Dark Enchantment

by Janine Ashbless

  I take the glass and throw it over my shoulder. It hits a bush somewhere in the garden below. He touches my mouth with his other hand too, as if wondering how much I can fit between my full lips.

  ‘There’s got to be a quiet room somewhere …’

  ‘No.’ I pull my lips from his fingertips. ‘Out here.’ I watch the look of surprise and doubt and delight flash in his eyes, and I lay my hand on his shirt front. Under the cool cotton his stomach is warm and flat. I slip a button and ease my fingers in through the gap, finding firm flesh. That’s too much for him; he finally steps in to close the gap between us, his thighs brushing up against mine, his hands taking my hips. His lips scout gently across my upturned face, checking for hostility and finding not even token resistance

  ‘We’re a bit visible,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Then we’ll have to be careful.’ He has a lovely hard bulge of anticipation in his trousers already, I’m pleased to find. ‘I promise not to scream if you don’t.’

  I lick his bottom lip, then catch it in my teeth and give it a teasing nip, just as my hand goes to work on his cloth-covered erection. As our tongues meet he gives a thick little groan. Then he surprises me by taking the initiative and sliding his hand up between my thighs. He doesn’t have to lift the hem of the dress far to find the velvet mound of my pussy under the flimsiest of silken triangles. It’s shaven smooth, a fact he discovers as his fingers stroke me softly through the cloth. His tongue stirs my mouth in assured counterpoint to the movement of his hand.

  I can’t help the noise that escapes as he finds the edge of the silk at the crease between thigh and pubic mound, but my moan is kept private by his lips. It’s a secret between us – like the secret movement of his finger slipping beneath the fabric to caress my bare flesh, soft and slow. Like the secret rush of heat to my sex. Like the hidden cleft of my sex lips that he inevitably finds. Suddenly I’m not soft velvet under his hand any more, I am hot liquid melt and his fingers are delving the shallows of my furrow, back and forth.

  Our tongues still dancing together, we shift our stances very slightly. I ease my legs open to make room for his hand. He leans in to me harder, arching me over the rail. To any observer it ought to look like we’re simply locked in a deep kiss. From the balcony windows the partygoers will only be sure of the hand he has locked on my hip, not the one plundering my panties. They’ll see the arm I have draped around his neck, not the way I’m stroking the thick bulge in his trousers, squeezing his tumescence greedily. They might guess, but however avidly anyone is spying upon us they cannot be sure.

  What if he loses patience? Will he blow our cover? Will he pull the front of my dress down to expose my breasts, hoist my skirt and fuck me properly in full view of them all? The thought makes me wetter still. His fingertip skids in slippery circles upon my clit, stealing my senses.

  He’s perfect.

  Then it all falls apart.

  ‘Saffy!’

  I jerk away from him to see Demi standing with legs braced and one hand on her hip, her face sour. His fingers slip from me. ‘Shit,’ I say, hopelessly.

  ‘What the –’ Patrick turns to take in the sight of her voluptuous curves, the blond-streaked hair that belies the toast colour of her skin. She glares at him. He rubs his wet fingers together, dazed. His erection is like a fist pushing against his trouser front.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing with her?’

  ‘Um.’ He’s fazed by her vehemence. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Saffy’s with me!’

  ‘Jeez,’ I mutter, pulling down the hem of my dress. ‘Patrick, meet Demi. Demi, this is a nice guy I was just having a bit of fun with.’

  ‘Slut.’ She takes me by the arm and all but hauls me out of his.

  He’s looking from my face to hers, trying to work out how he should react.

  ‘I should put a shock collar on you, you little slapper.’

  ‘You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, you bitch?’ I snarl.

  ‘Watch your mouth!’

  Patrick brightens. ‘Hey, if you two are together we could always go for a threesome.’

  Demi draws herself up, lip thrust out furiously. ‘You stupid man,’ she sneers. ‘You vile little man.’ Snatching his jacket off my shoulders she throws it onto the railing, and it hangs there a moment before slipping off over the edge of the balcony and disappearing into the darkness below. Patrick, half-paralysed, watches with his mouth open as it falls from sight. ‘You’ll stay away from us if you know what’s good for you,’ Demi announces.

  ‘My wallet,’ he says plaintively, going to look over the edge. ‘My phone.’

  ‘Come on,’ she orders, pulling me away.

  I obey, whining below my breath. Being with her brings out the worst in me, turning me instantly into a sulky brat again.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I just can’t trust you around men, can I?’ she complains.

  ‘Hey! That was my jacket!’ Patrick has recovered enough to get angry.

  As Demi turns back to face him I take the opportunity to step aside and, as they start to argue, I slip quietly away. I’m seething with arousal and frustration and resentment, but I have enough of a cool head to get the hell out of there. It’s going to end badly, I know. I weave through the sardine-packed partygoers – they’re all a bit drunk by now but not a single hand squeezes me in passing: this crowd is just too well-behaved – and make a line straight for the elevator, catching it as the doors close.

  Its floor and walls are carpeted in wine-coloured fabric and for a moment my inner vision flashes: Juice running down his fingers as he strips the rind away, scattering ruby seeds as he peels them from the yellow inner pith.

  Then I’m back in the present. It’s nine floors to the hotel lobby. The big lift already has two occupants: a man and a woman pressed together in the far corner. I can only see her back as I slouch against the wall; he has his hands on her hips and he’s looking over her shoulder at me. He’s silver-haired, and his pupils are dilated. I know it would be polite to glance away but I stare truculently. It looks like they’re just having a bit of a cuddle, but from the faint movement of muscles in her arm I realise she’s groping him. She’s got his cock out, I surmise, shielded between their two bodies, and she’s playing with his length. His feet are splayed. I think he’s too far gone to resist. His gaze drops from my face to my breasts, his face masklike, his breath coming shallow.

  It’s just what I’d wanted from Patrick. Everyone’s getting some but me.

  I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of my lipstick. Nine cool floors of tinkling Vivaldi and her stroking him off, and him looking at me in my tight brief sheath of scarlet sequins. I lift my right hand to my breast and cup the swell of flesh for him. I can feel my nipple, as hard as a button. His eyes widen. I stroke that button, knowing that I’m pressing all his even as all my nerve endings ache. His breathing is louder, faster, harsher.

  Then we reach the lobby – and I’m the only one to leave the elevator. My panties are so wet I actually feel the night air as a cool touch between my thighs, reminding me of what I have been denied. I ache with all the formless bitter passions of an adolescence I’ve long abandoned.

  It’s so unfair! I roar inwardly. That bitch Demi wants to control my whole life!

  I stomp off down the midnight streets, my heels clicking on the stone slabs like snaps of a whip. I want to get lost, or at least I don’t want Demi catching up with me, so I take several turns down minor roads and alleys, clattering under the cement cliff faces, deliberately heading away from the upmarket area the hotel is in. What I really want is to find a strip joint and watch some pole-dancer shimmy her big ass in front of rapt faces, losing myself in other people’s lust, forgetting for whole moments at a time the gnawing emptiness within me.

  I need …

  Self-pity swamps all my senses, including my common sense. I’m crossing an open-air car park towards what looks like a promising glitter of multicoloured neon when I’m suddenly rec
alled out of my inner world by a throaty growl.

  It’s a motorbike. A big black-and-chrome monster that looks like it would break your leg if you lost your balance and let it tip. It’s moving slowly down the far side of a double rank of cars, paralleling my route, a little further back. Pacing me. The rider isn’t wearing a helmet, though he does have shades on, and sunglasses after dark is never a good sign. His long hair is held back by a bandanna, he’s got a black leather jacket on, open, and a black shirt beneath that; that’s all I can make out at that distance, in this light, with the cars ticking between us.

  My heart goes ker-chunk down into the pit of my stomach. And instantly a hundred thousand years of terror are right there in my bloodstream: I’m a deer in a wood; I’m a hare on the high wolds; I’m a girl in a meadow. I’m prey.

  He turns his head slightly, watching me, neon glinting on his shades.

  There’s no one in sight, though there are plenty of cars here. I leave my lane and duck away between two 4 × 4s, hearing the bike engine rev behind me as soon as I change direction. I don’t run; I haven’t got the strength to, just yet. My heart’s hammering. I zigzag down the aisles of cars, heading for a different corner of the car park. Every time I look around the bike is there, moving smoothly, tracking me. This isn’t my imagination.

  The whole car park is a roughly levelled rectangle, the roads on each side sloping more markedly. I hope the set of concrete bollards with looped chains will thwart him and I clatter down the steps beyond to street level. The bike engine roars as he spots what I’ve done and changes direction, heading for the exit. As soon as I’m on tarmac I break into a trot, hurrying past the beetling face of a Chinese supermarket. My heels aren’t made for this and sound agonisingly loud to me.

  The road dips towards an underpass and the desultory traffic on the city freeway overhead drowns the buzz of his engine. It’s unlit down there; dark enough to mask me for a moment. I stumble swiftly into the shadow of the tunnel, keeping close to the tiled wall. Somewhere there’s a double thunk as wheels pass over a manhole. Just as I reach the far side of the underpass I hear the distant drone of an engine deepen to a growl behind me, and I realise that I’m perfectly silhouetted against the lit street beyond. I corner left, hustling along but not running: I can’t run in these heels. This road, tucked into the shadowed curve of the flyover, is full of tiny shops with steel shutters drawn down over the windows and doors; most look like the shutters never get raised. It goes on and on in a great shallow curve, and I know there’s no chance of me outrunning the bike in plain view. There’s no chance of me outrunning him at all and he must know that; I think he’s deliberately holding back. There’s a gap between a Halal butcher’s and a hairdresser’s called Cutting Crew and I break across the width of the road, not daring to look back. If I look, or if I really run, I’ll panic.

  The side road turns out to be no more than an alley, without streetlights. Steel skips and overfilled bins line either side, alternating with doors that look like they’re armoured to hold back police raids. There are more streetlights at the far end though, and I stumble onwards, panting. It stinks of damp and garbage down here. My painted toes splash though a cold puddle. The ground is uneven, the tarmac rotted and cracked. The bike engine flares, sounding like it’s directly behind me, then it sinks and dies to nothing.

  I stop and turn. He’s there at the entrance to the alley, setting his bike onto its kickstand. My mouth has gone dry. I retreat a few steps, my legs wobbling. His face is shadowed but I can tell from the tilt of his head he’s smiling to himself. I whirl and see for the first time that between me and the lights, the width of the street is blocked by a chain-link fence.

  For a moment I despair.

  It’s the sound of his feet that breaks me from my trance: big biker boots crunching on the grit, heavy and unhurried. With a whimper I plunge to the fence, splaying my hands across the cold metal net. With the faint hope of finding a gap I hurry from one wall to the other, but the mesh is unvandalised, meeting galvanised poles at either end. Just my luck. There’s nothing else for it: I kick off my strappy shoes and try to get a purchase on the fence. I’ve never climbed chain-link in my life, though it looks easy in the movies. It hurts like hell on my toes as I heave myself up one arm’s length.

  It’s too late. He reaches up and snags me off the fence, catching me briefly before he slaps me face first into a brick wall, not hard enough to really hurt but hard enough to knock the breath out of me. In the same movement he’s up behind me, pinning me to the damp bricks, his hands heavy and groping, his crotch pressed like iron against the cushion of my backside.

  ‘What are you scared of?’ he growls in my ear. His voice is deep, even for a guy of his size, and thick with excitement. ‘Nothing to be scared of. I’m not going to hurt you, am I?’

  I gasp, shaking.

  ‘You’re dressed like a hooker,’ he continues, finding the hem of my skirt and pulling the stretchy fabric up to bare my cheeks to his cold, heavy hands. ‘A hooker shouldn’t be scared, should she?’

  ‘I was just at a party,’ I squeak.

  ‘Oh.’ He kneads my bum and my hips. He smells of leather and violence. ‘Nice party? Meet anyone interesting?’ With that last word he slips his fingers right between my cheeks, into my most intimate cleft. I’m hot and sweaty and wet from running, from fear, from the smell and the touch of him. And I squirm like crazy, but there’s no escape from his fingers.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t believe you, honey. How long since you had a man in here?’ His callused fingers are spreading my pussy lips. There’s nothing I can do to stop him. ‘Fucked anyone tonight?’

  ‘Not for nine months,’ I sob.

  ‘Liar.’ He sounds amused. ‘You dress to pull.’

  ‘Plenty of games on the porch,’ I insist. ‘No one’s been in.’

  He chuckles. ‘If that was true, your muscles would have tightened right up. Let’s have a look, shall we?’ He pushes one – no, two – fingers deep inside me, then grunts with surprise and appreciation, even as I moan with discomfort. ‘Well, what do you know,’ he murmurs, working his fingers deeper in, through my welling juices, ‘nice and tight after all. Just right for my cock.’ A shove of his leather-clad crotch into the soft muscle of my bum lets me know he is painfully hard. His voice is almost a caress now. ‘I might hurt you just a little bit. But it’ll be worth it.’

  He steps back, planting a hand between my shoulder blades to keep me pinned in place, while he skins down my knickers. They were never any barrier to him, so brief and flimsy are they, but I think he likes the look of them stretched across my spread thighs. My chest and belly are so flattened against the wall that my butt is inevitably forced out, the full swell jutting towards him as if I’m presenting it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says. I hear the clink and tug of a belt being uncinched, the pop of studs, the tiny roar of a fly zip, the catch of his breath as he handles himself.

  ‘Let me suck your cock!’ I plead.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please.’ I sound desperate. My cheek where it’s pressed to the brick feels numb. ‘Let me suck your cock.’

  He hesitates. ‘Well. If you’re offering, hon.’

  He releases me momentarily and I turn. In the dim light I catch only a partial look at his unshaven face; most of him – hair, bandanna, glasses, leathers – is darkness. He hooks one finger in the front of my dress and I can’t even tell if he’s smiling as he pulls down sharply until my breasts pop up over the material. My nipples spring free and he catches them both, one in each hand, pinching them between thumb and forefinger and twisting until I gasp, but I can’t pull away from him because that would hurt more so I fall against him. Then he pushes me down on my knees. In this alley there could be anything on the floor: broken glass, needles, indescribable filth. He doesn’t care. I end up kneeling in a puddle, grit under my bare shins, tits out and my skirt still rucked up to my hips, my panties down around my thighs. I put my shaking h
ands on his leather-clad legs and feel the unyielding muscle beneath, and I lick my lips because I need to be moist for him.

  ‘That’s a good girl.’

  He’s already out, imperiously erect, and the sight nearly stops my heart. The distant lamps lend his length a pale sheen. The smell of leather rides his body heat. Then he guides me to him and there’s no preamble, just the charged solidity and the bulk moving over my tongue, stretching my mouth, colliding with the soft back of my throat, and the groan of his pleasure. For a moment I think he’s going to use my mouth as a cunt and just fuck me, but after that first impetuous thrust he relaxes, his hands slackening on my head. I can feel his thighs quivering. I draw back, taking breath, drowning in the leather-and-sweat masculine smell of him and the sharp salty taste as my tongue is given room to move over his thickness. His scrotum is clenched high, almost spherical under my fingers.

  The pomegranate, round and pallid and packed solid with seed, breaks under his strong hands. Juice as dark as wine runs out over my belly as he plucks the ruddy jewels from their nest, filling my navel, trickling over my skin and running round my waist to drip on the sheets. It will stain me. He tries to clean it up, licking the spills from my flesh, lapping the pool that has formed in my navel, kissing up the seeds that have fallen, but it’s impossibly messy. One cannot eat a pomegranate with decorum. I am juiced and sticky, my belly heaving with suppressed tremors. He laughs and licks me deliberately to make me squirm, knowing me ticklish.

  I suck him eagerly, hoping that once satisfied, even for a moment, he will be gentler. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he murmurs, looking down on me, pulling back my hair so his view is unimpeded. ‘Your mouth makes such a fine cunt, hon. Perfect for my big hard cock.’

  He’s wearing a ring just behind the head of his dick. No, not a ring, a little bronze snake, coiled snugly about his girth, its flattened head capping the eye of his glans. I let my tongue play with both serpents, wondering how the ornamental one stays on when he is flaccid. Maybe he never is. Maybe he’s been hard since he set out tonight, on the hunt. Then I work out that the snake pierces his flesh and I shudder with fear and a strange, sick excitement. I take him to the back of my throat and moan, longing for the tidal rush.