Without raising his head, he swayed a fraction before taking a step towards me, shy and gauche. Instinctively, I backed away though something swelled in my heart and cunt. He stepped forwards again to stand perhaps a foot or more in front of me, that gentle pitch and roll in his stance reminding me of a landlubber on deck. I saw hints of a face, pale and angular. His manner was unthreatening, and there was a humbleness in the way he stood, as if he were presenting himself for my approval.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered.
He wavered a couple of inches closer, and I read it as an offering. Nervously, I reached out, slipped my hands under his top and edged him nearer, my tentative caress sliding over smooth taut skin. Oh, did he feel good beneath my fingers. He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, taking it. My hands moved faster, firmer, my confidence rising with his apparent acquiescence. His body felt so healthy and alive, warm resilient skin skimming beneath my touch, muscles shifting as he swayed. His low-slung jeans rested on slender hips and I nudged his loosely belted waistband, palms pressing on the sweet jut of hip bone as my fingers kneaded his flesh.
‘You’re lovely,’ said a soft, stunned voice, and I realised it was me.
I wanted to kiss him. My lips felt lost. But how could I kiss a man who wouldn’t show his face? I could have peered into his hood but I resisted, not wanting to scare him. I settled, instead, for letting my hands explore.
It appeared to suit him. He seemed a passive, pleasured creature, allowing me to do what I wished. When I pushed his top high, he didn’t object, and I gazed at the beautiful exposure of his body, at his flat honey-tanned stomach, athletic chest and the hair rising from his crotch like a thin line of smoke. His top slid up and down as my hands roamed, my lust snagged between the urge to touch and the hunger to see.
He didn’t even squeak, not a grunt, groan or a hint of a gasp. How far might I go before he offered a response, some hint of sentience hidden within the hood? Where was this leading? I was open to all eventualities: he could leave, become aggressive, reveal a face I disliked or even one I knew. For him to be familiar was the most dreaded option. With this strangely docile, rag doll of a man, I felt far and away from anyone I’d ever known.
‘Is this OK?’ I breathed and, when he didn’t reply, I let a cautious hand drift to the great lump of his groin. Still no complaint, especially not from me. Lightly, I stroked the shape of him, so turned on to feel the angle of his cock, its stiff urgency nosing at his jeans. I grew bolder, moulding the soft denim to his shaft, feeling how thick and hard he was. Yes, this was definitely OK. He didn’t need words to tell me.
When I delved into his jeans, I discovered he’d gone commando, and the thick meat of his cock jerked to my touch. I curled my fingers around him and, at last, a tiny groan escaped his lips. I melted, bones dissolving in a sudden flood of lust. Within my fist he was vibrant and strong, and I reached deeper for his balls, straining for more sounds as I cupped his sac, toying with his shifting weights. Soon, I heard another faint murmur.
Just that noise, that hint of arousal and vulnerability, had me melting in another surge of wanting.
‘Ah, fuck,’ I gasped, feeling weak in the knees.
He edged closer, head rocking like someone half in a trance until, when I raked greedy fingernails down his back, his head lolled on a softly hissed breath. His hood slipped a little and, for the first time, I saw his face. Oh, and what a face it was. He had the most beautiful features, the flawless skin and sculpted clarity of someone noble or angelic. Light and shadow shifted within his hood, the gleam of the street casting a sheen on his narrow nose and the upsweep of his cheek. Stubble glittered darkly on his jaw and his eyes were deep set, a small ring glinting in one eyebrow.
Quickly, he looked away, shuffling closer, pushing his body against mine and making me stagger. I freed my hand, needing to balance.
‘Careful! Stop it!’ I said, but he kept going until I was pinned to the wall, his body pressing into mine, face averted. He clasped my wrists in each hand, then raised them high against the wall. Fear chased my lust, making my heart gallop, my breath quicken, but I didn’t struggle, though I was braced in case I needed to.
I couldn’t imagine needing to. We seemed to be fading into a world that was weirdly distant and yet somehow the same. While I was lucid enough to understand I ought to be on my guard, I was content to let it all happen. It was as if our here and now existed just centimetres to the left of ordinary. If anyone passed our courtyard alleyway, I imagined they wouldn’t even see us. Here, it was all OK. I would wake up before anything bad happened, no problem.
Then, without turning to me, he spoke. His voice was a soft seductive breath. ‘Is this what you want?’
I didn’t reply. I could barely speak. The question hung in the air and I stood, chest rising and falling, sandwiched between him and the wall, my arms splayed high in his grasp. Oh yes, I wanted this. I wanted whatever he had to give. I was wide open and reckless, liquefying in his presence. I wanted this, I wanted him, I wanted everything in the world. And soon, very soon, I’d find the words to say that.
‘Ah,’ I managed.
Still holding me, he leant towards my left hand and, with slow precision, he licked along the inside of my wrist. His tongue moved over delicate veined skin, flat and wet, and a shock of lust darted from my wrist to my groin where it flared to a wild eager pulse. I gazed into the courtyard, scanning small quiet windows. Hints of streetlight shone on black fire escapes and a chained-up bike, and from a washing line dangled an empty bird feeder. I couldn’t see anyone peeping but I hardly cared. Michael Angelo had me pinned to the wall and he was licking my other wrist, slow and wet, the wedge of his cock shoving above my hip.
‘Yes, I want this,’ I whispered, his saliva cooling on my wrists.
‘Then turn around,’ he replied, releasing his grip.
He stayed close and I had to squirm to face the wall. Immediately he grabbed my hands and held them high again as if he were about to frisk me. I stood with my cheek to the stucco, his body a light pressure behind mine. The wall was rough to touch, the scars of old ivy draped there like giant grey lace.
In my ear, he murmured, ‘I paint pictures.’ His breath warmed me, then he tongued behind my ear and nibbled my lobe. I could hear the click and snuffle of his closeness, feel fabric brush my neck, and he pressed harder, his cock digging into my buttocks, forcing my pubic bone against the wall.
After a while, I said, ‘Yes. I like them.’
He released my hands but I kept them there. ‘I know you do,’ he whispered, and he scrunched my skirt, bunching it higher until I felt the night air on the back of my bared thighs. He slipped a hand between my legs and rubbed the flesh there. I groaned, a noise like pain, as wetness sluiced through me. His fingers caressed my thighs, and I felt as if my cunt might dissolve down into my legs in search of his touch.
‘Please,’ I breathed, ‘do something. Touch me. Fuck me.’
I leant heavily against the wall, needing its support, arms still raised. He edged my knickers down, firm hands skating over the globes of my arse, and I was so tense with wanting I almost stopped breathing. His fingertips stirred wisps of my pubes and inside I was aching, desperate to take the full fat thrust of him. I stepped out of my underwear, pushing my naked arse back.
‘Hard,’ I said. ‘Do it hard. Please.’
He reached around to the front of me and rolled my erect clit, while his other hand squeezed and nipped my buttocks.
‘Please,’ I said in a near growl, and he clasped my waist, then jerked my hips back so I was tipped forwards, hands to the wall, hearing the sound of him unbuckle.
‘I’m a stranger,’ he said, and then the big head of his cock was there at my entrance, easing into my wetness. ‘You came looking for me.’ With a jolt, his cock slithered straight up me, my flesh rushing open. I was suddenly stuffed with meat, my hole stretched around his thick forceful girth, juices spilling. He shunted into me with slow deep thrusts.
<
br /> ‘You walked alone down empty streets,’ he said, speaking in quiet huffy breaths. ‘And now a man you don’t know fucks you against a wall. In the darkness.’
I panted and moaned as he rammed himself faster, keeping me close with that arm around my waist.
‘You found this place,’ he said, gasping a little. ‘Not me. You found it. You’re here, getting fucked, liking it, letting it all go. Blank, seedy, anonymous.’
I whimpered, his words making me flush. He was telling me how dangerous and dirty this was. I knew damn well I was at the mercy of how he might use his muscle and, while the prospect frightened me, I couldn’t, wouldn’t break away. He groped my breasts as we fucked, rummaged under my top, shoved aside my bra, pinched my stiff nipples. I loved the feel of him inside me; loved the furious thrust of him; loved the greed of his hand; and loved, most of all, being scared out of myself and flung into a place of debasement and abandon.
‘There’s a dark beauty in this, isn’t there?’ he said. Still thrusting, but slowing the pace, he leant forwards to bite my neck, teeth gently scraping. ‘Filthy bitch,’ he whispered, and he made the words sound so kind. ‘Hot little cunt. Out looking for it. Chasing cock down the street.’
I groaned, an awful plaintive sound, and he dropped his hand to strum my clit. My orgasm began to tighten. My head span with hallucinatory colours, bright, beautiful landscapes and crazy phallic daffodils. I knew I was losing it, falling headlong into a tumble of warping ecstasy.
‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said. ‘And I’m fucking you, making you come.’
My body flared with sensation, my cunt dense with cock, heat, nerves and sodden, slippery friction.
‘I’m making you come,’ he panted as he butted at the core of me. ‘Fucking you. Banging you. My hot little slut. She’s coming. I’m making her come.’
His words rippled up my thighs and then I was coming hard, starbursts of colour exploding in my mind as I whimpered and wailed. He slowed, letting my climax grip, my inner walls clenching on him while the rest of me dissolved. Then, as my spasms faded, he shoved fast and rough before whipping himself clear and spurting on the ground. He came with a strained growl that thinned to a yelp. Suddenly I was afraid to turn. What the hell kind of noise was that?
My skirt dropped into position and I leant against the wall, panting. I could see the shape of him moving behind me, feel the brush of his movements, hear the shuffle of his feet. His breath was ragged like mine, and I felt its heat on my skin as he leant to print a kiss behind my ear.
‘Goodbye.’
And then he was gone.
‘No,’ I pleaded.
I didn’t see, hear or sense him go.
He simply wasn’t there any more.
It was just me, breathless and stunned, violently alone. I stood, tender, sticky and dishevelled, in a grubby alley off a gloomy street.
Confused and a little hurt, I bent to hitch up my knickers. Typical bloody man, I thought, failing to convince myself. Then my heart lurched because the ground by my feet was glowing with bright pearly light. My boots were in a lime-lit mist, a blaze of white smoke illuminating concrete and stone. Afraid, I staggered away, turning to look. Weeds were growing up the wall, actually moving, hyper-real weeds in brash aerosol colours. Their leafy stems wriggled, their garish flowers pulsed, the patch emitting a strange phosphorescence as if a piece of moon had landed.
I clamped my hand to my mouth, edging back to view more of the wall. It was impossible, all of it. Rising from the weeds, dark against the pale scarred stucco, was a life-size silhouette of a woman, legs apart, hands spread in surrender. Me.
I thought of those terrible shadows left on Japanese walls after the hottest flash. And even as I thought that, the image seemed to shift to become something more crystalline, atomised. Was it sprayed? It glimmered wetly but I didn’t dare touch it. I could see my skirt bunched around my hips; the shape of my boots; how my hair had got messy; the way my mouth must look in profile when I cry out in ecstasy.
Even now, I struggle to find words for it, and words are my trade. A simple dark shape and yet it felt so intricate. It had a delicate, evanescent quality, despite its solidity.
No, that won’t do, that won’t do at all. Nothing will fix it. Nothing will describe it.
I felt as if I were in the presence of an extraordinary vision.
I felt as if my life had changed.
I felt scared yet elated and I backed away faster, panic rising.
Was this what they meant by another side? With him …
Would it fade? Would it vanish like the walls?
Dear Janie, I thought. Dear Janie …
And then I didn’t know what to say. Because I didn’t know if she would listen.
And even if I screamed, I didn’t know if I’d be heard.
Perks of the Job Jan Bolton
WHAT WILL THIS one sound like? Will it play an incongruously jolly refrain and set the pet dog off? Will it be the sober Westminster chime or the perfunctory shrill bell? And what will be in the porch? Wellingtons, umbrellas, old newspapers, child’s tricycle, recycling boxes, broken tools? What will this garden display – attractive grasses, shingle and shrubs, a magnolia tree? And who will open the door? A busy mum, a petulant teenager, a suspicious pensioner or a self-employed, self-made tradesman? These are the factors I try to predict to keep the boredom at bay, as I conduct my door-to-door survey for the local council.
There’s a familiarity to these suburban façades that’s comforting, though, as if behind each door lies a sanctuary of reason and calm. It’s an area of neat little enclaves where middle-class people who have chosen to eschew living at the heart of the urban sprawl can batten down the hatches and listen to Gardeners’ World in peace. A zone of relative tranquillity that’s proud to be nothing out of the ordinary.
I’ve been offered a lot of tea on this survey, and I’ve drunk it too, necessitating polite requests to use suburban bathrooms. I do love getting a nose at the décor. There have been pink shag-pile carpets and perfumed toilet roll cosies; the Body Shop shampoo collections of all-female households and IKEA flat-pack favourites for couples. I have seen tiny pale-blue opaque glass hand-basins in the apartments of wealthy singles and child-friendly plastic sea creatures arranged around the bathtubs of family homes. There have been upscale designer wall cabinets into which I’ve stretched a guilty hand to help myself to Clarins creams – well, you have to have some perks in every job, that’s what I say – and miniature perfume collections which have been cheekily dabbed at to freshen myself.
I’ve asked questions, collected data, handed over information packs and followed up with phone calls. All with a smile and an awareness of my training techniques in customer relations. Even though it’s only a survey about energy saving in the home, I believe it is still important to look professional and not let standards slip like some of the other women on the job. I’ve always thought it is easier to get a better response when you look smart; it doesn’t do to look shabby when cold-calling at people’s houses. So, glossy hair, a business suit, make-up and some kind of heels are the order of the day. Even though this attire isn’t compulsory I prefer to wear it. And I’ve clocked up more completed surveys than the reps who have worn trainers and sweatpants. The truth is, I actually like wearing outfits that give me authority. Flat shoes and loose-fitting tops do not make the best of my body shape, but fitted suits with jackets that nip in at the waist and pencil-line skirts slit to the knee always get me noticed. And I like that attention. I like walking along the road with a slight swing to my hips as my long hair is ruffled in the breeze. I like feeling my high heavy breasts agitated by my push-up bra, and the attention they receive from the drivers of passing cars. When I wear glossy hold-ups or stockings I always make a point of running a hand ‘absent-mindedly’ up and down my calves as I sit listening to male customers’ experiences of their local recycling facilities – it’s always such dull matters that I am obliged to research. And they al
ways get distracted, yet they dare not say why.
And, naughty girl that I am, I like this tension. I like suburban middle-aged men. I like moistening my lips with my tongue before I answer their questions, playing with my hair and thrusting my chest at them with a coquettish giggle, especially if their wives are present. I like to tease them along to the point where they are overheating, adjusting their trousers, clearing their throats and asking me to repeat that last question, please, as for some reason their concentration wavered. I like their politeness because I know it masks a raging torrent of unrealised desires, or desires that have been trampled on by years of parenthood and conformity. It turns me on.
I don’t care that much what he looks like, within reason. He can be overweight, balding, badly dressed or dull. As long as he is clean and presentable and of sound mind he is fair game for my flirtatious sport. And I’ve been having myself a considerable amount of fun teasing other women’s husbands on this job. It can really brighten up the day if I know I can drive some guy to an erotic frenzy – or as frenzied as it gets in Metroland.
The job is actually coming to an end soon. It’s lasted three months, and soon the statisticians will take over and I’ll be on to my next freelance public-relations contract. Which may be just as well, as last week my little games got out of hand and it’s crossed my mind there might be repercussions if my employers at the local authority ever found out. I think things are OK, but one can never be sure.
It was about 3.30 in the afternoon and I’d only been able to find a couple of houses in my designated block for that day with anyone at home. It can be the dead time for door-to-door surveys, as most people are at work or shopping between the rush hours. Anyway, I knew someone was at this semi-detached 1930s property as a Mozart piano sonata was resounding out of the open window and it did sound so very civilised and soothing. I sensed correctly that a slightly older person would be playing such music when a bloke of about fifty answered the door. As soon as he addressed me with a ‘Can I help you?’ I clocked that he was public school, maybe Oxbridge educated. His confident posture and tall trim body spoke of a disciplined life, and his dress was very formal for the middle of the afternoon: shirt and tie, pale-blue M&S V-necked jumper and conservative-looking dark-grey suit trousers.
Sex with Strangers Page 14
