The Red Collection (21 page)

‘And you have a very special arse too,’ he observes, beginning to fondle me there again. ‘A very fine arse. An arse that should have things done to it.’ He pats and plays around the little vent between my buttocks for a moment, and then pauses and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A second later I feel something cool and slippery being poured between my bottom cheeks, saturating the string of my thong.

‘Oh, so that’s what you mean by coming prepared,’ I snip at him, forgetting my role, but he just laughs and continues to lube me.

Oh, it’s exciting. This feeling. The wondering. The waiting. We’ve played like this often enough before, but somehow my brain seems to forget how it’s going to feel, how it’s going to go. It’s always new. Always a cause for apprehension and longing in equal parts. And it always makes me moan, and gasp and pant.

‘Steady,’ he whispers, firm yet sensitive to my chaos. He slides his sticky hand up beneath my bunched skirt and rubs the small of my back like a trainer calming a skittish horse, then, still rubbing, he reaches away.

A second later, I realise what he was reaching for. There’s firm pressure on my anus, something quite narrow but unforgiving, not a part of Edward.

The absolute devil! He’s pushing one of the unused candles into my bottom!

Everything surges inside me. Messages along my nerves, pumping hormones and juice, feelings, sensations. I gasp harder, fight for control as he penetrates my rear with the candle.

I hate it. I love it. I can’t bear it. I want more.

And all the time he murmurs, ‘Steady, steady …’ to calm my struggles.

He inserts it just an inch or two, not a long way, and just leaves it there. My crazed innards don’t know what they want to do. My pussy is awash, slick and flowing, my own lubrication, rather than the artificial kind, streaming down the insides of my thighs and wetting the tops of my hold-up stockings.

With the candle still inside me, he starts to play. Both with me and with himself. I hear the smooth whir of his zip and I know he’s got his cock out, even though my eyes are tight shut to help me cope with the overloading of my senses.

He fingers my clit. He pushes a digit inside my vagina. He gives my bare bottom one or two lazy slaps, stirring the heat there. Quite at his leisure, he alternates these various attentions, although he returns most frequently to my clitoris, fondling and petting it.

I’m sobbing now, at my wit’s end, but happy with it. The sob sharpens to a wail as he pinches my clit lightly and compels me to come, setting the candle bobbing in and out as my pussy clenches.

With difficulty, I hold my position. I barely know what I’m doing apart from being rocked on waves of dark sweet pleasure. As if from a great distance, I hear the small distinctive sounds of a condom being unwrapped, and a second or two
later
, I feel the brush of his latex-covered cock against the under-hang of my bottom.

‘Decisions, decisions.’ His voice is sweet with humour, deliciously devilish. ‘Cunt? Arse? Cunt? Arse?’ It’s like he’s a boy choosing a hand for that hidden marble. And then he ends the debate, makes his choice, and I feel the candle slide out of me. Then I hear it hit the carpet as he flings it away.

More pressure on the tender, resisting hole. And this time the intrusion is bigger.
Much
bigger than a candle. He pushes in and my senses riot again; dangerous, forbidden, transgressive messages fly about inside me. But as he forges on, he’s still gentling and soothing me with soft words, soft caresses. He holds me steady and rubs my clit as he starts to thrust.

I’m not soft though. I shout and blaspheme, out of my mind with pleasure. I buck about, collapsing again, grabbing at his hand, holding it between my legs, forcing him to fondle me and pleasure my clitoris, and to go on and on doing it as I come wildly, my entire lower body pulsing and clamping and rippling in furious, kinetic movement.

He holds on. He fights for control. But eventually loses it too. His voice is hoarse and passionate as he pumps and climaxes in my bottom. His words are twisted, but I understand them, and my joy is doubled.

A while later, we stagger out of the little study and manage to find a bathroom that doesn’t have a queue of waiting guests. Even though they’re all filtering back in from the firework display now, heading for the main ballroom and the disco.

We tidy up. We calm down. We exchange hugs and smiles like an entirely normal couple. Maybe we are a normal couple, for all our quirks and our disparate ages? In the aftermath of
stormy
passion, all is tranquil, all is easy. It’s as if we’ve been together decades, comfortable yet still adoring.

The music’s good and we dance, bopping about with the best of them. People seem to have got used to us as an item. Smiles abound. When the slow tunes come along, we drift into each other’s arms, to smooch.

‘So, weddings,’ whispers Edward in my ear after a song or two. ‘Big, lavish affairs … or small, intimate registry once jobs with a few folk round the pub afterwards?’

I almost freeze on the dance floor, but he buoys me up, keeping me moving to the rhythm, strong and unwavering.

Am I imagining things? Is he asking what I think he’s asking?

‘Are you asking what I think you’re asking?’ I didn’t mean the words to come out loud but they have.

‘Yep,’ he says, his hand on the small of my back, gentling me as he did before when he was doing wicked, naughty things to my bottom. ‘I’m asking.’

I should weigh things up, think things through, consider this carefully, but instead I just say, ‘Yes!’

‘Brilliant!’ he answers, then kisses me, long and sweet and hard.

When we break apart he smiles and asks again, ‘So, small affair or big and lavish?’

I laugh and kiss his cheek. I don’t care which, but I answer, ‘Lavish!’ in his ear.

‘Good girl,’ he whispers, and moving closer, we slow-dance on …

It’s Got to Be Perfect

HOW TO SEDUCE
Yourself! Indulge in a Night of Total Fantasy with your Dream Guy!

Yeah, right. Like that would work.

But then again, what else was there to do? Slob on the settee in her sweats, watching reality TV?

Might as well do the self-indulgence thing, and not let the fact that she’d just been dumped bring her down.

Right. First things first. A good old-fashioned long, luxuriating perfumed bath.

Bit of a cliché, but who cared, it was still sexy.

Lucy tipped her best bottle of bath essence under the hot tap and kept it tipped. So what if she used the whole lot? It was her bath essence and her money she’d spent on it.

Dense white bubbles surged up immediately, and the surface of the tub looked as if a washing-up-liquid tanker had been dumped into a cyclone. The pungent scent of roses and exotic spices surged up too, a wall of fragrance that made her feel light-headed.

Tonight was a private festival of indulgence. Excess was everything. No scrimping. No half measures. No holding back.

In the words of the advertisement, she was worth it.

Shucking off her old dressing gown, she bundled it into the cupboard out of sight, out of mind. No threadbare velour with cocoa stains tonight!

Naked, she padded over to the mirror to check out her bod.

Not perfect, but not bad either. Much better than that slag Linda. Simon had no taste. The man was a moron and Lucy didn’t know why she’d ever even bothered with him.

That ‘summer tan’ body lotion was really working for her now, and – joy of joys – she’d lost a few pounds. None of which had gone from her breasts, thank God. There was still a couple of nice handfuls there, and she was going to fantasise about a worthwhile guy fondling them tonight. Some delicious hunk cupping and squeezing and caressing her, his hands tanned and strong, not pasty and slightly hairy like Simon’s.

Mm … who to choose?

Not too much of a debate, really. She had a huge crush on the big, gorgeous detective guy from her favourite cop show.

Right, Mr Tall and Yummy Detective … it’s your lucky night, you’re my Dream Guy of Total Perfect Fantasy!

And he did have lovely hands. Large, elegant, and prone to evocative gestures. She could well imagine fingertips like that being accurate and sensitive. Perfect for her needs. Hugging herself, she imagined them gliding all over her body, floating over her belly, into the creases of her groin, and up the insides of her thighs.

Oh yeah …

Not yet, idiot. It’ll be much better if you save it for later
.

Bunching her hands to keep from touching herself, she blew her imaginary suitor a kiss, then looked around, ticking items off her erotic nirvana checklist.

Bath, full of hot, silky water, topped with a thick mat of perfumed suds. Tick.

Tea lights arranged around the room in little porcelain holders, each imparting a sexy flickering radiance. Tick.

Champagne in the glass cooler on the shelf, within easy reach of the bath. The best she could afford, with more in the fridge for later if she wanted to get really wasted but in a classier way than usual. Tick.

A big bottle of her fragrance, silk and buttermilk body lotion, and a very posh moisturiser full of exotic rejuvenators for her face. Tick.

And instead of her hidden dressing gown, a set of La Perla lingerie and a sexy silk wrap. Ivory satin, very tasteful, not red or black like that slapper Linda would wear. Tick.

Soft music played in the background from her little hi-fi. A bit of Mozart. She was partial to Wolfgang Amadeus. She’d dismissed Barry White and Marvin Gaye in favour of the piano, light and floating, also very tasteful.

Time to begin the first stage. Lucy poured herself a glass of champers to get things started, and it fizzed and fluffed in the narrow crystal flute. Her best glassware, of course, not her everyday stuff from Tesco.

Gingerly, because the bath was over-filled, she slid into the water. There was just an inch of clearance between the foam top and the bath rim, so luckily it didn’t whoosh over and slop onto the floor. But as she pushed her toes down to the bottom end of the bath, Lucy frowned.

The taps. Bugger. They reminded her …

An extraneous, non-perfect, non-romantic, non-erotic, non-self-indulgent thought plopped into her head and sat there like a dollop of mud.

When the hell are you coming to fix the pipe under the sink, you git?

Her landlord had been promising to mend a dripping leak under the kitchen sink for weeks. And weeks. She’d endured several cajoling assurances on the phone that he’d be here ‘tomorrow’, but so far he and his tools were a no-show.

Bastard! Fuck! Plonker!

And now her mind was filled with that scruffy creep when she should be focusing on her gorgeous detective. Her landlord was a clod, and the most ill-kempt creature she’d ever met. She’d never seen him yet in jeans or T-shirts that weren’t streaked with paint or full of holes in dodgy places. He always seemed to be in the midst of some protracted DIY or renovation project or other. And yet he couldn’t get his arse up to the flat of a prompt-paying tenant and do a simple plumbing job!

Dickhead!

Reaching for her champagne, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the act of drinking. Anything to banish her grungy landlord from her mind and get back to her fantasies.

It was superb. Creamy, biscuity, redolent with fruit yet fine and sophisticated.

I should drink this all the time
.

Rolling the fabulous fluid over her tongue, Lucy promised herself that even when she wasn’t planning a fantasy self-seduction evening, she’d drink more champagne, and other good stuff, and less of the sweet, cheap Italian plonk she tended to swig down in front of the telly.

The sort of thing her landlord would probably bring if he was seducing a lady. Or a ‘bird’, as he’d probably call her.

No, get out, you! Fuck off! I don’t want
you
in my head!

Swigging down more champagne without respect for its
quality
, Lucy sneezed as the bubbles went up her nose and the water level rocked dangerously.

But as it settled again, it started to have the desired effect. There was a sensation of golden effervescence as if the champagne were actually in her bloodstream and fizzing around her body, banishing all unwanted thoughts and restoring the integrity of her fantasy. Her lover-detective loomed large, sophisticated and refined in the centre of her dreamscape, making her skin tingle beneath the water and electricity flow to her sex and the tips of her breasts.

She drank more bubbly, rocking beneath the foam, aching with need for him.

Her pussy throbbed, and called like a siren to her fingers.

Not yet. Make yourself wait. Wind up the tension a bit
.

Setting aside her glass, Lucy moaned. It was useless. She was so turned on. Waiting was agony.

With her eyes closed again, she let her imagination soar.

The door would fly back, and her ‘lover’ would stand there in the doorway, utterly magnificent. His body was an arc of dominance in his thousand-dollar suit and his tanned skin and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled at her. Dark and sultry, his eyes had the power to see straight through the scented lather to her body.

Ooh, he was magnificent. A prince of charisma. Utterly male. And when he came to her, she was a princess, and he’d treat her like one. Lavishing complete attention on her, superb lovemaking … and rampant orgasms.

‘Oh God, yes …’ she breathed, clenching her inner muscles, trying to believe she was clenching down on
him
. His cock … his fingers …

He’d think nothing of reaching into the water and drenching his designer jacket, just to play with her because
she
wanted him to. He’d find her clit without any hint of guidance.

Rolling her head against the folded-up towel she’d placed behind her neck, she submerged. Not into the water, but deep into the fantasy.

Her lover whipped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and immersed his strong right arm beneath the foam. His fingertips settled against her breast, stroking lightly in a circle around her areola, flicking against the puckered little crest then alighting on the very tip of her nipple and rocking it gently. The caress was so slight, so delicate, yet somehow also huge. Raw lust fired her senses, making her gasp.