Equal Opportunities

by Mathilde Madden

  I chew the chocolate quickly, feeling awkward, embarrassed. I lick stray flakes of it from my lips and wipe the last bits away with the back of my hand.

  Once my mouth is empty enough I say, ‘Thank you.’ Trying to save face after my wanton display by sneering, keeping my voice cold and sarcastic.

  But she seems utterly unconcerned by my attempts at macho detachment, and just smiles seductively at me. ‘Well, that’s my part of the bargain over with, now it’s your turn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The deal was, I’d give you my Flake if you came to the park with me, so, off we go.’ And without waiting for an answer she hops down from the wall and starts across the road to the park.

  I’m right behind her, crossing the road and following her through the Victorian wrought-iron gates. I don’t even consider doing anything else. She keeps walking a little way ahead of me, and my wheels crunch on the annoying gravel as I trail after her. Round and round the garden like a crippled teddy bear.

  She doesn’t say much as we follow the main path, which loops all the way round the edge of the park. I guess she prefers the ultra-intense unspoken thing. Now and then she stops, looks back and lets her eyes slide over me, as if she can’t bear to tear herself away. I feel weirdly self-conscious under her gaze, and bow my head and hunch my shoulders. But deep down inside I like this prickly feeling. There is something between us, something in the air, and it scares me, but I know I can’t resist it.

  And maybe that’s what scares me most of all.

  After an interminable age of gravel paths and birdsong, internal confusion and some distinct stirrings from my cock, Ms Cherry stops and plucks a petal from a very dark-red rose.

  ‘Look at this one,’ she says, her eyes glowing, ‘it’s exactly the colour of blood, but it feels so soft.’ She rubs the petal briefly on her cheek in a gesture that is kind of seductive, but in a fake sort of way. Weirdly, though, like her nerdy spectacles, she seems to be able to get away with things like this – things that if someone else tried them would be risible.

  As if to prove it she leans forward and trails the petal across my flushed cheek. Her face is inches away from mine, and I feel sure she’s about to kiss me, but she doesn’t. She just says, ‘Let’s go to the pavilion and get some tea.’

  And so we do. In a bizarre change of tone, we end up settling ourselves at a sticky table and making perfunctory conversation about nothing. At one point, she picks up one of my library books from the table and looks idly through it for a couple of seconds, before replacing it on the stack.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘are all these books for your mother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She has, uh, consistent tastes.’

  I shrug. The last thing I want to talk about right now is my mother. Least of all her tastes in semi-seedy literature.

  ‘You need to drop them off today?’

  ‘No, I’ll probably do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ She drains her teacup and places it carefully on the saucer. ‘Let’s go to your place, then.’

  ‘Why?’ I use the last part of my resolve to try and resist her, reminding myself that it has to be just pity. If she really is trying to fuck me, it has to be a pity fuck. And I don’t need her pity. Really.

  Anyway my student-shagging days are long gone. (As I suspected right from the outset, she is, indeed, a student. A mature one, she told me.) And even back when I was a professional student-shagging machine (to the extent that I ought to have been made officially part of the Fresher’s Welcome Pack), I so didn’t go for girls like her. I mean, mature students! Postgraduate students! As if!

  I stuck resolutely to the type of giggly first-years who were slightly in awe of a man with a job and his own flat (and his own legs). Not dissertation-obsessed, given-up-career-for-academia types like her, with serious brown shoes and serious brown spectacles and serious brown hair.

  I like her dress, though. It’s really tight.

  She looks hard at me, her face completely matter-of-fact. ‘Why?’ she says, repeating my question back to me. ‘Why do I want to go to your place?’ She seems puzzled that I should even ask. ‘Well, partly because my place, lots of stairs – sorry. But mainly because, well, every time I look at you, I want to tie your wrists to your armrests and then get on my knees and run my tongue along your footplate, until you’re desperate for me, rock-hard and writhing in that chair like an animal in heat.’

  I stare at her, concerns about her appearance suddenly draining away. I can’t speak.

  She smiles a smile that I just cannot seem to resist, and continues, ‘And I’d rather not do that right here.’

  And I’m not stupid. I get it now. I know what she is. What’s she’s about. I’ve heard all about women like her.

  And I don’t care. I don’t care about that, just like I don’t care about the fact that she isn’t my type. I really don’t care about anything except the fact that I am absolutely, definitely, going to get a shag. In a matter of hours.

  What can I say? It’s been a long time.

  I hurriedly show her around my bungalow, because it feels like it would be rude not to do something, anything, beforehand. She surveys each room with a forced politeness and a distinct lack of interest. Until, finally, we reach the bedroom.

  We both stare at my unmade bed. At first, it’s like neither of us can say anything.

  Time passes.

  ‘You can get into bed without any help, right?’ she whispers eventually, as if not wanting to disturb the charged atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Sure.’ (How does she think I usually manage?)

  ‘Well, go on then.’

  And in less time than it would take to think it, we are both in bed, both naked, and her lips are viciously clamped on mine. She’s rough with me, driving her way inside my mouth and sucking brutally on my lower lip.

  Her skin against mine feels so good. Did I mention it’s been so long? Too long? I feel like I’m going to come just from the sound of her rapid heartbeat and the feel of her hot breath, hot skin, hot hotness.

  She moves away from my mouth, nipping her way across my cheek until she reaches my ear and hisses, ‘I want to fuck you with my mouth.’

  I laugh. ‘Don’t you mean you want me to fuck your mouth?’ (OK, I know it’s hardly the time or the place to get all semantic, but she did tell me she was an English student.)

  ‘Nope.’

  She rolls me over on to my stomach with a long and impassioned sigh. She doesn’t seem to have any qualms about manipulating me into the position she wants, and I know I shouldn’t but I kind of like that.

  Once I’m positioned the way she wants me, she straddles my legs and bends down to flick her tongue across my exposed buttocks.

  I flinch, uneasy, not sure if this is something I want, but somehow I can’t find the words to tell her to stop – I can’t find any words at all. So I lie there and quiver beneath her, as she lets her hard pointed tongue dart everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

  I gasp when she nudges at my hidden little hole with her tongue, at the same time splaying me with one hand, so open and wanton for her. And then I find myself moaning as she teasingly lets that tongue – soft and flat now – lap over that hot little spot, again and again, until it’s so hungry, so wanting, that I am screaming with every languid caress. Screaming and aching. Aching for something. Anything. More.

  Responding to my desperation she pushes the very tip of her tongue gently inside me. I’m so needy for her now that I make a noise like an animal in response, half begging and half sobbing. My face is buried in the pillows and my desperate erection is pressing itself against the mattress, so hard it feels like I’m going to drill my way right through it.

  Thankfully my frustration doesn’t last long. In minutes, one of her hands snakes underneath me, forming a lubricated fist around my aching cock. I thrust into the warm softness gratefully, and seconds later her tongue, which was starting to feel hopelessly small inside me, is replaced
by a finger, then two, and the most amazing sensation, as she strokes me to peaks of pleasure I didn’t know I was capable of, fucking me decisively with both hands. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  And in moments, with her manipulating me from every direction, and me feeling like I’m her prisoner – captured, pinned, by her expertise – I’m spasming for her, soaking the sheets beneath me, half screaming, half blacking out…

  She holds me for a long while after that, brushing my hair away from my face, waiting until I recover. Eventually I find I can speak again: ‘If that was a pity fuck,’ I breathe, ‘then I think I do need your pity.’

  She props herself up on her elbow and looks down at me. ‘It’s only a pity if we don’t do that again,’ she says brightly, emphasising her point with a brief kiss. Then she asks, ‘Could I get a glass of water, or something?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, suddenly a little self-conscious to be back in the real world, naked and sated, with this complete stranger. But coping. After all, I used to do this all the time. The whole one-night-stand thing.

  I manoeuvre myself from the bed to the chair and wheel my way into the kitchen. When I return and pass her the glass she is sitting up in bed, grinning. ‘Stay in the chair,’ she says a little dreamily, watching me as I park up next to the bed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You look so beautiful, naked in your chair. Please. I want to see you come while you’re sitting there.’ She flips back the bedclothes, crawls across the bed and kneels next to me.

  I look at her expectant expression. ‘Are you going to make me come again?’ I ask in sated disbelief.

  ‘More than that.’ She licks her lips. ‘I will suck your cock every time I see you naked in that chair, and that’s a fucking promise.’ My sudden erection twitches in excited agreement.

  And then, with one final hungry look, she buries her head in my lap, sucking greedily, almost before I have time to engage the brake.

  As her tongue swirls around the head of my cock, coaxing and teasing me to my second orgasm, I barely have time to wonder whether I will be able to climax again so soon, before I explode in her mouth. I feel my fingers tightening against the rubber tread of the tyres, nails digging in so hard I’m surprised I don’t end up with a puncture.

  She lifts her head, wiping the spills from her chin and smearing them down my chest. As I go to wipe them away she snaps, ‘Don’t move.’ I freeze, again feeling that I have no choice but to obey.

  Flopping on to her back, she sprawls across the bed shamelessly, watching me through lust-lidded eyes. She hitches up her knees and lets them fall apart, exposing herself to me. My breath catches as I see how pink and wet and ripe she is. How delicious looking.

  How long has it been since I last had sex? Two years? More? Too long in the wilderness, too long.

  She holds my gaze, as she lets one of her hands trail between her legs.

  And then, oh god, the scent of her! She smells so amazing, like candy floss. And I can imagine how she must taste, like a sweet, sticky sugar high. I’d like to climb on to the bed right now, pull myself over to her and bury my face inside her. But I understand her game by now. I know she wants to direct the action.

  ‘I bet you’d like to fuck me,’ she murmurs as she lets her hand glide over her dark, shiny pubic hair.

  ‘Yes,’ I moan, because that’s a great idea too. My face, my cock, I’ve give anything to bury any part of me inside her right now. ‘Oh god, yes.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she coos, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t let you right now. I’m torn but, if you come and fuck me, I won’t be able to look at you. And you look so beautiful, naked in your chair, sated, with your come smeared over you. Tell me you don’t mind waiting.’

  There’s that hypnotic tone to her voice again. I can’t disobey her, even though I can hardly bear to stay where I’m sitting. But I swallow hard, trying not to shake with frustration. ‘I don’t … I don’t mind.’

  I can scarcely believe it’s possible after coming twice in quick succession, but my cock stirs as I watch her movements become more vigorous.

  ‘Have you ever come in your chair before?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Really?’ She’s panting so hard now she can barely get the words out.

  ‘Really, I’ve never. I haven’t done anything like this since, since I’ve been like this.’

  ‘You never … you never even made yourself come, though? You never played with yourself while you were sitting in the chair?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I only do that in bed.’

  ‘You should.’ She is bucking against her hand now, squirming hard on the bed. ‘I’d like to see that. I’d like to see you touch yourself. Do it now, just so I can see what you do.’

  ‘I can’t.’ I hate to deny her, but there is no way I’m going to get anything further out of my cock at this moment. No matter what she does.

  She smiles as if the solution is obvious. ‘Just touch it. Play act for me.’

  I reach down and take my very tender cock in my hand, stroking it lightly, doing what I hope will put on a good show for her.

  I’ve never thought of myself as an exhibitionist before, but soon I’m throwing my head back, moaning and biting my lip, just because I want to make her come harder.

  And she does. As I writhe and moan for her, she does the same for real. She’s getting herself off looking at me in my chair. She’s arching up into her own hand, and screaming something about me being the most beautiful thing she has even seen.

  She’s really not bad herself.

  Much later, in the middle of the night, I wake to find her rubbing herself against my legs, sliding, wet and needy, against my unfeeling thigh. When she realises I am awake she begins to kiss me roughly and, every time her mouth is free, asks me to tell her, again and again, that I can’t move, that I can barely feel her wetness coating my useless, broken legs, that I can’t walk.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘I. Can’t. Walk.’

  And she comes, screaming, twisting my nipples hard, so I scream too.

  Mary

  ‘Mary?’ Carrie says from the doorway, in an are-you-awake? sort of voice.

  As no other part of me protrudes from under the duvet, she is addressing my hair. My hair and a scrunchy heap of knock-off Cath Kidson florals.

  ‘Mary?’ she says again, in a slightly louder, slightly more irritated voice.

  What time did I get in last night? Too late. I really don’t want to be awake yet. I try to cling to sleep, ignoring Carrie’s attempts to drag me into her world, and do a quick bodily functions check instead.

  I seem to be, well, functioning. No hangover. Some mild and even quite pleasant soreness. Extreme tiredness. Last night, last night…?

  I am in my own bed, right? Oh yeah, the presence of Carrie and her continued shouting makes that very likely. Oh, please shut up, Carrie. Shut up and let me sleep.

  ‘Mary, fuck’s sake,’ Carrie snaps. And then we’re over the edge, she’s stomping across the room, her trademark hippyesque patience dissolving. She shakes me, or at least she shakes the crumpled heap of duvet and hair that currently approximates to me.

  ‘I’m not your mum, you know,’ she says in a sort of semi-shout. ‘But that wanker Dr Mercury’s on the phone, freaking me out. Apparently you were meant to have been there half an hour ago.’

  ‘Huh?’ I say, because ignoring Carrie is really not working anymore, not with the shaking and shouting.

  ‘He said something like Semitics? A Semitics tutorial? Isn’t that some kind of Jewish thing?’

  Oh. Shit.

  Suddenly realising not just where I am but where I am supposed to be, I fling back the covers in a single decisive action. ‘Semiotics,’ I say to Carrie, who is standing over me, her hand still outstretched for continued shaking, and looking as usual as if she has been spun ent
irely out of muesli. ‘A semiotics tutorial.’

  I’m awake.

  I’m awake and I remember.

  Oh. My. God.

  I put my clothes on – sadly, not the all-conquering cherry dress, which looks rather anti-climactic crumpled on my bedroom floor – and stumble from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen to Carrie’s sense-of-humour-vacuum.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  Carrie shrugs and I bustle round her to get some tea.

  God, I’ve tried to like Carrie, I really have. But she’s so earnest, and irritable, and weird. We clash in every way. Not least because she’s the most un-sexually-motivated person I’ve ever met. I don’t think she’s ever had sex. And I’m, well, Mercury has called me oversexed, and coming from him that’s quite a lofty accolade.

  Carrie also has a face that puts me in mind of a Cornish pasty, and, call me shallow, but I think that puts me off her most of all. She’s just weird-looking – it creeps me out.

  But, well, I’m kind of stuck with her. I needed somewhere to live. It was a short-of-notice, short-of-cash thing, and Carrie’s spare room was going cheap after the previous lodger had left in a hurry. (My guess is they put some meat in the fridge, which would practically cause World War Three in this flat.)

  ‘Yeah,’ Carrie finally says in the kitchen after a characteristic uncomfortable silence, ‘it was hard to wake you up. Are you OK?’

  ‘Um, I’m fine. I just had a bit of a late one last night.’

  ‘ ’Kay,’ Carrie says, so obviously not interested it’s almost laughable. Then, thankfully, she takes her plate of toast (with far too much Marmite) and walks out of the room.

  When I hear the click of her bedroom door closing I can feel myself relax. I’ve lived with Carrie for five months now and this is about as good as we get. The cast of Friends we are not.

  Alone with my gently brewing tea in the quiet kitchen, I start to turn things over in my mind. Last night, and, of course, David.

  Oh my god, David. I can feel myself starting to get all hot and bothered just from thinking about him. About flesh and metal and limbs and wheels.

  And eventually, after much musing, all my dirty thoughts come together and centre themselves on one image, that of David’s hard, bare arms and the way their muscles flexed as he wheeled himself across the bedroom, naked in his wheelchair. My mouth is dry.