Desire

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Desire Page 62

by Mariella Frostrup


  I released him and he led the way. Once more the room was sparse, empty save for a mattress in the centre of the floor, raised slightly on wooden pallets.

  “You like fucking young boys?”

  Running his hands down his groin, showing me the bulge beneath, turning himself on. I didn’t want him to talk.

  “Seem to.” Turning macho. “Get undressed.”

  He unzipped and pulled down his jeans; white skivvies tented towards me; he discarded them and his cock raised itself almost to his belly, an exclamation to his navel. I started to undress, folding my clothes as I went.

  He watched from the bed, playing gently with his erection, teasing me. “You’re not in a hurry?”

  “Some things are better slow.”

  A man of the world. My cock felt like it might explode with his first touch. I put myself on the bed beside him, ran my hands over his chest again, then took his hard, medium-thick cock in my hands, feeling its strength, moving the foreskin up and down until he groaned at me to –

  “Stop! I’ll come too soon if you keep that up.”

  “I’m concerned to keep something up.”

  “No problems there, my man.”

  He laughed, flipped over onto his belly, head level with my groin and took my erection into his mouth. I let him blow me, his mouth working its way up and down the shaft, paying special attention to the head, then moving down to engulf each of my balls, gently, probing his tongue to rim me until the feeling became so intense I pulled away.

  The boy gazed up at me, pupils dilated, lips glossed with a sheen of pre-cum. His voice was soft, insistent. “C’mon, fuck me.”

  I didn’t need to be asked a third time. “Got any lubrication?”

  He reached beneath the pillow and pulled out a tube of lube and a couple of condoms. “I like to keep it handy.”

  The boy tore at the silver package with his teeth, his eagerness giving my balls another twist, then he placed the unwrapped condom in his mouth, leant over, took my cock in his hand and unfurled the condom over my erection, giving it a few hard flicks with his tongue for good measure. He rolled flat onto his belly, wriggling to get comfortable, arranging a couple of pillows to raise himself slightly, positioning his rear. Tight buttocks more square than round, hairless except for a few blond tendrils creeping from the cleft between his cheeks. I started to grease him, smoothing the lube up towards his asshole, then gently inside, rubbing tenderly round the sensitive ring of his sphincter, hearing him moan, “...you’ve no idea how much I need this...”, nudged his legs far apart with my knee and set to work.

  In anal sex it is of great importance that your partner is relaxed. Too much resistance can lead to tearing of the anal sphincter, resulting in infection, or a loss of muscle tension, leading to leakage of the back passage – unpleasant. Other possible side effects include a split condom – which may result in the contraction of HIV or several other harmful infections – piles, and a punch in the face for inflicting too much pain. All this aside, I like my sexual partners to have as good a time as I can give them. I find it stimulating.

  I massaged his ring gently for a while, slipping a finger inside to open him up. He responded, moving towards me, then whispered, “Do it.” I added a glob of lube to the tip of my cock then moved hard, pressing against him, forcing my way in, paying no mind to his moan of discomfort. I grasped him round his chest, holding him to me, working slow to build up a rhythm, gentle, insistent against the resistant muscle, forcing myself forward, deeper, hearing him say, “That’s it... yes... like that... Yes...” Then putting my finger in his mouth, allowing him to bite it hard, to help him respond to the pleasure/pain I was giving him and because I didn’t want to hear any talking now, just to see the images flashing in my head.

  Memories of encounters honed into fuck-triggers. I imagined myself in a movie I’d seen... raping this boy... taking him against his will... forcing him into liking a big cock up his arse... I was in a tunnel way beneath the city... the smell of ordure in my lungs... the scuttle of rats around me... fucking a stranger against the rough brick of a wall... The shuffle of footsteps coming closer... My climax was building, balls slapping against his buttocks, spunk swelling. The images scrolled on. It was coming now... getting close... blood-red vision of the orgasm blackout... Here it came... a wound, red and deep and longing... the dark basement... the slash of blood across her throat... the reflection imposed on the inside of my retina as true as if I was looking at the photograph... the girl, used and bound, lying dead on her pallet. I came, spurting into him, grasping his buttocks for support, rocking with the force of my orgasm.

  *

  “You’re squashing me.” For an instant I couldn’t make out what he was saying. His words a jumble of noise intruding on my thoughts. “Hey, buddy, you can get off now.”

  I rolled over and pulled at the condom. It came away with a snap, and my member lolled out, tired, flaccid already. You and me both, pal, I thought. There was a smear of spunk across his belly where he had come while I was fucking him. Thank Christ. Depression was creeping in, “the after dream of the reveller on opium – the bitter lapse into every day life – the hideous dropping off of the veil”, and I had no stomach for tender mercies. I wiped myself on the sheets, got up and started to dress.

  “That was neat. Say, I like your jacket.”

  I could feel his relief at my leaving, and for the first time gave him a smile. “Any time, son.”

  I let myself out of the apartment and began the long walk home.

  *

  Sunlight and birdsong woke me at 4 a.m. The light hurt my eyes and the birdsong disagreed with my hangover. I willed myself back to sleep. Then I thought about buying a rifle, nothing fancy, just long-range enough to shoot a few birds. I lay prone on my mattress, dimly aware of flaked paint and fine cracks etching a fantasy landscape across the yellowed ceiling, then propped myself up on a couple of pillows, rolled a joint and lit it. I held the smoke down in my chest until my lungs creaked, then exhaled slowly. Slender arabesques crept upwards and settled in a haze below the ceiling. Prisms of cut glass swayed gently from the window lintel. Refracted light – red, indigo, yellow, green – floated around the room. I watched silently, rolling and smoking. My body seemed the repository of a dead man. I could think and smoke but all feeling was gone. Inside was nothing. Beneath my slack skin was a skeleton framed by blood and gore. I possessed the required internal organs but the soul was missing. I felt like taking the lit end of the joint and placing it against my arm, cauterising despair in one definite act of pain.

  I lifted a paperback from the floor and tried to read. It was a tale of adventurers in the desert, but the distant smell of the river drifted across me, the smell of John and Steenie’s bookshop. I coughed and turned a damp page. My mind went back to the girl, her riven throat, the eye behind the lens. Steenie knew something. He’d left the bar like a man pursued. Yesterday, I had decided to drop the investigation. Today, it seemed I had no choice but to go on.

  Coloured light danced across yellowed walls. The birdsong faded. I lay back and closed my eyes.

  GRAMMAR LESSONS

  Louise Black

  Louise Black was born in Devon. Her Ph.D. – ‘Laure: Life Under a Black Sun’ – was an analysis of the relationship between Georges Bataille and Colette Peignot. Some years later she found herself living across the road from the home they shared, and teaching at a private school on the outskirts of Paris. Her short stories have been regularly published in the Erotic Review since 1999. She also contributed to the award-winning Agent Provocateur Confessions collection. The Tattooist, her first novel, was published in 2012.

  I arrive on time. The chateau is whitewashed, with wet slate roof tiles that shine in the sudden autumn sun. Virginia creeper slings its scarlet arms around the door. I am nervous as I climb the steps. This is the first time.

  You have brown eyes, round as a puppy, and short rough hair. Your smile opens like a gate. I hear the latch click. I want
to come in. You are. You are much younger than I am and eager to learn.

  He is a student.

  She is a teacher.

  The past simple is used for completed action. I moved to France. I was not happy. You sat opposite my desk and I told you to sit up straight and concentrate. You did, which surprised me.

  The past continuous is used for interrupted action. I was waiting for something to happen. You were being good. It is also used for action that happens around a certain time. I was thinking about you this morning. You were thinking about me just then.

  You were having a shower. I let myself in with the key you gave me and stood at your bedroom door. I could smell your shower gel and see wreaths of steam about the ceiling. The clothes you dropped in a heap on the floor still carried a faint trace of heat from your body.

  I sat on the bed. You knew I was there. You walked into the room naked.

  Your teeth are white as milk and a ridge of hair runs down from your navel. The present simple is used to express general truth. You are beautiful. You are confident and powerful and utterly yourself. I want you to fuck.

  You say nothing as you kneel on the rug in front of me. I dig my fingers into the back of your dripping crew cut and bring your mouth to mine. Your tongue tries unfamiliar shapes. Your lips test fricatives. You press your damp body against my suit. I do not want to get undressed. You slip your thumbs into the waistband and pull up my skirt, frowning. You remove my jacket and undo my shirt like gutting something, with sharp brutal movements.

  I am rain that falls with increasing force. You are stone, unlined by time.

  The present continuous can be used for action that is not yet complete. You are holding my wrists and forcing me backwards onto the bed, testing your strength. I am winding my legs around your waist. I am feeling a desperate weight of wanting you but I have no idea what you are feeling as you slam your groin into mine.

  I am going to come. You are going to come. This is called the “going to” future. Your eyelashes flutter against my cheek. Too soon. The clasp of my bracelet scratches your neck. I push you away and you look – for a moment – hurt.

  The single duvet slides from the bed as I roll you on your back on the polished floor. The tops of the fir trees are nodding inquisitively from the edge of your father’s garden. A deep-voiced guard dog barks a warning. I touch you everywhere but where you want to be touched. I take the thick third finger of your left hand in my mouth. I stroke the hollows of your armpits and trace the curves of the muscles of your arms. I lay my head on your heart. You wait, holding your breath. I run the tip of my tongue down the plane of your stomach. The ends of my hair flick your groin and you twitch, giving a low growl.

  I have seen you run bare, fleet-footed on the packed earth. I blow gently along the inside of your thigh, disturbing the dark hairs and making you squirm. The present perfect is used for action that has just concluded. You have had enough. It is also used for action continuing to the present. I have noticed your determination. You are not used to deferment. I am older but you are stronger. You leap up and push me against the wall in one fluid movement. A poster tack drops to the ground.

  Your broad upper body rams me. My skirt gets torn in the scrum. You wrap your fist in my tumbled locks and nail me to the spot. When you bite my shoulder it feels like you are gnawing bone. You make me gasp. You make me come. I am aware of your face, shadow of beard and smudge of freckles across the bridge of the nose, inches from mine. You are watching intently, gauging my reaction to your movements.

  I do not know how to run, throw, catch, jump, skateboard or speak French. I fold around you. You take my right hand and cover it palm to palm with your left, securing it there against the wall. You do the same with my left and I realise how much taller you are than I, even in my heels. My belly is taut, the ripped skirt rucked around my waist.

  When you release your grip and dip to kiss between my legs my arms remain raised, but I twine my wrists together. Your fingertips dig into the tops of my thighs. You gnash your teeth against me.

  I am sweating. You are fresh from the shower. Outside the lawns spread jewelled green. The scent of wet turf rises.

  With the future tense two auxiliaries are used, depending on a sense of command or promise on the part of the verb subject (although there are exceptions). “I will go,” denotes intention. “I shall go,” is mere futurity.

  I wonder what you will remember of this lesson, this day, me. Will, of course, is also used for prediction. You will be a great man. You will recall nothing of these events but the envelope left on the hall table, which I will pocket as my fee.

  DORCHESTER EVENING

  Justine Dubois

  Justine Dubois is a Parisian, who has lived most of her life in London. She trained as a painter, which explains some of the visual intensity in her writing. She reads widely, and has travelled adventurously. For all her career she has been involved in the Arts, and is now writing full-length fiction. Her favourite place in London is Kensington Gardens; her two favourite places in all the world: Venice, and Jailsamer in Rajasthan.

  She gets up from the turbulent sea of their unmade bed. Her club cut dark hair, caught by a stray pink rose, cascades heavily to one side. Her lips are brushed in with a smile. She has the look of a Velazquez infanta. She glances behind her, part gentle, part sad. They have just made love. It is three-o-clock in the afternoon.

  He had held her wrists together in one hand and inflicted caresses on her, caresses which today fell like blows. Sex between them had always been a delicious fight, never less than extraordinary, never less than surprising, always sweet heaven; occasionally, as today, a rough debate. Her figure is caught, momentarily silhouetted against the light, a lean, balanced agility of narrow waist, long legs and upturned breasts.

  She sits naked, pensive, balancing on a small spindle leg sofa. Her dark sloe eyes appear bruised and heavy lidded. A sudden weariness infects her. The man is substantially built, massively boned, but lean, his hair cut en brosse. Along the length of one thigh travels a scar, following his recent fall from a horse. As he rises from the energetic tangle of their bed clothes he conjures an image of athleticism.

  His turquoise glance at her is troubled, whilst his generous mouth attempts a smile. Why now, last minute, he wonders, this inspiration for change? It is as though she has momentarily lost the template to her own existence. And yet, it was she who so clearly fashioned the template for herself.

  Neither dares broach the dissonance between them. Time falls gently, a quality of assurance. Interludes of silence interweave with the short-hand of their conversation. He takes her hand gently in his. “I do love you, you know?” he says plaintively.

  She glances up at him and smiles in quick acknowledgement. “Yes, I know.”

  Silence. Her eyes dwell patiently on the handsome correctness of his darling head, inquisitorial laughter implicit in its every graceful line.

  “And I love you too”, she responds tenderly. “In fact, I love you better than I love myself,” she adds.

  “Then why now this moment of doubt?” he asks.

  She casts about her, her hands dancing in the air like acrobats. “I don’t know how best to express it. An indefinable sense, maybe, of having done all that I can with the way things are.” She hesitates. “As if I needed more material to play with.”

  He flushes, his whole face shot through with the impact of dismay. “What you mean is more people to play with?”

  “No, not more people,” she demurs. “I feel crowded as it is.”

  “What then?”

  She reflects. “It is as though I need a new framework with which to advance...”

  He interrupts her. “But is that not we have planned for tomorrow, a new framework?” he asks.

  She ignores the question. “Something might wither in us otherwise.”

  Suddenly he smiles, almost laughing out loud. “Let’s get dressed and go to the Dorchester for tea,” he says.

  “Shoul
dn’t we have booked?” she asks diffidently.

  “If tea is unavailable, they are unlikely to refuse us a glass of champagne.” His face now dazzles with suppressed laughter.

  “You mean, let them eat cake?” she hazards.

  “Precisely.”

  Suddenly her mood is broken. Her face suffuses with warmth. “What should I wear?”

  “Go as you are, why don’t you?” he smiles. He gives her a mock bow. “Will madam be warm enough or would she maybe care to borrow a jacket?”

  By now they are giggling happily together. He rings for a taxi. Their bed remains unmade.

  *

  At the Dorchester the doors revolve heavily in their black and brass casings. The foyer is a jazz of black and white marble, of golden lights illuminating an embellished vaulted atrium, and boutique glass cases with inaccessible pieces of irresistible jewellery. Everyone seems vaguely familiar, not so much because of their faces, as because of their tans and their extra glow of pomaded health, the casual, throwaway burr of their expensive clothes. Beyond them is the vista of the Promenade. Giant potted ferns vie with the black shiny grand piano, old-fashioned serenade. Low legged sofas rub knees with deeply upholstered armchairs. They choose two wide-armed upright chairs. Tea, which started at three-o-clock, is almost over, except for a lingering few.

 

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