Desire

by Mariella Frostrup

  Ten minutes later, I knocked quietly on the door to Number 6, noticing too late that it had been left slightly ajar. Shifting the bowl to one hand, I pushed gently and slipped inside. My couple were sitting together on the sofa, heads close, whispering softly. They glanced up as I entered and made a space for me between them. I sat awkwardly down. I’d never been so aware of my body. Clearly neither had they, as their eyes roamed unembarrassed over the line of my thighs, damp within the confines of my jeans, the slope of my small breasts, the curve of my neck. A tiny bead of perspiration, a consequence of nerves not the heat, slid on a brief journey from my temple to the corner of my mouth. I tasted my own salty expectation and waited. I didn’t have to wait for long. She moved in first, smoothing a tendril of hair away from my face.

  “She’s beautiful isn’t she?” she asked her husband softly. “Skin like a peach.” He remained silent, smiling his acquiescence and stroking my cheek in agreement.

  “I’m going to undress you,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Is that okay?”

  Well what was I going to say? Why else was I there? Mutely, I nodded.

  I was undressed like a child. They moved in practised harmony; my white shirt was deftly unbuttoned by her, while he dealt with the clasp of my jeans. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and the breeze flowing through the apartment felt delicious against my breasts as they were bared and my shirt carefully placed to one side. Naked apart from my jeans, I felt my nipples flush, then harden under her gaze. A perfectly manicured finger brushed over one tender reddening tip and circled it meditatively. My eyes closed, I didn’t see her other hand dipping into the ice cream I’d left on the coffee table. I inhaled sharply as I felt the freezing liquid dripped over my breasts. Obeying the laws of gravity, it meandered down to cover my nipples with its cold kiss, before melting into her mouth as she sucked first one then the other hungrily into her mouth. I moaned as she pulled on them greedily. I was vaguely aware that my jeans were being drawn down to the floor and knew that the white knickers I’d pulled on this morning would be drenched, and that my ass would release them with a guilty sodden sigh. I wasn’t mistaken.

  “You’re soaking,” he whispered into my ear as he stood behind me. His wife welcomed this news, and straightened up so she could steal a self-congratulatory kiss from her partner-in-deviant-crime. I wasn’t neglected though. As their tongues danced, his hand dipped into the dripping heat between my legs and he covered his fingers with my wetness. Moving up to my ass, he slid them easily between my cheeks and began to play with my asshole. Round and round his finger traced this as yet virgin area, pushing against it teasingly. Instinctively my ass clenched, then relaxed as I realised I was a poor match against his persistence. Particularly when paired with hers, for as I moved away from his probing fingers, hers pushed me back, and were now sliding rhythmically over my clit, teasing it first and then gently spanking as I squirmed between them.

  “I can see this getting sticky,” she breathed. At me? At him? Either way, next thing I knew we were heading for Room 6’s pride and joy; the aptly named wet room. The change of scenery triggered a marked change in pace. Languid caresses were discarded as clothes were removed urgently, and soon we were naked, our bodies becoming hazy as the torrent from the shower slowly filled the room with steam. Any coyness I’d had dispersed – a finger sliding into your ass can have that effect – and with no hesitation I ran my hands over her breasts. Bigger than mine, with nipples rosy as raspberries, I bounced their weight in my hands. First gently, then as I saw her nipples ripen under my touch, a little rougher.

  “That’s it,” she breathed heavily, “not so shy now are you?” I answered by sinking to my knees and, spreading her plump pussy lips with excited fingers, plunged my face into her sweet-scented cunt. I licked and sucked with the same insatiability as her husband had earlier that day. And no wonder – she tasted delicious. As the deluge from the shower beat a tattoo on my back, her juices ran down my chin. The harder I drank, the more they flowed. So far into heaven was I that I barely registered the activity behind me. Then slowly I became aware of him. He was leaning against the wall, watching with evident pleasure the sight of yours truly eating his wife’s pussy with such enthusiasm. His cock was huge, unmistakeably so, even through the ever thickening steam. As my tongue darted over her clit, taking care not to ignore the tiny folds and ridges surrounding this hot little button, his hand unconsciously ran up and down the thick shaft. I could feel his eyes burning into my ass, as it bobbed provocatively. The showerhead was re-directed slightly, sparing me its attention. I knelt back and saw a look of compliance pass between them, a secret intimate smile. Gently I was pulled to my feet so I was face to face with her, my back to him. The tuberose scented oil I’d so carefully placed on the bathroom shelf a few days earlier was opened and poured down my back.

  “Spread your ass,” she ordered. I hesitated a second too long. She gave me an admonishing look and, sliding her hands around me, took a cheek in each hand and spread them wide, indecently so, allowing the oil to trickle unimpeded over my asshole. I gasped as her husband slowly massaged it in deeper with large, assured fingers. God, it felt good. But still I was hesitant, and moved nervously from foot to foot. Sensing this, she placed her mouth close to my ear and whispered that she knew I wanted this, and that her husband would be gentle. I leant into her as I felt the tip of his cock press against the tiny puckered pink ring of my ass, growing in insistence until both my ass and my fear gave way and his cock glided in. As he began to move, she picked up the rhythm of his slow thrusts and matched them, firmly rubbing my clit in time. With my head on her shoulder, the couple kissed hungrily while I stood, impaled, between them. Together we rocked slowly, his cock deep within my ass, her fingers working my clit with practised ease. I relaxed and added my own counter-rhythm, bouncing my ass back against his groin. Taking their cue from my increasing confidence his strokes intensified, growing deeper and quicker. Her fingers began to spank my open cunt once more and I, bold now, pulled her face away from his and her mouth onto mine. The wet room had never been wetter. I had never been wetter. I came a split second before he did, screaming. As his cock shot hot bursts of cum into my no longer virginal bottom, his legs gave way and together we sank to the floor, letting the streaming water wash all traces of the encounter away.

  They did leave the next day. My couple. I didn’t make a note of their address back in London. I knew I wasn’t their first conquest, but that didn’t sour the fact they were mine. My first taste of a woman, my first experience of anal sex; such sweet pain, my first threesome. It was a summer of firsts and I returned home grateful.

  THE SELFISH GIANTESS

  Alex Chambers

  Alex Chambers is a writer of contemporary romance. Alex enjoys travelling in Europe, life drawing, hot summers, gardening and classic detective fiction. He harbours ambitions to one day own a house overlooking Hampstead Heath.

  In the long, hot summer of 2003, Felicity and I rented a flat on the top floor of a Victorian house ‘a stone’s throw’ from Hampstead Heath, although why we would want to throw stones at the Heath was anybody’s guess. ‘Flat’ was a generous appellation for our magnolia prison: a 23 square foot studio with a ludicrous bed that was designed to be folded into the wall when not in use. We never did this, partly because we rarely had visitors and partly because, for me at least, the bed had become a reproachful reminder of what was no longer happening between us. To fold it away completely would have been to admit defeat.

  We had recently finished our PhDs; hers on Aubrey Beardsley’s unfinished erotic novel Under the Hill and mine on Napoleon’s Corsican identity. I was interning at the British Museum, scanning endless pages from the spidery notebooks of an eighteenth-century botanist. Felicity was doing bits of editing and sometimes temping, while I worked four evenings a week in a pub in Camden. We were both feeling anxious about the future, resentful about our mindless jobs and maddened by our airless accommodation. We had no outside space, only a
tantalising view of the garden below: a generous lawn, now somewhat parched, but with shady shrubs and trees and backed only by the Heath itself.

  The ground floor flat was occupied that summer by some sort of house sitter for the permanent occupant, a Mr Krawyz, who also owned the floor above. We had seen the mysterious Mr K only once, and we didn’t know the name of his house sitter. We saw her, though. She seemed to have no job other than tending the garden. During the day she sunbathed on the lawn, in the evenings she sat on the terrace, and often in the early morning she could be seen pulling weeds or watering the shrubs in defiance, or maybe in ignorance, of the hosepipe ban. One day Felicity remarked that she was like the Selfish Giant.

  “Who is?” I said, though knowing who she meant.

  “That German girl in Mr K’s. It’s so hot. The least she could do is invite us down there some evening, or let us use it when she’s not in.”

  “I suppose we don’t really know her,” I said. “And it’s not her garden.”

  “She’s like the Selfish Giant.” Felicity repeated. “All the poor children want to get into the garden, and the giant won’t let them until it’s too late.”

  I was used to Felicity’s assumption that the main function of those around her was to do her service. It was a trait I had indulged a little too much. As she reached up to pull down the blind I admired her slender waist, and felt the urge to rub my cock against her ass, throw her across the windowsill and grind myself inside her until she screamed with ecstasy. Five years of intensive study of erotica seemed to have made sex a busman’s holiday for Felicity. The last time had been two months ago, the night of my viva. I was beginning to fear that the next time would be when I got a permanent job.

  Felicity’s Selfish Giant comparison was right in one respect; the girl was tall. I met her in the hallway, and in her bare feet she was only an inch or two smaller than my six foot. I handed her some of Mr K’s post and enquired where he was.

  “St Petersburg,” she answered. Her accent was very pleasant – light but distinct.

  “What is he doing there?” I asked.

  “He likes it there,” she replied simply.

  I made some mild witticism about Mr K’s evading the heat wave, and she smiled at me – a wide grin, totally without flirtation. She wasn’t as pretty as Felicity, but her hair was long and thick, her skin smooth and tanned. That evening, as I got ready for work, I glanced out of the window. She was on the terrace, and I watched her long brown legs flex as she picked something up. She wore an old pair of shorts, and a sleeveless pink T-shirt with what looked like an oil stain on it. She was braless, and I could see her nipples. My hand crept down to my crotch.

  The next day, Thursday, we had a note under our door. Felicity read it out: Hello neighbours. Why don’t you come for a drink on Saturday night at 6? It will be nice to meet you. Marei.

  “How weird,” said Felicity, “just to leave a note without knocking.”

  “But it’s what you wanted.”

  “Yes, it’s nice of her. But I won’t be here – I’m going to Vee’s, remember?” Vee was Felicity’s engaged cousin in Wiltshire.

  “Of course. Well, I might pop in anyway...”

  “Really?” Felicity fanned herself with the note. “Don’t you have to work?”

  “Not til 7.”

  “But it’s hardly worth her while if it’s just you. And you’d have to leave here at—”

  “Well, I’ll think about it.” I was nettled, not so much by Felicity’s management of my diary, as by her suggestion that my presence would be a waste of Marei’s time.

  After Felicity left on Saturday, I reconsidered. Perhaps it would be more charitable to ask Marei if Felicity and I could come together another time; I knew that Felicity wanted to see the garden. As I thought about Marei, I became aroused; I curled my fingers around my cock, and began to wank as I pictured her bending braless over the flowerbeds. I imagined pushing her into the earth, and taking her from behind as I no longer took Felicity. I imagined her pink tongue licking my cock and then my asshole... I took a cold shower, and threw on a pair of trousers and a shirt to go downstairs. As I left, I noticed that Felicity had left the ‘bridal book’ – a sketchbook stuffed with magazine clippings, much prized by her and Vee.

  Marei came to the door wearing a white vest and a short denim skirt. Her feet were bare and she had a gardening glove on one hand. I explained that we were sorry we couldn’t make the drink that evening, but would love to come another time.

  “OK. Why don’t you come in right now?” she said. “I am going to sit down and have some white wine.”

  I looked into her candid eyes. “That would be lovely,” I said.

  She led me to a tartan blanket spread under a lilac tree, whose blossoms were looking bruised and wilted. Finally I could appreciate the glorious summer, the achingly blue sky, the all-enfolding heat. Looking up at our tiny window was much better than looking out of it.

  “It’s nice, huh?” Marei sat down cross- legged beside me and clinked her glass against mine. Her legs were smooth, but I could see little golden hairs on her upper thighs. “So I saw you before I moved in here,” she continued.

  “Really?

  “Yeah, it was before I came here, Mr K emailed me some pictures of the flat and you were in one, coming down the front steps. I remembered you because you were so good-looking.”

  I looked up to see if she was joking. She was looking at me, her lips parted and moist where she had just sipped her wine. I put my glass down, not really thinking of what I was doing, and put my hand on her bare thigh. We kissed. Things progressed. Soon we were rolling on the ground, and my shirt was off. Then she was unbuttoning my trousers. She took out my cock, and rubbed her face against it like a cat. I straddled her and stroked her face with my cock, brushing it over her lips. I felt her breathe on my skin, and groaned. Then she took me in her mouth, and I was completely lost.

  “Oh god, Marei...” I was enclosed by her gorgeous mouth, which seemed all yielding softness, and her darting, moving tongue; her head moved as she sucked me harder; within a matter of seconds I came. I lay back, gasping, and looked at the blue sky and green branches above. After a minute, I turned to her and kissed her again. I pulled up her vest and saw her breasts, so big and firm, with hard pink nipples. I stroked and sucked them while she sighed with pleasure. Then I reached under her skirt, and slid my finger into her soft wetness.

  She was so tight, she only needed one finger. I fucked her gently with it, listening to her gasp. I tugged off her skirt, and sank my head between her legs, kissing her thighs hard enough to leave little bruises.

  “Suck me, please,” she said.

  I lapped her cunt like a deer at a stream, and she moaned and writhed, grabbing my head, taking me over and directing me, rocking surely harder even than I had before I came, and finally, coming with a scream. Later we wandered naked around the garden. I kissed her again under a wisteria branch, and cupping her tit in my hand I told her it was like one of the blossoms. She showed me a peach tree.

  “Are there peaches?” I asked.

  “No, not yet, they’re not ripe yet. You got to let them get good and sweet.”

  She got down and very deliberately arranged herself on the grass.

  “Fuck me hard,” she said.

  As soon as I entered her my head exploded. I didn’t have any space to think of the Lawrentian connotations of our fucking; couldn’t think or feel anything but her tight wetness. She pulled my buttocks tightly as I thrusted harder and rougher than I ever had before. My knees pressed into the earth as I fucked her deeper, and she urged me on until I felt her muscles convulse and felt her coming, and I came as well, helplessly and copiously, and collapsed beside her. When she sat up, her back was covered in grass and earth. We had left a definite imprint on the ground. I insisted that she take a turn on top, and we fucked again, this time with her riding me, swaying above me like a willow tree. Later we used what came to hand – ice; the picni
c table; the gardening glove.

  I broke up with Felicity the next day. She was surprisingly calm – in fact, suspiciously calm. We agreed that I would stay in the flat, while she moved in with a friend. The ‘friend’ turned about to be somebody called Charles, who had an earring and whom she had met through one of her editing jobs. I didn’t feel in any position to object. A week later, lying in Marei’s arms on the lawn, I looked up at the house, and an elusive memory came back to me: a small but definite movement at our window sometime on Saturday afternoon, perhaps half an hour after I had gone downstairs...

  OFF THE ROAD

  Garry Stewart

  Born in Dunfermline, Garry Stewart is a businessman and inventor (RBS/Business Insider ‘Inventor of the Year’, 2016). He is a philosophy graduate and a Trustee of the Adam Smith Global Foundation as well as being a published writer and poet. Erstwhile erotic knight-errant, indy gangster-film producer and lapsed punk rocker. A dedicated follower of the unfashionable, living in the wilds of Perthshire with his Fender Strat collection, beautiful wife, two sons and two daughters.

  I met her on the coast road just south of Salinas.

  I was heading out for Monterey, to join a boat, and a run of bad luck that week had got me kind of jumpy. The sight of her seemed like the first breath of new air.

  She wasn’t any more than nineteen: half way between a kid and a woman. She still had that sparky attitude; her stance said it all: “My world’s bigger than yours. Could you handle me?” It felt great to be reminded of that. Even at twice her age I could still remember feeling like that. Taking off across the Midwest with only the devil to snap at my heels. In the circumstances, I couldn’t do anything but stop.

  She was in an amiable floral-print skirt, very summery; a beat-up denim jacket which looked like it could have been her pop’s, faded cornflower blue; and these crazy-looking boots, marching boots, with thick mountain-man socks spilling over. For July they seemed kind of strange and I suppose that also attracted my attention.