Black Lace Quickies 3 (2 page)

In the alley, I pause to catch my breath. I’ve got the Boy in view again. The alley’s cool and whitewashed, not much wider than a person, and a few feet in, the racket of the souk goes dead. There’s no one around but us. Suddenly, it is so still. So silent. My own breath surrounds me, a whispering rush like a seashell to my ear. I walk on and yet I don’t think I move. I just pant. The sun doesn’t fall here, but the alley seems to shine with its own light, the white walls reflecting each other in a numinous glow, and I wonder if this is it. I wonder if I’m dying on an operating table, my soul sailing up to enter the kingdom of heaven, or to at least try tapping on its door. I want to look back to see where I’ve come from but my head’s far too heavy. I can’t turn.

There is nothing but this: me, my breath and the Boy. It’s as if I’ve slipped into a chink in the world.

Several yards ahead, half-crouched, he creeps along with cautious grace. His slender torso is sweet and supple, the rack of his ribs visible beneath grimy fudge-brown skin. The scent of him drifts in his wake, pheromonal and ripe. Civet, perhaps, or musk. How pliant his body
must
be, I think. How smooth his skin, how eager his hands, how tireless those beautiful, plum-coloured lips.

I follow, both of us keeping a steady pace, then the Boy stops, poised low. His arched spine protrudes in a knobbly ridge and the stubble of his hair prickles with light. I freeze, feeling I ought to, and realise I’m barely breathing. Then, slowly, the Boy swivels his head around to face me. And that’s when I nearly keel over. Because the eyes that look into mine belong to no man on earth. For several stunned seconds, I stare back. They are cat’s eyes: green as gooseberries with black slit pupils.

Fear thumps me in the gut but I cannot scream. I cannot move either. I can’t do anything. I just gawp, rooted to the spot.

He smirks and turns away. I think I must be in one of my dreams. Soon, I tell myself, I’ll wake at the hotel and I’ll straddle Tom’s cock in a trance of remembering. I’ll rock back and forth, head swimming with a post-human dystopia, a stinking medieval market peopled with DNA freaks or inter-species offspring. Look around and they all seem perfectly normal till you spot their webbed feet, forked tongues, folded wings or dog-fang teeth. And I’ll climax and so will Tom. Then we’ll get up, have breakfast, take a bus to a town with tiled palaces, koi carp and orange trees, and we’ll buy something lovely in Spanish leather or cedar wood and everything will be all right.

The Boy creeps forwards. I’m so scared and I’m so wet. But wet is winning. I follow, turning a corner then another until he ducks into a small archway in the wall. Moments later, I’m there too, head down and heart hammering as I descend three worn white steps.

In front of me, a cool cavernous chamber opens out. Hung with tapestries and oil lamps, its edges are banked with stacks of carpets, and in a far corner stands a cluster of earthenware jugs alongside sacks of grain. Sunbeams, soft and fuzzed with dust, slant down from high plasterwork arches, a tranquil light for prayer. It smells of straw and mice.

I catch a glimpse of the Boy as he flits from one stone pillar to another then stays there, hiding. Sitting cross-legged on a tall pile of carpets is a bald, muscular man with dark skin and heavy brows, his jawline shadowed with bristles. He’s bare-chested, whorls of black hair clouding his pecs and making a seam over his neatly rounded paunch. He looks like a cross between the Buddha and a thug. It’s not a look I’m familiar with but I do like it. He has a small, neat smile, and he’s observing me steadily, chin propped on his fist. I get the feeling he’s been expecting me.

‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound brave.

I walk deeper into the chamber, across the flagstone floor, shoulders back. I know this man is going to fuck me and, frankly, I’m ready for it.

No one replies. The man keeps watching me,
smiling
. Though I’m still scared, I have an inkling of a new confidence. I’m starting to feel powerful and ageless, like some whore of the Old Testament. The Boy emerges from behind his pillar to lean against it, arms folded and smirking. His attitude’s changed. He has the jaded, haughty air of a rent boy, hard faced and sleazy. It’s attractive in a sick kind of way. His eyes are normal too. Well, relatively speaking. They are the most astonishing sea-green –
National Geographic
eyes – but they are normal in that they are human. I must have been seeing things earlier, a trick of the light, nothing more.

They both watch me as I sashay forwards. I feel deliciously easy. I’m a harlot, houri, concubine, slave. I could dance like Salome, seduce them with a strip show, except I don’t have seven veils, just sarong, vest and Birkenstocks.

Besides, my guess is, these guys really don’t need seducing.

‘You chose well,’ says the man, addressing the Boy.

Now hang on, I think. Didn’t I just walk here myself of my own free will? Then I correct myself. Who am I trying to kid? I’ve been picked up, haven’t I?

‘My uncle,’ says the Boy, grinning and nodding at the man.

Uncle tips up his chin in a curt greeting. ‘Show her to me,’ he says to the Boy.

Barefoot, the Boy saunters forwards. He parts
my
sarong, exposing my legs, and presses his hand between my thigh. All the weight of my body is suddenly in my cunt, resting in that skinny hand. My gusset is damp and he paddles his fingers there, grinning at me before latching on to my clit. He rubs through the fabric, judging my expression. I want to appear impassive but the smell and touch of him makes me dizzy with longing. Truly, I can’t remember ever feeling so horny. I guess I don’t manage to pull off the cool, composed look because the Boy chuckles softly. In a whisper, he says, ‘Ah, you like that, don’t you? Hot little bitch.’

Well, you got me there, I think.

‘She’s OK, Uncle,’ announces the Boy. ‘Nice and wet.’ He tucks the gusset aside then pushes two fingers up inside me. My knees nearly buckle. ‘Really wet,’ he adds, stirring his two fingers around. In the silence, I hear my juices clicking.

‘Excellent,’ says Uncle in a thick, languid voice. ‘We have a willing woman.’

‘A willing slut,’ says the Boy, ‘who wants to get fucked.’ He seems to be relishing the words, testing their strangeness like an adolescent keen to rid himself of innocence.

I’m relishing them too. I like being objectified. It takes the heat off having to be yourself.

The Boy, still working me with his fingers, slips his other hand up my top. He strokes me through my bra before pushing up the cups to squeeze and massage. My nipples are crinkled tight and
he
flicks and rocks them, bringing my nerve endings to seething life. Then, just as I start to feel I’m losing myself, falling open to ecstasy, the Boy pulls away and crosses the floor to Uncle.

It’s a cruel, desolate moment. I’m about to protest but before I can utter a word, the Boy has sprung up onto the carpets, leaping from a standstill like a mighty ballet dancer. On his haunches, he straddles Uncle who reclines, mouth parted, to suck on the Boy’s fingers, offered like dangling grapes. The Boy cups the man’s shiny head, supporting it, and Uncle goes slack with surrender, eyes closed in bliss, as he slurps and snuffles on a sample of my snatch.

Now, I’m not averse to a spot of guy-on-guy action but I’ve only just arrived and I’m feeling a touch neglected. So I walk towards them because, dammit, I want to play too. As I near, they stop their weird feeding and, holding the pose, look down at me with benign curiosity, blinking heavily. It’s as if they’ve never seen me before. Jesus, it’s creepy. Without smiling, they continue to stare and blink for what seems like an age. A pair of green eyes and a pair of bright brown ones.

Then Uncle perks up, his expression changing to a villainous leer. He looks seriously gorgeous, like he ought to be behind bars. Sneering, he sits straight, swinging his legs over the edge of the carpet-pile, and delves into the crotch of his baggy pants. His pants are slate-blue silk, and a materialistic impulse asserts itself because that’s just
the
shade I want in the hallway. I consider asking for a thread so I can choose a carpet with a matching weave but the moment passes. I have a different object of desire, other needs to gratify.

‘Suck my dick for me,’ says the man, grinning. He releases a big fat erection, wanking it gently, the muscles of his beefy arm flexing under dark skin. It’s a beautiful brute of a cock, arrogant and obscenely large.

‘Dirty bitch,’ adds the Boy. He still sounds like a kid trying out rude words. ‘Suck the man’s dick.’

I’m happy to oblige. The stack of carpets are almost shoulder height and all I need do is lower my head to engulf him. His pubes tickle my nose and, butting deep within my mouth, he’s superbly stout and powerful. My head bobs between his thighs and I’m getting weaker and wetter as I dream how it’ll be when this beast slides into me. The Boy drops to the floor and I feel him at my feet, nuzzling my ankles then crawling under my sarong. I spread my legs for him and feel him rising, the heat of him on my skin, his shorn, silky head, his tongue trailing a path up my inner thighs. He pulls down my knickers and I feel him between my legs, his hot breath on my cunt before his tongue, so delicate and perfect, dances over my clit and squirms into my folds.

Oh, my. That tongue has truly been places. Like his eyes, it could be a thousand years old, a tongue that’s pleasured geisha girls, ladyboys and
Babylonian
whores. Fingers fill my cunt, a thumb rubs my arsehole and moments later I’m coming hard, gasping around Uncle’s cock, Uncle clutching my head, keeping me steady for fear I neglect his pleasure in favour of my own.

‘She’s a slippery little bitch, isn’t she, huh?’

Uncle’s voice is loud enough to carry across the chamber. He’s talking to someone else; not to the Boy, and certainly not to me. I pull back and turn, wiping saliva from my mouth.

Tom, of course. Hell’s teeth, I’d forgotten him. He’s standing within the white stone archway, looking somewhat dazed. Really, I’d completely forgotten him, forgotten the man I love. Well, I guess fresh meat can do that to a girl.

Tom stares, mouth sagging dumbly. I worry for a moment, fearing my blue-eyed boy is going to be appalled, but I can see he’s interested, absorbing the scene. It’s that fascinated passivity again. ‘My God,’ I can almost hear him say. ‘You’re so
vulgar
.’

‘Come, come,’ cries Uncle, jumping down from the carpets. ‘Welcome, my brother!’ He pumps Tom’s hand and claps him on the shoulder as if they’re the best of mates. ‘You want her to suck your dick too, huh?’ Pleased with himself, Uncle laughs over-loudly.

I think Tom’s had a hit of whatever I’ve had, the scent of dried hedgehog or something. He smiles. I know exactly what he’s going to say. He’s going to say, ‘
I
don’t mind’ in that sing-song
way
he does when I say, ‘Shall we have coffee here or there? Rice for dinner or pasta?’ It can get a bit annoying, to tell the truth. He looks at me; his smile’s ironic. ‘
I
don’t mind,’ he says, and I realise he knew that I knew he was going to say that, and his tongue’s in his cheek because he knows all that knowing will amuse me. Long-term relationships can be so nice.

The Boy, on his hands and knees, peeps out from under my sarong to edge a cautious pace forwards. Then he’s motionless, watching as Uncle leads Tom to a low bank of carpets, stacked at three levels like a shallow flight of steps. A hazy shaft of sunlight falls across them, revealing tiny squalls of dust as the men clamber and sprawl across this wool-woven stage. Uncle sits on the higher level, legs akimbo, and Tom lolls within his silk-clad thighs, head resting there as he yields to an off-centre shoulder massage. Uncle bows forwards, murmurs in Tom’s ear, and Tom smiles gently, stretching his spine in a discreet arch, his pleasure private and contained, as the man kneads with big oafish hands.

I stand there, entranced, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. The Boy edges closer, moving gingerly as if wary of disturbing them. Sitting back on his heels, he watches intently as Tom relaxes deeper in to the massage, occasionally grunting.

When Tom and I fuck, a glazed expression sometimes settles on his face. His eyes close, his
mouth
drops open, and he looks completely gone, blanked out with bliss as I move on top. He’s got that slightly dead quality about him now, and when Uncle reaches forward to remove his T-shirt, Tom acquiesces, raising his arms, as docile and obliging as a sleepy child. He doesn’t even protest when the Boy pads forwards to nuzzle his pale chest. All he does is smile fondly and, like a basking chimp, he stretches his arms back, exposing their white undersides, tendons taut, his dark patches of armpit hair attracting the Boy who tentatively sniffs, a hand sweeping broad caresses over Tom’s flexing body. Tom is clearly loving it.

Well, you sly old tart, I think.

I can’t take my eyes off him. I wonder if they’ve drugged him. And then I’m clearly not thinking straight myself because soon I’m wondering whether it actually
is
Tom. Perhaps someone – or something – has got inside his body because I’ve never seen him like this before. Tom likes to size up situations, to tread carefully, to fret unnecessarily; and he’s never shown even the slightest interest in men. And now look at him, pushing the boundaries of his experience as if it were a walk in the park. I start to fear I may never get him back.

But then I notice his smile fading and he moistens his lips, a small moment of nervous desire. It’s exquisite, so tender and Tom-like, and I feel I know who he is again. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and, in his neck, a hint of tension, as
he
tests the air for a kiss. The Boy bends over him, their lips meet, and lust flares in my groin. I watch a knot of muscle shifting in the Boy’s jaw, movement in Tom’s neck, and I’m all eyes as, without breaking the kiss, the Boy reaches down to unzip Tom’s fly. Tom’s erection springs out, weighty and lascivious.

I don’t know what I want to do most: watch or join in.

Then Uncle grins at me, rummaging around in his silky blue crotch. He exposes his cock and moves it against Tom’s face, tipping it back and forth like a windscreen wiper. ‘Come here,’ Uncle says to me. ‘Bring us titties.’