She was something else… not needing to be told twice, he hungrily pushed her hand away, unzipped the fly, and eased the beautiful animal out. It thudded warm and hard against her belly, demanding attention. The sight of it caught her breath; her instinct was to kiss it. She started to reach down, Franco read her mind and pulled her up, selfishly, he had no time for that; he wanted inside her now. His jeans slid to his ankles.
He undid the final few buttons of her dress, opening it up, displaying her naked body. As he took in the sight, she steadied herself against the wall, lifted a stilettoed foot off the floor and wedged it against the control panel, opening herself up to him. She looked so fucking sexy, her blonde hair falling across her face, her legs spread, begging to be entered, her eager hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him into her… no going back now.
Lining up her hips, he pulled the g-string aside and rested his forehead against hers. Barely breathing, they both watched as he guided his fat cock between her legs and nudged it inside her.
Gently, he pulled her hips into him, pushing deeper, checking her face to see how far he could go; she was SO wet. He rocked her backwards and forwards, a little deeper each time. She held her breath, he felt so good, she could explode with pleasure… oh my god I’ve missed this feeling!
He locked eyes with her as he pumped harder, enjoying the look in her face as he got deeper and deeper. Her head began to sway; her mouth fell open into a half smile that came from way down inside. She joined in his rhythm, squeezing her inner muscles as he withdrew, pulling him back into her, he nearly burst with the teasing sensation… this is good.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the tableau of the two of them in the walled mirror. They were a sight. Following his gaze, she naughtily lifted his shirt tail to see his sculptured ass in the mirror, his buttock muscles pumping slowly in and out. What a great image, she wondered how easy it would be to grab her cell phone and take a picture, but it was strewn on the floor with the rest of her bag’s contents.
The lift swayed with them, dancing, creaking in rhythm to their sex. Between laboured breaths, he whispered close into her ear, she did as he asked. She reached down and rubbed herself as he fucked her. Her head rocked back, she was so turned on she hit the spot almost immediately. Her legs gave way with giddiness; she held on tight to his shoulders, fearing she may fall.
This excited him even more; he pumped faster, harder, his groaning building. She watched in the mirror as his beautiful body slammed into her. He was physically perfect, it looked like a porno movie, she started to come, her knees buckling, head lolling, hitting the wall of the lift as she cried out.
“Tell me!” he shouted. “Tell me… tell me you’re coming,” he needed to hear it.
She couldn’t speak; her mouth opened, eyes rolled, she came in delicious mellow waves. On the crest of one of them, she managed to whisper that she was.
Franco pumped her hard and fast, building and building until it was too much to hold; crying out, he came too. Over and over his body jerked into her, until empty, until silent.
They fell together, holding tight, sweating, breathing hard, clinging onto each other until the final waves of pleasure washed over them.
Tara came around first and started to giggle nervously. She’d needed that so badly; her bones had been well and truly shaken. She unhooked her foot from the control panel and stood, getting her balance. She felt light and wonderful. She wanted to do a little dance around the lift, punching the air… after one whole year, the end of the dry patch…yes!!!!
While he was still in a dozy vulnerable state, his head resting on her shoulder, getting his breath back, she couldn’t resist kissing the side of his face, light kisses over the corner of his eyes, mouth and cheeks, tasting his salty sweat, not wanting to let go. She’d forgotten how wonderfully tender the afterglow of sex was. Eventually they pulled away from each other.
Suddenly feeling shy, she modestly gathered her dress around her; reality began to seep back, along with her inhibitions. He was quiet, what was he thinking? Did she always have to behave quite like a slut around him?
The lift abruptly jolted into action. Somebody had called it, it started to descend. They looked at each other in mock horror and giggled. With lightning speed and a lot of cussing, they scrambled to tidy up.
The lift stopped at the car park, basement level. The doors opened to a dismayed Michael. Tara’s hair was all over the shop, her makeup smeared, tell-tale perspiration visible on her chest and neck. Franco also looked flustered and sweaty. His shirt buttoned up out of synch, he’d obviously dressed in a hurry. The unmistakable smell of sex wafted out of the lift.
The two of them looked so funny, feigning calm, cool, innocence. Michael had to hold back a grin.
“Err…. sorry, Boss, didn’t know you were still busy. I’m here to pick you up for the restaurant. I was buzzing the apartment but no answer. I’ll wait in the car, Boss.”
He turned smartly and marched off; his highly polished toecaps echoed an air of ‘on very important business’ throughout the car park, typical army boy.
Franco stepped out of the lift and shouted after him.
“Michael, you know what? I won’t be going out tonight, take the night off, see you in the morning. Cheers.”
Before Michael could answer, Franco jumped back into the lift and pushed the penthouse button. He had better plans; he and Tara were going to get to know each other better.
Chapter Fourteen
Michael chuckled to himself as he returned to the car, swiftly tucking the semi-automatic back into its holster, luckily Franco hadn’t noticed the gun, he had other things on his mind.
Franco was reliable, he never missed an appointment, so when Michael had been buzzing the flat with no answer, he started to get anxious, imagining trouble, he decided to take the lift and investigate. There were a few nutters around, obsessed fans, bunny-boiling ex’s, kidnappers, it came with the territory. He’d been pumped up, ready to attack, when the lift doors opened and …… bingo, the boss, all post coital with the blonde, not a hijacker in sight.
He chided himself for being over paranoid, for losing his cool; this was Chelsea for Christ’s sake, not Beirut! He’d jumped into combat mode, ‘expect the unexpected and act fucking fast’. Certainly unexpected, he’d nearly blown the boss’s head off!
He couldn’t shake off army training; it had become a part of him, instinctive. He’d seen action in the Gulf, Northern Ireland and Kosovo, and worked for Close Protection and Intelligence agencies in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’d retired three years ago, at the age of forty two, having witnessed his fair share of carnage. He’d been a politician’s puppet for long enough and used up ten of his nine lives; it was time for a quieter life.
Whilst over-qualified for the job, looking after Franco was perfect for him. For once he was working for someone he both respected and admired; he had no qualms about doing whatever it took to protect him. Every now and then he did miss his old job, the adrenaline rush of living life on the edge, but that was for the young.
As he turned the corner to the parked car; he stopped in his tracks.
“How the …?”
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“What the fuck?”
He reached inside his jacket for the gun, listening for noise: runaway footsteps, a car leaving, voices, anything….. but nothing. With both arms extended supporting the gun, he spun three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning for movement…. again nothing. Why hadn’t he heard anything? Who would do this?
The word ‘BITCH’ had been etched in foot-high letters, across the hood of his beautiful Mercedes, his pride and joy.
“Someone is taking the ‘effing piss.”
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty-two years earlier, Heddington Hall Boarding School.
He could remember the first time he saw her; she was almost as striking as his beautiful mother. She was his big sister’s best friend. The two of them would visit him at school o
n special occasions - sports days, theatre productions, parent’s day - mainly so that his sister could flirt with the other boys, one in particular, Seb Maloney.
His sister had a major crush on Seb, he could tell from the humiliating way she draped over his every word, laughed too loudly at his jokes, wore tonnes of makeup and followed him like a lovesick puppy. Not only was she an embarrassment, but she was as bitchy cruel to him as only a big sister could be. He suffered her; she was his only route to Tara, the angel the Devil had sent to protect him.
From the moment they met he knew that Tara had feelings for him, that she understood her purpose was to love and protect him. On that first day, he’d been running down the corridor to meet his sister and her friend, they had arrived as his guests for the end of term school play and were waiting for him in the great hall reception.
In his eagerness to impress, he charged into the hallway and slipped on the highly polished parquet floor, sliding the full ten yards to the feet of the giggling girls, bowling over the maths professor in his wake. The professor had been precariously balancing two large trays of sandwiches due for the after-show Tea. With a mighty crash, metal trays, sandwiches, arms and legs, flew into the air. Luckily no one was hurt. His sister screamed with laughter at his clumsiness, attracting the attention of boys and parents filing into the hall.
“Oh David, you’re so stupid. T, meet my plonker brother, David,” Helen, hands on hips, peered down at his sprawled body, covered in entrails of egg mayonnaise, cucumber, tinned salmon and soft cheese sandwiches.
“Now you know why I hardly ever see the blithering idiot, he is too pathetic for words… how did I ever end up with a bro like him?” he flushed crimson, her spitefulness heightening his embarrassment, he wanted to run and hide.
He’d never understood her malice towards him, and had long ago given up seeking her approval. In years gone by he’d loved his big sister, and wished for nothing more than for them to be friends, but that had gradually turned to mutual loathing. He sometimes wondered if it was the attention his mother showered on him - her beautiful son.
Helen continued to laugh and throw insults, enjoying the attention they were getting from the growing audience of sniggering boys, all the while searching out for the adorable Seb.
Tara bent down and stretched out her hand, offering to help him up. He stared up into her smiling face, a ray of sunshine shone in through the stained glass window above her head, giving her a magical radiance.
“Don’t worry, she’s only joking. Hello David, I’m Tara; it’s good to meet you at last… you ok? How do you cope with such a horrid sister?” she teased, leaning over him.
The golden light speckled in and out of her blonde tresses as they tumbled toward him. A tiny flower, a daisy, fell from the hair tucked behind her ear and landed on his chest, he picked it up to hand back to her.
“Keep it, it will bring you luck” she smiled, hauling him onto his feet.
He knew in that moment that she was an angel, his angel, a sign, a gift sent by the Devil.
Tara turned to the furious muttering maths professor and hauled him off the floor. Smiling sweetly, she brushed soggy bits of watercress from his lapel and helped him collect up the debris. His anger towards David melted as they chatted about the danger of polished wooden floors - they were buffed to impress on visiting days, making it tricky for parents as well as students. Someone may sue one day.
The professor rushed off, back to the kitchen, wondering how to break the news to the cook. David led the two girls into the hall in search of their seats. He sat in the row behind them; he spent the next two hours staring at his angel in the dark of the theatre. Apart from his mother, this was the first time anyone had been so kind to him. He loved her from that moment. The Devil had listened to his prayers.
The worship started, the precious daisy was wrapped in cotton wool and kept in a matchbox in his pocket. He followed the girls everywhere, often his head in a book, pretending to read, always hovering at a distance, too shy to talk but close enough to hear their every word. Should Tara need anything, a drink, a chair, a door opening, he would be there, looking after her. Whenever Helen chastised him, Tara came to his rescue, making light of it and telling him to ignore her.
He remembered her every word, alone at night in his dormitory, he would stare at the match box and go over and over each line, each look she gave him. Believing everything she did or said was directed at him, a secret sign between them, she was also too shy to talk. She loved him and proved this by protecting him from Helen, and coming into his thoughts when he was in the Headmaster’s office. He got through the agony of the ‘private acts’ by imagining her spirit was with him, reaching out her hand, holding him steady. The matchbox in his pocket.
He lived for the days when they could be together; school sport’s days, parent’s day, holiday sleepovers. He put up with his sister’s cruel taunts to be near her, to find out more about her. He became obsessed, collecting things that she touched; strands of hair from her brush, dropped sweet papers, notes to Helen, discarded chewing gum, pubic hair from bed linen, crumpled tissues and napkins.
When alone in the house after a sleepover, he would sneak into the spare room, strip naked and get into the bed. He would lie on his stomach, rub his cock against the mattress, and breathe in her smell on the linen. He would come in seconds.
He wanted to have images of her with him all the time, so he talked his mother into buying him a camera. He took fun photographs of her and his sister mucking around, posing, he also took secret photographs when she was not looking.
Click, click.
He spent all his pocket-money on film and developing. His collection grew and grew; he used the images to pleasure himself over.
She kept him alive. As the Headmaster’s age mottled hands violated his body, and the pain of buggery seared through his small frame, her face would be there, smiling down on him, protecting him. He kept her and the daisy close.
Chapter Sixteen
The television screen pulsated with colour and shapes, their rhythm building momentum. A male form eased in and out of a female, taking her from behind, her arms stretched out against the wall in front of her, both naked and glistening with sweat. Her head threw back as she cried out, arching her spine, bouncing her buttocks hard against his groin, greedily welcoming every thrust.
He watched with a mixture of despair and excitement, his cock hard, tears rolled down his face. She was his, how dare another touch her? She cut into him with every move, every sound, sliding her knife in and out, the bitch.
“Soon she will be mine alone,” he whispered. “Soon she will beg.”
He’d rented the flat above hers. Within the first week of moving in, under the guise of a workman for the block’s management office, he’d installed secret cameras and microphones into her flat. Nothing was sacred from him; in the bathroom, in the bedroom (where she was now), in the living room and kitchen. She had a small flat, so he had it covered in four cameras and four microphones. Each were wired seamlessly down through his floorboards and concealed in her ceiling light fittings.
His spy apartment was unfurnished, cold and dark; it housed the bare essentials he needed to monitor his quarry. To the outside world it looked empty; curtains closed, no lights, no movement. London, a city full of transients, was easy to hide in, to become invisible. People got on with their own hectic 24/7 struggle for survival, turning a blind eye to the comings and goings around them; no one cared for their neighbour, nor knew their name. He could be invisible when he wanted, no one noticed him enter or leave the spy apartment.
The floor plan layout mirrored her flat; he used only one room, the living room. Four sixty inch televisions sat on tables in a circle around a large leather swivel chair, his command post, lit only by the light of the flickering screens. He would sit for hours and watch her, follow her as she went from room to room, his bulky chair swivelling from one television to the next. The screens were so big she felt life-siz
e; he could reach out and touch her. Soiled tissues and food cartons lay scattered at his feet, and spilled out of a cardboard box by the door.
He would watch her day and night; she was his obsession, his hobby, she was his. Sometimes when she was out he would visit her apartment, touch her belongings, read her mail, play on her computer, lie in her bed and breathe in her smell. Other times he would visit her at night whilst she slept, drug her and make love to her. She would be oblivious to his gentle touch as he entered her, his angel.
Soon it would be time to stop the secrecy, not long now, it was almost sad that it had to end, but this one was different, he’d gotten under her skin. His eyes went back to the bedroom screen. He could tell that the male was about to climax; he was getting there.
He lifted the remote control and raised the volume so high that their heavy breathing filled the room. He then rubbed the remote against the mound in his lap, stroking backwards and forwards, following their rhythm. He would upset their little tête à tête, he picked up the telephone.
Chapter Seventeen
Franco’s arms crawled up around her waist and grabbed her jutting breasts, kneading them, forcing the sleepy soft nipples to ache hard. Her hands pushed up against the wall, taking the full force of the pumping body behind her. She felt the cool, slippery, sweat on her buttocks as he slapped into her, the crude words he whispered in her ear. She loved it when he spoke his mother tongue, too lost in the moment to speak English; there was something sexy about not knowing what he was saying, but understanding the urgency, the passion in his tone.
His breath came faster now; it smelled of sex and felt warm against her neck, his head lolled on her shoulder. She rubbed the side of her head against his, her wet hair sticking to her cheek; she gave him encouragement, willing him on. He started to pant, his groans increased in volume. He was nearly there, climbing, reaching for the climax that every part of his body now craved, pumping faster, harder.
The Penance List Page 11