She stretched one thumb out and stroked his tender bud and he jerked forwards with a half-strangled gasp. Twisting away. And she saw him close his eyes.
Oh God. This was as new to him as it was to her. Not being dominated, but this. Oh dear God. But it was too late, far too late to go back now.
He was breathing hard but he was relaxing again, moving back into her touch. Pressing his virgin ass to her hand.
Jas bit her lip, but her voice was steady. ‘Good. Just like that.’
She worked her thumb into his entrance, bit by bit, caressing. Exploring his ass and her own desire with slow careful movements. And she thought that for this, for both of them, it was a good thing she had sensible Jas along.
Further and further she pressed – halting when he tensed, resuming when he breathed again – until she had to withdraw. She drew her thumb out, massaged the reddened flesh around his hole while she squeezed and released his cheeks, and smiled as his cock bobbed before him helplessly. His breaths were harsh rasps, but he was ready.
She worked her way in again, easier this time. Deeper. And she was fucking him. Fucking him. His ass was open to her now, and she licked her fingers one by one. Slid each one, wet with saliva into him and fucked him, and held him to her while she did. Rubbed her naked breasts on his sweating back and refused to think about what she was doing. Just gave herself to the hunger.
He groaned, moving with her rhythm, clenching around her fingers and she laughed. Laughed because this just couldn’t, didn’t happen. And yet she was here. Inside him. In sweet violation.
She circled his cock with her other hand and began to stroke him. A stroke for every thrust, trapping him between sharp points of pleasure. Her captive. She was paying him back everything she owed and tenfold besides. But she couldn’t talk any more; she could only give him her invading fingers and her kisses on his neck and her pumping fist.
And he took her, all of her. He writhed and thrust his hips into her punishment, twisting his head from side to side, ice-blond hair streaking the window with moisture. Groaning so beautifully into his gag when his come flooded over her fingers, snowy drops on the carpet, the window, his thighs. Splattered and stained, her icy river god imprisoned and branded by her desire.
He was shaking still, shuddering, when she lifted wet fingers to pull away his gag and cover his mouth with her own. She fumbled with the knots of the tie and got them loose enough that he could drag his hands free. So he could pin her to the floor and rip the bikini panties away, the material welting her skin as it tore.
‘Witch. Pretty little witch, what have you done?’ he demanded. ‘And now I can’t even punish you.’
She caressed his shoulders and looked down at his soft cock as he knelt over her. A drop of come fell onto her belly, lay there like a single gem adorning her skin. She looked up into those eyes blazing green fire at her and she smiled.
‘Then I’ll wait until you can. All night.’ And she pulled his mouth to hers again.
In the dark of morning, made darker than night by the blackout shades over the window, she left.
She wore one of his shirts and a pair of his shorts. He had wrapped her in them when he discovered her shivering after her shower. Insisted she put them on and snuggle between the folds of blanket before he would even order dinner from room service. Then he’d wrapped his arms around her, smelling of crisp soap and dewy skin from his own shower, and buried his nose in her hair.
She closed the door and leant her head on it. The hotel corridor was empty and quiet, holding its breath and waiting for the morning rush. Somewhere far away a vacuum hummed. She was swimming in these clothes, drowning in them, but she was going back to her room to pack so that she could check out one day early. She had promised herself just one night. And that night was over.
‘Standby passenger Jas Milford, please come to the ticket counter.’
Here it was: the last chance to turn back. She closed her eyes and gripped her carry-on bag, ignored the throb between her sore thighs as she stood. No and no. She wasn’t going to think of the way he’d fucked her: hour after sweet hour until they fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. She was going home.
She stood and walked to the ticket counter.
She didn’t notice until the plane was halfway to its cruising altitude that she’d bitten through to the quick of her thumb and spattered the paper boarding pass with red. She stared down at it, feeling her throat tighten. But it was futile. Too late, Jas. Really too late. He goes back to his life and you to yours.
But he had a name. And she had a name. And if it mattered, if it was fated and she was to be proved wrong once again, then that was more than enough.
Fish Stella Black
THE THING ABOUT Stephen Moore was that he was fabulous looking. He was in very good shape from the swimming, dark in a Mediterranean way and six foot two. His eyes were flecked by long black lashes from under which dark-blue eyes would look at women in much the same way that women sometimes look at men – with a smile of appreciation and subtle messages of gentle encouragement. Stephen liked to look and, like most voyeurs, he was able to listen – a very unusual characteristic in any man who does not work as a psychiatrist.
Women were attracted to Stephen and he was admired. Some went after him, plighting the various advantages they had been born with. They were all disappointed. He did not reject them exactly, he was always polite and friendly, but he did not wish to make love with them. So they gathered in gastropubs and told each other that he was gay. Well. He must be. It was all very well moisturising and wearing nice suits (they told each other) but he was in his thirties and he was displaying none of the procreative impulses that propel heterosexual men to appreciate visual evidence of fecundity.
Stephen Moore was not gay. He loved women. He was passionate about them. But his tastes were very particular and did not conform to the conventional stimuli whereby the hypothalamus co-ordinates the nervous and hormonal systems through the pituitary gland and stimulates the adrenals and testes to engage in the wonderful transcendence that is arousal.
His ‘chemistry of love’ operated outside the normal conventions of hip-to-waist ratios and glossy evidence of health.
He liked women to be plump, hirsute and underwater.
He was excited by the sight of women swimming underwater and he always had been; ever since he could remember being aroused by anything, he had enjoyed watching the flesh and hair of female bodies floating and rippling in translucent waves. And the more flesh and hair there was, the more excited he became.
This taste had inevitably lead to a personal life whose recreations were largely aquatic. He was a member of Club Sportif, the most expensive health club in London and the one known to offer three fine clean and enormous swimming pools. One was for teaching, one was outside (open in the summer) and one, inside, was crystal clear, blue and heated to the right temperature for maximum enjoyment.
It was lucky for Stephen that he swam extremely well. At a grammar school in Manchester he had been in the important swimming teams, being the master of a competitive crawl whose speed had earned more than one coveted cup. As a teenager he had considered taking the sport up competitively, but maturity and reflection had told him that the person who is able to swim very fast is not necessarily the person who has time to float and watch, and watching was the pleasure rather than the triumph of victory. He did not want to turn a hobby into a profession that forced him to flash past the sights that he appreciated – sights that he could not have ignored even if he had wanted to.
So he became a senior development manager for a transnational mobile phone company (which earned him an executive salary of £80,000 a year) and spent his spare evenings in the Club Sportif.
The health centre was, of course, frequented by young hairless women whose lives were devoted to obeying the dictates of contemporary aesthetics and who concentrated on manipulating their shapes to conform to those advertised on billboards. They were proud to ‘keep in shape’
and asked no questions about the boardroom decisions that created that shape. But there were also women who were losing the battle, whose genetic birthright defied personal management and whose emotional lives had lead to the comfort of eating.
They were told by well meaning ‘friends’ that men did not like fat women and by doctors that if they did not lose a stone they risked high blood pressure and heart disease. Fear, then, propelled these ladies towards the Club Sportif, and fear propelled them up and down the slow lane of the swimming pool, doggy-paddling frantically to save themselves from the prophecies.
Stephen always swam in the slow lane. He had developed a swimming style that allowed him to hide the fact that, if necessary, he could probably swim to the Isle of Wight and back. Prowess was not the point. The front crawl and the butterfly stroke were not the styles of the slow lane; a friendly bobbing breaststroke, slow but sure, this was the style that served his purpose. This and a pair of goggles.
So he would follow behind the women swimming in the slow lane and enjoy the vision of rump and chubby thighs. As these thighs opened to propel the body through the water so they revealed the latex-covered shapes of mons and buttock; she was only her flesh, fluid and vulnerable.
If he was lucky he would find himself behind a woman who was not only plump, but also negligent in her personal grooming. That is, the hair of the pubis would escape from underneath the gusset of her swimsuit, or it could be seen under her arms, bushy and generous. The combination of a plump white arm, a cheeky frond, rippling buttocks, rippling thighs – everything moving, the body struggling, these were the visual experiences that inspired Stephen with a passion so intense he was occasionally actually frightened by it.
Sometimes his desires felt like strong cocktails; sometimes they were overwhelming; often they seemed like love. As he watched these glittering female forms move through ferments of bubbles, he was possessed by a desire not only to possess them, to have and own them, but to join with them, to protect them, to take them away somewhere and live alone together where there was only silence and sex. And water.
The swimming pool of the Club Sportif was disappointing in one aspect. Though there were no actual rules about swimwear, women chose to protect their hair with hideous Zoggs latex swimming caps. Stephen disliked these intensely. They were an unforgivable eyesore whose only purpose seemed to be to intentionally detract from the beauty of the wearer and which confined the hair of the head to a boring pate when it should have been floating in the water, free and soft, so that every filament could be seen and appreciated.
At this stage you might ask, did Stephen ever manage to engage in intercourse and, if so, was it on dry land?
The answer is that this depended on the vagaries of luck and the practicability of location.
He liked to make love in the water, but, if necessity and the law required, he would make out in other places.
He liked the pudenda to be wet and the hairs of the pubis to be widespread and damp; he liked to press his palms down on the pudenda, feel the wiry fuzz and the soft lips underneath, then caress the brush which spread from the thighs and around to the back of the buttocks. He liked to nuzzle the forest under the arms and he loved the different smells exuded by wet hair.
He would kiss cold lips while pushing his fingers through the mesh of hairs, manipulating gently or not, depending on the messages received by his instincts. These were uncannily accurate and meant that he was a good lover. He knew the secrets of submission and he knew how to play them for maximum enjoyment. He knew which women liked to be dominated with mouth and fingers and strength and who needed the gentle kindness of soft intimacy.
When he heard their arousal and felt their clammy flesh and the tickle of bristle, when he was allowed to look deep into the dark hairs around their cunt and anus, sniffing and licking and stroking, then the blood would pump, his dick would fill. Hardened and dizzy with need, disorientated by those seconds of desperation for satisfaction that must precede love-making, he would spread them on their back, lift their unshaven legs over his shoulders and push himself in, big and hard and slow, until they moaned and screamed and lost themselves. As he was swept away, so there was gratitude and affection, the emotions that are the satisfaction of fantasies fulfilled.
His early experiences, the adventures of his twenties, had been spent discovering how best to meet his needs. Accessing esoteric portals on the internet, his experiments had taken him to some unusual places. He had enjoyed many marvellous hairy encounters.
His adventures had been aided by his membership to the Hairy Mary Club of Great Britain, a network of fellow enthusiasts who shared his interests. The Hairy Mary services (known, collectively, as ‘Fringe Benefits’) included a gallery displaying pictures of ‘Bushy Pussy’ and a forum, entitled ‘Muff Meetings’, which was designed to encourage personal encounters. There was also a well-produced newsletter, with a centrespread showing ‘Minge of the Month’, and a lively letters page where debates tended to focus on the questions initiated by a society whose male majority liked the body of women to be smooth, but their hair to be long.
Through these useful networks of information and mutually satisfying exchange, Stephen soon found a professional Hairy Diva or HD as they were known in the personal columns of the Hairy Mary website.
She – Margerita – was Portuguese. She had a child, no qualifications and no husband. She needed money and was grateful to be paid to remain unshaved when the alternative would have been to spend a fortune in depilation. Having sex with Stephen was certainly preferable to getting up at 5.30 a.m. in order to clean offices.
Margerita complied with Stephen’s wishes. She had a round brown body, large orbular buttocks, smooth fleshy thighs, plump arms, large breasts. The hair on her head was long and shiny and black and reached halfway down her back; the hair of her armpits bristled as a brown froth; her pubis was a black bush which displayed itself over her stomach, between her thighs and curled as a shade between her buttocks.
Margerita preferred to work at home as it saved on childcare expenses. Stephen would relish her naked body lying in the bath, lit by candles so that she became a delicious form of where malleable flesh met with textured crevice and textured crevice sprouted floating filament. He would gaze entranced and then fuck her while she was still wet, lying on a towel on top of her candle-wick counterpane.
Her tiny room was uncharming – with yellow walls, plastic furniture and a view over a railway track – but once she was in it the place was fantastic with body and fur and hair and sexual possibility. She had a yellow bedcover and the tones of her brown skin were offset by it, giving them a sheen that highlighted her own particular beauty.
He familiarised himself with the luxury of her textures, the bristles of her hair and her soft skin. She allowed him to photograph her, close up, the red flesh of her vaginal lips spread at the centre of the massive fur of her pudenda. Her anus, the inner thighs, all hairy, all recorded on his digital camera so that they could be enjoyed again on his Mac when he was alone. She was a beautiful screensaver.
Then he bought her a one-piece swimming costume from the La Senza collection in Harvey Nichols. He ensured that at a size 14 it was a size too small. As she tried it on in front of her mirror, he realised he was right. The cut and colour were perfect for her: the neon orange magnified the dark tones of her skin and the blue streaks of her dark hair; the high cut of the legs revealed the full bush. Her breasts, constrained, moved provocatively within the neoprene. All parts of her fabulous figure strained to break out.
She agreed to accompany him as a guest to the Club Sportif and happily swam up and down the shallow end in a way that confirmed an urban existence where life had started on a housing estate in Stockwell and graduated to her father’s tapas bar on the South Lambeth Road.
Margerita could not swim well and struggled up and down the blue lanes in a charming disorder of legs and arms, struggling and splashing, her head out of the water, but her long hair flowing behind,
round her shoulders and back, floating beautifully in the clear blue.
Stephen swam behind her, revelling in the sight of her buttocks, encased in the tight orange, wobbling in front of him, her pubes wild and, because she was his, he knew he could draw up behind her and finger her provocatively, feeling between her legs, exciting her and himself. Afterwards she gave him blow jobs in the car park. They were always mind-blowing.
But the time came when the process of aging arrived with unwelcome intimations. He knew he still looked great – the moisturising and skin care had been worth it, as had the sensible eating and responsible drinking, the swimming and bench presses. His muscle tone was fine, his biceps were respectable; he had more money than he could spend. He had friends but they were all beginning to marry each other.
Loneliness began to claw. Margerita was fine but he wanted more than a bovine supplicant to whom he could not really talk. He wanted a relationship with a woman who could enjoy his needs but who was also fun to be with, who he could love in a meaningful way, with whom he could discuss the future.
He began to feel slightly depressed. Work began to be a chore; the business trips a bore; the senior management operational strategy meetings worse. His concentration started to go; his enthusiasms dwindled; he slept badly.
Unaccustomed to misery, he repaired briefly to a ‘psychosexual relationship counsellor’ who advertised herself in the back of Time Out. He did not think that he had sexual problems, exactly, but he felt confused and he did not want to talk to his friends about his innermost anxieties.
The therapist expressed no surprise when they discussed his proclivities. One of her clients, after all, could only achieve an erection whilst lying underneath a Jaguar XJS.
She lead Stephen to his early experiences and they uncovered the memory of his goldfish, Elvis, who had died without receiving an adequate burial. He had stared into the tank for some days, immersed in a deep misery which he had not felt either before or since. The therapist said that at that key moment he had learnt to cut off his feeling, his subconscious had taken over and he had started to sublimate.
Sex with Strangers Page 21
