Guilty Pleasure

by Jane O'Reilly

  ‘Spend the day with me,’ he says, when I go to gather up my clothes. I stop, turn to him with my skirt in my hand. ‘We can go out, explore.’

  ‘I’ve only got this to wear,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and that wicked smile curves his mouth. ‘I know.’

  We go for breakfast, and he gropes me under the table as I eat the froth from my cappuccino with a spoon and pretend his hand is not under my skirt. I drag him to my favourite clothing shop and make him wait as I buy myself something to wear, and when the assistant is distracted by another customer, he slips into the changing room cubicle I’m currently occupying and puts his mouth between my legs and refuses to move until I come on his tongue. When I go to the till to pay, I can tell from the assistant’s expression that she knew exactly what we were doing, and she is not impressed.

  I’m too wrapped up in my post-orgasmic haze to care.

  He rubs up against me as we admire a stunning Gainsborough portrait in the National Gallery, and I play with his cock as we sit through a crappy action film at the cinema in Leicester Square. And all the time, we talk. About everything. About nothing.

  Or rather, he asks questions, and I talk, but I’m okay with that.

  ‘So tell me, Tasha,’ he asks, as I hold his erection in a tight fist and shove popcorn in my mouth. ‘How did you end up working at Thomas Associates?’

  ‘I was working at a firm in London, but after three years of being constantly turned down for promotion, I had to make a change. I thought I might have a better chance at a smaller firm.’

  ‘And you thought that masturbating in your office would help you with that?’

  I slick my hand over the head of his stiff cock, lean a little closer. The cinema isn’t busy, but it’s busy enough to please us both. ‘I didn’t mean to get caught.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  A car explodes on the screen, flooding the cinema with sound. The scene crashes to an end, with explosions and gunfire. ‘To get my own back,’ I say. ‘To stick two fingers up at all of you. Because being a woman in a male-dominated profession really sucks sometimes. You have to work twice as hard just to make people think you’re half as good. And everyone assumes that all you’re really interested in is shoes and marriage and babies. No-one refuses to promote a thirty-year-old man on the offchance that he might want children. I’ve put my whole life on hold for my career.’ And up until this point, I hadn’t realised how unhappy I am about that.

  ‘So why are you screwing me? Is this some sort of revenge fuck, Tasha? Did I cramp your career progress? Did you want my job? Is that it?’

  My hand stills on his erection. ‘No.’ I’m screwing him because it makes me feel feminine and powerful and sexual, something that I’ve denied myself for far too long. ‘Being with you is something different. It isn’t about that.’

  ‘So what is it about?’

  ‘Pleasure,’ I tell him. ‘Pure, unadulterated, hedonistic pleasure.’ I caress him again, locking my fingers tightly round his girth, squeezing, finding him deliciously hard. ‘You’ve reminded me how much I like cock. It’s been a really long time since I last had any.’

  ‘I aim to please,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ I tell him, thrilling us both with a quick flick of my wrist. ‘And you’re so damn good at it.’

  ‘How long?’ he asks.

  ‘How long what?’

  ‘How long since you last had cock?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he says. ‘That’s a long time to go without, Tasha.’

  ‘I didn’t want any distractions,’ I tell him. ‘And being in a relationship can hinder a woman’s career.’ And that’s been my motto for the past eighteen months. But suddenly it doesn’t make me feel determined, it makes me feel angry. I’ve denied myself pleasure for far too long. I’m not prepared to do it any more.

  ‘Speaking of distractions,’ he whispers, ‘we’re being watched.’

  My entire body goes rigid, and I fight the urge to look around. ‘Who by?’

  ‘By a woman on the other side. A couple of rows back.’

  ‘What do you think she can see?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. And this time I do glance back. It takes me a while to locate the woman, nerves and the darkness doing a good job of hiding her, and then something explodes on the screen, sending a flash of light out across the audience, and in that split second, I see her, and she sees me, and something passes between us.

  And I know that she understands. I am not alone in this. I sit back in my seat, and I can’t stop myself from smiling, and I begin to wank Ethan harder, sliding my fist up and down his length, my grip tight, my intention unmistakeable. I want to give her a show. Heat rushes through me, pooling between my thighs, and I let myself enjoy it. I’ll let Ethan take care of it, later. My nipples are tight inside my bra, and I enjoy that too.

  ‘I used to come to the cinema a lot when I was a teenager,’ I whisper to Ethan. ‘I used to pick a film that had been on a while, so it would be quiet, and I used to sit in the back row and masturbate.’ How could I have forgotten about that? The memory comes back to me in a rush now. The total lack of privacy at home, at school, the need to find somewhere I could have the privacy I craved, the first time I came. It had been my guilty pleasure. It had kept me sane in a house that was too small, too cramped, too loud, too full of males. That house is why I’ve focused so hard on my career. I won’t go back to being poor again. I can’t.

  ‘Dirty bitch,’ he whispers, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. I know I have him now. I work him harder, and whisper secrets to him, dirty little secrets, and his cock gets bigger and harder in my hand, and I wonder if it would be wrong to suck him off, and I wonder if that woman is still watching us. ‘Fuck, I need to come.’

  I open my hand and stroke my fingers over the sensitive spot just below the head of his cock, feel the thick length jerk against my hand. Then Ethan wraps his hand around mine, so much bigger, so much stronger, utterly determined. He holds my hand tight around his cock, then he opens his eyes and looks at me, there in the darkness, the flickering light from the screen illuminating those sharp cheekbones and that wicked mouth. ‘Do it, Tasha,’ he whispers. ‘Make me come.’

  And with one final jerk of his wrist, he spills himself all over our hands. I feel it, surprisingly hot, as it slides between my fingers, more and more and more, and I look at him, and I think fuck.

  I didn’t know I wanted this until I met you.

  Chapter Eight

  Somehow, we make it to the end of the film and make it out of the cinema without being arrested. By the time we get outside, the woman has disappeared, and I wonder who she was, what she thought. I feel a strange sense of kinship with her, as if we share a secret, and in a way I suppose we do.

  ‘You’re quite something,’ Ethan says, as we stroll across Leicester Square together.

  ‘I could say the same thing about you,’ I tell him.

  He takes my hand, links his fingers between mine, pulls me closer to him. ‘So what’s next?’ he asks. ‘Cunnilingus on the London Eye? Mutual masturbation in Selfridges?’

  I look up at him, and I can feel myself blushing. He presses a kiss to my hot cheek, strokes the hair back from my face. ‘You’re pretty when you blush,’ he says.

  And it’s then that he has me. Not back there in the cinema when we were all kink and sin and fun, but here, and now, with those silly words. I feel feminine and lovely, something I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever. I was so scared to let myself feel that way, in case it held me back at work. My focus has always been the next promotion, the bigger salary, the security of knowing that the bills will always be paid. I thought that was all I needed.

  I was wrong.

  Ethan Hall is showing me another way. And he’s making it easy and straightforward, and I don’t feel any less for it. But I do feel scared. ‘Ethan,’ I say, and then I pause, not k
nowing what to say next, how this works.

  ‘Yes?’

  You see, the really stupid thing is that I like Ethan. I like him a lot. Not just because he’s filthy, dirty fun, although he is that and more. But because underneath those black suits and that quiet, thoughtful exterior, there’s a wicked intelligence. This isn’t a man who ever rushes or makes rash decisions. Every move he makes is thought about beforehand. He is making his way through life on his own terms, and I like that.

  I envy it.

  I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. And he doesn’t push it, doesn’t try and question me further, he just lets it go, and I like that too.

  ‘You know,’ he says, as we meander slowly towards the underground station. ‘Cal is having a party at his place tonight, and he invited me. I think you might enjoy it.’

  ‘Me?’ I laugh. ‘Enjoy a party at Cal Bailey’s house?’

  Ethan looks down at me, and the corner of his mouth curves up. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Most definitely.’

  I stop, and Ethan stops too. I know him well enough by now to know that he would never suggest something without thinking it through first. If he thinks I would enjoy a party at Cal’s house, there’s a reason.

  And I can’t wait to see what it is.

  We make our way back to Ethan’s house, managing to limit ourselves to a little light petting on the tube. We stand indecently close, close enough to share air and a few more secrets, and before either of us realise it, we’ve missed our stop. We get off anyway and walk, and I discover that Ethan spent his teenage years at an all boys boarding school. He never intended to get divorced, but then he never intended to get married, and he certainly takes more responsibility for the former than the latter.

  We seem so different, the posh boy and the working class girl, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that we are two sides of the same coin. That there is more to this than just two overworked colleagues letting off steam with some crazy sex.

  We stop at a sushi place and he teaches me how to use chopsticks properly and I teach him the delights of sharing noodle soup. We slurp it up like a pair of giggling teenagers, mannerless and disgusting, and we laugh and touch and the rest of the world seems so irrelevant and far away. Slowly, carelessly, we walk back to his house and fuck up against the front door just for the hell of it. I want to ask him more about his wife, but I don’t. I want to ask him what happens next, but I don’t. Instead I stretch out on the sofa with my head in his lap and listen as he reads Salem’s Lot out loud. Something about his voice, about that cut-glass accent, just slices right through me, as if just being near him can make me better somehow.

  And then we catch a train and make our way to Cal Bailey’s house, which is in Hitchin, a stone’s throw from work. I’ve never been there before, and it takes me by surprise. I expected a flat, something blokeish and predictable, but it’s a stylish Edwardian semi, huge and imposing, with stunning detailing and a beautiful garden.

  Ethan takes my hand and leads me along the gravelled driveway towards the house, which is brightly lit, with the sound of music and tipsy voices already filtering out through the late evening air.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I ask him, suddenly anxious.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he says, squeezing my hand.

  I stop. ‘If Cal sees us together, he’ll know,’ I say.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘People think less of women who screw around at work,’ I say.

  ‘Do you really care that much about what people think?’

  ‘I…’ I know we’re all supposed to say no, I don’t give a damn, to hell with them all, but the thing is that I do care. ‘I worked hard to get where I am,’ I say. ‘My job means a lot to me.’

  I stare at the house.

  ‘There’s more to life than your job,’ Ethan says.

  ‘I know that.’ Although recently, there hasn’t been. And now Cal Bailey is going to see us together, and he’s going to know. This isn’t about hiding, or pretending nothing is going on, or two overworked colleagues having crazy sex, not any more. It’s a conscious choice. I can either carry on as I have been, and having nothing in my life but work, or I can walk into that house with Ethan and accept that I need something more.

  By the time I’ve got my breath back and calmed my pulse, we’re at the elegant front door and we’re walking inside. The entrance hall has a tiled floor and carved newel post, but before I can point them out to Ethan, he tugs me forward, deeper into the house. There’s no sign of Cal, but the house is busy, packed with bodies. Cal seems to know a hell of a lot of beautiful people. In fact, pretty much everyone here is young and gorgeous and stylish, and it strikes me how well Ethan fits in. Women slide up to him, kiss his cheek, and he greets all of them like they’re old friends.

  I’m swamped with inadequacy until he locks an arm around my waist and takes great care to introduce me. ‘This is Tasha,’ he says.

  ‘Oh,’ says one of the women, twisting a strand of hair around a manicured finger. ‘Does that mean you’re not playing tonight, Ethan?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ he says, and she sighs and glides away.

  ‘What did she mean, not playing?’ I ask him, because I’m starting to get a vibe from the room. There’s an atmosphere in here, amidst all the gloss and mood lighting and Jo Malone perfume. Everyone seems so…friendly.

  And by friendly, I mean that on the huge leather corner sofa, there’s a couple making out. Which isn’t so weird, in and of itself. I mean, people are clearly a bit tipsy, and you can’t put this many drunk, unnecessarily attractive people in a room together and not have the odd few decide to cop off with each other. But the woman is sat on another man’s knee. And that man has his hand inside her T-shirt. I feel like I shouldn’t be watching, but I can’t seem to stop myself, and god, it’s hot, watching the three of them, even though they’re not really doing anything.

  There’s still no sign of Cal, and Ethan is close behind me, so close that I can feel the press of his long, lean body. His hands come around my waist and settle themselves over my belly and we stand there, not moving, not speaking, simply watching the three of them as the woman strips off her T-shirt and things get a little out of hand.

  And by out of hand, I mean that the man she’s sitting on carries on playing with her nipples, and the other guy, well. He gets to his feet and unfastens his jeans. I’m blinking fast, too fast, sure I’m imagining it. This can’t be real, can it?

  But Ethan is real, I’m sure of that. His hands are real, where they’re sliding under the hem of my T-shirt and gently stroking my skin, and his mouth is real, when it bites down on the side of my neck, and the hard cock pressing between my bum cheeks is definitely real, I’m sure about that.

  The man pushes his jeans down to his knees, and his boxers quickly follow, and he pulls his shirt out of the way as he puts his other hand on the back of her head and pulls her forwards. I’ve never watched anyone do this in real life before, and I jerk back in shock, fascinated, enthralled, utterly awestruck. It seems such a brave thing to do, and envy rears up inside me, until arousal swamps it, and then that’s all there is.

  I can’t stop watching. I don’t want to stop watching. She’s sucking his cock with such blatant enthusiasm, loud and sloppy, and I can see that other people in the room are watching them too. ‘Ethan,’ I whisper.

  ‘Tasha,’ he says. He nuzzles my neck.

  I feel like we shouldn’t be here, like we shouldn’t be watching. It seems so naughty and wrong, and I guess that’s partly what makes it so erotic. One of the men catches my gaze, catches me looking. I don’t look away and neither does he, and suddenly I’m part of it. And I begin to understand that this isn’t just about him, or her, or the three of them, it’s about everyone in the room. They’re going at it in this room because they want to be watched just as much as everyone here wants to watch them.

  I pull in some air, the room suddenly hot and claustrophobic, almost too much for me. As if h
e senses it, Ethan takes my hand. ‘Shall we see what else we can find?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper, though I turn my head and keep watching as he leads me out of the room, long enough to see the other man open his pants and tilt her hips. A flare of heat makes my clit throb.

  I don’t know what to think, how to react, what to do. This is Cal Bailey’s house, although I haven’t seen any sign of him, and clearly Ethan knows things about Cal Bailey that I don’t. ‘Have you been here before?’ I ask, as he leads me out of that room and towards the back of the house and whatever lies that way.

  ‘A couple of times,’ Ethan says.

  ‘And have you…did you…’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  I can’t seem to move when he says that. I mean, I knew he had history. The man is hardly a virgin, nor would I want him to be, but I don’t want to be just another woman he’s brought here. ‘Oh,’ I say.

  There’s a door on the left, and Ethan pulls me through it, pulls me into what looks like an office. There’s a good-sized desk with a Mac on it, shelves of books and files and trinkets, framed prints of artistically shot nudes, which I guess makes it Cal Bailey’s office, given what I now know about him. Ethan pushes the door closed, leaving me nowhere to go. ‘Is that a problem?’ he asks, hands on my shoulders as he searches my face.

  ‘No,’ I say. I try to laugh. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘If it is,’ he says, ‘I need you to tell me.’

  ‘Why would it be a problem?’ I ask him. I move away, pretend to examine one of the photos on the wall.

  ‘Because if you told me you’d fucked other guys here, it would be a problem for me,’ he says. His voice sounds rough, not quite as certain as it usually does.

  I turn around, surprised. ‘It would?’

  ‘Of course it would,’ he says. He moves closer, his hands moving as if he’s going to touch me, but at the last minute, he doesn’t.

  ‘Do you want it to be a problem for me?’ Now I’m the one moving closer. I touch his face, and he closes his eyes, but he doesn’t move away.