by Ashe Barker
“God you’re beautiful, Eva. You feel so good. So tight.” He eases back, and into me once more, to the hilt, his cock nudging my cervix. I moan, arch, stretching under him, my arms outstretched above my head. This is bliss. Sheer, absolute, bloody bliss. My hips are gyrating as I thrust back, trying to increase the pressure, find more friction, more sensation.
“Yes, angel, yes. Take me, take all of me. God I adore you, so sweet, so fucking sweet…” He slips his hands under my bottom to lift me, holding me to him and angling my hips so he can hit that spot, with every long, hard stroke.
I come quickly with a fractured cry, my whole body loose, melting around him. He stills, his face tight with intense concentration as he fights for control while I convulse and writhe under him. When I am still again he starts to move, slowly, gently, his hand slipping between us to stroke my clitoris until once more I am thrashing with passion, desperately reaching for yet another climax. It dances just out of reach, then I have it, and I am once more circling out of control, sparks shooting through every part of me as I squeeze around him. With a low growl he slams into me hard as his own climax takes over. He thrusts again, and again, and I jolt under the power and fury of it, delighted almost as much at his pleasure as I am at my own.
At last it is over. We are still, quiet, the only sound our ragged breathing as we lie motionless, a mass of twisted limbs and tangled sheets. He makes no move to shift his weight from me, and I make no move to remind him. We are simply fine, together.
Eventually Nathan rolls over on to his back and, piling pillows behind him, he props himself up against the headboard. He pulls me up alongside, his left arm slung around my shoulders. In his right hand he has the phone, which he clicks on. With a few strokes on the screen he has my porno pictures up, in glorious Technicolor. He holds the phone for me to see, and I cringe.
“Please, delete them. I don’t want you having pictures of me. Please.” I look up at him, pleading. How could I have let him take those shots? How could he have done it to me?
“You can delete them yourself, Eva. In a minute. First, though, do you see a difference between the two shots?” He toggles between them. I don’t want to look but he nudges me, insisting I pay attention.
“Do you see a difference, Eva?”
I take the phone and look carefully. There is a difference. Subtle, but definitely not the same. Are both pictures of me?
“Yes, Eva, they are both you.”
Uh-oh, more thinking aloud, getting to be a dodgy habit.
Flicking to one photo he holds the phone up in front of me. “This is the first picture I took, right after I finished waxing you. This is your not-a-chuckly-teddy look. This is you not enjoying yourself. Definitely not aroused. You hated the waxing, didn’t you?” At my silence he prompts. “Eva, didn’t you? It’s a good thing my nearest neighbours are three floors down or someone might have called the police, the din you made.”
I grimace, remembering, and he kisses the top of my head.
Using his thumb to scroll through he brings up the other picture. “This one, on the other hand, this is your fuck-me-please, I’m-gagging-for-it look. This was what you looked like after I made you come with my fingers in your arse, before I fucked you just now. In this picture you are definitely aroused. Can you see what’s different, Eva?”
Embarrassed I shake my head. There’s something, definitely, but I’m not sure specifically what. I look again at the second shot, a perfect view of my own genitals, pretty and naked and very, very exposed. Wow.
“Mmm, wow indeed.” He agrees. Did I say that out loud? Apparently so. I really must try to watch that. “Pretty bloody amazing. Beautiful, in fact. Ready for a biology lesson, Miss Byrne?”
“What do you mean? I know what all the bits are.” I am somewhat indignant. “A level biology says I know my way around the female genitalia.”
“Only A level? You disappoint me, Eva. Still, it’s a start. We can work with that.”
“Grade A!” I interrupt, indignant.
“Naturally, Miss Byrne. May I continue?”
I nod somewhat sullenly it has to be said.
“Thank you. Now allow me to take you on a guided tour round your own genitalia, your aroused genitalia, that is. First, compare the colour—you’re much pinker, darker in the second picture. And look at your clitoris.” He toggles between the two and I see that in the second picture my clit is much bigger, swollen. So are the lips of my vagina. It’s really very obvious now he’s pointed it out.
“Do you see how your clit has swollen? That’s one way I know for sure when you’re enjoying whatever I’m doing to you. Through the pain, under the pain. You might ask me to stop, but if your clit’s swollen and pink, if your nipples are hard like little red pebbles and if the lips at the entrance to your vagina are swollen and pink too that tells me that whatever your mouth might be saying, your body’s fucking loving it. You’ve seen enough now, Eva. Delete the pictures if you want.” He hands me the phone, and leans over me, his gaze gentle, serious, a soft smile on his lips. Lifting my knees with his hand he gently pushes them apart, the backs of his fingers lightly stroking between my legs. His gaze leaves my face to fix on a point beyond the end of the bed. I follow it, and see myself reflected in the mirror on the wardrobe door, my newly hairless genitals in all their glory. Instinctively I make to close my legs, but he pushes them open again. Bloody hell, am I to have no secrets?
“There’s pleasure/pain Eva, and that’s what I show you. And then there’s just pain. The nasty sort. Your body knows the difference. Your head still has to learn. But you’re a fast learner, so we’ll work on it.”
“Today? Will we be working on it today?”
“Not today. It’s still too soon. You need to get over yesterday. And now, I think you need to get some sleep, sweetheart.”
I hadn’t realised I was yawning, but he’s right. I am bone weary, again. He pulls me close and I snuggle into his chest, my arm slung across him. “Tomorrow then…” I murmur as he pulls the duvet around us.
“Mmm, we’ll see.” The quiet whisper brushes my ear as he bends to kiss my hair, and I feel safe again.
Chapter Four
When I awaken I am alone, tucked up warm and cosy in Nathan’s bed. I glance across at the clock. Two twenty. I have been asleep for a couple of hours. I stretch, allowing my fingers to drift downwards to explore my new, hair-free body. I slide my fingers over the mound where my flame-coloured thatch used to be, and I definitely like this feel better. Smooth, sort of peachy. It really is rather nice. I probe further, spreading my legs now to reach between them. The sensation is really very pleasant, much more enjoyable than my previous fumbles in this department, but not nearly so exquisite as when Nathan touches me. But I’m loving the smooth silkiness of my skin, the wetness instantly starting to gather and pool as I stroke my clit. I can feel the sensitive little nub swelling under my hands, and I’m just wondering about looking around for the mirror to aid my voyage of discovery when I become aware of sounds from elsewhere in the apartment. I lie still for a few seconds, listening.
I can hear the low hum of the television out in the lounge area and suddenly want to be out there with Nathan. Not in here, alone. I slip out of bed and retrieve my—well, Nathan’s—dark navy bathrobe from behind the leather sofa. Tying the belt I pad barefoot into the lounge.
Nathan is lying on the settee. At first he doesn’t realise I am there, his attention riveted on the television where Team GB is gearing up for great things in the Olympic velodrome. I approach soundlessly, planting a kiss on the top of his head from behind.
His reflexes are good, I’ll grant him that as he shoots out his arm, grabs me and tumbles me forward over the back of the settee. I land in his lap, my bathrobe unceremoniously tangled around my shoulders leaving my bum exposed. Never one to miss an opportunity Nathan holds me, wriggling, across his knee and lands several hard slaps on my rump. I squeal, laughing as he lets me go and I scramble up to take his gorgeous
face between my palms and kiss him again, deeply. He is badly in need of a shave and the stubble is scratchy, sexy. I lift my head to look into his twinkling, dark chocolate eyes, and he winks at me.
“Nice nap, Miss Byrne?”
“Mmm, lovely. What now? What are we doing today?”
“Chilling. Watching the Olympics. Care to join me?” He shifts me around so I am lying alongside him on the settee, our legs intertwined.
“Sounds great. Mind if I get a cup of tea and a snack first, though? I’m starving.”
“Is that a hint I’m not looking after you properly, Miss Byrne? Stay there.” He pushes easily to his feet and heads over to the kitchen.
“I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to disturb you. I can get my own tea.”
“If you’re feeling energetic get the guitar and show me how well you can play it. I fancy another of your private little concerts, Miss Byrne. Then I might have to jump your bones again, sadly. Can’t be helped. You’re very, very sexy when you play, do you know that?” He tosses the careless compliments back over his shoulder as he grabs a couple of mugs from a cupboard and fills the kettle.
Always in my element when playing music, whatever the instrument, I’m happy to comply. I look around for the guitar and spot it still propped against the kitchen worktop where I left it. I scramble off the settee and fetch it. Coming back, I perch on the edge of the settee, cradling the instrument across my knees, strumming lightly and listening to the tone. Instinctively I turn the tuning keys ever so slightly, quite unnecessarily as I tuned it only a couple of hours or so ago. Nathan comes back, placing a tray on the coffee table in front of me, carrying two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate Bourbon biscuits.
“My favourites.” He smiles, nibbling on one as he sits on the settee opposite me, leaning back to enjoy my performance.
“Any requests?” I ask, glancing across at him, remembering that first time I played for him, in the kitchen at Black Combe. His answer is the same now as it had been then. “No. You choose.”
I nod, and strum a few experimental chords before picking up the old Ralph McTell classic, Streets of London. Never much of a singer I hum along, bending over the instrument, rocking slightly and glancing up from time to time to find his attention unwavering, fixed on me. When I finish I sit back, smiling. I’m not an especially accomplished guitarist, not by my normal standards, but I can get by well enough. And I love music, I just love playing, whatever the instrument.
Nathan clearly appreciates my efforts. “As ever, Miss Byrne, you impress me. I get hard just looking at you with an instrument in your hands. Particularly mine.” He winks. “Maybe you could give me guitar lessons. And did I mention how very sexy you are when you’re performing for me? That first time, when you played Bolero, it was all I could do not to fuck you senseless there and then. Interesting choice of music that night, I must say. Very sensual, provocative. I rather thought you might be gagging for it. I was, definitely. But with Rosie and Grace there, I thought best not…”
Entering into the spirit I return the banter. “Pity. I can see your problem, though. And you’ve so made up for it since.” I grin at him cheekily, loving the suggestive tit-for-tat, another first for me. Then, my curiosity and innate seriousness getting the better of me, I ask the question uppermost in my mind at this moment. “How come you’ve got a guitar, but you don’t play? And a piano?”
I am puzzled. I just can’t see why anyone would own two such beautiful instruments and never use them. The beautiful piano back at Black Combe graces the large dining room but had stood there untouched, for years I gather, before I got my hands on it.
“The guitar was a present from my brother. He thought I needed a hobby. And I bought the piano because I like it. It’s a nice thing.” He reaches for another Bourbon.
“Hmph, your brother obviously doesn’t know you very well. If he knew where your interests really lay he’d have bought you whips and a set of handcuffs. Don’t you two get on?” The words slip out before I realise what I’m saying, and I look up tentatively.
To my relief Nathan is still smiling, leaning forward to pick up his mug. He takes a sip. “Me and my brother get on just fine, Miss Byrne, and I suspect Daniel has an idea regarding my ‘interests’ as you put it. I rather suspect he shares them—sort of a family failing you might say. But I already have lots of whips and handcuffs, as you well know. And now I have a guitar too. Which would you prefer to play with this afternoon?”
“Does he know about your whips and chains? Daniel?”
“I’m sure he does. And, Miss Byrne, it’s handcuffs, not chains. Although I prefer a nice piece of rope personally. You seem very determined to discuss my other toys. Should I fetch a pair of handcuffs for you, demonstrate how they work? Or would you rather play me another tune?”
In response I grip the guitar neck and bend over it again. Feeling a little of the same challenge I felt that first night at Black Combe I’m determined to use this opportunity to show off my skills, my talents. And quite consciously to manipulate the situation, if only to prove to myself I can. I want to play something sensual, sexy, arousing, and after a moment or two’s thought I settle for an acoustic version of Something, by George Harrison.
I have Nathan’s complete attention, as before. He leans back in the settee, his eyes never leaving me. Even though I never look up from the instrument I can feel his dark, brooding gaze on my bent head as I stretch my fingers across the neck of the guitar to form the chords, strumming softly. Eventually the soft melody ends and the last strains die away. Neither of us makes a move. Not wanting to discuss whips and handcuffs again, at least not for a while, I decide to try something a little more ambitious. This is a lovely instrument, responsive. I’ve become attuned to it, this might work.
I lean over the guitar again and start another piece, this time a classical melody but one made famous as a film soundtrack, as so many are. This piece is written for classical guitar and sounds superb when played unplugged. Under my fingers the sensuous, romantic, melody of Cavatina by Stanley Myers floats into the room, haunting, atmospheric. And it seems to fit the mood today quite well.
Nathan is listening idly, obviously content to let me strum away, but he comes to attention as I start this last piece, as he recognises it. His eyes are on me, I can feel them, intense, burning, even though I never take mine off the neck of the guitar where I’m carefully working the steel strings with my fingers. The fingering is complicated, and I’m playing pretty much by ear—I need to concentrate. The lovely, haunting melody fills the room, soars around us, caresses us. The passion and tragedy within the piece is drawn out by the nakedness of the delivery, just as it was intended. No frills, no fancy electronic treatment. Just me, a guitar and a beautiful piece of music.
“I recognise that, I’ve heard it before somewhere.” Nathan’s words are murmured softly as the last strains die away. I glance up, meet his eyes, which are dark, almost black. This time we’re alone, and I know what comes next.
“That was superb, again, Eva. What was it?” The question is voiced softly, Nathan leaning forward to gaze at me.
“Cavatina, by Stanley Myers.” His blank look tells me he needs more. “It was the theme tune to The Deer Hunter.”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. A lovely piece, and played so beautifully. And deliberately? I think you know the effect it had on me, and what happens next?” I do, but still he makes no move. And then, “Is that how you think of me, Eva? As a hunter? A predator? Have I caught you?” The soft voice is gentle, caressing, the question a serious one.
Appreciating the significance of the moment I don’t answer immediately, considering his words. Maybe my choice was not so random after all. I suspect that nothing ever is in my world.
At last, I answer, “I happened across your path, and you caught me. Perhaps. But it was me who was hunting. And I found.”
Smiling softly he reaches over to take the guitar and places it back in its case. “You certainly did
, thank God. And so did I.” He hesitates, watching me, then continues, his voice low and seductive, “You know I need to fuck you now, don’t you? I think that was the idea, yes?”
“Yes,” I whisper, marvelling at my own new-found power to affect events.
“Here?”
It seems I have a choice of location too. Is there no end to my powers? I nod. “Here’s good,” I whisper, looking across the coffee table at him. He holds my gaze, his chocolate eyes sexy and sensual, his arousal obvious.
“Any particular preferences, Little Eva? What would you like to do?”
I think for a moment, then smile, remembering. “That thing you did last night, when you were inside me and you stroked me, stroked my clit, until I came. And came. And came. Can you do that again? Please?”
“It will be my absolute pleasure, Miss Byrne.”
And it was mine too. Absolutely.
* * * *
Later, our long cold teacups replenished, Nathan sits down next to me on the settee. He picks up my mug and places it in my hands. “Here, drink your tea before it goes cold again, you insatiable little beast. I made Earl Grey for you. Fancy a Bourbon?”
I sip and nibble in silence, his arm lightly slung over my shoulders while Nathan’s attention drifts back to the Olympics. The cycling has long since given way to high diving, and find myself watching enviously as the lean, athletic bodies angle gracefully through the air to land with hardly a ripple.
I murmur absently, “I wish I could swim.”
“What’s this, Miss Byrne, something you can’t actually do? Maybe there’s hope for my battered ego yet.”
