by Primula Bond
‘Don’t go down that road, Rosa. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Make your love interest jealous by sleeping with his best mate?’
I rest the cool glass against my aching forehead.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘It could backfire.’
‘I’m hurt enough already.’ I kick out at the wooden edge of the boat deck. ‘He looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t want me.’
‘And you believe everything he says? Don’t forget he’s a performer, Rosa. The master of disguise. Used to wearing a mask when it suits. I doubt he knows what he wants half the time.’ Jeannie shrugs, pouring out more coffee. ‘We find this with a lot of our celebrity clients. A lot of complexes rise to the surface.’
‘Like boiling milk?’
‘Like lancing a boil!’ She laughs at my disgusted expression. ‘And his particular obsession is, I don’t know, atoning for his sin. The idea that he doesn’t deserve happiness. Just punishment. And he’s still terrified of rejection. Personal. Sexual –’
‘And now I’ve added to his list of complexes by avoiding him.’
‘Well, by being inconsistent, I suppose. You’re a bit of a firefly, aren’t you? Dashing here, moonlighting there – remember what I told you right at the start? That we’re the strong ones. We can come and go as we please. The patients are vulnerable. They can’t just jump up and run away.’ Nurse Jeannie rubs at her short hair, today dip-dyed the colour of Ribena. ‘You need to go to him, Rosa. Be a friend, if that’s all he can manage, but be there for him. Until he leaves.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s another night shift, and the clinic is in darkness. The corridors have ghostly lighting running along at floor level like the aisles of an aircraft, and outside the rooms as ever there are the pinprick red lights blinking on the ever-watchful CCTV cameras.
But the place is peaceful. The blockbuster actor’s room at the far end of this ward has been vacated. The team of heavies, with their new groupie, have gone.
In the changing room I pull on my white uniform and check myself in the mirror.
The reflection of my wide, dark eyes stares back at me. I’ve brushed on mascara this evening. I’ve even risked a dab of lipstick. Not usually allowed, but somehow I doubt Nurse Jeannie will tick me off. A naughty smile crosses my face. I reckon I’d just have to crook my finger and she’d be putty in my hands. Or should that be pussy.
My lips gleam invitingly. Even though I rejected her advances, her attention has given me a peculiar new confidence.
I go about my business quietly as usual for the requisite hour or so, but there are no calls or alarms. It seems that half the clientele has checked out since I was last here.
For form’s sake I check on all the patients until I get to room 202.
If anyone wonders what I’m doing, I’ll say the alarm summoned me.
My heart is thumping heavily, making my breasts push against the uniform. I open the door. There is total silence in here. The only movement is the slight ripple of the white curtains, showing me he has left the garden door open.
I kick off my shoes and pad across the floor to the bed, which has been pushed back to where it should be, in the middle of the room. A shaft of moonlight slants through the thin cloud cover, lighting the figure in the bed as if it’s the opening scene of a play.
Those spidery eyelashes feather across Pierre’s cheeks. The dark glitter of his eyes has been blotted out. His mouth is slightly open. I remember how it felt kissing me. I lean over and feel his warm breath on my face. I glance to see if his eyes have snapped open, or his mouth curled in a smile, but his body is totally slack, his face so pale and still in the grip of sleep.
I can’t really fight for someone who’s asleep, can I?
‘Pierre? It’s me!’ I whisper, leaning over him, letting my breasts push at his shoulder. ‘I’m not giving up on you. You meant that kiss, whatever you say.’
His mouth pinches as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t stir. Warm air puffs through his lips as his face rolls sideways.
I smooth his hair off his forehead and fold down the white sheet.
‘It’s too warm in here, Pierre. You’re sweating,’ I say softly, reaching for the collar of his pyjama top. It’s already undone. ‘I’m just going to take this off. Stop me if you don’t like it.’
I pull open the shirt to reveal his chest, the ripple of muscles running down to his waist. He doesn’t move. His breathing is deep, and even.
‘You put on this brave face, and yet you’re often so down, aren’t you?’
How is this going to work? He’s fast asleep. I want him to wake up, and yet I want him to rest.
‘I’ll just sit with you for a while,’ I say, running my fingers over his chest, across his nipples. ‘It’ll make a change not to have you challenging me or teasing me. I’m still furious, you know. I haven’t forgiven you for being such an asshole. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow and tell you exactly what you can do to make it up to me.’
The curtains flutter away from the window, letting in a strong white beam of light, and I can see him so clearly now.
The scars from that childhood fire are spread around his torso like a shawl. None of us knows exactly what happened, but there seems to be almost the imprint of fabric there, as if whatever he was wearing, a little dressing gown perhaps, caught fire around his shoulders and stuck to him, leaving his lower half unblemished.
It looks so sore. What kind of pain must he have been in? The scar tissue has carved ridges in his upper arms, puckering up strips of shiny skin, part red, mostly white, snaking down his sides and across his chest. Part of his neck looks as if a white scarf is trying to strangle him, but most of that is covered by his new growth of beard.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, reach out and trace his scars as gently as I can, a butterfly touch with the pads of my fingertips. He half groans, half laughs, lifts his hands as if warding off a blow.
‘You remember the first time we met?’ I whisper in the darkness. ‘I should have touched you properly then. And again. And again. Maybe we wouldn’t be on such different wavelengths.’
He swallows. ‘What are you on about, Cavalieri?’
‘You’re awake?’ I snatch my hand back. ‘You really are going to make this impossible, aren’t you?’
‘Do that again. Touch me. My scars. Most people, most women, they recoil.’
I fan my hands out on his chest.
‘How can anything about you be ugly? Those scars are part of you.’
He closes his eyes as if I’ve said something wrong.
‘What am I going to do with you, Rosie?’
‘That’s X-rated.’ I trail my fingers in little circles down his ribs. ‘For now you’re going to listen to another story. It’s about someone who really wants me.’
His eyes open again, a dark sparkle in the dim light. ‘Who?’
‘A woman. A very sexy woman. She came to my house. It’s very cosy in there. Very intimate. Warm. Private. Anything could happen. And it did.’
My hand moves on down his stomach, flattens over the warm skin rising and falling beneath my touch.
‘I’m listening. What happened in your little witch’s cottage?’
‘It’s not a cottage. It’s a boat. As you well know.’ I leave that hanging for a moment. ‘This woman came to me with a message from another lover. She said he was pining. But it went clean out of her head when she saw me semi-naked, trying on a ball gown.’
Pierre smiles, biting down on his lower lip. He reaches up to touch my face.
‘Go on.’
‘She unzipped the dress and slipped it off me, because she said she could mend it. I had hardly anything on underneath, Mr Levi. Not even a bra.’
His glittering eyes graze my breasts, as I knew they would. Linger where the buttons of my uniform remain unbuttoned and my rounded cleavage bulges, showing a flutter of red lace.
‘The woman pulled me up to her, and she k
issed me. Tongues, Mr Levi. I’ve never kissed a woman before. I think I’d like to try it again. I was so surprised I didn’t stop her, and then she whipped her own shirt off, she was wearing a cute little French striped number, and her cute breasts were rubbing against mine. I responded. I’m so frustrated, you see. Sometimes I have to touch myself, push my fingers inside me when I’m all alone at night. Just to remind me what it’s like to come.’
He moans and shifts in the bed. Scheherazade is having the desired effect. His hands hover over my breasts, picking at the next button, flicking it undone.
‘But this woman was doing it for me. Someone else’s fingers pushed inside me as she kissed me, and then we were tangled together, two girls, lips, tits, fingers, pussies. It was alien, yet so familiar. Another girl’s lips on me, her fingers ripping off my knickers, her strong little hands pushing my legs open. I was her toy, and she was my teacher.’
I leave a long pause to allow my words to infiltrate his mind, the pictures to form. I glance down and there’s his erection, pushing at the white sheet.
‘Would you have liked to watch, Mr Levi?’
He groans again. ‘I’d have paid good money to watch. And then join in.’
He takes one of my hands and puts it over the thick shape in his groin as if to ease the pain. I let it rest there, but I don’t take hold of it. Not yet.
‘It’s very small, my houseboat. Only a couple of steps to my bed. We lay down, me underneath, and she kissed my breasts. I like having my breasts kissed. I like my nipples bitten.’ I undo another button, pull the uniform aside. ‘So I pulled her knickers off and touched her, too. So soft. So damp. She was licking at my nipples and I pushed my finger right inside her. A little scary, very naughty, but her pussy was so sweet, so warm, so wet and slippery. I think she liked it, because she bit me. I cried out. I reckon we disturbed the neighbour.’
‘Rosie, please. Stop talking. Touch me.’
Pierre’s voice is so deep, so husky. My body clenches with desire. I pull the sheet back to reveal the curling nest of hair, the hardness extending up to his stomach.
‘Nurse Jeannie was grinding against me. It was my turn to fondle her breasts. Her fingers pushed hard inside me. I was so tight. Mine were inside her. Two wriggling female bodies. And then we came, Mr Levi. We cried out at the same time, collapsed onto the pillows, giggling and gasping and making such a noise.’
Pierre reaches up into my hair and pulls one long strand out of the top knot.
‘Rosie. Did that really happen?’
I hesitate, slide my hand under his cock and weigh it on my palm.
‘Did you really fuck Dr Venska?’
He doesn’t reply, but lies back on the pillows, his fingers still tangled in my hair, and the movement drags me across him, over his legs, my face above his groin.
Give the sick guy what he wants. Then give him some more!
I kiss his stomach. Both his hands are in my hair now, holding my head, gently at first, then pulling at my hair, tangling it round his fingers, moving me closer to his cock. I curl my fingers round it and squeeze, and then slide my curled fingers up and down the already rigid shaft.
I rub my lips over the velvety surface. Would it hurt his legs if I got up on my knees, climbed on top of him like a cowgirl, hitched my knickers aside and plunged him into me?
But I can’t move. His hands are keeping me in place. The sharp pains as he tugs at my hair turn me on just as much as the length of maleness lying under my mouth.
I kiss the end of it, a bead of juice slipping out of the tiny slit. The heat from his body radiates like a furnace. He smells so clean.
He’s past submitting to bed baths now. He’ll have washed himself tonight, struggling not to slip over under the waterfall shower but alone and gloriously independent at last. His skin will gleam beneath the water, the soap sliding in between his buttocks, along his cock, he’ll pull the foreskin back, like I did that first time, he’ll clean it thoroughly, holding it, erect in his hands.
What does a man dream about when he washes himself? Of the last time this cock was hard and thrusting inside someone? Or is he already planning the next conquest?
Is this how it’s going to be? That the stronger he gets, the less he’ll need me? The quicker he’ll walk away?
My challenge, thrown down by my sister, is to make sure I’m next.
He stirs, and murmurs something.
I close my eyes and lean forward.
‘I know what you’re doing, Rosie. I know what you want. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ll only hurt you. It’s what I do.’
‘So break the habit of a lifetime.’ I run my tongue along his cock. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
He shakes his head, back and forth on the pillow, as if wrestling with a nightmare.
‘Of course not. I already know what those lips feel like.’
His body is doing all the talking. His glorious ready hardness springs in my hand. He moans more loudly. The soft rounded end bumps blindly against my cheek.
Pierre’s hands pull at my hair, down towards him.
The rounded end prods at the corner of my mouth as if it has a life of its own. I glance up but his head is turned away from me, towards the moonlight.
I part my lips and smoothly suck in the most precious part of Pierre Levi.
My heart is pounding. Sweat pricks under my arms. I run my free hand down between my legs. I’m soaking wet. I’ll be leaving a slick of pussy juice on his bed.
I close my lips as the length of him jumps over my tongue. So long. So hard. Still he doesn’t move. I can only hear the thick pulsing of my own blood.
This isn’t just for him. This is for me.
He is hard and huge. His hips push urgently. I slide my lips down to the base so that he’s deep inside my mouth, shoving to the back of my throat.
A brief memory twists in my head of the times I did this for Daniele. In the flat. In the alleyway behind his precious kitchen, amongst the rubbish bins and the overhead lines of washing. I wonder if that sous chef gives head as well as me. But then I realise, in a dazzling flash of exhilaration, that I don’t give a toss. Another man’s cock is in my mouth and I’m going to do this so brilliantly that when he’s spent he’ll be begging for more.
I push the thick shaft back with my tongue, close my lips, and suck it into the wetness of my mouth. It gives a little buck and thickens.
I’m getting wetter, wriggling on the bed beside him. He’s stiffening and swelling as I suck. My breath is gasping and rasping with excitement now. Pleasure surges through me.
Pierre Levi thinks he’s the boss of everyone. But watch this. I have him right where I want him. Well, apart from inside me, that is. But I can wait for that. I can wait. A little longer.
His obvious, thrusting pleasure is turning me on. I can taste him. He’s wrapped my hair round his fingers and is tugging at me. I move my mouth up and down, a relentless pleasure machine.
‘Rosie. Stop. Honey, stop.’
I pause, my mouth loosening, lips losing their tight grip. Why does he want me to stop? He dismissed me the other day, just after that wonderful kiss. Does he want to dismiss me now?
Fight for him.
‘Too late, Levi. Just enjoy it.’
I start to bite him, nip the taut surface. I’ve no idea how hard to bite or how much I might hurt him. But I’m going ahead anyway.
He sinks back. He’s made that token effort of resistance. He’s accepted that he’s just a man with a massive hard-on that needs sucking off. And a girl he quite likes is doing him the favour.
He moans my name again, louder this time, then slides his hands over my ears so that all I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I work even harder. I want to give him something he won’t forget. Here’s the little mouse, bursting out of her shell.
The dark room is warm and still, lit only by the moonlight.
He thrusts deeper into my mouth, groaning more loudly now. I will myself to exercise control for a lit
tle bit longer and fondle underneath the shaft, feel the soft balls shrinking shyly as I encircle the base with my finger and thumb. He’s filling my mouth. He’s pushing at the back of my throat and my lips are gripped hard over the smooth surface.
I nip once, nip a little harder, then suck, my lips sliding, and all at once he is jerking, pushing himself into my face, he’s thrusting against the roof of my mouth, blocking my throat, his fingers are pulling violently at my hair, pulling me away, pushing me back, and then he’s groaning loudly and painfully, more painfully than I realised. He’s sobbing out my name, quietly but forcefully, as his life force spurts from him.
I open my throat and swallow every hot sweet drop.
I kneel back at last, wipe my mouth quickly, and watch him. His eyes are open, staring at me, glittering through the dark.
‘Rosie. Bad girl.’
His throat bulges as he regains his breath, swallowing down the shouting excitement. His mouth slowly closes and he lies back, totally spent. I could watch him all night. The lovely man I’ve reduced to this exhausted heap.
He could have stopped me at any time, but he didn’t.
I’m fighting for you, Pierre Levi.
‘Don’t talk now, Pierre. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
I get up, my legs shaking, my jaw aching from my ministrations. I look down at him, but apart from his arm lying across him now, and his pyjamas left open, he looks as if he hasn’t moved.
I want him so badly it hurts. But not here. Not now.
I take one last look at him before I close the door, and outside the room, up in the corner, the little red eye on the camera winks.
* * *
‘So you gave him a blowjob,’ cackles Francesca across the airwaves. ‘And?’
‘And nothing yet. I’m doing the teasing now. I’ve not seen him since. Give him a chance to miss me. Give him time to take back what he said.’
‘He’ll certainly be thinking differently about you now.’
‘God, I hope I haven’t totally blown it.’
‘That’s exactly what you’ve done!’
We stare at each other across the Atlantic, and then collapse into raucous giggles.