He sat up and used both hands to find my face. I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on my nipple. We kissed. His breathing was noisy and erratic. His stubble scratched my lips. His hot breath warmed my skin. Tension throbbed in my belly. My crotch ached.
He ran his hand down the front of my body. He moved it down between my breasts. He cupped the curve of my belly, then slid it down over my crotch. I opened my legs and he stroked the length of my pussy with the tips of his fingers. I sighed. Even through the crotch of my knickers the sensation was intense and incredible. My legs began to tremble.
‘Help me to take them off. Stand up.’ His voice was urgent and hoarse.
We both stood up and he squatted in front of me and pulled at my knickers. He slid them down my legs.
‘If I lift my foot, you should be able to get one side off over my shoe.’
He fiddled with them in the dark until my foot was free. ‘Good, now the other foot.’ It took him several seconds to get them off. ‘Now sit down on the edge of the seat and open your legs.’
I did as he asked, putting my bottom right at the edge of the seat and using my hands to support myself. I spread my legs, feeling absolutely wanton even though he couldn’t see. I felt his fingers on my thighs and instantly my nipples began to tingle. I was uncomfortably hot now. My hair clung to my nape. Sweat prickled in my armpits.
His fingers found my pussy. He ran one fingertip along its length, agonisingly slowly.
‘That’s so good.’ My voice was practically a whisper. I let out a long slow moan as his fingers stroked my lips.
‘No hair … Lovely.’ He pulled my lips apart.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
I felt his breath on my pussy and, a second later, his mouth. It felt unbelievably hot and as soft as velvet. I was tingling all over. My nipples were hard and prickling with pleasure. Flurries of delicious shivers slid up and down my spine like ghostly fingertips.
He covered my clit with his mouth and flicked it with his tongue. Robbed of my sight, all my other senses were operating in hyperdrive. I could feel tiny differences in pressure as he used different parts of his tongue. The tip felt fluttery and gentle and the flat of his tongue felt strong and powerful. Every tingle and throb seemed intense and overwhelming.
I reached down and laced my fingers through his hair. I rocked my hips, rubbing my crotch against his face. I could hear him panting, feel his fiery breath on my skin. My thigh muscles were quivering. My breathing was noisy and shallow. Tension throbbed in my belly. My crotch was tight with excitement.
I felt a fingertip at my opening. He dabbled it in the pooled moisture then slid it inside. I gasped as it entered me, slipping past excited nerve endings and muscles. My clit tingled.
He found my G-spot and I practically hit the roof. My arousal cranked up a gear. I was gasping and panting now. Sweat trickled down my body. My chest heaved.
He pressed his fingertip hard against the sensitive spot. My body jolted. I moaned – a long, single note of pleasure and arousal. He sucked on my clit and did it again. The reaction was identical. My crotch burnt with pleasure and sensitivity. Tension built.
His mouth moved away and he began to get up. My hands slid off his head as he got to his feet. I heard clothes rustling and a zip being pulled down, then the seat creaking and shifting as he sat down beside me.
‘Straddle my lap. Sit astride me.’ His arousal was unmistakable. I reached out, feeling for his erection in the dark. I felt naked hairy thighs, strong and muscular, then slid my hand across to his crotch. He gasped when I touched him and I felt his body shudder.
I gripped the base of his penis, wrapping my fist round it. I could feel the blood and gristle, hard and pumping. It felt thick and hot and silky. I slid my hand along its length, pulling his foreskin once over the helmet and back. I ran my thumb across the swollen glans, spreading the slick pre-come. He moaned.
I wondered what it looked like. Was the tip purple? Was the skin taut and shiny? Were his thighs as muscular and hard as they felt? I bent my head and lapped up the slippery liquid gathered at its eye, tasting the salt. I swallowed him to the root.
My scalp was tingling, like someone touching my hair. My erect nipples burnt. A fist of excitement and tension pulled at the base of my belly.
My nose was buried in his fragrant pubes, my nostrils filled with his intoxicating man smell. My chin pressed against his balls. I reached down and stroked them, rolling them in their sac. I felt his thighs tremble and he let out a deep guttural moan.
I sat up and clambered over the seat, feeling my way with my hands. He caught my arms and supported me while I got into position. I climbed astride him, my knees either side of his thighs. He scooted forwards and sat on the edge of the seat and I manoeuvred my bottom, positioning myself.
I felt his mouth on my throat and I bent my head to kiss his hair. I reached between us and found his erection. I slid it up and down the length of my wet pussy then held it in place while I lowered my hips.
A tear of sweat trickled down my spine. Wet hair clung to my face. My heart was pounding. I was rigid with anticipation and excitement.
He slid into me millimetre by delicious millimetre. He felt hot and hard and thick, stretching and opening me. My crotch tingled. My skin was alive with pleasure.
I felt his hands sliding under my dress and over my hips. He cupped a buttock in each hand and began to rock his hips. I wrapped my arms round his shoulders and tilted my pelvis, meeting his thrusts. His breath snorted noisily between taut lips. Every so often he’d dip his head and kiss me, nibbling and licking wherever his mouth made contact.
He moved inside me like a piston. I could feel his thigh muscles, taut and hard as he moved. I was wound up with tension. Fire burnt in my belly. My nipples ached.
I moved my hips backwards and forwards, rubbing my clit against his scratchy pubes. He moved inside me, stretching and filling me. The seat underneath my knees was rough and itchy. I gripped handfuls of his raincoat as I held on. I could feel the excitement building towards a peak. I was moaning constantly, panting and sobbing as our bodies moved.
He picked up speed and I matched his rhythm. I ground my crotch against his, exciting my clit, building towards orgasm. His fingers dug into my buttocks, his arm muscles taut and rigid.
He was groaning and panting, animal grunts of pleasure and excitement. I could feel his hair damp against my neck. My nipples rubbed against his clothes, making them tingle.
I reached for his face with one hand and lowered my head to kiss him. He tilted back his head and our lips found each other. His mouth was like soft wet velvet, his lips yielding and hot.
Our hips pumped. My clit rubbed against his pubes. His thighs beneath mine were damp and slippery. My hair fell in my eyes.
I was sobbing and moaning as excitement built. I was close to the edge, riding the luscious, tantalising knife-edge between arousal and release. I rocked my hips, intensifying the friction.
His strokes grew shorter. His fingers dug into me as he pulled me onto him. His groans grew louder and more urgent. His thighs were rigid and trembling. I pressed my body up against his and matched his rhythm.
He gave a final short jab of his hips and I felt him twitch and dance inside me. It was all that was needed to tip me over the edge. I rotated my hips, grinding myself against his crotch.
The tension focused and burst. Sensation overwhelmed me, knocking the breath out of me and making me tremble. Pleasure pumped round my body from the roots of my hair down to my toenails. My muscles were taut and quivering. I was tingling all over.
We clung to each other, gasping and panting. His heart pounded against mine. He was rigid inside me. I moaned and sobbed. Tears ran down my face.
‘I can feel you coming for me. Your muscles are gripping me,’ he whispered into my ear.
My pulse was racing. My body trembled and shook. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me like the tide coming in. I pumped my hips, grinding my crotch a
gainst his. He was hot and hard inside me, his thighs muscles taut and straining. The sound of our excited breathing seemed to exist like a separate entity, underlining the excitement.
He held on and rode it out with me, pulling me onto him with his strong hands. It kept on coming, peak after peak. I was breathless and trembling, sweaty and exhausted. I arched my back and howled into the darkness.
When it was over we didn’t move. Neither of us spoke. I lay with my head on his shoulder and listened to his breathing return to normal. One hand stroked my hair, the other moved up and down my naked back.
I felt him soften inside me and slither out and I moaned in disappointment. He laughed softly. I sat up and found his face with both hands. I bent my head and kissed him, pressing my body up against his. He wrapped his arms around me tight, as if he never wanted to let me go. I stroked his face as I kissed him, running my fingers over every curve and feature.
‘Thank you,’ I said finally. ‘I’m not scared of the dark any more.’ I climbed off his lap and fumbled to fasten the buttons on my dress. I heard him stand up and the rustle of clothing as he pulled up his trousers and zipped up. When he’d finished he sat back down beside me and reached out for my hand.
We sat silently, hand in hand. I leant up against him and rested my head on his shoulder. I must have drifted off for a moment because when the lights flickered back on it woke me up with a jolt. I blinked in the light and shielded my eyes with my hand. A moment later the tannoy clicked on. A voice apologised for the delay, calling it a ‘technical fault’ and assuring us it was now resolved. The train began to move.
‘At last.’ I turned to him and smiled.
‘I’m sorry for getting carried away. I hope you don’t regret it.’
‘Of course I don’t. How could you think that?’
‘I’m glad. Neither do I. But there is something I do regret, now I think of it.’ He reached out a hand and brushed my hair off my face.
‘What’s that?’
‘Never getting to see you naked.’
I still don’t know why I did it. It was absolutely out of character and something I’d never even have contemplated before that moment. I got to my feet and stood in front of him. I looked into his eyes and slowly began to undo the buttons on my dress.
My fingers were clumsy and disobedient and it took me far longer than usual. He gazed up at me, his beautiful eyes glowing. When I’d finally got them all undone I pushed my dress wide open and unfastened my bra, exposing my breasts. My heart was pounding. I could hardly breathe.
‘You’re as beautiful as I imagined.’ He stood up and pulled off his tie, stuffing it into his raincoat pocket.
The short hairs on my nape instantly became erect when he said that, as his words elicited a wave of shivery tingles over my scalp and face.
He fiddled with his shirt buttons with trembling fingers. When his shirt was undone, he pulled the tails out of his trousers and pushed it open. His chest was sprinkled with dark hairs and his belly was every bit as sculpted and hard as I’d imagined. A trail of hair ran down from his navel and disappeared under his waistband, leading down to paradise.
My nipples stiffened and my crotch seemed to soften. He undid the button at the top of his fly and lowered the zip. He slid his trousers and underwear down over his hips, slipping in a hand to free himself. He pushed everything down to his knees then straightened up.
His thighs were big and muscular. His cock was thick and already growing hard again. He reached down and slid his foreskin back, exposing the tip. I could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed. His cheeks were flushed. His lips were dark and plump, half smiling. His eyes were glistening and intense. My crotch ached.
We saw lights in the distance and we both hurriedly began to dress. I did up my bra and had only just managed to button my dress when we pulled into Hammersmith station.
‘This is my stop.’ He fumbled with his shirt buttons. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He gripped the front of my coat and pulled me towards him for a kiss. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms round him. I could feel the bulge of his crotch pressing into me. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He got off the train and stood on the platform looking at me.
As the doors closed he reached into his pocket and pulled out my knickers. He brought them to his face and inhaled. The train began to move and I stood there looking back at the platform long after he’d slipped out of sight.
Almost as soon as he’d disappeared from sight I realised I’d forgotten to ask for his phone number. I didn’t even know his name.
For a long time afterwards I’d hang around at work longer than necessary waiting for that particular train in the hope of bumping into him again, but it never happened.
It had been almost perfect, when I thought about it. The way sex only ever is in books or fantasies: exciting, loving, hungry and abandoned. Without complications or consequences.
As time went on the memory of it seemed to get somehow transformed and idealised. Like a dream that was perfect, slightly unreal and could never be recaptured.
If it hadn’t been for the torn button on my dress and the missing knickers I could almost believe it had never happened. I wondered if he’d hung around in the station hoping to see me again. Or if he kept my knickers in his bedside drawer and took them out from time to time, holding them to his face to drink in my scent. I hoped he did.
Funny thing was, I was never scared after that. Even if the lights went out or the train stopped in the middle of a tunnel all I had to do was close my eyes and remember sitting astride him in the dark, our bodies moving as one and the sound of our breathing filling the train.
I never saw him again but the funny thing was, after a while, I didn’t mind. It was part of what made it so special. Two souls coming together at a particular moment in time, sharing something exquisite and unrepeatable and then moving on.
The Art of Fucking
Nikki Magennis
MY FLATMATE COULDN’T even imagine the desert that was my sex life. She leant back in her chair, swinging her long tanned legs. Sandy’s body always seemed to fall beautifully into place – wherever she was, the room would arrange itself round her. She looked like Botticelli’s Venus, only with more lipstick.
If Sandy was a classic Italian painting, I was an abstract expressionist mess. As we sat in the sun-filled kitchen, sharing tea and our Sunday hangovers, I compared the two of us.
Not a good idea. My short fingernails were rimmed with dark-blue paint, a perpetual stain which never seemed to scrub off my hands. Sandy’s were shining and polished, and just long enough to suggest they’d been raking over a man’s back all night long.
They had. The night before, Sandy had scored.
‘An absolute raging beast,’ she said. ‘He fucked like a tornado. I mean howling and screaming all the way.’
In fact, I’d heard the howls of the raging beast and the rattling of Sandy’s headboard in the small hours. I’d covered my head with a pillow and tried to block it out. Just another loud reminder of how different Sandy’s life was from mine.
I’d lain awake for a few hours, wondering how the hell I’d ended up where I was.
I’d just moved in with Sandy after splitting up with my live-in boyfriend, and was still adjusting to life in a shared flat. Sandy’s wild lifestyle and messy habits intimidated me, so I spent most of my time in my studio. It was a dingy building in the wrong end of town; a quiet, cold ten feet square space where I wrestled with my own obsession – painting.
It was a difficult beast, and fickle too. I needed a truckload of expensive and potentially lethal poisonous materials, plenty of uninterrupted solitude and the right kind of light.
North light. You need a flat even light that doesn’t splash itself over the canvas or turn orange at the end of the day. A steady source that is never brash and never surprising. It felt like my life was lived in a constant north light. The smells of turpentine, linseed oil and white spirit surrounded me. After a day in the studio
I’d be giddy with fumes, the colours of the street outside on the way home would shock me. Nothing I painted could ever compete with the noise and the huge blast of electric reality that confronted me when I stepped out into King Street. I painted big canvases, used strong colours, threw daring shapes into the compositions. It never quite clicked. My life was all about reflecting what I saw, trying to show the huge terror and beauty of the world. But I always felt like I was watching from the sidelines, painting half-hearted pictures of a life not fully lived.
Sandy, by contrast, lived in the eye of a beautiful storm. I’d been amazed at how fast she tore through men. She bedded whichever passing guy caught her fancy, discarded them afterwards like used tissues, moved on to the next one. And I? I was still stuck in the melancholy aftermath of heartbreak, still attached to my ex, unsure of how to change or of exactly what I needed. Knowing I needed something.
‘A good fuck’, was Sandy’s opinion. Inevitably, for a woman who relished every juicy, sticky detail of a one-night stand, her answer to all life’s problems was a good fuck. Now, I was a little naïve when it came to loveless encounters. I guess I was a romantic at heart – I liked the slow build-up, the shy smiles and late-night conversations. I liked to feel it was meaningful before I fell into bed with someone. Steady, gradual. Sex like the north light, no surprises and no brief flashes. The smell of love in the air before I joined my body with a man’s. I didn’t know if I could sleep with someone I didn’t love, though it made me feel old-fashioned to say it.
‘But who says it’s not love?’ Sandy threw her hands in the air like she was tossing my morals aside. ‘There’s a hundred kinds of love out there, honey, a different one for every person you meet. Why not try tasting a little sample of what’s possible? A mouthful of fun? An adventure, even. God knows, you could use a little excitement.’
Monday I trooped to the studio as usual, to face the current work in progress. I uncovered the palette. Limited to three colours at the moment – raw umber, Prussian blue, a little squeeze of scarlet. I was working on an interior, a picture of a kitchen. Just a table and chairs, a window, the angles of the walls. Simple, quiet, shadowy. The kind of room you could sit in and be alone with your thoughts. I was working up the background, layering washes of thin paint over each other until the colours merged into a muddy neutral depth. Deepening the shadows. I plugged in my Walkman – I like to listen to something dark while I’m working. Mazzy Star played some haunting guitar chords, and I dipped my brush into the turps. Softened the bristles, rubbed at the squeeze of blue paint till it melted into a liquid pool. Approached the easel and faced the canvas, hand poised over it, ready to make a mark. I saw where the colour needed deepening, and started work.
Sex with Strangers Page 2
