Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  ‘I’ll follow you down in a minute.’

  Some reckon the garden sculptures are modelled on Floyd’s aloof young wife Florence, but no one’s ever seen her in the flesh. Frank thinks one of them looks exactly like Stella.

  Ah, signora Stella! Even my Frank can’t keep his eyes off her. She’s like a sluttish Sophia Loren, he says. There’s the shadow of the old sparkle when he looks at her, and I can’t help glancing at his trousers to see if there’s any life stirring down there, but even those enormous cappuccino-coloured boobs, squeezed into broderie anglaise gypsy blouses, sheened with sweat from all that cooking and scrubbing, can’t get his dander up.

  Impossible not to like her, though. Maybe my husband does ignore me and ogle her, but I also think she’s lovely. And she keeps this place so well, just this side of bawdy. She brought peasant-chic decor and amazing food to the west country long before the likes of Jamie Oliver.

  Poppy pats her stomach. She’s allowed herself a bit of a pig-out. Hell, she’s lost more than three stone since her toothpick-sized sister Mary told her at Christmas that she looked like Beth Ditto. And not in a good way. But what’s the point of all that starving? Because along with all the fat, she’s lost her joie de vivre. And Frank’s not even noticed, certainly not commented, that she’s found her cheekbones again.

  Poppy comes slowly down the stairs. She still loves tunics, but they’re not the tents she used to wear. OK, maybe there is a point in starving. She can wear these gorgeous clothes now. All metallic tones and satin fabrics which cling to her breasts and fall away over her still generous hips, and tonight it’s a Cleopatra-style sheath with a jewelled neck and she’s taking the plunge and wearing it as a short dress. She’s hooked herself into some sensational new lingerie. Black opaque stockings, the kind nuns or Victorian housemaids wore. She still has the legs.

  Every night since they got here she has sprayed perfume, drunk wine, played music, lit candles, the lot.

  And still Frank has lost his libido.

  ‘So, Poppy, is your Frank OK?’

  The huge sofa sinks under Stella’s weight as she plops down into the cushions. Poppy tilts towards her as if tumbling down a steep hill.

  So much for fascinating locals. The bar is empty tonight apart from Ivan the silent barman. Frank reckons he looks like a James Bond assassin. All Aryan white blond hair, mean Slavic eyes and an expression as if he’s permanently cursing your mother. His forearms flex as he polishes glasses and twists them under the spotlight to check for smears.

  ‘He’s fine, Stella!’ The fire is making Poppy’s cheeks hot. She frowns. ‘We both love our room, and dinner was superb. Why? This all part of the service?’

  Stella splashes wine into Poppy’s glass. She pouts her berry-red lips and lifts her shoulders exaggeratedly like an opera singer. ‘Service, honey? What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, interrogating your guests. Surely the hotelier’s job is to flit around in the background, fulfilling our every whim?’

  Over behind the bar Ivan gives a low chuckle. The first sound she’s heard him make since they arrived here. ‘Flit? Stella? You seen her body?’

  Poppy stares at him. His stony face is transformed by a beautiful smile. He has a look of a young Nureyev, but less scary. Very full lips, and very white teeth. The kind of teeth you can imagine ripping off first your dress, and then your knickers –

  But Stella isn’t laughing. She leans forward, one hand dangling between her open knees. Her feet are always bare, even though it’s autumn. She looks like an extra from Carmen, about to roll a cigar on her bare thigh. Or Gypsy Rose, enticing punters into her caravan to gaze into her crystal ball.

  Inside her blouse, black satin tonight, laced up the front like a corset, her big breasts squeeze and swell with her breath like rising dough, catching her glittering red-stone necklace between the soft, sexy mounds. At dinner Poppy caught Frank staring as Stella moved among the tables, chattering to her guests, and when she stopped to bring them some bread he looked like a man dying of thirst, just ready to scoop one of her breasts out and suck it dry.

  Poppy bites her lip at the memory. Because it had made her tighten with excitement, seeing that glazed look of hunger in his eyes. It was dead sexy, the thought of him fancying sex, even with another woman. Weird, maybe, but it meant there was a flicker of life in him, and hope, after all.

  Stella’s other hand trails absently into her cleavage as if seeking comfort.

  ‘Whims are exactly my job, Poppy. Our job.’ She glances over at Ivan, who has gone back to vigorously wiping down the bar. ‘We don’t interrogate, as you say. But I created this hotel to fulfil every whim, yes. Even if you don’t know what you want. So, Frank. He’s such an attractive man. Big, dark, a little rough. Just my type.’

  ‘Funny, that. In another life he’d have had the hots for you, too.’

  ‘Hmm, I wish.’ Stella is like a great sinuous cat, never still, always purring. She’s even licking her lips. ‘So tell me, why does he go to bed early and leave you alone?’

  Poppy lifts the glass and swallows mouthfuls of the mellow red wine as if it’s fruit juice. Her head spins. The fire pops. Ivan starts to flick off the main lights.

  ‘Because he doesn’t want sex.’

  Ivan slows his movements. He has his back to them, but the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw stops crunching the cashew nuts he has just thrown into his mouth, the way he thoughtfully and unnecessarily tucks his crisp white shirt into the back of his jeans, all tell Poppy that he’s listening. She sits up straighter, crosses one long leg over the other.

  ‘How far would you go to fix this?’

  Poppy is sucked into the well of Stella’s dark eyes. She hardly knows the woman, yet she wants to tell her everything. She leans towards her. She can smell sweet sweat, and musky perfume.

  ‘You mean, try sex counselling?’

  ‘Bollocks to that!’ Stella shakes her head impatiently, earrings jangling. ‘They just tell you to spend weeks touching and massaging, forbid any fucking, even with fingers –’

  Poppy blushes, but she can’t help spilling her guts now. ‘I’d do anything, Stella. I love him! But I’m scared I’ll dry up like an old witch. I’ve even thought about going with other men –’

  ‘Ah, other men. My speciality.’ Stella smoothes her hand down her neck, lifts her glossy black hair away from her skin as if it’s making her too hot. ‘Ever thought of letting another woman, ah, how should I say it, kick-start him? You’d go mad with jealousy, but it’s very, very horny, especially if you watch. You see him in a new light.’ She winks. Her eyelids are heavy, as if she’s permanently drowsy. Her eyelashes are thick enough to catch a breeze. ‘Believe me, it works.’

  ‘I’ve never, not in my wildest dreams – oh God, maybe. But I can’t lose him.’

  Stella nods like a father confessor, but then fans her fingers over her mouth to try to hide the smile spreading there.

  ‘Oh, forget it. We’re all a joke to you, aren’t we?’ Poppy tries to stand up. ‘You create this lovely place, Stella, this haven, but what the hell do you know about the real world?’

  ‘Sit, honey, sit.’ Stella’s descending hands spread warmth through Poppy’s legs so that they buckle beneath her. ‘I know plenty about reality, believe me.’

  ‘No. You sit up here on the cliff like a queen bee, all gorgeous and enticing, screwing other people’s husbands, no doubt you have your pick of all the tastiest male guests too, and the staff –’

  Both women glance over at Ivan. He flicks the dish cloth over his shoulder and scratches his chin.

  ‘Lucky me, huh? I tell you, that one, he’s hung like a–’ Stella holds her hands a foot apart and winks at Poppy, who splutters like a schoolgirl. ‘Look, I’ll leave you. Have this wine on the house. Don’t leave this bar until you have finished it! That’s an order!’

  She brushes a finger over Poppy’s hot cheek, down to the corner of her mouth. ‘You’ve come to the right place, honey.’


  Poppy stares into the fire and lets the wine, and Stella’s soft words, wash over her. She can’t move. A gust of strong wind blasts down the chimney, spitting sparks out of the fire.

  ‘So, signora. Your husband won’t touch you. He’s crazy.’ Ivan kneels in front of her, scooping escaped embers into a silver shovel. ‘So let me touch you.’

  Poppy goes rigid, pulls her knees together as she watches the muscles in his back rippling under his shirt. He lifts one of her feet to brush under it, fingers circling her ankle like a bracelet.

  ‘You want sex, yes?’

  Poppy’s eyes smart. The wine burns hot in her throat. Her dress feels too tight. She’s aware of how long her legs look, stretched out in the opaque black stockings, the heels of her shoes catching on his jeans. Ivan has stopped sweeping. His eyes are moving up her legs.

  ‘What a question!’ She flicks ash off the arm of her chair. She feels as if she’s melting, inside and out. ‘Oh, Ivan, I can’t remember. Yes. Yes, of course I love sex. Christ! I was lecturing my sister about being a cold fish less than a year ago, and now look at me. Fuck! Look at her –’

  ‘What about her?’ Ivan jumps nimbly to his feet like a Cossack dancer and perches on the coffee table in front of her. He props his chin on her hand. His eyes glitter blue in the firelight. ‘She as beautiful as you?’

  ‘Chancer! You sound like a gigolo.’ Poppy giggles and blushes, but she is staring right back at him. ‘You going to be a barman all your life, Ivan?’

  ‘Part-time only. I’m training with Johnny Floyd to be a sculptor. That’s why I like to watch people. And touch them, of course.’ He runs his fingers down her bare arm. Poppy gives in and lets her skin shiver with pleasure. ‘But tell me more about your sister.’

  ‘She had no man for years, kept her house like a show home, and I’m standing in her kitchen last New Year’s Day mocking her for being frigid, and the next thing, literally five minutes later, she’s messing up her White Company duvet riding her ex pupil like a bronco while we’re all supping punch!’

  ‘So you’re jealous because she has some adventure? Maybe Frank’s jealous, too.’ Ivan tosses the shovelful of embers back into the fire, which makes it crackle.

  ‘What are you now? A therapist?’ Annoyance coils inside Poppy.

  He cocks an ear as wind whistles outside. ‘Hmm. There’s a storm coming.’

  ‘It was Mary’s face, Ivan. When they came downstairs. All flushed, hair on end, buttons askew, oozing it, you know? Like she was high. And then her totally edible toy boy announces they’re eloping. And when little sister Mary swings her leg over Charlie’s motorbike you can practically smell it, the sex, she’s like a bitch on heat, she’s going to ride that throbbing bike behind him all through Europe, holding on tight, and every time they stop he’ll throw her down on the ground and fuck her all over again.’

  Ivan is silent for a moment. There’s a rumble of thunder over the sea.

  ‘That what you would like, Poppy? Someone to do that to you?’

  Ivan leans forward and takes her face in his hands. The touch almost hurts, it’s so unexpected, her skin so parched. They say you can kill with kindness, giving the starving too much to eat. His fingertips dig harder into her cheeks, pinch and mould her mouth. She pulls away but he holds on. In fact, he pulls her closer. Now he’s running one finger between her lips, prizing them open, running back and forth till her saliva starts to make it wet.

  She gulps. His finger pauses. ‘We’ve come on this stupid second honeymoon to make things better, had walks and meals and lie-ins, I’ve wandered round in my new underwear, and still Frank –’

  ‘Can’t get it up?’

  ‘Maybe it’s me.’ Poppy can taste the salt of his finger. ‘I’m the one who’s frigid. I’m numb. I think of being in bed with Clive Owen. I lie there beside my husband, stroking my silky new knickers up into my crack.’ She blushes furiously but the way he’s looking at her makes anything possible – ‘But I can’t turn myself on. There’s nothing inside me, no excitement, no thrill. Nada, as my daughter Chloe would say. Zip.’

  ‘Zip?’

  ‘Zip.’ Poppy zips up the air between them to show what she means, and Ivan laughs. Like Stella, he’s infectious.

  Then he stops laughing and takes her hand, and puts it on his crotch. She fidgets in her chair, but can’t take her hand away.

  ‘Zip,’ he says, inching closer so that his knees are either side of hers and the movement makes her press harder on the bulge of his cock inside his jeans.

  ‘Oh fuck, yes. Zip,’ Poppy breathes nonsensically back, kneading that hard shape through his jeans before he starts to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers, pushing his tongue gently at her teeth and making her startle with excitement as she opens her mouth to let him in. He lifts his hand, freeing her to undo his zip and here’s that swift, sharp, satisfying sound as it comes undone.

  He pushes her back onto the sofa on the patch still warm from where Stella was sitting and now she feels helpless as Ivan climbs between her legs, pushing them open. She can feel his erection pulsing through the denim. She frantically pulls his jeans down, it’s like teenagers groping at a party, clothes getting in the way but then his hot, hard cock is free and thumping into her hand like an animal. She strokes and squeezes it and he groans and kisses her again. These young guys, so ready. So flatteringly eager. And what was that about drying up? She’s embarrassingly wet. Her juice is trickling inside her knickers. It’ll smear over Stella’s sofa. But Poppy wants Ivan’s cock inside her. He wrenches her thighs open and her pussy lips separate stickily. All her senses zoom in there, to that small aching part of her, and she squirms frantically. All her itches want scratching. She grinds herself against him so that his cock nudges at her knickers and she writhes against it, feeling it slip over the silky fabric, pushing between her wet lips –

  A clap of thunder reverberates round the hotel and it’s like lightning has struck Poppy too. Christ, what is she thinking? He’s infectious, yes. But infection breeds illness. She pulls away, shaking. ‘Shit, Ivan, I’m sorry, this isn’t the answer! I’m a married woman and you’re the – this is the hotel bar! Anyone could walk in! What if Stella, or Frank –’

  ‘They won’t.’

  He nudges at her again, but she’s all tensed up. So he sits back on his knees, leaving her sprawled there. Her stomach plunges with regret as he calmly fastens his jeans.

  ‘I must go.’ She pulls her dress down, whimpering with shame and regret. Oh, why doesn’t he force her? Her cunt is throbbing with emptiness. Her mouth is sore with kissing. It wouldn’t take much. But he’s just looking at her. ‘You’re gorgeous, Ivan. I must be mad. There’s women out there would kill to get naked with you. But –’

  ‘Not stay for another drink with me?’

  ‘I’ve got to be a good girl.’ Poppy kisses his mouth, lets her lips linger there, wants to touch him, pull him down on her, be properly fucked, oh God – but then with a superhuman effort she pushes away, half hoping he’ll follow, and stumbles out into the hallway.

  The hotel is dead quiet as Poppy climbs the stairs, knees weak with wanting. No sound from behind her. The few guests must already be sleeping, because all she can hear through the rattling windows as she stumbles along the landing is the sea outside, churning angrily as the storm gathers.

  Their bedroom door is ajar, and Frank has left the curtains open. The room is full of noise. Rain and thunder rumble and batter like a horror movie sound track. How the hell can he sleep through this racket? Clouds are scudding thickly across a mean-looking sky, evilly lit as if by concealed strip lights. Poppy kicks off her shoes and drapes her dress over the chair in the little lobby area and walks to the window. There’s another flash of lightning, which makes the statues down in the garden look as if they’re leaping away from each other. Another flash illuminates her reflection in the French doors. Her skin is pure white and she’s leaning there like a temptress outside a bordello, her black balconette bra
supporting the weight of her breasts, still luscious after losing three stone. The French knickers are still stuck to her pussy, sucked in by her lips. Her stomach curls as she remembers Ivan kissing her. Remembers his hot cock heavy in her hand –

  A crack of thunder makes her jump. The window swings on its hinges and now she can see, clearly reflected in the eerie light, Frank lying on the bed behind her. Or rather, just his legs. For some reason he’s pulled the sheet away. He’s naked, and his cock is standing up, stiff as a rod.

  She gasps with astonished laughter. ‘Frankie? Honey? You waited up for me?’

  Her voice is drowned in the storm outside. She tiptoes round the corner and sees that one wrist is lashed, with the tie he wore at dinner, to the high wooden bed post. Her amusement turns to fear. She rushes to untie him but it’s dark and she crashes into the armchairs and then the dim bedside light is switched on and she can see more clearly that he’s not in trouble. Not at all. Not even struggling. Quite the reverse. He looks like he’s in heaven.

  His cock gives a great lurch as if it’s bowing in greeting or worship and then Stella appears from the shadows on the other side of the bed and bends low over him. She’s still wearing the black satin corset, but the rest of her is bare. Her big brown hips and legs look graceful in this light as she dances towards him, unlacing the corset top and licking her lips as she does so. She flicks undone the last hook and her breasts bounce free just inches from his face.

  Poppy feels dizzy. They can’t see her. That’s her husband. That’s her husband’s cock, quivering like a bloody flagpole. But she can’t take her eyes off Stella’s breasts and the incredible nipples which are long, dark, stiff, and chocolate brown.

  Frank says something and in a brief space between gusts of wind and thunder it sounds like ‘buena sera, signora,’ but he growls it so sexily that Poppy thrusts her hand between her legs. Her pussy is throbbing.

  ‘So, stopped fighting me now?’ Stella laughs huskily and lifts one leg to straddle him. A flash of pink appears, slashing through the untamed curls of her bush. Poppy gasps, but nobody hears. Stella smiles, and Frank stretches out his free hand and runs it down the pink crack. Stella wriggles and tosses her hair luxuriously. Poppy can see the slit of pink as Stella’s plump lips open and close.