He was fortyish, sandy-haired, tall, and – oh horror – he was wearing navy tracksuit bottoms with elasticated ankles and a leather blouson jacket.
He scanned his surroundings quickly, taking me in like I was part of the furniture. In one hand he held a video cassette, in the other a half-smoked cigarette. Sticking the cigarette between his lips, he strolled further into the room, ogling first the TV screen, then me.
He wasn’t bad-looking in a lived-in kind of way, but his eyebrows were far too pale. He surveyed me from head to knees, his cigarette tip flaring amber as his eyes roved.
‘All right, sweetheart?’ He grinned. He tossed his video on to the sofa, followed by his jacket, and released a slow-drifting plume of smoke.
Ilya was just standing in the shadows, arms folded, smirking.
The stranger squatted on his haunches in front of me, his cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth. His face was slightly pock-marked and he had a half-growth of beard – an attempt, I reckoned, to conceal some of that scarring.
With a faint smile, the guy just reached for my tits, pushing a callused thumb into each peephole of my sleek pink bra.
I was too stunned even to protest.
His thumbs scuffed over my nipples. They hardened rapidly. I couldn’t help it because, despite the shock, I was still painfully horny – and Ilya had barely touched me all evening. My inner thighs were damp and hot and I could smell the trickling hunger of my sex.
‘Mmm-mmm,’ said the man, his low-angled cigarette bouncing upward. His tanned arms were muscle-corded and covered in sun-bleached hair.
He moved one hand from my breast to his cigarette, and left the other hand where it was, massaging his thumb into my nipple with heavy pressure.
The video was still moaning and wailing, and I moaned too, although I was much quieter.
‘Ilya was right,’ he said, turning to blow smoke away from my face. ‘You are a hot little bitch, aren’t you?’
My heart was going ten to the dozen.
The man reached for the fallen ashtray, righted it and rested his cigarette in the groove.
‘What’s her name again?’ he called over his shoulder, his thumb still pressing my nipple in and out.
‘Beth,’ replied Ilya.
‘Oh yeah,’ said the man, looking at me. ‘Beth. I’m Pete. Nice to meet you, Beth.’
He dropped one knee to the floor, steadying himself, and fixed me with bright-blue eyes set in laughter-line creases.
‘I won’t bother shaking hands.’ He smiled, bringing his lightly pitted face close to mine. ‘I reckon you’ll like this better.’
His head twitched a fraction as he winked at me. Then his free hand swooped down into the front of my slut-knickers and the PVC gave a muted creak of protest.
‘God, she’s wet,’ he chuckled. ‘What’ve you been doing to her, Illie?’
I whimpered pathetically, as Pete drove his short, broad fingers straight up into my dissolving cunt. My pulse-swollen sex flushed in gratitude and my jaw went limp. I knew I was gaping at him, panting for more. But I didn’t care.
Whoever this Pete was, if he wanted me, he could have me. So what if he was a bit of a Neanderthal? I was prepared to lower my standards. Pete just grinned back, fingers of one hand playing radio-dials with my nipple, fingers of the other stroking my slick vaginal walls.
‘I haven’t been doing anything to her,’ said Ilya blandly. ‘She was supposed to be my table but she’s not very good at it. Think I’ll have to rename her.’
Ilya came towards us, the light of the TV glowing on his strong bony features. He stooped to put the spilt butts in the ashtray, picked up the fallen glass and rubbed the scattered ash into the carpet with his foot. Then he went to lift my coat from the chair and began rummaging in the pockets.
‘Did the video get you hot, sweetheart?’ said Pete, regarding the TV with casual interest. The porn stars had changed position but they were still going at it hammer and tongues.
‘I want to come,’ I protested, liberated by the unashamed appetites on screen. ‘Please make me come. Touch my clit. Oh, somebody . . . just fuck me. Please.’
The two men laughed, sharing conspiratorial glances.
‘But I’ve brought us another video to watch,’ said Pete, nodding to the cassette on the sofa. He took his hand from my nipple and bent awkwardly to retrieve his cigarette. His thick, rough fingers rose and fell in my depths while he drew on his cigarette then stubbed it out.
I pitched Ilya a tormented look, appealing for mercy. He was holding my whore-lipstick and he approached, twisting up the red shaft.
‘I need to rename you,’ he said, kneeling behind me in the gap of my calves.
‘Then will somebody fuck me?’ I moaned. ‘Please. I don’t want to watch another stupid video. I want –’
‘Shhh, darling,’ said Pete, still steadily fingering me.
He dropped his other knee so all three of us were kneeling upright, me sandwiched in the middle. With his free hand, the stranger edged my squeaky knickers down until they were around my knees. I think there was some anal action taking place on screen. I wasn’t sure. I had other things to concentrate on, but, whatever it was, it was noisy.
‘Shhh,’ said Pete again, pursing his lips like he was cooing to a baby. ‘Shhh.’ And he pushed his fingers up me in a high leisurely thrust.
I couldn’t sshh. I groaned excitement and Pete’s sky-blue eyes twinkled with lecherous delight.
‘Get her titties out while you’re round there, Illie,’ he said.
I whined in complaint, mentally telling him they were tits, not titties. But whatever they were, I hoped he would touch them nicely.
‘Just about to,’ replied Ilya, and he unhooked my bra and slipped the straps from my shoulders. I let the garment fall.
‘Put your hands behind your head, darling,’ said Pete.
I did as instructed, linking my fingers and praying that my bared jutting flesh would whip him up to a frenzy; that he would shove his trousers down and fuck me – in any position he wanted, so long as it was fierce and fast.
‘Nice pair,’ he said lightly, and he clamped a hand to one breast, rolling his palm in big strong circles. ‘Mmm.’
I rocked back and forth, moaning pleasure and leaning into his heavy caress. I was so needy I imagined flopping into his body, forcing my lips on to his smirking mouth, ripping off his clothes and straddling him.
And this was a guy who, if we’d passed in the street, I would not have looked at twice. But that moment, all I cared about was the fact that he had a cock – a cock that was lifting and making a tent of his groin. He might be vulgar and boorish. He might be treating me like I was just some bit of trash. But wasn’t that the kind of thing I got off on?
Yeah, it was. And that was obviously why Ilya had invited him over. He was bringing my fantasies to life again.
I just wished he’d warned me. I wanted to know what they’d said about me. I wanted to know what they were going to do to me. And I wanted to know when they were going to do it, because if they planned on tormenting me for hours then I needed to start thinking about dull things.
Pete withdrew his hand from my breast – much too soon – and pressed it to the flat of my chest, telling me to keep still. It was difficult. Passion made my thighs tremble and my head swim.
Then I felt the cool tackiness of Ilya pressing the lipstick to my back.
‘What letter’s this, Beth?’ he asked as the lipstick snaked a winding path from a few inches below one shoulderblade and down almost to waist level.
‘S,’ I whispered.
‘Good girl,’ breathed Ilya. ‘And this?’
As he stroked a lipstick line down my back, the other guy gave my clit a series of tiny circular rubs, the pad of his thumb hard and abrasive.
‘Oh God,’ I cried, my body swaying with delirium. ‘I can’t take it. Please –’
‘Keep still, Beth,’ urged Ilya. ‘What letter was that?’
‘L,�
�� I gasped. ‘L.’
Pete carried on leering, giving my clitoris the odd teasing flick or two. Ilya continued drawing on my back.
‘And that one?’ said Ilya, quietly demanding.
‘U,’ I said, a hint of weary resignation in my voice.
‘Well done, Beth,’ said Ilya. ‘S-L-U – What’s the next letter?’
I could feel all my juices flooding from my pussy on to Pete’s hand. My arousal was more humiliating than being humiliated.
‘Teeee,’ I wailed, screwing my eyes shut as Pete twisted his fingers up and down in my sex.
‘Perfect,’ said Ilya, and he traced the final letter on my back. ‘Now bend over and show Pete exactly what you are.’
Pete plucked his wet fingers from my groin and got to his feet, stepping back to smile down at me.
‘Go on, Beth,’ said Ilya, standing and pushing gently at the back of my neck.
Making a weak protest, I dropped forward on to my hands. My head hanging low, I imagined how I must look, crouched at Pete’s feet, knickers round my knees, those big red letters branding me as their slut. I felt thoroughly debased and desperately cheap. But, somewhere deep inside, I revelled in the filthy attention.
I watched Pete’s dirty-grey trainers as he moved to join Ilya behind me. Bet he can’t read upside down, I thought bitterly.
‘That’s good,’ said Pete. ‘I like sluts. Take your knickers off properly, sweetheart.’
I crawled forward, reaching back to get rid of the last scrap of PVC, then I held still for my men again, aching with need.
‘Spread your legs, Beth,’ said Ilya, and I shuffled my knees wide apart.
‘What are we gonna do first, Ill?’ came Pete’s voice. ‘Her or the video?’
‘Meee,’ I said in a shameless whine. ‘Do me.’
I heard Pete’s laugh and saw one of his feet lifting from the ground.
‘God, she’s a dirty little cow,’ he said, and I felt the rubbery toe of his trainer between my thighs. I groaned, appalled at my coarse lust, as Pete’s foot rubbed up and down over my folds. ‘Aren’t you, sweetheart?’ he breathed. ‘Why don’t you bring yourself off on my shoe?’
I probably would have done if he’d given me chance. But he didn’t. He set his foot down and once again I was wretched with hunger, pressing my arse back and pleading for more. They ignored me.
‘We’ll do the video,’ said Ilya. ‘I haven’t seen it yet.’
‘No,’ I argued. ‘I’m sick of videos.’
‘You’ll like this one,’ declared Pete. ‘It’s a beauty.’ He reached the cassette from the sofa. ‘Shot it myself,’ he continued, bending to show me the hand-written side-label.
It read: ANAL VIRGIN. Pete turned the cassette to show me the bigger square label. It read: ANAL VIRGIN: SHE BEGS FOR HIS DICK.
I huffed and turned aside. Why were they so interested in celluloid sluts when I was here: a real flesh woman who was wet and willing, her legs wide open for some hard male meat?
Pete squatted by the video and ejected the cassette. As he slotted his home-made porn into the machine, I covertly scrutinised his body. The seat of his rotten jogging pants was smooth over his arse and his thighs bulged with muscularity. Bit beefy for my taste, I thought, as I caught my tongue darting over my lips.
‘I’m not interested in videos,’ I bleated, casting a reluctant eye at the TV. ‘I just want sex. Oh, Ilya, please.’
The screen was snowy for a few seconds, before a confusion of feet and walls flashed here and there. Then a sunny room came into view – a horribly familiar room with a shabby sofa, low-level furnishings and a boarded-up marble fireplace.
Dismay and disbelief crept through my body as the jerky camera angle came to rest on a near-naked woman. She was on her hands and knees, breasts hanging beneath a dislodged bra. The guy behind her was fully naked. He was working his fingers within the cheeks of her arse. She was gasping and groaning like a cheap porno slut. And she was blindfolded with a woolly tartan scarf: she didn’t know she was being filmed.
Oh Christ.
It was me. I was the cheap porno slut.
Memories of that afternoon flooded into my mind: all those little floorboard creaks; Ilya’s reassurances that it was just the two of us; my own reassurances that it was just my imagination.
White-hot fury ripped through my body. Half on my knees, I swung round and made a lunge for Ilya’s legs.
‘You bastard!’ I raged as the muffled boom of Bach’s Toccata played.
Ilya stumbled a little but he was quick to grab my wrists. He held them high while I squirmed and thrashed in his grip, cursing and swearing at him, trying to kick his ankles with my knees. I wanted to lay into him with my fists. I wanted to beat the shit out of him. I wanted him to be writhing around in agony and begging my forgiveness.
‘You bastard,’ I shouted. ‘You cheating, fucking bastard.’
And in the background, Pete was chuckling to himself and my own stupid voice was going, ‘Oh God, yes, yes, ahhh yes.’
Acid tears burnt my eyes and I had a tearing impulse to scream ‘cuttlefish’, to call the whole thing off and storm right out of Ilya’s flat and right out of his life.
But rationality squeezed the passion down, telling me to bite my tongue. It was just a reckless urge for vengeance and I would regret it bitterly. Because, no matter how outraged I was, my desire for Ilya ran deeper.
‘Whoa, Beth,’ said Ilya. ‘Whoa. C’mon there. It’s only a video. Cool it. Cool it.’
‘But you didn’t tell me,’ I sobbed, my face close to the lump of his groin. ‘You didn’t tell me about it. You broke the rules, you bastard. I never agreed to it. I didn’t get the chance to say no. You broke the rules, you . . . you . . .’
I slumped back on to my heels, defeated. Ilya released his hold on me.
‘I just didn’t want you to be self-conscious,’ he said gently. ‘That’s all. I thought you’d see the sense in it – in me being a bit . . . sly. You do see the sense, don’t you, babe?’
‘Yeah,’ I sniffed meekly. ‘Suppose so.’
I threw a glance in Pete’s direction. Standing in the pool of light from the TV, he was watching the screen me. I was crying in pleasure-pain as Ilya stretched my oiled arse open with sideways pushing fingers. The picture wasn’t exactly grainy, but it had that camcorder quality: edges not quite sharp enough with something plasticky about the colours.
I was mortified to think some stranger had secretly filmed me.
‘What about him?’ I asked, my anger boiling up again. ‘How does he fit in? And why did he have to come round and deliver the fucking film? Why didn’t you –’
‘We’ve got to pay the cameraman.’ Ilya grinned. ‘Now come on, Beth. Play the game. You’ll love it. Two blokes treating you like a slut. Don’t pretend you’re not hot for it. Turn around. Get on all fours again and watch the video.’
Ilya sank into the armchair and, grudgingly, I dropped back on to my hands and knees. He was right. Of course I was hot for it – so hot that I was close to combusting. Pete was hot, too. He stood there in the semi-gloom, gaze locked on the TV. His navy jogging pants held no secrets and his cock was sticking out like a flagpole.
On screen, Ilya was urging me to talk dirty. I cringed to hear my video alter ego crying out over the backtrack of Bach, crying out to have Ilya’s cock rammed in my arse.
‘Oh, baby, go,’ said Pete in a low rumbling voice, and his hand drifted to his crotch.
As if he were standing alone, he began stroking himself up and down, cupping the fabric beneath his jutting stem while slowly rubbing the underside of his prick. His complete lack of inhibition made my pussy ache. I wanted a crude, rough fuck from him and I wanted him to growl, ‘Oh, baby, go,’ when he gave it to me.
‘Oh yeah, what a dirty, dirty slut,’ murmured Pete, seemingly in a world of his own.
My video self was propped on her forearms, offering up her backside and wailing for Ilya’s dick: ‘I want your dick up my arse
,’ I was saying. ‘I want your fucking dick . . . up my fucking –’
‘You foul-mouthed slut,’ came Ilya’s muted video-voice. I watched his hands unroll a rubber down his stout, veiny length and I listened to myself wailing as his prick penetrated my anus in a slow, deep lunge.
The homiest thing was seeing Ilya’s body: a muscled thigh, the hollowing of his buttocks, the strength in his arms. His face was out of view. The picture was of me, side-on to the lens, and of the important stuff happening to me. Ilya’s expression was obviously not important.
‘This bit’s great,’ murmured Pete, without taking his eyes from the TV.
The image wobbled a bit, zoomed in on my rear, went blurred, then came into sharp focus again. The cheeks of my arse, split open by the heels of Ilya’s hands, dominated the screen. The wide shiny valley of my buttocks ran down the middle and we got a shot of a larger-than-life cock sliding out of a larger-than-life hole.
It could’ve been anyone but the knowledge that it was me – being buggered by Ilya for the very first time – made it a million times more obscene and thrilling. Heat thundered between my legs as I gazed, awestruck, at the image.
‘Mmm, nice camera work, Pete,’ came Ilya’s husky drawl from the armchair behind me.
I whimpered in feeble objection, wanting someone to notice the flesh me instead of the video me. But the video me was making louder noises. I gazed at my on-screen anus, red-raw and glistening, making a pout round Ilya’s girth as his shaft plunged in and out.
‘Top shot, isn’t it?’ said Pete distractedly, his hand still moving beneath the thrust of his trapped hard-on.
I wondered how many times he’d watched this film. How many times had he wanked to it? And when he’d wanked, had he known that he was going to meet the star of the show?
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Pete softly, as the camera panned out again. ‘The greedy little cow. Look at her go.’
And there I was, reaching back for my clit, my body bouncing, my tits swaying as Ilya’s arse pumped faster and faster. I was howling. Ilya was grunting. My arm was nudging as I frigged myself. I climaxed. It sounded nothing like me. Surely my voice wasn’t so throaty. Surely I didn’t cry and gasp like that.
Asking For Trouble Page 16