Come Play With Me Again

by Sommer Marsden

  I frowned, but said nothing.

  He rushed on, ‘It’s just that you already know about … and … you don’t seem bothered by it. I just want to touch you. It’s not really sex, I mean I wouldn’t breach … I won’t penetrate. I just want to touch you, to feel your skin … your body …’

  He stopped, looked at the carpet, then back at me, and then even more awkwardly he said, ‘There’s no one else.’

  I looked at him a long time. He waited patiently, letting me take stock, consider the situation and the man before me.

  He looked sad, eager, needy and kind of hot with that dark lock of hair nearly covering one eye. Max had a good body, tight abs and arms, not that I’d be able to touch any of it. But he was a good guy; I liked him, and it wasn’t as though I was seeing anyone else. Although I wasn’t a virgin, I didn’t have much experience and I had to admit that I was curious as to how this would work. Besides, I’d liked it when he touched me the last time. How could it hurt to play his little game again? In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. ‘OK,’ I said. He nodded and stood up; I was still sitting on the bed. He towered over me as he began to pull the belt from the loops of his robe saying, ‘I have to tie you up.’

  I instantly scooted back, away from him, finally bumping against the wall and on the verge of changing my mind when he knelt in front of me and whispered in a voice redolent with need, ‘I would never hurt you, Delia.’ When my eyebrows rose, he hurriedly added, ‘I’m just going to tie your hands. I can’t let you touch me.’

  He gently tugged the comforter down and took one of my breasts into the heated vortex of his mouth, licking and sucking gently at the nipple and the flesh around it. It felt good, really good. Every time he sucked, it was as though he was strumming something deep inside my sex. I wanted to touch it, I wanted to touch him, and the need, the intensity grew because I knew I couldn’t touch him. Something deep inside me trembled and vibrated. I pressed my palms into the mattress to keep from touching his hair, but I let my lips graze the thick locks on top of his bowed head.

  Then he was stroking my hip and coaxing me to straighten out on the bed. When he had me where he wanted me, he raised my hands over my head, bound them together with the belt and secured it to the end rail of the daybed. It was tight, but I didn’t object; I was curious and it felt kind of sexy.

  The action served to pull my back up in an arch that caused my breasts to rise and pool, serving them up for the man who knelt over me. They looked like nicely plump tarts with cherries on top and he eyed them longingly, like a hungry boy uncertain whether the few coins in his pocket would be enough. I liked the way he looked at me.

  He touched a peak with the tip of his finger, and then he was stroking and cupping the soft mounds. His mouth followed, wet and hot, sucking and pulling on the already distended nipples, his teeth tugging and rasping gently at the ever-tightening buds. A hand trailed the length of my torso and stopped to press and grip and massage the tight skin of my belly before slipping down to grip my sex, the heat burning through the thin silky cloth of my panties.

  Briefly, he got up to close the door gently. Cold air claimed the places he had heated. The dark-red robe slipped to the floor before he slid onto the bed next to me, his long body warming me as he fitted himself along my side, his chest to my ribs, his groin to my thigh, his hands everywhere stroking and teasing, causing me to tremble as moans slipped between my compressed lips. I so wanted to touch him too. His penis was hot, full and hard as it pressed against my hip. Cock, I thought. It was a long hard cock and I wanted to pull it into my mouth, to feel its hood nudging the roof of my mouth. I opened my mouth, imagining its feel and taste. Then his tongue was there, dipping into my mouth, filling the void, flitting over my lips and teeth until I tried to capture it, intending to suck it, but he drew away and buried his face in my neck as he slid the thick, hard length of his cock between my legs, its probing head grazing my sopping panties. I gasped as he pressed forward. His mouth was again on mine, his teeth nipping at my lips as he lifted and guided my haunches up until they rested high on his hips, and then he pressed forward, his hardness all but piercing the silky cloth that covered my gateway.

  His fingers gripped my buttocks as the thick knob of his cock pressed into my centre, straining against the flimsy cloth, the determined head relentlessly denting the fragile barrier as both slipped and rasped against the sensitive lips of my sex. My pussy – the word seemed right just then because I was wet and slippery, juicy with welcome. Its steamy walls contracted as though trying to clamp onto something that was not there, the muscles tensing and flexing in a way that was somewhere between pain and pleasure. I could feel our sweat and natural lubricants pooling between my thighs. I wanted to hold him close, to feel his damp chest and its slight, bristly hair pressed against my breasts and belly. Then I wanted to reach down, slide my panties to the side and guide him into me. I wanted to grab his ass and press him deeper, but my hands were tied. So I squirmed, trying to get closer. I tried to grip him with my thighs, but his hands tightened around first one thigh and then the other, loosening their grip and lifting them higher.

  Although I felt somewhat cowed, I continued to move against him, my torso and my pussy straining towards him, seeking relief from this ever-growing need. I could feel the heat and hardness of him between my thighs and he slid forward, ramming into me, the head of his sex slamming into my swollen labia, butting against my engorged clitoris again and again until a wave shook me, and my whole body clenched as the wetness grew between my legs. I closed my eyes and gave in to the quakes. When I opened them, Max was gripping my thighs, his head buried in my neck. I opened my legs to him, caressing him with my thighs as his body writhed against mine. He groaned like a felled tree, a long cracking sound from the back of his throat, and his hands found my arms. He clung to them for support as his hot slippery penis slid along my thigh, spurting semen as it continued to surge forward, drenching my panties, stomach and thighs.

  Spent, he sank onto my body and lay there heavily for a minute or so until he remembered himself and pulled away quickly, but carefully trying to avoid crushing anything he hadn’t already crushed. Then he was up, picking his robe off the floor and pulling it on. For a moment he stood over me, sadly surveying my body and the aftermath of his folly. We were both coated with sweat and semen, and I was still tied to the bed, helpless.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and then untied my hands. Before I could respond to my newly freed state, he said, ‘I’ll take care of these,’ and he slipped my soiled panties over my hips, down my legs and into the pocket of his robe. Then he was gone.

  The next morning as we ate cereal and drank juice at the kitchen table he whispered, ‘Thank you,’ so sincerely that I was a little embarrassed. I simply nodded. As we all prepared to leave, he pressed my pay envelope into my hand. But his smile was different, self-satisfied, so I knew that he’d padded it. Leonard was staring up at us so I slipped the unopened envelope into my purse without question or comment. It contained an extra five $100 bills.

  It was a Friday and Max came home early, less than an hour after we’d gotten home. So it must have been around four. He had bought pizza so I wouldn’t have to cook for Leonard. He tried to convince me to stay, saying he’d ordered my favourite, spinach and feta, but I gathered my books and left before he could get his coat off. I’d put the extra bills on his dresser with a note that said, ‘I am not a whore.’ I didn’t want a confrontation or, worse yet, to deal with his hurt pride. I figured I wouldn’t have to see him for a couple of days since it was the weekend. So he’d have time to get over it.

  * * *

  How surprised was I when he showed up on my doorstep the next morning. He’d apparently arranged for Leonard to spend the day with his grandmother.

  He’d never been to my apartment and I didn’t know how I felt about this breach of employer–employee etiquette, but I let him in. I handed him a cup of coffee and pointed to the bistro table in my tiny kitchen, the
n I went to shed the oversized Obama shirt I used as a nightgown and put on the more appropriate jeans and college T-shirt. When I returned, he’d taken off his coat and was standing wide-legged, looking out of the back-door window at the shaky wooden porch and littered alleyway, sipping what appeared to be a second cup of coffee. I lifted the pot, shook it and gauged how much I could pour without getting a cupful of grounds.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said, again without preamble, as though he and I had been engaged in this conversation all along.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I said honestly, having refrained from saying the ‘I know’ he wanted to hear.

  He finished his coffee, sat his cup in the sink and joined me at the table.

  ‘I didn’t mean to treat you with disrespect. It’s just that you seem to understand what I need and I value that …’ He stopped short.

  ‘Service,’ I finished for him. ‘It wasn’t a service, Max. It was a kindness, and I have to admit, I was curious. You needed something that I was willing to give. But it’s done now, OK?’ I was asking for his agreement.

  ‘I don’t want to stop,’ he admitted.

  ‘Hence the payment,’ I said, shaking my head with realisation.

  ‘You’ve got rent, tuition and books. You could use the money.’

  ‘That’s why I work. I have a job. Remember? One that I used to enjoy.’

  He didn’t say anything for a while. I could almost hear the wheels churning as he tried out various plots, possibilities, appropriate things to say.

  ‘You enjoyed the other night,’ he said somewhere between sure and hopeful.

  I didn’t say anything, unwilling to commit one way or the other. I wasn’t sure whether I did or not. And although I’d had an orgasm, I wasn’t sure whether it was enough for me.

  ‘I could make it even better for you,’ he said.

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘You surprised me the other night. I didn’t know how you would respond,’ he added.

  I sat my cup down on the table. ‘Max, maybe I should just find another job.’

  ‘No!’ He looked almost like he wanted to cry. ‘Leonard loves you. I couldn’t bear it if my selfishness caused him to lose you.’

  He stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go. I just thought …’ He sat down again, his face crumpled, a tuft of thick dark hair swaying back and forth across an eye as he shook his head like he was trying to erase all that had gone on before. ‘Look, we fit. Leonard, you and me. You’re there when he needs you, when I need you to be. It’s good and I don’t want to mess it up. I just thought that since you didn’t seem to be seeing anyone … and you know me. You know I’d never hurt you. You said so yourself. That maybe … but if it’s too much, if it’s repellent, if I’m …’ His eyes, large, dark and round, searched mine. He must not have found what he feared because he looked away, ashamed. God, this man could rip your heart out with a look.

  Then he was headed to the door, coat in hand.

  ‘Max,’ I called after him.

  He stopped, his forehead pressed against the closed door.

  Warming my hands on my coffee mug, I thought about what I wanted to say.

  He waited patiently, but said nothing and didn’t turn back to look at me.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said finally.

  ‘And you won’t abandon Leonard?’ he asked.

  ‘I won’t abandon Leonard,’ I confirmed.

  He nodded at the door before opening it. Then just as he was about to step over the threshold he said quite distinctly, ‘Thank you, Delia.’

  Taking the Count

  Ludivine Bonneur

  What a night it was. Our drunkenness glowed right through the four of us, and we felt as lush as the claret Jez served with his Celebratory Feast. Manny and I were treated like royalty, but then Jez, all imposing six and a half feet of him, has this disarming, deeply generous side that can seem at odds with his often overbearing nature. Matilda was in one of her warm moods, close and conspiratorial, treating me like an old ally rather than the new witch on the block come to steal away the soul of their good friend. And the setting: the old chapel that Jez and Matilda had spent months converting into their dream home. What a dream and what a home. As the glow spread it felt ever more like a castle, what with all the open stonework and the sconces alight, the gothic arches of the windows and doors, the huge thick-planked oak table that bore the feast.

  Naturally we were the couple chosen for this Grand Unveiling. Who else? The three of them have known each other since university, a decade now and more. They were inseparable then and the ties have never weakened. After they graduated, Manny left his family and hometown behind to move across country and set up here, just to be near his new friends. I ought to be glad, I guess, since otherwise I would never have met him, and he is such a sweet guy, so funny. Why he has failed to hold down any previous relationship for long remains a mystery to me. Perhaps no girl before has been deemed good enough for him by the new Lord and Lady of the Castle.

  It seems I am more in favour. Jez openly flirts with me every bit as easily as he scoffs at things I say. He seems to want to gather you in warmly and then cast you aside like trash, gather you in warmly, cast you aside. When he charms you it is impossible not to be reeled in. His sudden coldness or derision can shock, but I’m used to it now. It’s just Jez. It’s like he mustn’t be too likeable or it wouldn’t be fair on other men, particularly his best friend. Matilda tends to judge me silently, sternly, although a couple of times, even before the house-warming I’d caught her sporting an expression like she could eat me up. It’s only ever been when she is drunk, as if the red wine she habitually glugs is laced with the blood of some raging lesbo. I guess what she did that night shouldn’t have been such a surprise to me, in light of this. However, it still was.

  Her name isn’t actually Matilda. It’s Steph. She’s been going by her middle name since the days the three of them first met. It’s more medieval-sounding, apparently, which suits her. I can’t argue. From what I can gather they were part of the goth army at university, the Three Musketeers of pallid-faced, eyeliner-wearing, seeping gloom. Manny has broken free of it since but it’s clearly never really left those two, hence the house. We ate off pewter plates that night; drank from silver goblets. We had to wait two months beyond the finish of their project for the invite, allowing for darker nights to come and an autumnal chill that required the lighting of the wood burner, all to add to the atmosphere. It worked, for sure.

  Jez is still happy to flamboyantly quote Byron or lyrics by The Cure to illustrate his thoughts, often in the same breath. Despite this he is someone you can’t help but be drawn to listen to whenever he holds court, which is often. I wouldn’t go as far as to call him outright handsome. He seems to carry a perpetual sneer and he can look severe with his head shaved near-smooth to counteract premature balding. The eyes, though, are captivating: deep brown and intense. You feel glad of any excuse to look his way and drink them in. When he talks I sometimes find myself unconsciously leaning towards him as if magnetised. He is intelligent but witty with it. He speaks like he knows the answers. I remarked during the feast that he would make a great politician.

  ‘A great politician would be someone who genuinely wanted to save the world,’ he replied with a grand sweep of a hand. ‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

  Matilda wore a cleavage-revealing velvet dress that night, long and black like her hair. Only vampires tend to get away with stuff like that. I’m thinking she’s got a bit more adept at the makeup since her uni days. It’s over the top verging on porn-star but I reckon she has it professionally done and there’s no denying her ability to look ravishing. I’ve caught Manny gawping at her a couple of times, a tad too longingly for my comfort. I’m not too sure of the history but from what I have ascertained, when the three of them met, Manny and Matilda were the couple, but the dynamic abruptly changed to leave my man as the gooseberry. Perhaps he still won
ders what might have been. There are clearly no hard feelings so who am I to upset that vibe? Anyway, if Manny watched me for long enough with the drink flowing he’d probably catch me gawping just as longingly at Jez.

  For a house once of the holy it now has a sense of the debauched, although it’s not totally obvious from the décor. Far from chalking pentagrams on the walls, they have in fact kept many of the original features and restored some of the stained glass, now artificially backlit to spill beautiful colour across the rugs and stone floor. The finish throughout is superb and cleanly modern. The kitchen is handmade and sleek-fronted, with fabulous built-in appliances preferred to an Aga. The wood-burner is no battered old thing but a sharp, state-of-the-art Scandinavian model. Ironwork might outweigh chrome in things like light-switch plates, but nothing is distressed to give an impression of age.

  It is all a little unexpected from a couple who seem like they’d prefer to have lived within the louche, darker times of centuries gone by. However, the piles of throws and cushions are sumptuous in their deep reds and purples. Abstract sculptures abound, all curved and sensuous like the female form. On the coffee table are presented little smooth mounds of worked stone, each split into two hemispheres. It looks like a bowl of pert mini-arses sticking up at you, craving your attention. On one wall hangs the full-length painting of a nude girl with long black hair whom I take to be a witch. She stands knee-deep in a pond, dripping wet, looking back over her shoulder at you, perhaps forlornly, perhaps disdainfully, quite possibly alluringly. Matilda painted it and there is reasonable suspicion that it is a self-portrait. If so, a lot of work has gone in to capturing such a shapely, innocently smooth-looking behind. You almost want to go over and kiss it.

  Then there is the master bedroom, up on the mezzanine and partially accessible through another gothic arch. If we had stayed that night, once the two of them had taken things upstairs, we would have heard it all. We might even have seen plenty of it in the large mirror hung on the opposite wall, which opens through to the lounge area. They have a black iron four-poster, of course – no hangings to conceal any naughty business upon it. It was made especially large to accommodate all of Jez and it dominates the room. It is the type of bed people get tied to before being spanked or whipped. Not him. He’d never be one to be dominated. I spent a good deal of the night wondering if she ever allowed herself to be tamed there. I left still wondering.