Helena

by Leo Barton

  Gazing out onto the empty sky, I thought about Gregory, conjuring images of childhood films: a humid office, a fan whirring above, Gregory among the white-shirted natives, fingers pointing on maps, analyzing problems, while outside the bustle of street life...

  Poor Gregory! I knew that I would break his heart. He really did deserve someone better than me, or at least someone more appropriate. This was not so much self-pity, Freddie, as mere recognition of our sharp incompatibility. I was doing him a favor. I had pondered deception, the double life, daytime wife, night-time Jezebel, but I couldn't see it. I don't think that I could handle it. All the lies, the invented meetings, the exotic wardrobe! Why make him suffer, or me for that matter, more than he had to.

  My mind turned to Simone. Was I looking for what she had found, that balance between domestic intimacy and sexual abandon? I didn't know. I didn't know where my journey was leading or what casualties there would be along the way, or what capacity I had for hurting or being hurt. Was Simone, for example, really happy? Did she not feel any twinge of jealousy as she watched Frank being sucked off by Adele?

  And if she didn't, could I separate those things so easily in my mind when all my life I had learned that the function of sex, apart from the biological, was the expression of love. It could never be either the mere disembodied satiation of physical need, or a kind of existential journey of the soul.

  Was I just playing some fatuous game predicated on my boredom, my bourgeois selfishness, or was there really more to it. And if there was, was I strong enough to fight, to give myself up, to live the daring life that I dreamed of living.

  After all, what had I so far gained from this life: great sex, interesting sex, but was that all? Had my sexual curiosity merely been sated?

  Freddie, one of the reasons I could talk so easily with you, is that you often enunciated my thoughts, clarified the muddle of my mind with your laconic phrases. You talked about living on the erotic plane as an aspect of consciousness, that because I had ignored this level for so long I had repressed it; it existed in my mind like some terrible demon. I talked of exploration; you talked of exorcism. They were not mutually exclusive, you said, the end of my journey would be a true integration of my sexual need into the broader perspective of my life. There would be no join, no disjunction and no repression. I was obsessed by sex because I had let it erode my inner self. You reached up to your library shelf, handed me a copy of Reich, and then quoted TS Eliot:

  "We shall not cease from exploration" - it went something like that - "and the end of our exploring shall be to arrive in the same place and to know it for the first time." It was the nearest thing I had to a goal.

  As it was half term I was supposed to stay at my parents' for longer. I had been vague about my intentions when I had arrived, but I think that they had expected me to stay there at least four or five days. But I couldn't, Freddie. I couldn't keep on going for those long walks around the countryside with my father, or sit around the kitchen table with my mother, pretending interest where none remained, prevaricating against the onslaught of her questions, which she assumed where more tactfully put than in reality they were. The big question, what she really wanted to know, even more so than whether I might come back to the village and live, is when Gregory and myself were going to give her a grandchild.

  Three days of this kind of pressure, in the state of mind I was in, was too much to bear. Secretly phoning a colleague from work I asked her to make a call to me that night at my parents' house that would herald my return to London. It worked, but the whole situation was more awkward than I had hoped for, aware as I was of my mother and father staring at me as I talked down the line. My excuse about returning because of her boyfriend troubles seeming shockingly flimsy and not very convincing, although the sharp disappointment of my parents was hidden behind stoic phrases like, 'Well, it can't be helped' or 'I suppose you must.'

  I particularly wasn't sure that my father had been convinced, especially as when he was driving me to the station he asked me if I was sure everything was okay.

  "Why do you ask?" I said defensively.

  "Oh, nothing much! You just seem a little distant, a bit vague, I wondered whether there was something bothering you."

  "No, dad, everything is fine," I responded a touch more brusquely than I intended.

  "Well, you know, Helena, if there was anything wrong, I'd like to think that you could still share it with us, whatever it was."

  That got to me, that 'whatever it was'. Well daddy, it's like this: I'm leaving Gregory because he doesn't fuck me properly, and I have this idea that I want to live alone so I can fuck with whoever I want, how I want and when I want. No, I could never go to my father again about my troubles, because all my troubles, I was assured, would now most definitely be of my own making.

  I couldn't resist, once the train had receded from my father's view, of changing from my bulky patterned sweater and my mid-length gray skirt into something more alluring. The clothes that I had brought with me, god knows why, in the shoulder bag I had kept firmly locked in my old room. It excited me this superman, rather superwoman transformation; struggling in the confines of a British Rail toilet, to slip on short revealing skirts and bulging blouses, applying lipstick and mascara as the train jerked me from side to side.

  I returned to my seat, the gray-suited Telegraph reading businessman, who had not glanced once at me when I had claimed my seat by putting my raincoat down, now lowered his newspaper with that male instinct that recognizes some mysterious process when there is an alluring woman around. I felt a little like one of those naughty schoolgirls I remembered from my teenage years, who would truant from school, slipping out of their dull greys and navy blue behind some old stone wall metamorphosing into some exotic bird prepared for their jaunt into town.

  He wasn't bad this businessman, mid-forties, slightly balding but quite virile looking, the skewered tie some hint perhaps that behind the suited conformity there lay something a little wilder, a little more interesting. I met his gaze, but in that shy English way he turned his gaze back to the business pages.

  But I wasn't ready for that yet. All my novel sexual experiences so far had concerned me submitting to the will and pleasures of others. I neither had the tools, nor the bravery, to chat him up. I think I would have terrified him.

  Although I did allow myself a little fantasy: me returning to the toilet, giving him a little knowing wink as I stood to my feet, following me, me holding the door open to him, and as he slipped in, blow-jobbing his enormous tool. In my fantasies I always imagined my male protagonists to be extremely well-endowed; his hand delving into the lace of my panties, pulling them down as I sat on his lap impaling myself on him, and rode his phallus until he spurted inside me. And then as my pussy dripped with his juice, he would prise my legs apart, burrow his head between, and bring me to orgasm with his dexterous tongue. A perfect zipless fuck as Erica Jong might have imagined.

  But of course nothing like that happened. Now would be a different story. Now I would have no hesitation, of making polite conversation with him, steering the topic onto mild sauciness, or arousing him with my intentions, maybe spreading my stockinged legs wide to give him a deliciously encouraging view of my pantyless crotch, but not then Freddie. You were my instructor. I needed more lessons. I needed more confidence.

  I met you that night, do you remember, that very night. As soon as I had got home I had gone to your place but you weren't there. I was right to suspect that you were either with Adele or Simone. I didn't imagine that you would be with both, as you later graphically told me; how both of them stretched out on the bed before you, Adele lying on top of Simone, both their sexes open to you, as you went from one to the other, Simone pinching hard on Adele's nipples as you shot your seed deep within her.

  As we sat in the pub, I was aroused by your tale. You tried to look interested too, as I recounted my last few days at home, but you were always tactful, well at least until the end, but I won't come
on to that quite yet.

  We had a couple of drinks and we talked like old friends, you telling me a little more about the friends I had met the previous Saturday, about your work, your childhood in Italy; and I told you a little more about my upbringing, my job, my life.

  I thought that I was being discreet. I didn't even realize that you had noticed, until you mentioned it, that I was staring at the beautiful blond girl in the figure hugging scarlet dress who was sitting on the other side of the bar, looking a little bored, as her two male companions talked over her.

  "Yes, she's very beautiful," you said to me. She was, stunning, her long wavy hair dropping down to her shoulders, her beautiful fulsome chest, the tawny skin, and the deep brown intelligent eyes that occasionally met mine.

  "I think it's you that she's more interested in."

  "Do you think so? Should we find out?"

  "What about her friends?"

  "I don't think her friends will have any objection to what I have in mind. Anyway, it might add a little danger to our adventure."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm not sure yet. Let's wait a moment." You smiled at me and then we continued talking, you keeping an eye on the little threesome all the time.

  I was very impressed with you that night, the way that you suddenly got up out of your chair and followed one of her friends into the bathroom, coming out a couple of minutes later smiling and talking with the man, him patting you on the back as you walked back to me.

  "They want us to join them," you told me, as I noticed the blond suddenly becoming more animated as her friend pointed his eyes in our direction.

  "How did you do that?"

  "A little lying, a little joking, a little bluffing."

  I never really found out, but when we walked over to them they greeted us like members of their family. Even I could understand the whole scenario within minutes. All three were Dutch, from Rotterdam, the blond, Leta, was the girlfriend of Jan, the tall fair-haired boy with handsome blue eyes, the smaller, darker one, Henrik, was his friend who the girl hadn't wanted to come, hoping for a more romantic holiday. This, as the dark curly-haired boy told us, was their last night in London: they were after some fun. I had noticed before how Henrik had been longingly watching Leta, obviously besotted with his friend's partner.

  We spent an hour or so in their company engaged in a conversation about the relative merits of London and Rotterdam, England and Holland, the kind of bland comparative study that is not unusual with foreigners in London. I had never really known how socially adept you were, quite the chameleon, showing an insight into the country, their musical tastes, their interests, being so matey with the boys. While you joked with the boys, Leta told me that she was studying to be an actress and we gaily talked about dramatists she liked and parts she wanted to play.

  I liked Leta. There was something, for all she wanted to be an actress, very natural about her, very warm. It didn't seem so strange when she rested her hand on mine.

  Freddie, you were so clever that night, knowing that the preparation wasn't quite over, suggesting a little club you knew. Of course they jumped at the chance of being shown the city nightlife by somebody who lived in the heart of Soho.

  I must say I was initially surprised by your choice, but then again, even now I have little fondness for the loud rhythmic pounding of drums, the heave of perspiring bodies, or the dizzying nausea that overcomes me in a room with strobe lighting. But, I confess, you knew what you were doing; it completely changed the social interaction, allowing you to go off and dance with Leta, while the boys chatted to me.

  Henrik seemed particularly attracted to me. I could see you through the mass of bodies, dancing with Leta, your arms around her waist, her head slightly tilted upward, as attracted to you as I assumed Henrik was to her. Sorry, and it will make you laugh, although perhaps more bitterly than if I had told you that night, but you made a lovely couple.

  And then you both disappeared together. I thought that you had abandoned me, purposefully left me to the not unattractive fate of spending the night with Henrik and Jan. You seemed to be gone ages.

  Henrik told me all about the music scene in Rotterdam. However unfathomable I found his prattle, I was attracted to him, his dark eyes looking into mine a little shyly, something a little too pristine in his unkemptness, a little too naive in his worldliness.

  Eventually you came back alone, and pulled me onto the dance floor. And then your plan was revealed to me. You'd put Leta in a taxi and sent her back to your flat. She was expecting me. She had been looking at both of us, she said. "She thinks you're very desirable," you told me. So while you kept the boys entertained, Leta and myself could get to know each other; and then, and then we would see, you smiled.

  "What about the boys," I asked, "won't they be a bit disappointed when they know you have stolen from them."

  "Oh don't worry about that. I have some ideas," you said, leaning over me, kissing me on the cheek like an indulgent uncle.

  When I got back to your flat Leta was indeed waiting for me, stretched out on the bed, the hem of her dress having ridden up her thigh a little, enough for me to see the decorative border of her red stocking top.

  I was nervous. I had never been with a woman alone like that before. True, Simone had pleasured me, brought me to a climax, but that had been part of something else, I never really saw it as a sappho thing, but this was daunting.

  She looked at me and smiled as I entered the room.

  "I'm glad you came, Helena," she said, "I've been so excited waiting for you. You're very beautiful." She didn't move at all, her head remained plumped against the mauve satin pillow, her luscious body still spread before me. "And I'm very wet."

  Gauchely, I lay on the bed beside her, my heart thumping. I could smell the delicate musk perfume that she wore. It aroused me. I leaned over to kiss her, my tongue first flicking along her pouty lips to the acute edges of her mouth, and then prodding inside, feeling her teeth and then the meat of her tongue as she clasped me to her, my stockinged legs rubbing hers, my sex pressing against her.

  We rolled over on the bed like that, our mouths glued to each other, our hands grasping each other, massaging, clutching, caressing.

  She pulled off me as I lay under her, to undo the little sexy blouse I had bought for the evening's entertainment. I was trembling, Freddie, as she was unloosening my bra. She looked into my eyes, smiling at me, almost conspiratorially, before teasing down the half cups of my bra, rubbing the cotton material over my hardening nipples. She furled her long tongue around the hard nodule of my nipple. My hands automatically reached down to the blond mantel of her hair, stroking hard as she aroused me with her mouth, going from one nipple to the other, grabbing the flesh of my breast quite hard, and then soothing the tensed pain with long, dexterous movements of her tongue. It felt so wonderful, that long tongue of hers sweeping down past the tiny hillock of my nipple to the underside of the white flesh, then sweeping back up, taking the rosy tip in her mouth, nibbling on it tenderly, while her hand caressed my flat stomach.

  Her mouth went further down to my stomach, her tongue making my whole body tingle as she flicked the tip into my navel. It was arousing but in such a delicate way, not like that sense of urgent need that I sometimes felt with you.

  It was so different. I did not feel that sharp jabbing itch of lust, but more a calming, steady plateau of pleasure that made my body relax rather than tense in its pleasure.

  Her hands swept down to my stockinged thighs, as first she massaged the calves of my legs with the tip of her fingers, then as her hands glided over the nylon, I felt her flattened palms over my knees reaching up to the beginning of my thighs. Her hands first clasped the outer flesh while her tongue slid along the inner just above my stocking tops and then to the edge of my panties.

  She lifted up my buttocks, slowly, gently, so my skirt fell down and she could gaze at my skimpy black panties, and with one hand firmly clasped around me pulled the gus
set aside with the other. That first touch of her tongue on my swollen flesh was electric. The calm centering of my pleasure suddenly became rigid and insistent, as she lapped at my sex, trailing her adroit tongue delicately up over the engorged lips of flesh. Then she flicked her tongue into the outer pink opening into the darker flesh of my vulva. Tantalizingly teasingly, her head would suddenly arch and her mouth descend onto my clitoris before returning to licking my fat pussy lips.

  At last her tongue stayed, flicking on the tiny knoll of my clitoris, backwards and forwards in a maddeningly steady rhythm, the itch of my lust rising and falling with each steady flick.

  I held my hand to the nape of her neck wanting her to go faster, but she would not, knowing that the barely perceptible, tantalizingly slow increase of my need once released would explode with much greater ferocity once unleashed by the careful ministrations of her tongue.

  Her hands held me down hard, so I couldn't move or fight against her tongue licking the hot centre of my sex. Suddenly, unexpectedly after stimulating me so slowly for so long, she began to increase her rhythm to a frantic speed. Immediately I felt myself coming, as she manically lapped at my love spot. It was like being on a roller-coaster ride of erotic enjoyment, the breathtaking ascent to the peak of my climax and then the giddy free-fall into satiation. I almost cried with the exhilaration.

  Now I wanted to explore her body with all the care and attention with which she had roamed mine. My sexual excitement had prompted me to be much more adventurous than I might have otherwise been considering that this was my first real experience with a woman. I levered her so that she was on her knees, facing away from me. I lifted her skirt up over her haunches, revealing a pair of beautiful scarlet lace panties. Hooking my thumb between the lace and her skin I slowly pulled them down. How beautiful were the whitened globes of her fleshy bottom, the whiteness contrasting with the darker brown of her tawny suntanned skin. I slipped my hand between the apex of her thighs and gently stroked the jutting lips of her sex, sending a shudder through Leta's body. She was so moist, so wet. I wanted to taste her so much. Pulling apart her buttocks then casting a glance at the puckered skin of her tiny anus, I stuck my tongue between her splayed legs and lapped at her, pressing between the swollen, moist flesh of her labial lips. I flicked inside the small opening rapaciously, forcing out sensual squeals of delight from her.