Love Rules

by Freya North

  He's behind me, he's to my side, he's in front of me. An image of a huge tribal chief swathed in robes the colour of sunburst is superimposed over him. Paul's face is red and yellow. Now there's a flame tree all over him. And now he's up close against me. His lips are hovering near mine. Touch down. Tongue. I'm kissing Paul. And his hands are all over my body, they're squeezing my boobs and fondling my bum and travelling up and down my back. And mine are grappling and groping him. God, his biceps, his six-pack, his tight bum. We're swaying and pulsing to the music, which is deafening and divine. Christ, I'm turned on, not just by his lip–tongue talent, nor the tantalizing bulge of his hard-on or the fact that he's pinching my nipples and nuzzling my neck. It's more. It's the energy of this place. It's the strange contradiction of stone that is soft, powdering its way between my toes. It's the thrumming tribal beat. It's the sultry, rich, ever-changing colours. It's like being stoned. I suppose, in this derelict quarry, we are stoned in a sense. Actually, it's better than being stoned. It's more real. My senses are in overdrive. I'm gorging on Paul's mouth like I've been half starved. I have no idea if people can see us. I don't care if they can. I want to stay in this moment. I want to be in this place.

  The wink wink nudge nudging started on the coach. It was as if the unbridled unity the group attained inside the Cathédrale was decimated by the startling sunlight and sudden heat which confronted them on leaving. As if, by shielding their eyes from the sun, they hid from the unexpected spirituality they'd just encountered. As if it was suddenly unseemly for publishing and editorial directors to be seen barefoot and blissed out when they were normally known for their professional poise and thrust. No matter how at ease they had felt within the Cathédrale d'Images, it was a comfort zone they could no longer access once the reality of the day outside had hit them. And so the whispers started. Alice was dismayed. How could something that had tasted so good and felt so right have negative ramifications so quickly? Even Anita seemed to be having a good old gossip with Rochelle as they stood in line to board the coach.

  ‘And what do you have to say on the matter?’ Jeanette whispered, slithering into the seat next to Alice, raising an eyebrow while elbowing her in the ribs.

  ‘Yes,’ Jacquie said, popping up from the seat in front, ‘what's your take, Alice?’

  Fuck. Is that it then? Is that where a trance-like snog in some spaced-out quarry gets me? Does my perceived crime really warrant my reputation being compromised? Christ, it was only necking and a bit of a grope – it's not as if we got down and shagged. God, if only we'd've fucked at least it would have made this bit slightly more worthwhile. Hell's Valley indeed.

  ‘Consenting adults,’ Alice declared in an uninterested voice. ‘People shouldn't judge so sweepingly nor condemn so quickly. Perhaps the behind-the-scenes situation justifies the visual dramatics – you know?’

  ‘Blimey, Alice!’ Jacquie said. ‘You do surprise me.’

  ‘Me too,’ Jeanette agreed. ‘After all, she's your main rival at work – and you need him on your side. We all do.’

  ‘God knows I do,’ Jacquie sighed, ‘but not enough to perform that on!’

  Alice stared from one woman to the other and as the pennies began to drop like a one-armed bandit spewing the jackpot, she wondered how best to backtrack.

  ‘Isn't she married?’ Alice hedged her bets, trying to come across as knowing exactly who – never mind what – they were on about.

  ‘Clare?’ Jacquie exclaimed in a whisper. ‘Didn't you hear Clare called off her engagement? Even though the Vera Wang was already on order.’

  Clare! They're talking about Clare Cabot. Christ alive!

  ‘He's married too, isn't he?’ Alice went for broke, now keen to know just who it was that Clare had done what with in the depths of the quarry.

  ‘Geoff is more than married, Alice – Christ, his baby can be only a few months old. A few weeks even.’

  Geoff – they're talking about Geoff. Bloody hell, Clare and Geoff. Who could've seen that coming?

  ‘I like Geoff,’ Alice mused, gazing out of the window as the coach ambled off. She wondered whether she'd ever return to Les Baux. Perhaps the experience should be left as a one-off so as not to dilute the impact.

  ‘Everyone likes Geoff,’ Jeanette whispered.

  ‘That's the point,’ Jacquie agreed.

  ‘What on earth possessed him to go for her?’ Alice joined in, for safety's sake.

  Yet I do know what possessed them. I empathize. La Cathédrale d'Images possessed them. As it did me. But Clare was caught and I wasn't.

  Now that it transpired Alice hadn't been seen, but so easily might have been, her desire for Paul increased tenfold and the danger of being caught made the notion of sex with this man all the more irresistible. It was all she could think about. However, the afternoon was timetabled relentlessly with the Belgian's motivational workshops and role-playing exercises; the evening was centred around the team dinner; their plane was leaving first thing the next morning.

  Well, no doubt Beard Man from Bruges will be harping on about believing in the Power of Me. So why don't I just practise what he'll be preaching – I ought to account for my actions and Access the Impact I have on others. Right then. If the point of this trip is to inspire me, I can think of something far more motivational than one of Fritz's daft exercises. I'll be role-playing all right, just not in Conference Room B. If there's one thing that's guaranteed to make me feel good about myself, that will make me think this trip has been worthwhile, that it's given me something positive and memorable to take home, it'll be rampant sex with Paul Brusseque. Surely all managers of my calibre should be encouraged to take matters into their own hands as we see fit? And what matters to me is getting hold of Paul's throbbing cock. See how we fit.

  Alice told Anita and Rochelle that the experience of Les Baux had given her a migraine for which the only cure was to lie down, undisturbed, in a darkened room. She told Jeanette and Jacquie she was faking a headache to skive off the after-noon's sessions and she'd meet them in the bar at six. She told Paul she was playing hooky from the afternoon's work-shops and to meet her in her room in ten. She told herself that all of this was a very good idea. So she set about tweezering renegade hairs from her bikini line, applying a little perfume in strategic places and putting on fresh underwear, a swipe of mascara and a dirty, dirty smile.

  Paul takes off his watch and puts it in his bedside drawer. He washes his hair, showering the limestone from his legs and feet. He must have made over fifty visits to Les Baux over the past three seasons, but still the place captivates him, simultaneously charging and challenging him physically and emotionally. This year's theme of Africa is the best yet, he feels. Last year it was the Seven Wonders of the World. The year before, Ancient Greece. But there is something about this year's display, the entrancing clash of the primitive and the opulent in sound and vision alike. Just as there is something so compelling about Alice – last year he'd had a couple of clients who'd done all the pursuing. Sex had been easy and both women had automatically tipped him handsomely which alone was an unexpected and rather welcome bonus. Getting paid to come when the women were gagging for it anyway – it was as close to being a porn star as he'd ever get. The year before that, his first over here, he'd bedded that older woman – and had then had those pointless few months supposedly dating Nathalie from the tennis club.

  Paul dresses. He wonders what state of undress he'll find Alice in. He grins at the thought of her, spread-eagled on a bed, perhaps. He considers how she has everything he rates – looks, intellect, success and spirit. But she's off back to England tomorrow. Paul is horny as hell, as he has been for the last four days. He puts on new boxer shorts and a fresh T-shirt. Hand relief has provided him temporary respite the last few nights but the sight of Alice each morning has tipped him into a dither of desire all over again. And now he's been summonsed. The imminence of sex, after a couple of celibate months, is stirring his cock already. He checks his reflection and he's
looking good.

  He knocks and waits for an answer, as if unsure whether anyone is home.

  ‘You're polite,’ Alice teases, because she was half looking forward to him bursting in and ravishing her without so much as a greeting. She is in a white T-shirt and jeans. Barefoot and braless. Her nipples are precociously erect and her arse is tantalizingly pert. She smells good and looks great. And his cock is hardening by the minute. Yes, they have all afternoon, but what he actually wants is to fuck her right now and empty the throbbing sack-load of expectant sperm amassed since that morning.

  ‘You're happy to see me,’ Alice remarks, eyeing the bulge in his shorts.

  ‘Nah, it's a gun in my pocket,’ he quips back.

  ‘Well, take off your holster, cowboy,’ says Alice, ‘and let's fuck.’

  If Alice was to document it all, she'd reprimand herself for a glut of clichés. But actually how else can she describe being wetter than she's ever been? That her sex is throbbing for him? That her lips are engorged with the anticipation of being kissed and her heart is racing from the fire of his intense gaze? Similarly, the simple fact is that his straining cock is rock hard, his butt is firm and his abs are rippling. Her breasts are indisputably heaving and her sex is oozing with the honey he can't lap enough of. They are devouring each other as if their hunger is insatiable.

  God, this is kinky. Mark stays a decorous and hygienic distance from my bum on the occasions he does go down on me. It's fantastic that my breasts are tits again, to be man-handled greedily. I can't even recall Mark's term for my genitalia but Paul has just said ‘Christ, you have a cute cunt.’ I need this – I've missed this. How refreshing to be fucked senseless rather than being made love to conscientiously.

  ‘God, you're a horny bitch,’ Paul pants, tonguing her ear lobe and sucking his way down her neck, up her chin and deep into her mouth.

  ‘You're a pretty good fuck yourself,’ Alice reciprocates, licking the salty dampness from his torso as she slithers down-wards to feast on his cock. His balls are shaven. She is surprised. She likes it. She wants to writhe, she wants to show off and she contorts herself this way and that, taking charge and initiating positions and the pace. Now she wants to be supine and subservient, revelling in this man driven wild with his desire for her. He flips her onto her side and he plunges into her from behind. He hauls her top leg over his waist, her body stretched out to his touch. Craning her neck around, they suck at each other's mouths while he fondles her tits and slips his fingers between the lips of her sex, finding her clitoris and rubbing gently until she's on the brink of orgasm.

  ‘Don't come,’ he commands. He pulls out and his lips are feathering over her nipples infuriatingly lightly. Now he's not touching her at all – he's between her legs staring intently at her sex. Alice gives a playful buck of her hips and he takes his face down to her, dabbing his tongue tip gently over the outer lips of her sex. She writhes and spreads her legs, thrusting to glue his mouth to where she wants, but he resists.

  ‘Fuck me, you bastard,’ she hisses.

  Suddenly, he's sucking her clitoris and plunging a finger deep inside her sex, another up her anus, and the mind-blowing orgasm she's been craving racks her body. While she continues to shudder with spasms of pleasure, he squats over her and she takes his cock in her mouth before he pulls out and pumps his come all over her stomach. Alice takes her fingers down to the sticky lake of his spunk and massages it over her belly. Then she sucks at each finger while remaining eye locked with him. She feels as though she's just starred in her own private porn performance. And she's loved every minute of it. What a great idea this trip was. Look what she has to take home with her!

  It wasn't possible for Paul to grab any time with Alice the following morning. When she boarded the coach, he could only shake her hand and say ‘Well done.’ Just as he shook everyone's hand and congratulated them. He waved them off. He couldn't tell who waved back behind the tinted glass.

  He reckoned he'd go down to the beach for the day, unwind and prepare for the arrival of the next group the following day. The group had presented him with a cool pair of O'Neill shorts – he wanted to try them on. April was warming up by the hour and the delicate fragrance of spring was being usurped daily by the denser scent of summer. Waiting for him at reception was a note from Alice. He took it with him, unopened, to the beach.

  Dear Paul,

  No doubt you're already poncing around in your snazzy new shorts – for the record, I did not contribute to the whip-round for you. I wouldn't want you to think that I was paying you for services rendered – I wouldn't want you to feel like a whore … So, here's my mobile phone number – be sure to phone if ever you find yourself in London. I'll be only too pleased to play hooky from work and entertain you in my own inimitable way …

  Alice Heggarty

  The note made him laugh, made him long for Alice. He'd look up ‘inimitable’ later. First, he'd work on his tan and ponder the logistics of a trip to London some time soon.

  Le Retour

  Alice could have gone straight into work but she didn't want to, though they arrived back by lunchtime. She could have spent the afternoon at home, reacclimatizing to her life, but she didn't want to do that either. She should have gone to Thea to confide and be guided, but she didn't want to, not yet. What she wanted to do was to be by herself, accountable to no one, for a precious few hours more. She wanted to indulge in memories of the last few days; conjure the look and the taste and the feel of Paul. Transport herself back to Les Baux. Just for a little while longer. Not to daydream. Simply to remember.

  So Alice whiled away her afternoon in an Internet café off Tottenham Court Road. She surfed the sights and facts of the Camargue, of the Pont du Gard, of Arles and Nîmes, of Les Baux and flamingos. She visited the O'Neill website and clicked on the same pair of shorts they'd bought Paul. She found the hotel website and clicked on every picture, analysing the tiny, pixillated figures. It was stupid to check the tariff page she told herself as she did just that. She Googled Paul's name but found nothing. He really ought to be nothing, she told herself. It wasn't as if she'd be going back, or would ever see him again. He had to have no role in her memory other than as a one-afternoon stand, a fantastic shag with no strings attached, guilt-free sex, a zipless fuck and best forgotten.

  In his closing debrief, Fritz had told the group to ‘take what we give you and turn it into new tools for your trade’. She'd do that, she would. She could apply it to her life in general. She wouldn't be deifying Paul. She wouldn't long for him or allow the tricks of memory and the mundanity of everyday life to transform him into anything other than a Franco–Australian beefcake she'd shagged. She'd turn the event to her benefit, she'd make sure she was eternally grateful it had happened. After all, her sexual thirst had been quenched and the spring to her step, the glint to her eye, her verve and her smile, had been restored.

  Mark arrives home with a bunch of flowers and a legibly excited smile.

  ‘Hullo, you,’ he coos, embracing his wife. ‘God, I missed you – I did try to ring.’

  ‘No signal,’ Alice shrugs, hugging him back and thinking to herself that he's had a disastrous haircut.

  ‘Did you have a great time?’ he asks, taking off his jacket, loosening his tie and top button, rubbing his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose. What a day. Good to be home.

  ‘It was fine,’ Alice shrugs again. ‘You know these courses – part outward-bound, part bullshit-waffle assertion techniques. We were timetabled to within an inch of our lives.’

  ‘Was it as dull as you were expecting?’ Mark asks, leafing through the post and leaving it all unopened.

  ‘I guess not,’ Alice says, ‘but you'll never guess – they made us share rooms! Can you believe that? Three hangers between us!’

  Mark laughs as he selects a good Rioja and hunts for the state-of-the-art corkscrew. ‘Well, you look gorgeous, Wife – look at you. You really do. The outward-bound bit must have done you good. All that
fresh air and exercise. God knows I could do with some.’

  ‘It was all very picturesque. Like a Stella Artois advert. And actually the workshops weren't too hug-a-tree or primalscreamish. But I didn't walk the Pont du Gard,’ Alice admits sheepishly, ‘I was too scared.’

  ‘I don't blame you,’ Mark says. ‘I've done it – and it's pretty hair-raising.’

  ‘You've been?’ Alice is stunned, appalled, intrigued.

  ‘During my gap year,’ says Mark, still going through end-less drawers in search of the corkscrew.

  ‘Did you go to Les Baux?’ Alice asks, almost accusatorily.

  ‘Don't think so,’ says Mark who's found the corkscrew. ‘Was it good?’

  ‘So-so,’ Alice shrugs, ‘no big deal.’

  What?!

  When Thea and Alice saw each other a couple of days later, they were each fizzing with excitement, gabbling unexpurgatedly, demanding that the other listen to me me me.

  ‘So the estate agent reckons my buyer will be ready to exchange contracts in the next couple of weeks! We're looking to complete perhaps a month or so after that. And this place Saul and I have seen is just amazing.’ Thea looked to Alice for a reaction. Her friend was grinning, eyes dancing, stuffing a chocolate éclair into her mouth. Good. ‘It's duplex – with a roof terrace! It's like something you'd see on Grand Designs – beautiful flow of space and just the most incredible fixtures and fittings. You are going to die when you see the bathroom! And the kitchen is my dream kitchen. The views – oh my God – just you wait!’ Alice glowed with excitement, which delighted Thea and spurred her to continue. ‘There's just a one-bed flat beneath and guess who lives there? Guess! Rene Overton!’