Seduce Me

by Georgia Le Carre

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ His voice is even. We could have been polite strangers on a train. Is this seat taken?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll go and get some water,’ he says and makes a move to sit up.

  ‘Stay, I’ll go and get it.’

  I pick the toweling robe from the floor, slip into it and pad out of the bedroom. I need to get away from him. I need time to assimilate what he has done to my body. The entire experience has startled me. I stand in the living room and gaze out of the glass wall into the night. There is a growing moon and no stars.

  I’ll just be cool. It’s just sex. He is not important. I can do anything, say anything, and it won’t matter. I see now that I made a good decision. He is the perfect teacher. There is much I can learn from him.

  I go past the dining table. His plate is still there, but the meat is gone. The cat has come and eaten it. I look at the mash. Cold, hard mash. I hesitate. Think of the butter, the calories. The cat has probably licked it. I walk away. I pause, then turn back. With my fingers I scoop up the uneaten mash and stuff it into my mouth. I don’t taste it. I just swallow the horrid lump.

  I suck my fingers and look at the plate. Now he will know I ate his leftovers. I scrape the remaining food into the bin, rinse the plate and put it into the dishwasher. Then I fill a glass with water and leave the kitchen quickly. Away from the scene of my crime. The cat is sitting on its cushion watching me with eerily bright eyes.

  ‘Thank God you can’t talk,’ I tell it.

  I feel the cold mash in my stomach and feel guilty. I’ll be good tomorrow.

  Eighteen

  When I get back he has lit one of the bedside lamps and is lying propped up against the pillows.

  I sit on the bed and hold the glass of water out to him. Strangely there is no awkwardness.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I watch him drink it. He seems beautiful in this soft light. I let my eyes slide away and look around the room. In front of the bed is a metal pole. Surprised, I turn back to him. ‘Is that a lap dancer’s pole?’

  ‘Yup. This apartment was rented out to a big gun in the City. And when he left, the pole was left behind.’

  ‘Surely tenants have to leave the place as they find it?’

  He shrugs one bare shoulder carelessly.

  I swing my legs up on the bed and lean back against the headrest. ‘City boys and their drugs and their sluts and prostitutes. What parties he must have had here.’

  ‘Pole dancers are not prostitutes. I’ve known a few with hearts of gold.’

  ‘Oh!’ A stab of jealousy. Where on earth did that come from?

  ‘Besides,’ he adds, ‘the best lap dancers are artistes who turn their bodies into canvasses, works of art. You should try it some time. It’s a great turn-on for a man.’

  I gaze at him. ‘You think I should learn to pole dance?’

  ‘Why not? Jack might love it?’

  ‘And you think my body is good enough for it.’

  ‘The best pole dancers are voluptuous women, but you’ll do.’

  ‘Do you think Lana is beautiful?’

  He frowns. ‘Lana? As in Blake’s wife?’

  ‘Mmnn.’

  ‘Yes, very, but a bit too thin for my taste.’

  ‘Is she thinner than me?’

  ‘No, you’re thinner.’

  ‘Really?’ I feel a warm glow in my stomach. ‘I am thinner than her?’

  ‘First time I saw you I wanted to feed you.’

  I look at him curiously. ‘Why do you like big girls then?’

  ‘They seem more sensuous to me. Their spirit is often more generous.’

  The next question seems obvious. ‘So why are you sleeping with me then?’ His answer is not so obvious.

  ‘Stand up and take your robe off,’ he says very softly and there is an underlying steel in his voice.

  ‘No.’ My answer is instant and very definite.

  ‘It is my wish that you are naked, whenever I wish it.’ He looks at me steadily. Again I am reminded of a hunter. Implacable. He is hunting me without moving a muscle. I want to say no, but that look in his eye. It tells me if I take my robe off there might be more pleasure to come. I have been awakened from a long sexless sleep and now I want more.

  I stand and drop the robe, but I am unable to withstand his searing gaze. My hands instinctively go to my breasts and the triangle of hair between my legs in a vain attempt to shield them. He crawls forward on the bed and, standing on his knees, takes away and holds my wrists at the sides of my body.

  ‘Never cover yourself like that again. You were born to be naked.’

  He lets my wrists go and sits back on his heels, as proud and naked as the day he was born, and gazes at my body while I struggle not to cover myself.

  ‘Ah, that is lovely,’ he whispers finally, and, moving forward, takes a stiff nipple in his mouth.

  I gasp.

  He sucks.

  I tremble. I moan.

  He buries his face between my breasts. His lashes sweep darkly against his cheek.

  ‘How can you give pleasure to anyone if you are unhappy in your own body?’ His voice is tender now.

  I bite my lower lip. He has awakened a strong desire in me. The breast that has been sucked is tingling. As if he has heard my desire, he slips his finger between my legs, and I sigh and part my legs. He takes his hand away and retreats to his haunches.

  ‘Clasp your hands behind your head.’

  I obey and find the position has arched my back, thrust my breasts forward, made me feel vulnerable, and in some subtle way increased my nakedness. My whole body flames with desire and shame for my position. He does nothing, just continues staring at me while the slit between my legs begins to swell and feel so very hot. Very naked and helpless, I stand in his gaze.

  ‘You have the most beautiful breasts imaginable. Firm and plump and pink-tipped and so perfectly round they look fake.’

  This I know to be true. My breasts are my best assets. They are exactly as he described: pink-tipped, plump and round and without any sag at all. He puts a hand out and curves it around one breast and massages it gently. I shudder helplessly.

  ‘I must have you again.’

  He reaches into the dark blonde, damp curls and inserts two fingers into my aching folds. With those fingers impaled in me, he draws me towards him. I gasp. The hand inside me is exquisite, the thought of being pulled by my pussy filthy and erotic. He licks the inside of my thigh. My knees shake.

  It happens fast. The other hand wraps around my waist and I am lifted off the ground and placed on the bed. He parts my legs and, gathering the liquids he finds, works my clit, round and round. My hips rise off the bed, my head presses into the mattress, my spine arches.

  ‘Will you totally surrender to me?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  He smiles. An odd smile. Then he covers my mouth with his hand. Over his hand my eyes open in terror and my body prepares to fight back, but there is nothing to fear, but fear.

  ‘Let’s not wake the neighbors,’ he says, jams his thumb into me and carries on playing with my clit. But in a special way, as if he is following a set program. Twice my body buckles and tries to find release but at that precise moment he suddenly stops. The frustration builds.

  My whimpers are muffled.

  Again he looks at the distress in my half-covered face and smiles and carries on playing with my sex even as hot liquid leaks out of it and soaks the sheet underneath. Against my thigh I feel the hard length of him. I begin to twist from side to side, my hands curled into useless fists. My eyes beg him to enter me, finish the job.

  Let me have my release.

  He shakes his head, bends his head and licks my nipple.

  ‘Let me come,’ I sob deliriously under his hand. My whole body is afire.

  ‘Wait,’ he says.

  And works me again, and again—start stop, start stop, God knows how long—until my body is shuddering violently. The spasms coming from
deep inside me are so violent that I am shocked and fearful of them. I look at him with frightened eyes. What is he doing to my body?

  ‘Wait,’ he whispers. ‘This is the real sexual energy that human beings have. This is the thing that ancients use for sex magick. Nothing to fear. It is coming from the base of your spine.’

  And indeed the spasms are so powerful that my body is being rocked and lifted cleanly off the bed. And then suddenly it is no longer possible for him to hold me back. I come screaming uncontrollably, awfully, under his hand. The pleasure is indescribable. The release is so great I take great gulps of air. Tears are streaming down my face. My sex is throbbing and what feels like waves or vibrations are expanding out of it. I don’t feel tired and wasted, but exhilarated. As if I have taken a really good ecstasy tablet. I look at him through my tears, my shock.

  ‘Wow!’

  He smiles. ‘That is what Yehonala did.’

  ‘What about you?’ I ask, and even my voice sounds different.

  ‘Without selflessness even the best technique is useless.’

  He leans forward and kisses the hairy pelt between my legs and withdraws his thumb out of me. And I, I immediately crave it back inside me.

  ‘Are you staying the night?’

  God, I actually want to stay. To carry on. This kind of pleasure is explosive, it is addictive. ‘I have to go home. Got work in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ he says evenly, and, moving off me, begins to dress.

  The way he switches off immediately makes me feel insecure. I quickly pick up the robe on the floor and wrap it around myself. ‘I’ll just go change in the other room.’

  ‘OK. Meet me in the living room.’

  I look at myself in the mirror and think of Jack and feel guilty. While I was in Vann’s bed I had never spared a single thought for him. I dress quickly. When I get back to the living room Vann is already waiting for me.

  In the lift I sneak a look at him and find him leaning against the chrome railing watching me. He raises his eyebrows. I think of his thumb jammed like a plug inside me and flush. Quickly I avert my eyes to the lighted numbers. I hate lifts. The doors open and I dash out.

  ‘This way,’ he says outside and points to a brand new Jaguar CX Four-by-Four. He opens my door and waits courteously as I climb in.

  ‘Blake’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s nice. He’s really good to his friends, isn’t he?’

  ‘Blake doesn’t do friends. There is no one he can trust.’

  ‘But he trusts you.’

  ‘Only because we grew up together. Are you hungry?’

  I’m starving. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then I hope you won’t mind if I drop by and get a takeaway Chicken Shwarma.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Except for giving him my address, we don’t speak much until we get to Beauchamp Place. He parks and turns towards me. ‘You sure you don’t want anything?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘OK, won’t be a minute.’

  I watch him cross the road, his stride long and prowling, and go into a restaurant called Maroush. In less than five minutes he is making his way back to me, two cylindrical white packages in his hand. He gets into the car and opens one package. Is he planning to eat it here in the car, in front of me?

  He is. He untwists the top of white greaseproof paper and, tearing it off, reveals the pitta bread filled and rolled with chicken kebab inside. The smell. Oh sweet Jesus. The smell of garlic sauce when you have missed dinner and had a bucket load of sex. He waves it in front of my nose. I know if I ignore the hunger pangs they will go away in a while, but not with the scent of food so close by.

  ‘Just taste it.’

  I look at him with an unfriendly expression.

  ‘Go on… It’s the best in London,’ he cajoles.

  One taste. I swallow my saliva, take the package from him and take a small bite. Goodness, gracious me. It is so good I have to stop my eyes from rolling to the back of my head. I try to hand the food back and find him waving it away, and opening the other instead.

  ‘I got you one just in case you changed your mind.’

  No further invites are necessary. I bite into the kebab, chew and swallow. And carry on doing so until there is nothing but soggy paper. I gaze at it almost with surprise.

  ‘You were hungry, weren’t you?’

  Oh shit. I’ve just eaten a whole kebab at one o’clock in the morning. It’s going to become pure fat in my body.

  He starts up the engine. There is no traffic on the roads and soon we are outside my block of flats.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your door.’

  ‘There’s no need. See that door there?’ I say, pointing to my door on the third floor. ‘That’s my home.’

  We exchange numbers.

  ‘Wednesday at seven. Don’t eat before you come over and bring some clothes and the stuff you need in the morning. Plenty of empty cupboards for you to choose from.’

  ‘OK,’ I say and jump out of the car.

  He waits until I have run up three flights of stairs. I wave before I enter my home and close the door. Everybody is asleep. I go into the kitchen and fill a glass with water. I salt the water. I drink three glasses. Then I run up to the bathroom and make myself sick. There, all that horrible fatty meat is gone from my body. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, but I feel light and good again.

  I flush the toilet, clean my teeth, spray some air freshener and go to bed.

  Nineteen

  It is 9.10 when I leave home for work. On the way I see two men putting up a billboard poster with a pair of eyes looking out of punched out gray wallpaper and the caption, ‘We’re closing in on undeclared income’. The poster is from Her Majesty’s Revenue Collection Department. It is designed to put the fear of God into people who are evading or planning to evade tax.

  People like me. Who pretend to work sixteen hours a week, but in actuality work many more. Fuck them, I think. They honestly make me so mad. It’s bullshit that taxes are used to raise revenue. Imagine putting up a poster like that in such a poor and depressed area, and there are all these giant multinational corporations getting away scot-free with not paying billions in taxes.

  As far as I am concerned they are just bullies to come after little people like me. It is not the likes of me that are killing the economy, but them. Think about it. If I revealed the exact number of hours I work, they would tax not only me, but also the small business I work for. My employer would then no longer be able to afford my services and run aground. Besides, they don’t need my little contribution at all. They proved that when they suddenly and magically found billions to bail out the big banks with. Income tax is a tax to work. And I’m not fool enough to pay tax to work.

  I unlock the door of Sasha’s Flowers and disarm the alarm. I switch on the lights and the computer and check if any orders have come in during the night. There are none. I put on my apron, sweep and mop the place. As I am changing the water in the pails of flowers Zipporah comes in.

  She stops in the doorway, narrows her eyes. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ she demands.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re glowing.’

  I flush hard.

  ‘You had sex last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you surely did. Look at you, you’re as red as a Walker’s crisp packet.’

  ‘All right, I did. But I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘So it’s not the boy, then?’

  Ziporrah is the only one who kind of knows about the crush I have on Jack.

  ‘No,’ I mutter.

  ‘Hon, if a man can make you look this good, you should kick that boy to the curb, and get with the man.’

  Let me tell you about Ziporrah. She has all her hair in tiny cornrow braids and the type of hourglass figure you would see in a rap music video, the butt so high and rounded you could eat dinner on top of it. Her moth
er named her after the wife of Moses. Yeah, I didn’t know either, but apparently she was black! On a plaque hanging on the wall in the shop Ziporrah has part of a verse from the Song of Solomon 1:5: “I am black and beautiful.”

  The thing about Ziporrah is that she is unashamedly black. She doesn’t try to straighten her hair, color it, or do anything to ‘whiten herself’. She always tells it like it is. In fact, nothing infuriates her more than white people who think they are doing her a favor by using ‘the n word’ instead of nigger in her presence.

  ‘Cause that just means you have to say the word in your head for them. Black people have a chip the size of Africa on their shoulder because their blood remembers the time they were sold like oxen. But underneath their skin, they’re just like you, girl. Only less fucked up.’

  I choose the flowers I want to use in my flower arrangement and lay them down on the wooden table in the back room of the shop. I start my arrangement with a pink rose stalk (desire) and follow that with an oleander (caution).

  In my head, Vann says, ‘Let’s not wake the neighbors.’

  Twenty

  It feels strange to be taking an overnight bag to a man’s home. When I think about it¸ he has practically invited me to move in. When I arrive at Vann’s he is already out of his work clothes. I have made a point of not using any perfume.

  ‘It has turned out to be a glorious spring evening, too beautiful to be staying indoors. I thought we could go out to eat.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I know a fantastic Indian restaurant.’

  Indian food. No way. Not only is it extremely fattening, but it burns all the way up and out. ‘Poo on a plate? No thanks,’ I say very firmly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what Indian food looks like to me. Diarrhea on rice.’

  He looks incredulous. ‘You lump all Indian food as poo on a plate?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You need re-education badly, Sugar.’

  Nothing I say moves him. He takes me to his friend’s restaurant on a side street off Piccadilly Circus and orders half a portion of what seems to me to be almost everything on the menu. And I am told I have to taste at least one bite of everything. He does not order any alcohol.