by JS Taylor
Wow. This is unexpected.
I nod, not knowing what to say. Do I care for him too?
But before I can analyse my response to his words his mouth is against mine, taking me in a long kiss, and his fingers are unbuttoning my dress.
“I said I wanted to rip you out of this,” he murmurs, as the buttons loosen under his expert fingers. “For now just seeing you naked will be enough.”
I gasp as he pulls the dress over my shoulders, and then his hand snakes around my bra, popping the strap in an easy movement.
His hand floats over my breasts, barely touching the skin. I respond, arching my back into his touch.
Then his fingers travel down.
“Take of your shirt,” I gasp, realising he is still fully dressed. He hesitates for a moment and then looses the first two buttons of his shirt and pulls it free over his head. He unbuttons his trousers and for the first time I catch a glimpse of what’s to come.
Whoa.
He sees the fear in my face.
“You have nothing to be fearful of Isabella,” he says, his voice hoarse. “My fingers have stretched you sufficiently to accommodate me. And I will be gentle. You have my word.”
He tugs off his boxer shorts, freeing his erection, and my doubt turns to genuine fear as I see the size of him.
There is the ripping sound of a foil packet and I realise he has snatched a condom from some hidden place near the bed.
There is a movement I can’t see as he rolls it onto himself.
Then his fingers tug apart my thighs, and he is positioned between my legs. I feel him resting there for a moment. His eyes are staring into mine, and his hand moves to caress my cheek. Then in a sudden movement he pushes forward, and he is inside of me.
Oh my God.
The feeling is heavenly and frightening at the same time. The stretch is not painful – not quite – but it feels dangerous.
“Are you ok?” he’s still staring into my eyes.
I nod as the warmth washes through me. The pressure inside feels as though he’s discovered out new nerve endings which I never knew existed.
He pushes forward again, and this time there is discomfort, Pain, almost.
I wince, and he pulls back slightly. The pain vanishes, leaving only the sweet feeling of pleasure behind.
“Am I hurting you?”
I shake my head.
“Was I hurting you before?”
It feels so strange to speak to him when he is inside me like this.
“A little,” I admit, flushing at the feeling of him inside me as I’m talking.
He lifts me a little and props a pillow under the arch of my back. He’s still inside me and the change of angle brings another thrill of pleasure.
“We’ll try it this way,” he says. “Is it painful here?”
“No.”
It feels amazing.
“Jeez Isabella,” his eyes are closed suddenly, his expression pained.
“You can’t imagine how much I want to pound into you right now.”
My face must have showed fear.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures me. “I promised you I’ll be gentle.”
He begins to move, slowly, and the feeling of pressure building up is unimaginably good. With every gentle thrust he hits some internal part of me which pulses with pleasure as he touches it.
I want more, and I groan as he begins to move a little faster inside of me.
He responds with a sudden hard thrust, and I cry out in the sudden pain of it.
James stops and leans close to my face, moving his hand to cover his mouth.
“If you want this,” he whispers, “you can’t make any noise. Not the slightest sound.”
I stay immobile. I don’t know if I can promise this. The noise was involuntary. A sheer unchecked cry of pleasure. It came from some person I didn’t know existed.
“Hearing you moan with pleasure is the sexiest thing I have ever heard,” he says. “If you make another sound I can’t be sure that I’ll be able to help myself. I might be rough with you. Do you understand?”
At this I do nod, although I’m still not sure how I’m not to make a sound.
“Shall I keep my hand here, like this?” He asks. I nod again, my eyes wide and timid. He begins to thrust again, but gentler this time.
He pushes into me, building into an unstoppable rhythm. I can feel deep inside me that his control is expertly judged. Just the slightest bit harder would cause me pain. He knows this, and his tight movements are designed to maximise my pleasure.
Within his measured strokes I feel a sudden urgency build within him. He’s close to the edge. The thought thrills me with desire. It brings with it a new urgent to cry out, to have him hammer into me, to hurt me deep inside.
The thought shocks me and excites me at the same time. With him inside me, his hard body against me, the smell of him, it is impossible to think rationally. I feel every carnal urge rise up and demand to be sated.
I make a small whimper beneath his hand and I feel the sound charge him into a final thrust, pushing deep inside my body. It brings an exquisite mixture of pleasure tinged with pain.
A shock wave of the sensation ricochets through me, and then he sinks his fingers into my hair and explodes into me in a final cry.
He lays on top of me, his hand lost in my hair, his cheek pressed against mine.
Then he raises himself slightly upright, and looks into my eyes. His gaze is confused, wary almost.
“Isabella,” he gasps, still panting. “I have never… It has never been this way.”
I stare up at him, not knowing what to say, and he catches my mouth in a long kiss.
Then he pulls out of me, rolling off the condom and positioning himself more upright on the bed, so he can look into my face with greater ease.
“I would have liked to make you come,” he says.
I feel my cheeks redden, knowing that I didn’t achieve orgasm. The combination of sensations, the newness of it all. It was all too much.
“Do you think you can come during sex?” he asks gently.
“I… I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s a different feeling, from when you touched me before.”
He smiles down at me. “Isabella your body is extremely heightened to an orgasmic response. Have I made you sore?”
The question comes as a surprise, and I mentally assess the area he means.
“No,” I say, marvelling at the truth of it.
Between my legs feels like hot and pulsing light. But it doesn’t feel painful.
He considers for a moment. Then, very gently, he parts my legs.
His hand brushes my cheek, down to my neck. Then he moves forward, allowing his lips to touch against where his hand is.
The sensation on my skin is so incredibly light. But the feeling it awakens inside of me is anything but. He pulls away from my neck and I stare up at him, wanting him to see the desire in my eyes.
“Then perhaps we should try again,” he whispers, “now you are more used to the experience.”
Already?
To my amazement I feel him hard against my thigh again.
“You see the effect you have?” he says, with a slight smile.
This time he pulls my legs forward so they are propped on his hips as he reaches for the condom and rolls it over himself.
He is kneeling between my legs, his knees spread slightly apart. My bottom half is raised towards him, and he holds my thighs in place with a hand under each.
“This is going to be deeper,” he warns, “I am going to feel you come, Isabella, whilst I am inside of you.”
He reaches his hands lower to come under my buttocks, and grabbing both, heaves me closer. Then with a final pull, he roots himself deep inside me, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt.
“Oh God, Isabella,” he moans, shunting forward even further within me. The sensation brings a jolt of pleasure-pain electricity. “I am looking forward to fucking you hard.”
&
nbsp; This isn’t hard?
The depth of him inside me is terrifying. Although I have to admit it doesn’t hurt as I feared it would.
Staring into my eyes he licks his thumb, and brings it to flick fast over my clitoris.
I arch my back and feel myself squeeze tight around him in the sudden unexpected pulse of sensation.
He moves slowly in and out of me, keeping his thumb at that determined pace, moving so fast the feeling is almost too strong.
“Aaah,” I moan, feeling myself tighten in another squeeze. Part of me wants to explode into this feeling and part of it is so intense I am not sure I can handle it.
His thumb slows, and he leans forward to kiss me tenderly on the mouth, tugging gently at my bottom lip with his teeth.
“You didn’t think I would let you finish that fast did you?”
His tone is teasing, and I think back to the tango, the relentless back and forth, tease and release.
Is this how is would be with him?
In answer he thrusts deeply, eliciting from me another involuntary gasp of pleasure. And then he is deeper, harder, but still with a measure of control. He’s not giving me his all. Not yet.
Then his thumb returns, slower this time flicking back and forth over my clitoris in time with his thrusts. He is panting and I can smell his sweat. Ever pore in my body wants to drink him in, every part of him. Wants him closer, deeper, to make him part of my very essence.
His thumb starts up the rapid pace again, and I feel myself build to a sudden and rapid height.
James is deep and moving in me. His thumb on my clitoris is exquisite. And then I climax, feeling the deep warmth of him explode through me as a golden sweep of pleasure rushes over my whole body.
I feel myself shudder and pulse, and then James moving more roughly, his hands taking urgent hold of my buttocks as he drives into me.
“I’m going to come,” he groans, pushing forward. And then he finishes, sighing out with his eyes tight shut, cupping my buttocks hard in his hand as he orgasms.
From my position beneath him on the bed I look up at him shyly as he opens his eyes.
“Oh my God Isabella,” he breaths. “The feeling of your tightness, shuddering around me as you came….” He leaves the sentence unfinished, pulling out of me and collapsing next to me in the bed.
I am battling with all the new feelings awakened in me. I have had an orgasm with a man for the first time during sex. Part of me feels relief. Hearing of Lorna’s conquests, and my friends at college enjoying sexual exploits was starting to make me worry what was wrong with me.
Another part of me feels deep joy. I break out into a silly grin, staring into his face.
“I take it that was enjoyable for you?” he smiles.
“Yes.” I breathe. “I never imagined it could be like that.”
“With you Isabella, things I have never believed possible have been made true.”
I stare at him questioningly for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Perhaps now is not the time to ask. What could James Berkeley not think to be possible? It is a mystery.
I fall asleep in his arms, but wake in the early hours of the morning to find him gone. I come to consciousness slowly, not sure at first where I am. Then it all comes back to me and I sit up in his luxurious bedclothes.
I see a flicker of light under the bedroom door, and wrapping myself in a crisp linen sheet from the bed, I get up to investigate.
Padding quietly into the lounge the same spectacular view of night-time London is as glorious as ever. And sat on a Eames design-classic chair is James, a laptop on a slim walnut desk in front of him.
He’s staring intently at the screen, tapping away, frowning and adjusting his gaze.
“James?”
He looks up and gives me a half smile.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“Don’t you sleep?” I ask.
He smiles again. “Not so much.”
“Why not?”
The question seems to catch him off guard.
“I had a period of my life which was… chaotic,” he says. “Since that time my sleep has been somewhat erratic. The blessing of it is that I am able to accomplish a great deal more work.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Work?”
“Yes.”
I move across the lounge, hesitantly making my way towards him.
“What are you working on?”
“Take a look.”
I thought he may be private about his work, but he gestures I come look at the laptop screen.
I move closer and he draws me onto his lap, so we’re both facing the pin-sharp resolution of the images in front of us.
“This is just something I’m playing around with,” he says. “I’m experimenting with CGI on pupil dilation.”
“What’s that?” I stare closer at the screen. Several images are dotted around of a pair of large grey eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes.
“Do you see the pupil in the centre of the eye?” he points to the dark black circle against the grey iris.
“Yes.”
“Much expression in the eyes is involuntary. The pupil expands and contracts of it’s own accord. It gives a lot away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, tightening his arm a little around my waist. “When a person is frightened or anxious, their pupils get smaller. When they are aroused, or in love, they get larger – they dilate.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s almost impossible to fake,” he continues. “Even the best actors can’t force their pupils to get smaller or larger. So I’m developing a technology which can change the pupil size artificially, after the scene has been shot. It can make a love or a fight scene more convincing, for example.”
“I didn’t know that directors did this kind of thing.”
“They don’t usually,” says James. “It’s a hobby of mine. When it’s developed I’ll sell it to other directors so they can use it.”
“Is this something you’ve done before?”
“Quite a few of the emotional CGI technologies have been developed by me.”
He says it without pride or humility.
I look at him in astonishment. Surely that’s a major achievement?
“I’ve got to a new breakthrough,” he adds, staring back at the grey eyes on the screen. “I’ve found an actress whose pupils naturally follow the truth of her acting.”
He turns me slightly, so I’m looking into his green eyes. Suddenly I realise what he means.
“Me?” I turn back to the eyes on the screen. “Those are my eyes?”
On his screen they look completely different to the eyes I see in the mirror. It must be the flattery of the camera, I decide.
“Yes,” he turns back to look at his screen. “I owe you a debt of gratitude Isabella. Your natural ability has helped me detail several emotional responses which had eluded me.”
Oh.
I look back at the screen, uncertain what to say. The grey eyes stare back at me, frightened, happy, angry, sad.
The bewildering range of expressions reflect how I feel inside, I realise, when I’m with Berkeley. His proximity is still like a drug to me. But my head is in turmoil.
“Go back to bed Isabella,” says James. And without registering that he’s ordering me like a child, I obey.
Chapter 15
The next morning I wake to see James smiling down at me.
“You look so peaceful when you’re asleep,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
I nod sleepily.
“I’ll fix you some breakfast,” he says. “Do you like coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee. Thanks.” I stare after him appreciatively as he exits the bedroom. A man who wakes you up with coffee and a promise of breakfast. I could get used to this.
Suddenly I remember Lorna. I didn’t tell her I’d be out all night. She’s probably worried about me. I slip out of bed and find my underwear,
cast about from the previous night. The memory of it gives me an unexpected flush of pleasure.
I dress quickly, throwing on my vintage dress but not my jeans, and walk barefoot into the giant lounge.
James is in the kitchen area with his back to me, and I see my phone on top of one of his uber-chic speakers. I pick it up and flip it over to see a screen full of messages and calls from Lorna.
I sigh, and send her a quick message.
Stayed with James. Don’t worry. Back soon.
She’ll be mad I haven’t called her to fill her in with the juicy details, but this will have to do for the time being. Predictably the screen buzzes with a flashing incoming call. Lorna. I flick it to silent feeling guilty. I’ll make it up to her later on today.
I walk over to the kitchen area, and see that James is looking at a newspaper, spread out on the worktop.
“Anything happen I should know about?” I say.
He is silent for a moment and then he replies.
“I think so, yes.” His voice is strained.
My gaze falls on the front page of the newspaper and I realise why. I gasp in shock.
“That’s us!”
Plastered over the front page of the newspaper is a close-up shot of James and I. We’re at the Cathedral de Tango, and James has me bent backwards in a classic dance pose. Our faces are almost touching and even from the newspaper page the chemistry between us is electric.
“I thought the Cathedral was paparazzi free,” says James. He’s obviously not pleased, and my heart does a cold flip of disappointment. He’s ashamed of me. To be seen publicly with me.
He flips open the newspaper and the next page is a double-page spread of us tango dancing. The headline reads: “James Berkeley With Mysterious Dancer.”
Mysterious dancer. That’s me. It would be funny if it wasn’t for the fact he seems to angry.
His fist slams the page suddenly, and I flinch in shock.
“I thought I had taken all the necessary precautions,” he mutters, staring at the pictures.
I let my eyes fall on the photographs. In them I look like someone else. It’s hard to match the quiet Issy I know with the tango dancer in the pictures. Her face is a perfect picture of passion, her body perfectly moulded to Berkeley’s.