason for transfer request’ I wrote ‘moving in with future spouse’.
Hey, I wasn’t totally lying.
I reach the door and take a deep breath. It wasn’t that difficult to find this place actually. It’s not far from Soho Square and his building is pretty unique in that it’s the tallest one on a little offshoot street. His place is on the fourth floor and I’m expecting amazing views once I get in there.
Nothing for it.
I throw open the door and discover an open-plan space filled with light. Sadly the view out of the windows is just brick. There’s another building very close by and almost as tall, but I guess it’s okay because it’s just a wall – meaning there are no windows overlooking his place and it’s private without shutting the blinds.
Everything’s a little chaotic in his flat but he warned me about that so I knew what to expect. I never expected it to be perfect, not when he’s been working so much this week.
I shut the door behind me and it thwacks closed. It’s an old building with very tall, heavy doors and almost floor-to-ceilings windows. He has three windows that allow light to bounce into the room, little beams ricocheting in from the brick building opposite. It could be lighter in here, true, but the three windows help. I drop my bags in the small reception area and put my jacket on the hat stand, slipping off my ankle boots. There’s a reading corner as you walk into his place featuring an overused leather armchair and tall brass lamp. As you walk further into the apartment, there’s a monumental rug which the bed is resting on. The rug has to be half the size of this place. The headboard rests back against the side of the room with the windows and I wonder if that’s because he likes to always keep the blinds open, or he likes reading by the stars. The bed is crumpled but the sheets look clean and it’s a much bigger bed than mine, no doubt so he can properly stretch out his 6’4 frame.
Opposite the bed we have a deep, old Japanese ottoman with an embroidered cover and I open it to discover blankets, pillows, throws and a duvet set. I wonder if this was a gift from his mother because it certainly seems her style.
Then there’s the little living area adjacent to the sleeping quarters. He has a poster of the original King Kong, plus one of The Godfather and the third and telling poster is Laurence Olivier in silhouette on stage, no play given, his familiar outline enough. Behind a small sectional sofa there’s a wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves running four shelves wide and it’s crammed with books in every nook and cranny. He had to have had these in storage because he couldn’t possibly have brought them down with him on the train. I scan the titles and most are the classics but some are plays, essays, books on psychology and various other weird and wonderful self-help books. He does have a little section of biographies but these are all of theatre directors. His rustic metal coffee table is strewn with newspapers from ages ago but he’s circled things, crossed stuff out… he has old magazines he’s dogeared and as I look closer, I notice some of the pictures are his mother’s handiwork. He keeps these close by? Some of these magazines are twenty years old… interesting. Remembering times gone by, maybe? Who knows.
As I stroll around it’s clear this is a guy’s place and a guy’s taste, but I do kind of love it.
In the kitchen area he has a proper coffee machine and all the usual stuff except there’s a set of amazing copper pans hanging from a rack on the wall. That must mean he cooks… and perhaps the copper set is one his mother was getting rid of, seeing as though she doesn’t entertain much anymore.
The kitchen is quite new and clean, the walls in his apartment are all white but the counters in here are black to complement them. He has a delightful porcelain double sink, maybe reclaimed, but I’ve always wanted one of those. Everything in his place is either metal or wood, there’s nothing plastic and I quite like that. Down the hall there’s a row of sliding doors and I open them to discover his clothes and even more books. I’m looking around wondering where the TV is but he doesn’t seem to have one…
I walk back out into the main room and spot a remote. The TV pops up from out of the end of his bed and I chuckle, astonished. He’s got it all figured out here. A bed, TV, food within touching distance and lots of natural light.
I’m excited to visit the bathroom and this next room amazes me. It’s bigger than most bathrooms I’ve ever seen and also has a separate shower and bath. The shower is just a rainfall showerhead and no cubicle. There’s a drain in the floor to catch the water but there’s no privacy if someone was in the bath at the other side of the room. It’s effectively a wet room but the one big downside is that there aren’t any windows in here. I realise this building may have been a factory or an office or something and was converted into flats, hence the oversized bathroom and brick view out of the main windows, plus the enormous high ceilings and the pretty light fittings.
I wonder what to do first! Take a bath in the big tub? Go through his underwear? Find his porn stash? Make a cup of tea in my boyfriend’s house? Rush outside and do everything I can in one day while screaming from the hilltops that I’m in love with the most beautiful man in London?
I sit on the edge of the bed and just take a minute, breathing in the scent of his familiar woody cologne and hair tonic. This place has his stamp all over it and I adore it. A little piece of paradise for him amid the hustle and bustle. He must be earning an incredible amount to be able to afford this or else his mother helped him out. I know she’s got the money to but I also know he wouldn’t just get handed it. His mother’s always encouraged him to make his own living and I know that in sixth form, he used to
work evenings and weekends in a bar to buy all the nice stuff he wore. She never made it easy for him, but he knew the best places for second-hand designer clothes and shoes. He’s an impressive person and I adore everything about him.
I fill the kettle and set it to boil, the sound of running water making me want to pee.
I sit on the toilet with the sliding barn-style door left open and grin to myself because everything feels so good right now.
I wipe and look down when something catches my attention.
Blood.
I look in my knickers and I’ve come on my period without realising.
My stomach turns and I feel dizzy. I tell myself it’s just my period making me feel this way, but I was absolutely fine up until a moment ago.
The sight of blood in my knickers…
The painful memories.
The feeling of failure… of abject sadness.
I haven’t had a period since the miscarriage and this feels like a cleansing, a reminder, when in reality it’s probably my body getting back to normal – perhaps my relationship with Theo helping with that. I strip off everything below the waist and stuff some wadded paper between my legs, heading for my bag in the little reception area near the reading corner. I don’t know why he has it because he always reads lying down, or maybe he engineered it just for me because I’ve always wanted a reading corner.
I bring my bag to the bathroom and grab some clean knickers and sanitary products.
So much for hot sex this weekend.
Now I’m back to being the unclean woman who can’t be touched, just like before.
My jeans are slightly marked as are my pants so I rummage around the kitchen for a washer, finding a washer dryer hidden behind a cupboard door. I throw them in the drum to be dealt with later.
I make my cup of tea in nothing but my blouse, bra and clean knickers. It’s quite nice flitting around the place with no danger of anyone ever seeing you naked.
Bad Actor Page 8
