Eighty Days Yellow (17 page)

‘Answer,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, it’s what I wanted.’

‘And what did you want?’

Yes, he was growing inside her, stretching her, stuffing her. Forcing her inner walls into retreat.

‘I wanted you to fuck me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a slut.’

‘Good.’

His intensive rhythm accelerated. There was nothing subtle about this, they both knew; it was animal lust at its most basic, but it was right for the moment.

For their first time.

The rush, the hunger that had stood between them these past few weeks was finally out in the open, expressing itself.

He took hold of her hair again, aggressively pulling it back with one hand, riding her, mounting her as one would a horse. Summer gasped. Uncommon feelings were rushing across her mind, full of confusion and even a sense of panic. The encounter was scary but also welcome. In a flash, she realised he was not wearing a condom. She was being used raw, bareback. Even with Darren she always insisted on his cock being sheathed. But it was too late for that now, and she had known, had felt the bare skin of his cock waiting for her to respond. It could always be remedied later; there were pills for that, she knew.

She felt Dominik’s breath grow halting, irregular.

As he came like a torrent inside her, he also slammed his open left hand against her arse cheek with terrible strength. The violence of the sting was instant and painful, until the sensation quickly settled, although she knew that the mark of his fingers across her pale butt cheeks would linger for hours on end.

He stayed inside her for an added minute or so and then withdrew. Summer felt as if she was now hollow, no longer invaded, filled to the brim. Incomplete even. She began to straighten herself, but the firm touch of his hand against the small of her back indicated that Dominik wanted her to remain in the same position, still wide open and on display.

Summer wore an inner smile: Dominik was a man who came in silence. Summer made a clear distinction between the quiet men and the chatterboxes. She’d always preferred the former kind. In the throes of lust, there was a right time and a wrong time for words.

At which point, Dominik said, ‘I can see my come dripping out of you, down the inside of your thighs, dotting your pubic hair, painting your skin shiny . . . It’s the most exhilarating of visions.’

‘Isn’t it obscene?’ Summer ventured.

‘On the contrary, it’s beautiful. I will never forget it. If I had a camera right now, I would photograph it.’

‘And blackmail me later? Bruises and all?’

‘Maybe the marks add to the effect,’ Dominik remarked.

‘Would you have . . . wanted me had I not displayed the bruises?’ Summer asked.

‘Absolutely,’ he indicated. ‘Get up now. Gather your stuff, and the violin. I’m taking you back to my house.’

‘What if I had other plans?’ Summer asked, scrambling for her dress.

‘You don’t,’ Dominik said, and out of the corner of her eye, Summer saw him tightening his black leather trouser belt. She’d been fucked but still hadn’t seen his cock.

Dominik’s house smelled of books. Past the front door, following him down the initial corridor lined by shelves, all Summer could note were the parallel rows of books packed close together and the rainbow of colours from the spines facing outwards racing by in her wake. Passing a succession of open doors on both sides of the corridor, she noted that every other room was lined with bookshelves. Outside of bookshops, she had never seen so many books in one place in her whole life. She wondered if he had read them all.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No what?’

‘No, I haven’t read them all. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’

Could he read her mind, or was that the first thought anyone had who entered this house?

Before she could ponder this point any longer, she felt an arm under her legs, and another supporting her back, as Dominik lifted her into the air. He carried her down through the hall to his study, kicked the door open and went straight to his desk, setting her down in the middle of its large wooden surface, completely clear of clutter other than a pot filled with pens, a pile of papers in one corner, and a desk lamp, a conical light on a moveable stem.

She sat facing him, nervously, the smells of the crypt and their rough fuck still lingering on her body under the crumpled fabric of her black dress.

‘Pull up your dress,’ he said, ‘and spread your legs apart.’

Summer complied, now acutely aware of her bare arse on his desk, and her unwashed state, of the secretions that filled her, which he had not yet allowed her to wipe away.

He grabbed hold of each of her thighs around her buttocks and pulled her towards him, so that her bum rested just on the edge of the desk. Then he turned to the low bed behind them, against the wall (A bed in the study, thought Summer, strange man), and took a pillow, lifted her head gently and placed it beneath her. He pulled the desk lamp over, switched it on and set it directly over her cunt.

Summer drew a breath. She had never been so open, so on display. She was no prude, insisting on darkened rooms, lights switched firmly off, but this was another level of exhibitionism entirely.

He pulled up his office chair, sat in it, stared at the wetness of her sex, still open, relaxed after his previous attentions.

‘Play with yourself,’ he said. ‘I want to watch.’

Summer hesitated. This was infinitely more intense, more personal, than fucking. She barely knew this man, but it aroused her so much, at the same time, her legs so obscenely spread, a spotlight on her most intimate parts.

Dominik leaned back, his eyes fixed on her, his expression a combination of concentration and interest, as her fingers expertly navigated the intimate geography of her inner and outer folds, the firm, quick circles of her clitoris, the movement of her hand as skilful and precisely orchestrated as it had been on her violin.

He observed with interest as she responded to his comments and his instructions, requests for her to speed up or slow down, promises of what he was going to do to her. It was one of these promises that made her come in a rush, a soft moan escaping her lips and her body, shuddering. From his perfect vantage point, he could see the muscles of her vagina spasming, could tell she wasn’t faking it, not that he had thought that she would.

He lifted her up again, into an embrace, wrapping her legs round his waist, her wet pussy hot against his still clothed body.

‘Kiss me,’ he said.

His lips were soft, unusually so for a guy, she thought.

While his tongue gently created a passage for itself past her lips, grazing the barrier of her teeth, until it reached her own tongue and she felt herself interlacing with his, Summer felt his hand tugging on the black dress’s zip and loosening its constraint. The kiss continued and now she could taste him, a jumbled cocktail of impressions with no dominant note, the lingering Tic Tac-mint wind on his breath, the masculine vigour of his closeness. There was no trace of perfume or aftershave to tickle her nose. Like entering a new territory, a strange country she had never explored before.

‘Arms up,’ he demanded,

He pulled the dress up over her head, ruffling her tousled hair in the process, tilted her backwards so that she was forced to lower her legs to stand on the floor again as his hands began to travel across her now bare skin, caressing, testing, leaving no inch untouched across her back, her shoulders, her bruised arse.

As he did this, his other hand held her chin in its loose grip, bringing her lips back into contact with his for a second kiss, but had the first kiss even stopped, been interrupted? She hadn’t noticed.

He pushed her down on the bed.

Summer flopped back, watching as he undressed. Shirt first, followed by his trousers, which he kicked away, and then his black boxer shorts. Summer caught a sight of his penis, thick, extended, veiny.

He pulled her to the edge of the bed, where he kneeled down, parted her legs at an acute angle, and ran the tip of his finger slowly from the inside of her ankle up to her inner thigh and deliciously close to her cunt. Her body quivered in response to his touch. Dominik placed his lips on the smooth skin of her upper leg, teasing her with kisses placed everywhere but where she wanted them. Summer moaned in anticipation, arching towards him. He pulled back, made her wait an agonising moment before burying his face in her mound. She sighed with ill-disguised ecstasy, shuddering as his tongue began to navigate her lips.

For a brief moment, she recoiled from his steady ardour. She was dirty, had just been fucked, had not yet had the opportunity to clean herself, but then remembered he was the one who had mounted her, and if he wasn’t bothered, then why should she be?

The buzz his tongue was providing intensified until it was all she could concentrate on, all thoughts of the world, her situation, faded into oblivion, floating, flying, out of control, hovering between night and day, life and death, the zone where nothing else but sensations mattered, where pleasure and pain merged in blissful forgetfulness.

Finally, he emerged from the dark triangle of her cunt, rose above her on the bed and positioned his cock above her.

‘Yes,’ she said, and, still silent, Dominik entered her, and once again she was filled to the brim, the hardy girth of his cock stretching her cunt lips apart, bruising her walls wide with his steady assault.

This continued for an eternity while his hands kept on roving shamelessly across every nook and cranny, public and daringly private, of her body, orchestrating the progression of their desire. His tongue darted one moment inside her ear, and the next moment in the hollow of her neck, teeth delicately nibbling a lobe, a finger tugging a loose hair, another hand gripping her buttocks, and then two (how many hands did he have?), holding her butt cheeks briefly apart. In and out of her Dominik travelled, and with every stroke it was just like another stair to an unknown but alluring destination conquered.

There was no doubt in her mind that Dominik was skilful, a man who could take her rough or play with her slowly as he was doing now. How many other faces would he reveal?

Finally, Dominik came. With a loud roar. Just a sound from a distant jungle, no particular words she could seize.

Summer sighed as his movements inside her and outside her gradually slowed and he caught his breath again.

So not Mr Silent any longer . . .

7

A Girl and a Maid

It was early evening now, and the late seasonal sun cast a warm glow over Dominik’s face, bathing him in a light that didn’t suit him. Haloed unnaturally by the last pale rays drifting down from a steadily darkening sky, he gave the impression that he didn’t quite fit into the normal world, though by all accounts he seemed to operate perfectly well in it. Maybe it was just that his dark, earthy features aligned better with cooler weather. Dominik was attractive, no doubt about that, but he had looked better, I thought, in the pallor of the crypt.

He was leaning casually against the doorway, his body casting a long shadow over the front porch, where I now stood, one step below him, preparing to make my departure. I had told him that I had to work that night, although I didn’t, circumnavigating any awkwardness that might arise if he invited me to stay over. Or didn’t invite me to stay over.

A soft breeze blew across the lawn, and with each gust of wind I smelled the faint scent of books that lined his front hallway, and the rest of the house. They seemed so much a part of him that I imagined his skin might feel like parchment, but of course it felt just like the skin of every other man, though his lips had been pleasantly soft.

The books, though they did suit him, weren’t what I expected. I had always associated book collections with messy people, with mad lecturers and more obviously academic types. I had figured Dominik would be a hotshot in the City, a bank trader, someone in finance, not a university professor, as he had told me, when I asked why his house looked like a library.

Judging by the shine of his shoes, and the money I presumed he must have, allowing him to purchase the violin and make all the other arrangements, I’d expected him to take me back to some monochrome apartment in Bloomsbury or Canary Wharf with stainless-steel fittings and décor in varying shades of silver and black, the colour of his car. I hadn’t expected this, a proper house, a home, even, with a study and a real kitchen and books everywhere, in all colours and sizes, a literary kaleidoscope lining the walls. At first, I thought he must have a cat too, who was likely curled up, observing my presence from the safety of the shelves, but I deduced shortly after my arrival that Dominik was not a pet person. He wouldn’t be able to put up with an animal, uncontrolled, winding its way round his legs, even a creature as independent as a feline.

He wasn’t unduly secretive, didn’t seem to be consciously hiding anything, but nonetheless had offered very few details about his life, the day-to-day routine of his existence outside of our meetings. He liked his privacy, I suppose, and I could understand that, reticent as I was to invite anyone into my own home. I was surprised he had taken me here. Though his books gave him more humanity, somehow. At least, if he didn’t have a story of his own, he seemed to enjoy collecting the stories of others. Perhaps not dissimilar to the way that I liked to imagine the stories in my instruments, and the music I played, each piece with its own distinct imagery and adventure.

The thought made me like him more. We weren’t so different, this man and I, though we must seem so to any casual observer.

I remembered the way that he had so expertly touched me, after he had insisted on watching me masturbate. I shivered again at the thought. I’d had sex with no small number of men, that was true enough – I’d had more than my fair share of casual encounters and Internet dates arranged in the throes of horniness or loneliness – but no one had ever examined me like that, gazing so intently at the way I ran my finger round my clitoris, under the bright heat of his desk lamp, like a doctor but without the air of medical disinterest. He had no shame, Dominik, and he seemed to enjoy peeling my shame away, one layer at a time. It was as if he was watching a demonstration that he planned to re-enact precisely later. He had asked me to slow down or speed up, to increase or release the pressure. Not, to turn me on this time, I thought, but so that he could gauge my response, see what it was that made my body react and what didn’t work so well. He had had me on display for him like a scientist examining a new specimen. I had half expected him to start taking notes.