‘No. I hate vest tops with bras. It looks ugly. Though I can understand the need. But my tits – they’re not big, they’re not little, they’re just . . . they’re good. They can support themselves, in small doses.’
‘Do you shave under your arms?’
‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I do my legs and bikini line. But not under my arms. I like the hair there. It’s soft and wispy. Just a hint of shading and texture, really.’
I was doing well. I liked his questioning: it relaxed me. His voice was clipped and practical, as if he were a bureaucrat writing down my answers. There was no heavy breathing, no husky eagerness.
‘What did you have on your feet?’ he asked.
‘Er . . . I can’t remember. Trainers, probably. Or maybe sandals. I have these sandals – I call them my geisha-girl sandals. They’ve got thick wooden soles and the top bit is just two broad criss-cross straps. I might have been wearing those. Although, I think it was probably trainers because we’d planned on walking a bit and my geisha-girl sandals aren’t that comfy.’
‘Did you walk? Is that what made you horny?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. We’d been to Arundel. I was with a guy called Ben. He’s a kind of on-off lover, travels a lot. But when he gets back to Brighton he usually looks me up. Sometimes we just meet, catch up on news and stuff. Sometimes we go places. Sometimes we go to bed. Depends on what else is happening in our lives. Sorry, is this history? Am I boring you?’
‘Yes, it is. And, no, you’re not. Go on.’
‘Well, he – Ben – he’d just got back from months in Mexico. He said he had this desperate ache to see something green and something posh. So I took him to Arundel. It’s got a castle that’s posh. And it’s in the middle of lots of green.’
‘Another castle,’ he said. ‘First Kenilworth and now this one. Do you have a thing about castles?’
‘No,’ I said with a gentle laugh. ‘Not that I know of. Coincidence, I swear. Anyway, we didn’t go inside the castle. We just had a great day. There’s a trout farm and we fed trout. We’re good together, me and Ben. Easy. Our skin was hot. Yeah, that’s another thing about sunny days. The heat makes you feel all languid and floppy. So I was feeling a bit like that, relaxed and carefree, and –’
‘Cut to the chase, Beth.’
‘Hmm. Well, do you know Ford station?’
‘Never been, no. What’s it like?’
‘It’s like any other arse-of-beyond train station, just a . . . a hiccup in a track that cuts through the countryside. It’s got one of those level-crossing things that clunks down to stop the cars. Just two platforms opposite each other. Pretty basic – some buildings under canopies, a few blue tubs with flowers in. You’d probably struggle to buy tickets there. But that’s where you have to change trains to get the Brighton connection and we’d walked from Arundel to Ford. We ended up missing the Brighton train by minutes, so we had time to kill and there weren’t many people about. Can’t remember why, but we went over to the opposite platform, not the Brighton side of the track. I think we just fancied it. There was only one building there. Maybe we were playing explorers. Anyway, this building was like a red brick box with windows in. It was a waiting room, but a dead one – benches and a broken chair inside, a fireguard covering a heater. And that’s where it happened, where we had sex.’
‘What? Inside?’
‘No, no. The door was locked. Leaning against it. Well, I was. We were just taking a breather, wondering what to do until the next train came. We were standing by this building, at the side of it, and I was pressing my shoulder-blades to the wall and swigging water from a plastic bottle. Ben was next to me, leaning as well and sharing the water. There was a clock on the wall above us, clicking the seconds away. It was quite loud. The back of my neck was really damp and hot. I complained, and Ben was going to cup some water in his palm and wet my neck with it. But I said, no, I liked the heat really. And then Ben, in a cheeky kind of way, bent to taste me there. He kissed and licked my neck and said I was salty. His touch, his nearness, just made all my horniness flare up. It’d been bubbling under all day – because of the heat and the not many clothes. And we’d had a smoochy kiss earlier, by the river, and his hand had slid up my vest, stroked over my back. We knew at some point we were going to end up in bed. Neither of us was seeing anybody else at the time and, like I say, that’s just what me and Ben do.’
‘So you felt aroused. Then what happened?’
‘Well, we kind of pressed close, then Ben sandwiched me between his body and the building. His feet were astride mine. And we kissed for ages, groping a bit. Then we moved round to the back. It was less exposed, more private, and we fucked.’
‘Slower, slower, Beth. Take me through it.’
I stalled.
‘Why?’ I said, my wariness returning. ‘Do you . . . Are you going to wank or something? Do you want me to do lots of detail? You know, he rammed his huge throbbing meat in my . . . my dripping-wet snatch, that kind of stuff?’
‘No, tell it your way. Whatever you’re comfortable with. And I’m only going to wank if you are.’
‘Jesus,’ I said, more to myself than to him.
‘Does it make you feel horny, remembering sex at Ford?’
‘A bit,’ I confessed, full of shyness. My mouth was getting dry. I ran my tongue around my gums and the inside of my cheeks. ‘Why? Do you . . . Does it make you feel horny?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, much bolder than me. ‘Listening to your voice makes me feel horny. Imagining some guy squashing you up against a wall makes me feel horny. Thinking about you feeling horny makes me feel horny.’
We were silent for a moment.
‘Are you erect?’ I asked quietly. My voice was nervous, scared.
‘Yes,’ he said. He paused. Then he asked: ‘Are you wet?’
I took two long breaths, trying to steady myself, make my voice clearer. ‘I’m tingling,’ I replied. I could hear the tremor in my words. ‘I’m tingling quite a lot.’
If it were possible to hear smiles, then I heard one.
‘Go back to your story,’ he said, coaxing me with a gentle tone. ‘You and this guy, this Ben, you’re kissing against the wall. You’re feeling horny. What next?’
I didn’t feel capable of running through the story, not explicitly. So I said: ‘Ask me some questions.’
‘This Ben, was he hard? Could you feel his erection when you were kissing?’
‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘Yes. He was wearing these long, baggy khaki shorts, so his cock had space to . . . to push. I could feel the angle of him and he pressed his groin into mine. We were so horny, just kissing, and we were nervous and giggly. Someone might’ve been watching us from somewhere and there were cars going along the road and over the track just a bit further down. We kept breaking off and checking around. Then we’d grin like naughty schoolkids and carry on.’
‘Did he touch your breasts?’
(Oh! He spoke so softly and so slowly. I don’t know why, but those words, that simple ‘Did he touch your breasts?’ sent a current of lust into my sex. I could feel my pussy really pulse and start to salivate.)
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘But only a bit. He kind of held my waist, his hands just under my top, and his thumbs nudged up. He skimmed my tits underneath, very lightly, and he kept his body close to mine – just in case anyone was watching. I really wanted more – more of his hands. I was so horny, so hot. He pushed at my breasts with the tips of his thumbs and his touch made dents in my flesh, lifted me a little.’
‘Did you touch his cock?’
‘Not properly. Not at that point, anyway. I just slipped my hand between our bodies and felt him through his shorts. He made a little groaning noise.’
‘Then what? Did he touch you properly? Did he reach up your skirt?’
‘No. He couldn’t really get at me like that because we were still on view. There was no one around, at least, not as far as we could tell. But if there had been, if anyone could have seen us,
they’d have just thought we were snogging. We didn’t do anything too . . . too risky. Not when we were at the side of the building.’
‘So you went around the back. Who suggested it? You or him?’
‘Him, I think. But I was ready for it. We’d been edging in that direction anyway.’
‘What’s round the back?’
‘A bit more of the platform. It drops down into a load of bushes and trees. You can see fields where the bushes aren’t so tall. Oh, and you could see the top of a tall shed and you could hear chickens there, clucking and making weird whining noises. We didn’t fuck straight away. We weren’t brave enough. We had to settle in. And we were enjoying all the teasing and the danger. The heat. The sticky skin. But Ben unzipped my skirt. I was still pressed against a wall, and he unzipped me.’
‘Where was the zip? At the back?’
‘No, front. It’s got a fly, a bit like jeans.’
‘This is the skirt you’re wearing now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Unzip it.’
‘What?’
‘Unzip it. Put the receiver there then I can listen. And unzip it the way Ben did.’
‘No, I don’t want . . . Why? Why do you want me to do that?’ Anxiety mingled with my excited desire and chipped away at my courage.
‘Sound effects,’ he replied. ‘You’re creating such a nice picture, it’s a shame not to have some sound effects as well.’
I gave a nervous half-laugh. ‘Do you want me to do chicken noises? Or shall I do the train approaching after we’ve had sex?’
‘Only if it turns you on,’ he replied. (That smiley voice again.)
‘Cluck cluck,’ I said dully. I was playing for time, trying to get myself back to that pitch of daring.
‘Go on, Beth,’ he challenged gently. ‘Just unzip. That’s all. You’re on the platform at Ford, pressed up against a wall, at the back of this waiting room. You’re so horny, so hot. The sun’s beating down, probably making the concrete white, hurting your eyes. Behind Ben – his body’s up close to yours – you can see trees and bits of fields. The sky’s blue, blue, blue. No one’s around, so Ben unzips you. How did he do it, Beth? Was it slow and teasing? Or was he hungry for you? Was he desperate to slide his fingers inside your knickers?’
I swallowed hard. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was like this. Listen.’
I moved the receiver into position, holding it across my belly. Making sure the mouthpiece was close enough, I fumbled for the zip-tag with my left hand. The metal gave a light, tinny clink. Then I unzipped. As my fingers eased downward, the teeth unlocked with a low, steady purr.
Congratulating myself, I released a gentle sigh. Then I cradled the receiver into my neck, hunching one shoulder to keep it wedged there.
Eager for his response, I let my fingers stroke mindlessly along the grinning lips of my fly.
‘That was nice,’ he said. ‘Not too fast; not too slow. What happened next? Did he slip his hand into the gap? Did his fingers slide into your knickers? Did he touch you?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
There was silence. Then he said: ‘How? What sort of knickers were you wearing?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. Can’t remember. I just remember – oh God, I was so horny – I remember his fingers running along the leg of my knickers, just a fraction inside. Then he kind of moved the gusset and he began . . . he began touching me, fingering me. “God, you’re wet,” he said. His voice was all whispery and groggy, and his body was still close to mine, shielding me. I had to hold on to his shoulders. I felt weak. I was about to come.’
‘Did you come then? Did you come with his fingers? Or was it later, when you fucked? Or both? Twice?’
‘No, when we fucked,’ I said. ‘I came when we fucked. I really, really came. I was so –’
‘So horny.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now? Are you horny now?’
‘Yes.’ I could scarcely hear my own words. My voice was like a breath catching in my throat.
‘Where are your hands?’
‘One’s kind of here, readjusting the phone every now and then. And the other . . . It’s near my fly.’
‘Are you masturbating?’
Oh, his voice. It was hypnotist-soft.
‘No,’ I said throatily. As I spoke one of my fingers stole past my open zip and into my knickers. I skimmed across my swollen vulva then withdrew. I felt as if he were watching me.
‘Do you want to?’ he asked. ‘Are you ready to?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said weakly. ‘But I need to –’
‘Touch yourself, Beth.’
It was what I craved. I ached to caress myself, and I don’t know why but I wanted his permission. Feeling freer, I edged into my knickers once again, via the zip of my skirt. With my index finger, I sawed along my cleft – it was so slippery and open – and my moist flesh pulsed in gratitude.
‘Is it good?’ he asked.
I dipped my fingertip into my entrance and stirred a lingering circle there, resisting the urge to penetrate myself fully. ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Keep doing whatever you’re doing, Beth,’ he said, ‘and tell me about you and Ben. The train station, behind the red brick thing, and his hand is in your skirt, past your knickers. His fingers are all over you, inside you. Is that right?’
‘Yes, yes. His fingers were so good. I was . . . my cunt . . . it was just melting into his fingers. I could hardly stand. He kept me pushed against the wall, holding me upright with his body. And his fingers worked. There was no one around. I was ready to come. I was groaning, trying to be quiet, just in case.’
‘Did you tell him you were ready to come?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did Ben do?
‘He unzipped. He checked over his shoulders and he unzipped.’
‘Sound effects?
‘What?’
‘Listen.’
I held my breath, my fingers teasing. My clit was fat and tender, like a fruit about to burst with ripeness. I heard the sound of flies being unzipped. His flies. I could picture a crotch, bulging, and the zip unteething over it, gaping to expose underwear. I imagined an erect cock springing out: the erect cock of my faceless man whose name was Ilya. Ilya Travis.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked thickly. ‘Are you sitting? Lying?’
‘I’m on the sofa,’ he said. He sounded so languid and husky, so comfortably aroused and ready for indulgence. ‘I’m lying back.’
‘Me too,’ I replied faintly. ‘Are you touching yourself? Holding your cock?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am.’ His voice had deepened. It resonated with the strain of lust.
‘What’s your cock like?’ I whispered.
‘Very, very hard,’ he said, emphasising each word. ‘Full of blood.’
‘Oh.’
‘What did Ben do?’
‘He fucked me. I lifted my skirt at the front and he got up close, keeping my knickers to one side with his fingers. And he pushed his prick, high and hard, right up me. And then he was just fucking me, fucking me up against the wall.’
‘At Ford train station.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your skirt lifted up now? Is that how you’re touching yourself?’
‘No. I’m . . . My hand’s in the zip opening. Oh, Jesus God.’
‘Lift your skirt up and touch yourself from that angle, from underneath.’
‘Yes,’ I said, hurriedly tugging the denim from under my arse. I bunched the fabric round my waist, let my legs flop wide and pushed past my knickers into my heated cunt. ‘Ah, God, yes.’
‘Where are your fingers?’
‘Where are yours?’ I asked softly.
‘Wrapped around my cock, moving slowly up and down. I can feel the pressure in my balls. Where are your fingers?’
‘Inside me. My vagina’s so hot. I can feel myself, all wet and . . . and squishy.’
‘What do you think about? U
sually, I mean. What do you get off on? What images, what fantasies do you wank to?’
‘Stuff,’ I said, suddenly inhibited. ‘I don’t know. It varies. Nothing special. Men.’ I couldn’t tell him the kind of things I thought about. It was too crude, too sleazy. I didn’t look good in my fantasies. I was an object, a thing abused and humiliated. I couldn’t reveal that. I tried to deflect him. ‘What do you think about?’ I asked. ‘No, what are you thinking about now?’
‘You,’ he said. ‘You being fucked at the station. You now, on your sofa, your hands between your thighs. And you and me, and the things I’d like to do to you.’
‘Oh,’ I said breathily. ‘What things?’
‘I like picturing you at Ford station. I’d like to fuck you there, but not hiding behind some building. And not with your clothes on. I’d make you strip. I’d have you naked, out in the open. Maybe I’d tie you up. Yeah, I’d tie you to a pole by the level-crossing. I’d make you face away from me. Your arse cheeks would curve out, pale because they hadn’t seen sunlight. And I’d take you from behind. I’d really ram it up you, fast and hard.’
‘Impossible,’ I murmured, my fingers rubbing gently on my clit. ‘Someone would see.’
‘This is fantasy,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can do anything. A thousand people could watch me fucking you.’
‘Oh.’
‘But then maybe just the two of us would be good. What about somewhere dark and dingy, somewhere I know, somewhere we both know, because I’ve never been to Ford. What about Brighton station? Yeah, Brighton.’
‘Too many people if we’re to be alone,’ I breathed.
‘Nearby then, under the low bridge that goes over the top of that road, what’s it called . . .?’
‘Trafalgar Street,’ I replied. ‘It’s really grim there.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just picture it. The forecourt in front of the station, going across to the taxi place, and diving underneath is Trafalgar Street. It’s dark and gloomy. Above is the . . . the ceiling of the bridge, iron girders. There are pigeons up there and water drips down, even when there’s been no rain for ages. As you walk down the slope, there’s a doorway on the left. Can you picture it?’
‘Yes, I know it. There’s usually a beggar or a smack-head slumped there.’
Asking For Trouble Page 5