‘Smashing … fantastic day for a walk. I like to get out of the house, you know … I mean, my mum is great, but she watches me like the proverbial hawk. She thinks that, just because I’m not married now, I need to be kept under constant surveillance.’
Why, oh why, am I babbling and telling him all my intimate troubles? If I’m not careful I’ll be telling him that I’m dying to get laid next. And also that he’s the one I’d like to do the honours.
‘Yes, quite,’ he says, flashing me another cautious little smile, as if he’s not quite sure whether he hasn’t stumbled into something he really hadn’t bargained for. What if he really does only want a perfectly innocent walk in the fresh air with his landlady’s divorced daughter?
We reach the edge of Kissley Copse and I’m still trying to weigh him up. It’s a warm evening and he slips off his denim jacket revealing a white T-shirt laundered lovingly by my mum. I must admit that he’s not really a classic Adonis. He’s short, for one thing. No taller than I am. And he’s also ever so, ever so slightly chubby, with a rounded face and a stocky little body. But he has got ‘it’. The X factor or whatever. Or, in his case, Pi factor or some other esoteric number. He’s sort of dark and swarthy with a slightly hooked nose and the maddest mop of black curls. He looks like a delicious combination of sex animal and innocent naif. I could eat him alive.
We don’t say anything, but I catch him sneaking the same sort of glances at me as I’m sneaking at him. Sly, discreetly assessing, but also cautious. I’m convinced he wants me but is calculating the precise theorem of a successful seduction pounce. I wish I could tell him that I’m a dead cert. Disgracefully easy in his case, although not as a rule. Well, at least not since …
‘What are all those cars doing lined up in the lane?’
We’ve reached the footpath that runs parallel to the Alley, our track separated from it by a sparse and scrubby hedge that looks as if it’s been deliberately pushed through in places. Which, of course, it has. This is a prime spot for both sexual exhibitionists and doggers, and voyeurs who lurk on this side of the shrubbery watching the performers both in their cars and out of them. How to explain this to the good doctor though?
‘Well … um … this is a sort of hang-out for people who are having a bit on the side. They come here to … er … do it in their cars.’
Beautiful brown eyes widen. Brighten. And also darken at the same time as his pupils dilate. His lush mouth curves into a smile that would grace the image of the wickedest-ever sex pixie. And I like that – ‘Sex Pixie’ – it sums him up perfectly. My mother would go ballistic if she saw the way his eyes glint, and suddenly he licks his lips. She thinks he’s a gentleman and above all that sins of the flesh lark. She thinks he’s too good for me. But curiously, and conversely, that no man is actually quite good enough for me. Which means that me finding a bloke at the moment is pretty much a lose-lose situation.
She blames me squarely for my divorce and current lack of grandchild-producing potential. And she’s right in some ways. It was an error of judgement on my part. But that’s by the by. This is not the time to be worrying about what my old mum is thinking and how she perceives I’ve let her down. ‘Everyone round here calls it “Adultery Alley”. Because most of the people in the cars are married, but not to the people who are in the car with them.’ This ought to bug me and make me uneasy, but it just makes me hornier than ever. I’m so screwed up.
‘Indeed.’ His eyes twinkle again. He’s definitely up for something, I hope. ‘A sort of “Liaison Lane”, I presume.’
Liaison Lane. I like that too. Although it does rather over-dignify the grubbiness of these gropers and cheaters and adulterers. ‘If you say so.’
Is he closer now? I never saw him move. But somehow he’s in my personal space, smelling sumptuously of a rather expensive cologne. ‘And …’ He hesitates and a cheeky grin spreads across his impish features. Being so dark and saturnine, he always seems to need a shave. ‘Do you come here often, Katie? Do you like to observe the fornicators in their natural habitat?’
I’m gobsmacked. I never realised he was so full-on. I suspected he had a frisky rampant satyr’s heart beating in his mathematician’s chest, but I didn’t expect the switch from polite respectful lodger to total horn-dog to be quite so sudden. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. I take a deep breath that unconsciously, or perhaps consciously makes my breasts lift and displays them to their best advantage. I’m wearing a white T-shirt too, and my frontage is one of my most attractive features.
‘Yes, I do. Is that a crime?’ My chin comes up and it’s like there’s a clash of two sabres as our eyes meet and hold. I match his grin with one of my own. ‘I like to watch. I can’t deny that. And this lot are fair game if they shag in a public place.’ I gesture vaguely towards the scrappy hedge and the vehicles parked beyond.
‘No crime. None at all. I find your honesty refreshing and healthy. And I must confess to snatching the opportunity to observe a fuck in progress whenever I can too.’
He chuckles. I snigger. We both simmer and gurgle and boil and then nearly collapse, trying not to howl at our own absurdity and alert the shaggers in the nearest cars to our presence just yards away.
Oh, I love his grin. His sparkling eyes. His aura of total naughtiness. He might not be a Greek god, but he makes up for any deficiencies in this newly revealed and scrumptiously open horniness. Whoever would have guessed? I was quite wrong about him. The demure Doctor Peregrine is a rampant, sexy pervert.
‘Perhaps we should partake of the show that’s on offer then?’
‘Way to go … um, Peregrine?’ I’ve never called him by his first name. At home, because my mum had me in her 40s and is in her seventh decade now, we observe the proprieties and he’s ‘Doctor Nash’ at mealtimes.
‘Perry,’ he says softly. ‘I’d love it if you call me Perry. All my close friends do.’
And, boy, do I want to be a close friend. The closest of close kind of friend. The kind of close friend who gets to touch and fuck that cute chunky little body. The one I got a glimpse of the other day when he came rushing down to the door to collect a courier parcel, draped in a bath towel. There’s a lovely little mat of dark hair on the chest that’s hidden behind the snowy T-shirt.
‘Righto, Perry. I’m game if you are.’
The conspiratorial smile he gives me lets me know we are in agreement.
We pad forwards, sneaking right up against the hedge. Again, more by design than accident, I trip on a root and he catches me by the arm to stop me falling. And it feels like he’s just goosed me with five thousand volts; all the current goes straight to my pussy. I cling on to him, more wrong-footed by his touch than by anything else.
And he’s strong too, far more powerful than his modest stature and slightly soft build suggest. He’s like a rock I could hold on to forever. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper, reluctantly releasing my limpet-grip. He gives me an odd, sweet, complicit little smile as we edge forwards again and take up our position.
Here among this section of the scrubby bushes, tucked up against a drystone wall, we’re higher than Liaison Lane, and we have a perfect view into the light-blue Japanese saloon car below. Where a middle-aged couple are already going at it.
And they’re really bold. They’ve stripped off completely. She’s sitting astride him in the back seat, her heavy breasts bouncing as she pounds up and down upon him. I can’t see as much of his body as hers, but the tangly mat of dark hair on his chest reminds me of Perry’s delightful pelt. Unable to stop myself, I glance to the side instead of at the raunchy goings-on in the car.
Perry’s looking at me. As if my reaction, and my response to the illicit shaggers, is far more interesting and arousing to him than they are. He gives me that devil–cherub smile of his again and waggles his dark brows before nodding towards the car.
Oh, God, I barely care what they’re doing now. I just want to grab him, roll down into the dip behind us, and climb on board him just the way the bo
uncing woman in the Honda is astride her bloke. But Perry gives me a strangely commanding look and nods again to the cavorting couple in the car.
The woman is really putting on a show, lifting and grinding and shimmying. The man’s holding her hips, but she’s in charge, and she’s all about her own pleasure, not his. She’s tweaking one of her nipples as she jogs up and down, and her other hand is down between her body and his, obviously rubbing at her clitoris in the nest of her pubic hair.
I want to touch myself down there. Oh, hell, I really, really do. And I want to do it with delicious Doctor Perry watching me do it. My mind more or less blanks out the Honda adulterers or whatever they are and presents a picture, in high definition, of me and him in the back of that car. We’re both naked, as they are, but to me we’re a much more attractive proposition, our physical shortcomings notwithstanding.
If it were us, I’d be looking down into his chocolatey brown eyes as I twist and gallop, getting off on the wicked smile in them just as much as his cock in my pussy. And instead of holding my hips and just using me as some kind of masturbation aid, as the guy in the car is, he’d be touching me in lovely ways as I fuck him.
Talking of touching, as the woman ups her pace to a frantic thrash and the man shouts ‘Oh fuck’ so loud it echoes out into the copse we’re lurking in, I feel a warm sure hand settle on my back, urging me forwards to lean against the wall.
The touch is light, but there’s a definite sense of command about it. I comply, spreading my arms out across the uneven surface of the top layer of stones. My breasts press against the hard lumpy blocks and I nearly yelp because they’re so tender and sensitised, the nipples like swollen foci of sensation. Perry’s fingers slide slowly up and down my back, stroking me gently through the cotton of my T-shirt, in a way that’s as reassuring as it is intensely arousing. I shimmy – my appreciation expressing itself automatically – and, before I can bite my lip, a little moan escapes from my mouth.
I’m lost. I’m burning. If a simple, almost-chaste caress through the fabric of my T-shirt can send me soaring, how the hell am I going to be if he really touches me?
In the car, the man suddenly seems to take control too. He says something harsh that I can’t quite make out, and his fingers gouge the hips of his paramour. He holds her hard and he holds her still. She’s obviously rushing towards her climax, but he wants her to go slow so he can hold out a bit longer, make it last.
My ex was a bit that way. It was all ‘do that’, ‘do this’, ‘slow down’, ‘speed up’ with him. All about his experience, rather than mine – the selfish git.
But, without knowing why, I know it wouldn’t be like that with Perry. With him, it would be all about my pleasure. As I acknowledge that, it’s like he’s heard my thoughts, and the stroking of my back takes on a different quality. His fingers dip lower, and slide beneath the waistband of my jeans. They just probe and flutter, working in the confined space then, a moment later, he reaches around the front, undoes the button and eases down the zip.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
All that fantasising and now something’s really going to happen. My pussy flutters wildly, even though he’s nowhere actually near it yet. A gush of lubrication oozes out and anoints my panties. I literally sob I’m so turned on, so full of desire. My eyes close but, as they do, Perry whispers in my ear, ‘Watch them, Katie. There’s a good girl.’
I moan again, my clit throbbing as if his words had actually touched it.
The woman in the car is still now, her face tense where I can see it from this angle. I bet my face is tense too, but it’s the tension of yearning and excitement and a sudden inexplicable adoration of the man who’s standing behind me.
I watch as the woman submits to being handled, the man’s hands roving over her now like those of a greedy boy grabbing at sweet things in a candy store. He snatches at her nipples and twists them this way and that in a way that looks quite cruel, although somehow I sense his partner really gets off on it. I send up a silent prayer that Perry isn’t too gentle when he gets to mine. Something that might well happen soon as he’s plucking at the hem of my T-shirt now.
The feel of his fingers against my bare skin is like a spiritual communion. I wonder if the woman in the car feels like this? I doubt it, but I could be wrong. Why should Perry and I be the only ones who can go transcendental?
But I love the way his hand sneaks up my back, then slides round to cup my breast through my simple cotton bra. He just holds me, as if weighing the flesh, then lightly squeezes. Then he abandons my tit and I somehow sense that he likes playing below the waist much better. Or at least that’s what he’s in the mood for right now.
While the woman in the car continues to get manhandled, I get some of that too, but with considerably more finesse. Moving his hands inside my jeans, Perry slides them down my thighs and then pushes them right down to my ankles. Briefly he embraces the rounds of my bottom through my panties, then they follow, sliding right down the whole length of my legs to settle on the denim bunch of my jeans.
I bite my lip. I adjust the position of my arms on the wall so I can cram my fist against my mouth and stop myself groaning out loud at the sheer, raw, weakening vulnerability of being so completely exposed like this. It’s a form of shaming, yet at the same time an exaltation. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it in my life before.
‘Let’s watch them come,’ breathes Perry in my ear as he takes his position against the wall at my side.
I want to moan and sob I’m so excited. And I can barely breathe. My pussy feels swollen with blood and it seems to bloom like a flower. Another thick slithery rush of silky juice pours out of it and starts to slide down the insides of both my thighs. I’m saturated and my intimate flesh screams for contact, while Perry the Perverse quietly ignores it and watches another show.
Or does he? When I sneak another glance to the side, trying not to plead with my eyes, he’s looking at me again. He gives me an odd enigmatic little smile and then indicates that I should watch the other show too.
They’re bouncing again, going at each other wildly, the woman back in the ascendant, getting her own way. Distracted as I am, I still notice that the man’s face looks fiery and red in one particular spot. What’s happened? Has she slapped some sense into him to make him toe the line and think of her pleasure?
But as I watch them lurch up and down and slam on and into each other, thinking becomes something that’s slightly beyond me. And Perry doesn’t need telling or slapping, that’s for certain.
I’m staring at the car but, as his hand slithers between my legs, I’m not seeing it. I seem to see the two of us from the outside. Me leaning on the wall with my bottom on show, and him, leaning in, his face intent, his eyes dark as he fondles me.
His fingertips comb their way through my pubic hair and swoop into the swamp of my pussy. He finds my clit unerringly, and starts to run circles round it, brushing it lightly, first to one side, then the other, but not going in for the direct heavy manipulation. Which drives me crazy. Of their own accord my hips too begin to circle and weave; my clit follows his pattern as if magnetised and tries to get more action. Things get worse – or better, depending on how you look at it – when Perry starts to play with my bottom from behind, feathering up and down my anal crease with the fingers of his other hand.
He’s working me like some infernal puppeteer, using not strings but the electric zones of my pussy. I moan behind my own fist, my pelvis weaving like that of some kind of exotic dancer. I’ve never felt like this before. Never known I could be such a wanton lust-crazed trollop. But I’m glad I’ve found out now, because Perry seems to really, really like it.
He starts murmuring in my ear, using just those words – ‘trollop’, ‘slut’, ‘horny little raver’ – and the words sound doubly, trebly, quadruply arousing in his beautifully enunciated, Oxbridge-educated tones.
As if from a huge distance and through a veil of fuzz, I watch the couple in the ca
r finally climax. It’s not a pretty sight. Their faces contort and their movements are jolting and ungainly; the woman’s breasts jiggle up and down in a way that’s hypnotically ugly. But, who cares? They’re getting off, and that’s what I want too.
‘Please,’ I whimper, my hips still following Perry’s plague-some fingers. I don’t know whether I want him to fuck me or bring me off manually and I don’t much care. I just want an orgasm. Right now or I think I’ll die.
‘Please what?’ he purrs in my ear, his mouth close to my skin. In fact, all of him is close. I can feel his heat. I can smell his really nice cologne all mixed up with a touch of foxy male perspiration that’s just as much of a turn-on. ‘Please what?’ he repeats when I’m too far gone in frustration to be able to form the English words to answer him.
I’m a vortex of frustration and confusion. Part of me wants to whine for pleasure at his hand. Part of me thinks, Who the fuck do you think you are, mister? Just give me what I want. Now. Because I want it. I think the woman in the car turning the tables has inspired me. ‘You know what I want, Doctor. Just get me off!’
He laughs, but it’s a merry sort of sound, and when I look over my shoulder at him he looks pleased, and excited, and even slightly awed. ‘Your wish is my command, Madam Katie. Nothing would give me more pleasure …’ He pauses. ‘Well, I know a few things, but first things first.’
He reconfigures his hold on me, adjusting the position of his hands and his digits until they’re in exactly the right places to give me pleasure. Then he goes to it, as if it’s a science. Maybe it is to him? But I don’t care. He’s just too good!
Swirling, pressing, squeezing and teasing, he assaults my clit, and with his other hand he plays around my entire pussy, stroking and exploring. And as he does this with tender skill, he also kisses me, covering the back of my neck and my shoulder with peppering little pecks, then more elaborate caresses with his lips and tongue.
The Red Collection Page 19