Читать книгу: «The Siren», страница 2
Speed Mating
By Sophia Valenti
Bars are totally not my thing. Yet that Friday night I found myself standing in one of the most popular watering holes in town. I’d arrived straight from the office, feeling just a little uncomfortable in my white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and pearls while everyone else in the jovial crowd was dressed so casually.
Why had I agreed to this? Damn that Michelle. She can get me to do almost anything. After much cajoling—and flat-out whining—she had convinced me to go with her to this speed-dating event. Yeah, I was single, but that wasn’t a problem for me. I was happy with my life, I’d argued. But when that stance didn’t work, she played the pity card, telling me that she was looking for a boyfriend and needed me there for emotional support.
Call me a sucker—I went. And that’s how I wound up in a crowd of murmuring singles, each of us sporting a numbered sticker. Michelle, with her bouncy blonde curls and blushing cheeks, looked beautiful and eager and had already caught the eye of several gentlemen. Meanwhile, I leaned back against the bar, trying to remain unnoticed by potential suitors for as long as possible while I sipped my cocktail and listened to the moderator give a rundown of the rules: The women would sit at one side of the table and the men along the other. Each couple had five minutes to chat, after which a bell would ring, signaling for the guys to shift down one seat. Sounded simple enough. I could pull off being friendly for a couple of minutes at a clip. Sure, I wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone, but I didn’t plan on being impolite. I could smile through this for my friend’s sake.
I downed my drink and turned to place my empty glass on the bar, and that’s when I saw him. Chatting people swirled around me, but their noise and movements faded into the background. He commanded my total attention. With thick black hair and piercing blue eyes, he looked like he’d stepped off a movie set. I took note right away of his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He certainly filled out a T-shirt better than anyone else I’d ever seen. The cotton fabric clung to his toned frame in just the right way, giving a tempting hint of how well cut his muscles were. My gaze traveled down his flat stomach with unabashed slowness, wandering along his torso to his jeans.
I instantly got lost in a fantasy of what lay hidden beneath that worn denim. The man’s lips curled into a smile when he noticed my interest, but it wasn’t a cocksure expression. It was more of a friendly acknowledgment that made my heart beat a little faster. The look on his face gave no doubt that he was checking me out, too. I was pleased to see that he was donning a number. That meant our paths were definitely going to cross before the night was over—and I couldn’t wait.
A bespectacled woman holding a clipboard—clearly one of the event organizers—grabbed my handsome admirer and seated him halfway down the wooden table from me. I counted the seats—figuring that I had to struggle through at least forty minutes of chitchat before I could have the only one-on-one that I was truly interested in.
I have to admit that I barely remember my conversations with Misters One through Eight. I think there were a veterinarian and an accountant somewhere in the mix, but one well-meaning man blended into the next. I did my best to feign an appropriate amount of interest; they couldn’t really hold my attention. Whenever the bell rang and it was time to switch partners, the stranger would toss another smoldering look my way. Each flash of his eyes made my panties a little more damp, and arousal was swirling inside me with an ever-increasing intensity. I’d never before had such a profound attraction to a complete stranger. But I wasn’t going to waste any time overanalyzing the situation—who was I to argue with fate?
It was the longest forty minutes of my life, but eventually, I found myself face-to-face with the object of my barely concealed desire.
The stranger smiled broadly and extended his hand as he greeted me. I took his hand in mine, enjoying the feel of his strong grip.
“Hi, I’m—”
“No names—numbers only,” he interrupted, his words laced with a teasing tone. “Rules are rules.”
I laughed at his faux concern for the event’s regulations. “You’re absolutely right. Nice to meet you, number nine.”
“The pleasure’s all mine—” he glanced down at the number perched on my chest, “—twenty-seven.”
He sat down and held my hand as we exchanged playfully flirtatious banter. His fingers casually stroked the base of my palm, sweeping downward across my wrist as he spoke, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The sensation of his fingers against my skin sent tingles up my arm and straight to my pussy, which was very nearly molten by that point. I could have listened to him talk for hours; his voice was deep and sensual, and lulled me into a sexy stupor. I tried my best to keep up my end of the conversation when the only thing running through my head was I need your cock inside me. In truth, there wasn’t much that could be discussed within a five-minute time span. But by the time the bell rang, I knew for sure that I wanted him—and I wanted him badly.
This time around, the moderator announced that since we’d reached the halfway mark, we would have a fifteen-minute intermission. Number nine continued to hold my hand as he tossed his head toward the back of the bar, his eyebrow quirked up in an unspoken question.
I could barely contain my own wicked smile as I nodded, and together we left the table. Most of the crowd stayed up front, clamoring for the bartender’s attention, while he and I slipped into one of the restrooms, completely unnoticed.
I locked the door behind us and backed him up against the tiled wall, bringing my lips to his. He tangled his fingers in my long, brown hair as he returned my kiss with an eager passion. My hands roamed over his body, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles. Pulling his shirt out of his jeans, I slid my hands up his chest,and he groaned into my mouth as my palms glided against his flesh.
I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his back and bringing our bodies closer together. Grinding my hips against him, I felt the erection that was hidden beneath his clothes—so hard, so perfect, and all for me. Number nine broke our kiss to speak, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he held me at arm’s length. “Don’t you even want to know my name?”
“Rules are rules,” I answered breathlessly, and he chuckled in response. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans to pull him close again. “We only have fifteen minutes, so you’d better make them count.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, returning his lips to mine. We made out furiously as he reached behind me to unzip my skirt. As soon as it dropped to the floor, he spun me around and placed my hands on the sink. I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw the reflection of our lust-filled faces, which gave me thrill. Number nine pushed my hair to the side and trailed a line of sensual kisses down my neck, making my eyes flutter closed as another rush of wetness flooded my pussy.
“God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice hot in my ear as he ground his erection into my satin-covered ass cheeks.
“Then take me—before we run out of time.” I was so turned on that I was practically panting. From behind me I heard the rasp of his zipper being lowered and the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then, seconds later, I felt him pull the crotch of my panties aside and thrust his hard cock inside me in one firm, smooth stroke.
As he hit bottom, he sighed into my mussed hair. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling out and then rocking his hips against mine to slide his dick inside me once more. I bucked back toward him with every inward stroke, loving the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me and filling me. My body was acting of its own accord in response to my sexual hunger, my hips circling and grinding against him. I was so hot and wet that I was halfway to orgasm before we’d even started. But when he reached down the front of my panties to stroke my swollen clit, I let out a helpless whimper that I barely managed to stifle. My excitement was rapidly reaching its peak.
“Are you going to come for me, twenty-seven?” His words were interspersed with gasping breaths as he continued to take me higher and higher.
“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter, writhing against him and letting my body speak for me.
“Good—I’m going to watch every second of it,” he said. I looked into the mirror once more, focusing on his handsome face as his fingers and cock took me over the edge. I cried out loud, staring into the reflection of his ice-blue eyes as I shivered through my climax.
Seconds later, he moaned softly, and I felt his cock pulse within me. His hips jerked erratically as he came, holding me tightly in his arms.
Just then, we heard the warning bell sound from the bar, announcing that intermission was over. Breathless and laughing, we rushed to make ourselves presentable and rejoin the crowd.
It didn’t matter what his tag said—he was definitely number one on my list.
Permission
By Justine Elyot
Now that I am in the middle of this long-term dream, alone with my
campervan and a card deck of differing possible futures, I am not sure how to deal with it. Perhaps there are too many years of asking permission behind me. Perhaps I need someone’s permission to pursue the adventures I never had and be the person I never was. The freedom is strangely terrifying—just me, my cup of tea and the open road. Or rather, the open golf course, which stretches out beyond this car park, all twee and trim with its scissored grass and perky little flags.
And suddenly it is just me, my cup of tea and the golf ball which has splashed rather neatly into it, covering my jeans with milky stains.
The golf ball seems to be my guide. It is telling me something. Expect the unexpected, perhaps, or Don’t park near a golf course.
I fish out the unassuming oracle and frown at it until it brings me my fate, in the shape of a man wearing-trousers and a shirt and a sheepish expression.
“Sorry, sorry, oh God, did it fall in your cup?”
“It’s fine. Tea from a flask tastes like plastic anyway. Here. Go back and swing, or drive, or whatever you golfers do.”
“Swinging and driving both sound like more enjoyable alternatives.” He loosens another shirt button and pops the ball in his trousers pocket. “Swear not to tell anyone, but I hate golf.”
I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Why play then?”
“Friends thought it would cheer me up. A few rounds after my last day at work before I go home to my empty house.”
“Christ. Life has it in for you, eh? I know the feeling.”
He shuffles his feet inconclusively. He wants to stay but he feels he ought to go. He has a handsome, open face and gorgeously tanned forearms. For the first time in my life, I see that I am in a position to give, rather than seek, permission.
“I’d ask if you fancied a cup of tea, but that was my last. I’ve got half a bottle of whisky in the van, though.”
He smiles, edges a little closer to my folding chair and leans on the van bonnet.
“That’s a very handsome offer. Don’t suppose you have ice?”
“Alas, no.” I stand, and I am very close to him, close enough to feel his warmth and smell a mannish combination of toil and aftershave and breath mints. The base of his throat, disappearing down inside the loosened collar, is flushed. He has full lips but his eyes are tired. I forget what I was going to say. “Um.”
“As it comes is fine,” he prompts, and I galvanize my sluggish self, heading inside the van to the coolbox.
Something has happened to me, I think, trying to put my finger on what it might be. Everything seems to have moved slightly, my perception of my surroundings smudged like a charcoal drawing. Is it a paradigm shift? I keep having those. I think it’s something to do with him. Whoever he is.
When I pour him his double measure of the spirit my hand shakes, and he has to keep moving the cup around underneath the glugging neck of the bottle.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I can’t look at him.
“You’re nervous.” He puts a steadying hand on my forearm. I drop the bottle.
“Shit!”
In my panic I simply stare up at him, breathing in jagged arrhythmic gasps. The thought comes to me. I can have you. If I want to. Nothing stands in my way but your permission.
“What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle and his fingers are still on my sleeve.
“I’ve never been—” I stammer, trying to frame the thought and failing. “I could do anything,” I finish lamely.
He blinks.
“I mean, I’ve been trapped for years and now I’m not, and there are things I want to do, but I’m not used to doing things I want to do, and when I look at you, you make me realize I want to do them…”
“Things like this?” He bends his head and kisses me.
I hold the breath, hold the kiss inside me, stare at him in wonder. He understands.
“Exactly. Exactly like that.”
“Then do them.”
Yes. I put my hand on his cheek, hold his face still and cover his lips with mine. He tastes better than whisky, smokier, more fiery. I want to drink him up, explore him inside and out, take and lock that man shape and size of him in my memory. It’s a lush, fat feeling, and I grow lush and fat between my legs with each new collision of mouth, teeth, tongue. His hand fits the small of my back perfectly, and I mold myself around him, maintaining and deepening the connection until our bodies are so close there is nowhere else to go, no other border to cross except that final, ultimate line. And that is the one I want to cross the most.
“I want to be bad,” I tell him, wrapped up and coiled around him, my lips against his ear. “I’ve never been bad. Will you be bad with me?”
“You don’t need to ask me.”
We manage a four-legged tumble into the van where my narrow bed lies white and neat, ready for mussing. I am on top of him, horizontal, pinning him down, having my way with him. The novelty of being near an attractive man who wants me spurs me on, makes my hands unbutton and stroke, makes my mouth nip and lick and kiss, makes my legs spread and rub. Lust chases nerves away, and I seek and find his weakest spots, relishing the throaty sounds of abandonment I win from my passionate stranger. He likes pressure behind his ears and gentle sucking bites on the soft flesh of his neck. He likes my palm, flat against his hot chest, jumping slightly with each thud of his heart. He likes my pelvis, nudging the hard mound in his trousers, grinding and teasing it until I have to take pity and unbuckle his belt.
Space is tight in the camper, and every maneuver brings a clash of elbows or a bump of heads, but we don’t care; we laugh at the discomfort then muffle our laughter with kisses. Between grunts and squeezes, between pinches and ouches, we lose our clothes and our inhibitions. Down to our underwear, we slither and slide, trying to fit body parts wherever they will go. He has freckled shoulders broad enough to hang on to and a stomach that could never be used as a washboard, but who wants to use a stomach as a washboard anyway? I enjoy his yielding flesh, squashing my breasts up against it before sitting up on my knees, straightening my back and letting him look at me. I have been afraid to let men look at me, but now, seeing the hunger in his eyes, I can’t think why I hid myself for so long.
“Get that bra off, you hot little minx,” he says, in such an upper-crust accent that I want to squeal and giggle. The combination of cut-glass vowels and filthy talk is potent; I reach behind and unclip. Release the breasts. Feel his eager hands on them, the rough skin catching my nipples in a way that ignites my crotch. I moan and sway on top of him, grinding down on him, inviting him inside. “Do you let just any man undress you and feel your tits?” he asks politely, steadying me with a hand on my bum.
“Yes,” I groan, losing myself inside this fantastical reality, this real fantasy.
“And do you let them take off your knickers and fuck you hard, too?”
“All the time.”
“Good. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”
We grab for each other’s waistbands simultaneously, ripping off the final barriers before my mystery man quickly adds a prophylactic one of his own, then we are preparing, circling, inch by inch, closer, closer, then we are touching, the bulbous head stroking my soaked underlips, prodding my clit, taunting me. This is what you could have. This is what you want. This is what you need. What is he waiting for? I gasp urgently and try to wriggle into position so that I can impale myself on his mocking tool, but he is waiting for something. Waiting for what?
“Do you want this?”
Oh! Permission!
“God, yes, please, put it in me, fuck me.”
“All I needed to hear.” So easily he speeds inside, so quickly he fills me to the brim. I laugh with the unexpected delight of it, a person on a mystery tour finding herself at her dream destination. I work him, he works me, we work together until we come, hard, slapping each other’s arses, swearing and howling and making the van rock on its wheels.
“I’m Nick, by the way,” he pants afterwards. “I don’t know where you’re going, but if you want company…”
“I’m Lisa.” I kiss his salty forehead and think. Just me, a cup of tea and the open road? Or just me, a man and the open road?
I’ve had my fill of tea.
Star Fucker
By John Albert
Richard had never planned on coming to a strange place like Los Angeles. When the envelope arrived, the twenty-five-year-old part-time bricklayer and full time Millwall Football club supporter had all but forgotten the day he and some of his hooligan mates had applied for the Green Card lottery. But a year later he was a world away from of London’s dreary East End, living in sunbathed Los Angeles and hunting celebrities. Paparazzi was what the rest of the world called them.
* * *
Still in her twenties, Melisa should have had a long career ahead of her. Her first few movies, a set of teen horror films, an innocuous romantic comedy and a critically heralded art film, had all been successes, and the one-time child beauty pageant contestant was earning millions. But now all that was in jeopardy as she descended into the typical Hollywood rabbit hole of drugs and public debauchery. After drunkenly collapsing on sidewalks, crashing a car into a taco stand and an arrest outside an after-hours club with a bag of Ecstasy in her purse, she was on the run from the paparazzi. Her handlers had persuaded her to lay low and wait out the media frenzy, which, of course, only made her image that much more valuable.
In the month since her drug arrest, it was Richard alone who had twice caught her. The first was a shot of her smoking a joint in a friend’s backyard, the second time, he found her on the crowded dance floor of a gay club with her shirt off, dancing among a sea of young men. Since then Richard had become obsessed, repeatedly checking his sources of valets, assistants and doormen, and endlessly prowling the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in hopes of a lucky sighting. He had stopped watching soccer, stopped fucking models and could hardly sleep. Sometimes he wondered if, like millions of others, he had fallen for Melisa’s sneering gamine charm. It had now been several weeks without a single sighting, and his editors were baying for an image of her to quench the public’s hunger for titillation masquerading as moral condemnation.
Then, earlier that day, word had arrived. The disgruntled assistant of a sadistic talent agent had been on a call and heard that Melisa was holed up at the hillside home of a celebrity yoga instructor. And so, as the sun slowly descended into the nearby ocean, Richard hiked up a Topanga Canyon hillside through some dry desert brush toward the large picture window of a mid-century home. His mind raced as he imagined finding something incredible like Melisa eating a girlfriend’s pussy or snorting lines of cocaine. Near the window he paused to check his camera. There was a slight rustling in the bushes behind him, and before he could look up, a jolt of electricity seared through his body sending him fluttering into unconsciousness.
* * *
Richard awoke in a candlelit room smelling of incense. As his head began to clear, he realized that he was sitting on a couch, completely naked, and there was a woman standing a few feet off. He knew instantly it was Melisa. She was watching him, holding a small drinking glass, wearing only black satin panties and high heels. He had spent endless hours of the last year gazing at her image, but there in the flesh, he realized she was far more beautiful than he had ever realized. She approached him, leaned in close as if she was about to kiss him, but didn’t.
“Hello,” she offered, deadpan.
He could smell her breath, and it had the tartness of red wine.
“‘Ello there, love,” he responded, attempting to sound unfazed.
She handed him the glass, and for some reason he took a sip. It was whisky, unlike any he had tasted before. The smoothness betrayed its price tag.
“You can leave or you can stay, “ she announced calmly. “But if you decide to stay, we will do this my way.”
Richard nodded, aware of his heart pounding. “Oh, I’m game, love.”
“I thought you might be. You’ve demonstrated a certain obsessive interest in me over the last few months, haven’t you, Richard?”
“You’re a beautiful girl. Who wouldn’t be interested?”
Melisa didn’t respond. Instead she reached down, removed her panties, brought them up and held them in front of his face.
“Contrary to what you people write,” she said, “I do wear panties.”
Then slowly—teasingly—she passed the shimmering material across his face, letting him breathe her scent. He could smell her pussy—an intoxicating mixture of musky sweetness. She dropped the panties onto his already hardened cock.
“Put them on.”
He hesitated and smiled a tad awkwardly. She met his gaze and arched her eyebrows with disapproval. He shrugged and slid them on. The material was tight and constrained his cock and balls. Melisa reached down and, with a long fingernail, began to stroke him.
“Does this feel good?” she asked
He could only nod, as if in a trance.
She slowly slid a finger into her pussy, took it out and placed it against his lips.
“Suck,” she commanded.
He opened his mouth and she slid the finger in, then out and back in again, slowly fucking his mouth.
“How do I taste, baby?”
“So fucking good,” he purred.
“I want to fuck you.”
“Yes—let’s,” he offered, unable to contain a blissful smile. This was really what he had dreamed about all those hours hunting for her. He may have disparaged her name in public, calling her a little whore to coworkers, but there, with her in person, he realized he was completely smitten.
“I don’t think you understand me. I want to fuck you.”
It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t understand. She held up a leather harness with a medium-sized dildo attached to it. His eyes widened. She leaned in and kissed his mouth, her tongue invading his. At the same time her hand began to rub his cock through the panties. A warm moistness began to spread into the material. She lowered her head, slipped the panties aside and took his cock in her mouth, then withdrew and looked at him.
“Well?” she asked.
“Why the hell not?” he offered, his voice cracking slightly.
She pulled the harness on and fastened it around her waist. Next she pushed his legs back toward his ears, slid the panties off , reached down and applied some lubricant to his ass.
“Good boy,” she cooed, her eyes barely open. And then she entered him.
“Fucking hell…” he muttered, wincing.
“You’re tough, you can take it,” she teased, starting to build a rhythm. His cock was now hard and jutting out from his body, precome glistening in the candlelight. She clasped her hand around the base of it and began to slowly stroke.
As absolutely surreal as the whole scene was, he couldn’t keep from studying her face and thinking how incredibly beautiful she was. More than the latex cock entering his ass, it was that fact that made him feel so uncharacteristically vulnerable.
She opened her eyes and saw him staring up at her. Very casually, she reached out and slapped him across the face. The act and the resulting pain brought him back to the moment, and suddenly, he was about to come. She sensed it and leaned close.
“Come for me” she whispered.
And after a brief moment, he did what she asked. With a guttural noise, his body tightened and warm fluid pulsated from his cock onto her hand and his stomach. Then everything stopped, and there was just the sound of Richard’s breathing. Melisa extricated herself, reached down and wiped him clean with her panties. She walked to a nearby table and tossed his clothes to him. As he dressed she switched on a table lamp, and he could clearly see a digital video camera on a tripod pointed directly at him.
“Fuckin’ hell, what’s that about?” he said, unable to conceal a surge of panic.
She waved him off like someone dealing with a child. “Calm down. It’s not what you think.”
Moments later he was fully dressed and standing at the front door, disoriented and still feeling vulnerable. He had no idea what to do—shake her hand? Kiss her cheek? Melisa had put on a silk robe and was holding the small digital video camera. After a moment, she reached out and placed it in Richard’s hand.
He looked down at the device, “I don’t understand.”
She put a hand on his chest and pushed him outside, then responded. “As we both well know, that tape is worth a helluva of a lot of money. But…” she paused for effect, “only if you can handle thousands of complete strangers seeing you in such a…completely personal and vulnerable moment. So, you know, it’s up to you.”
And with that, she shut the door.
Richard stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Then he turned and walked out into street. After a moment he shook his head, held out the little camera and dropped it on to the asphalt below. He brought a foot down on it and heard a cracking noise. Then, with a step forward, he kicked the device, soccer style, into the valley below. As he began to walk away, Richard broke into a loud soccer chant. “No one likes us, no one likes us, no one likes us, and we don’t care! Let’s go Millwall! He clapped loudly three times and then continued to walk in silence.
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