Desire

by Mariella Frostrup

  One of them half stood up and shuffled over to the low parapet wall, where it selected one of the candles, not one of the neat elegant, dinner-table types in their finely painted candlesticks, but a cruder one, a thicker one: an altar candle; one whose length and width could not help but stir images in my brain, and – obviously – in the creature’s brain too. It snapped the candle free of its saucer, shaking loose the molten wax and extinguishing the flame in the process, and turned back to me, settled onto its haunches between my legs, staring at the deep shadow between my thighs, shuffling up further, closer, pressing down on my thigh and with the candle clamped tight in its hand, reaching forward to pull at my pussy lips, opening me, running the candle once, twice along the side and then – with no preparation beyond a low grunt – simply twisting it in, deep, deep in. I moaned.

  Its free hand was still rasping over me, up my thighs, across my stomach and raking through my pubic hair, but the sharp point of the thumb nail kept returning to ride my clitoris, running spirals up one side, across the far too sensitive top, and back down the sides. At the same time, the candle never stopped: sliding in and out of me in a brutally careless piston, relentlessly lifting and exciting me however much I tried to dismiss it all as sheer mechanics.

  What attracted their attention, the men who had stayed behind to watch stupid films? A sound that I made, although I had tried to be quiet? A sudden movement from one of the beasts? The erratic flickering, part obscured, of the row of candles? I heard a single low call, just the one, and then the patio door was being pushed open and as I looked up from the ground, they poured out, fifteen, twenty maybe, excited grins already flooding over their faces. They formed their own circle around us, a ring beyond the two creatures (who had anyway entirely ignored them) but where they could watch me, watch what was being done to me, and I could watch them watching me.

  If I hadn’t called a halt before, this should have been the moment to stop the game: I knew many of these men, worked with them, would meet them in the office again in two days’ time. I would have to face them while we both remembered the sight I now presented. I should have stopped then.

  But it was too late. Powerful hands were still scraping and pinching at my breasts: a cruel and relentless assault, exquisitely painful. The smaller one stayed crouched between my legs, intently focused on its thumb nail rasping at my clit and its fist driving the candle, a constant unbearable rhythm that was irresistible. I no longer cared that I was so publicly exposed and humiliated: I just wanted them to go on. I heard myself moan, looked up to see the mocking reaction of my spectators – yes, Malcolm among them: now he could see how much better he might have done if he had chosen more carefully – and saw the concentration on all those faces as they watched the crude simplicity of the candle pounding in and out of me. I moaned again and this time it was just a single wail as the intensity of it all became too much and the stimulation of watching, of being watched, of being so simply and unambiguously treated, all of that finally pushed me over the edge into an extended sobbing orgasm that washed away any other thoughts or feelings, that obliterated all thoughts of the people around me and I no longer cared for what any of them saw or thought as long as the feelings would just continue for ever.

  It wasn’t for ever; it was all too brief. But it wasn’t completely over.

  The candle was pulled away and the two animals spun me round, hauling and twisting me to the position they wanted until I was clamped against the second one’s chest while it was the first one, who had been behind me, who now shuffled up close to take his place squatting between my legs, gripping one ankle in each huge fist, lifting and spreading me wide again.

  And he didn’t want the candle: he was fiddling with the crotch of his costume, awkwardly, almost comically, but I was too impatient. I needed more and brought my knees up, the better to open myself to him, lifted my hips to offer myself to him and reached down to squeeze my clit to make sure I would be fully ready when the time came. I separated my lips and, dipping a finger deep inside, smeared the abundant wetness across both swollen sides and up the whole length of my crease. He was trying to concentrate on his costume, but distracted by watching me, and even the hands across my breasts froze as both of them paused to watch the spectacle; at last I had taken back control. I heard the expectant silence from the outer ring of spectators and was tempted to carry on. Now I was the centre of attention: that stripper had not dared to go this far. I did; I dared. Lying naked in front of all of them, I had let myself be fucked by a candle. In a minute I was going to be fucked by a man. Before that, I might, if I chose, if I felt they deserved it, I might let them watch me masturbate.

  Even the thought was almost enough to make me come a second time, but I was on a plateau and I had been waiting long enough and needed something more so I did not protest when my fingers were pushed aside by a long claw which slithered down my front, came to rest in my lap and started to dig its way inside me. It dug at the moisture it found there and brought it out and up to smear it over my nipples.

  At last the other creature eased his costume open and a glorious erection appeared, pink and slightly incongruous surrounded by the sea of artificially black hair, but I didn’t care. It was there, visibly hard, erect and ready; the ultimate compliment to my offering. He moved up to squat over me and as my own hands were pinioned by the other creature, he swung his huge erection across my face, slapping my cheeks with it, teasing and prodding at my mouth, but quickly pulling away every time my tongue reached out for him.

  As soon as he crawled back down between my thighs and I felt the tip of his cock nosing around me for entrance, I reached down, took hold of him in my fist and fed it in. I was so wet he almost slipped straight out again so I grabbed tight handfuls of hair on his sides, locked my ankles behind him to make sure he could not escape. His hips lifted back and then dropped as he slid far in and the first beautifully vicious thrust knocked my breath out; I heard and felt a gasp as the shock drove me back further against the figure behind.

  The black mask loomed over me, and it was that which I was most aware of, that which I still recognised as my lover. Ridiculous, yes, but still powerful, still strong and intimidating. As well as that, the mask prevented any kisses or tenderness, so that his grunts, coming muffled through it, were not of love but of animal passion, of lust. He was clearly as ready as I was. Before another steady dozen bruising thrusts had driven me back still harder into the arms and the caresses of the figure behind, I was lost, the trembling beginning somewhere way down deep and mushrooming up through me in a flood. I clamped his hairy black shoulder in my mouth and lifted my bottom to meet him, pushing back with my hips as hard as I squeezed in with my thighs to force every atom of pleasure out of him and into me and hearing my own voice screaming obscenities of encouragement out into the night air, encouragement which he didn’t need for he was already pressing ever more savage thrusts at me, animal grunts from both of us and somewhere above me, chanting from our watchers. It was short and rough and brutal and wonderful and nothing since has even come close.

  When finally it had been enough, and I realised that he had stopped his thrusts, in fact that my slot was now as full of his wetness as of mine, I slowly relaxed my grip and let him ease away, nursing his bleeding shoulder where my teeth had bitten right through the costume. We sat back, panting, both shocked by the force of the encounter, by the way we had been entirely taken up in the parts we were playing. He eased the mask off and for the first time I could see Jeff’s face as he leaned back down to kiss me. He reached his arms around me and hugged me up to him and this time it really was Jeff, not some wild creature that was embracing me, kissing me, whose tongue at last met mine, whose breath mixed with mine. But such subtlety was lost on our cheering circle of spectators whose laughter and clapping embarrassed me so that we broke apart. I remembered the other creature and immediately looked round for him, but he was gone, no sign beyond a black shadow pushing through the grinning circle which closed up
behind him.

  *

  So I still don’t know who that other person was. I have a few suspicions and a couple of clues. I never saw them stand up straight so I cannot judge the height and I never heard them speak so I cannot judge the voice, although that may be a clue in itself. I do know two things. Three things.

  First, when I looked into the mask, and even allowing for the whole face being entirely unlit, the eyes looking back at me were a very dark brown, almost black. I don’t know any of the guys I have considered who have eyes quite that colour.

  Second, thinking back over the sequence of things, at the end I was lying in their lap and in spite of everything that had happened and was still happening, in spite of it all I could feel no bulge, no erection under my back. But I was cradled against a very soft chest.

  Third, the two of them never spoke, as if words were not needed for a game which they had played together before. And Jeff only knew one other person at that party.

  I don’t know what to think.

  LET’S PUT THIS TO BED

  Katie Kelly

  Former contributor to the Erotic Review and secret writer of rude stories, Katie Kelly is currently lurking in the rolling Pennines. When she isn’t spending time thinking and writing about things she probably shouldn’t be, she distracts herself by making nutritious family meals her children refuse to eat, gambolling through rain-sodden, cow-pat-strewn hills and persuading her friends to join her in her pledge to discover the perfect gin dry martini.

  This is not a story of romantic love. This is the tale of my first (last? Better not be hasty) foray into bad love, a so bad it’s good love, resplendent in its many guises. I intend to focus on the physical one you’ll be relieved to hear. I’m writing this down for two reasons. The first is self-indulgent. I don’t talk about those few months spent embroiled in you any more, so by writing this I get to relive those amazing moments without having to relive our messy demise. The second is simple. I want to, I need to forget you. Memories of you have, for too long, saturated my thoughts and as frequently my knickers. So I shall write this down, read it one last time and then burn it and kiss you goodbye, beautiful man.

  Where to start? Should it be in your bed, where we ended up after two years of restrained, polite conversation? Pants were yanked down, t-shirts discarded and mouths hungrily explored. “We shouldn’t have sex,” I whispered in your ear. Forty-seven minutes later you were fucking me on all fours on the floor in front of the full-length wardrobe mirror. My knees were glowing for days afterwards. So too, unfortunately, was my nose, which took the brunt of your 3 am stubble. What I’ve glossed over though in my recollection of that night, is how rough we were. I scratched up your back; you repaid the favour by digging your fingers into my ass with impressive fervour. You bruised my mouth with your kisses, pulled me off the bed onto the floor and laid me on my front.

  “I want your ass in the air.”

  I faltered for perhaps, hmmmm, a second and then, pulling myself to my knees, arched my back and gave you an unrestricted view of my soaking wet, pink pussy. Spreading my cheeks apart you sank your face right in and devoured every drenched bit. Then, for want of a more romantic phrase, you fucked me really hard: on my back with my feet on your shoulders, against the wall with my legs wrapped around your waist, and bent over the bed, clinging onto sex-sodden sheets as your cock hit that spot over and over. In the morning, by which I mean after perhaps an hour of sleep, we did it all over again, adding some shower action to our repertoire. Later, as I meandered in a dazed and confused state towards the station, I felt for the first time an unfamiliar but indescribably sweet ache in my pussy.

  Pain maintained a shadowy and persistent presence throughout our time together. I was self-obsessed, caught up in dramas; you had no choice but to take a second place too. You’d take your revenge later, when you had me naked in your room. Instinctively we knew how to hurt each other and not just verbally. Perversely though, the nastier we were, the better the sex was. It was only a matter of weeks before you were taking your frustrations at our failing relationship out on my ass.

  A white-wine-induced tirade (mine) was halted abruptly when you pulled me over your lap, yanked down my knickers and spanked me until my shrieks of rage faded into a muffled apology. An apology, which quickly turned into a stifled sigh of wanting, as your fingers sank between the slick heat between my cheeks and worked my pussy into such a state of excitement, I was soon feverishly grabbing for the remnants of the bottle of Pinot Grigio stashed by the bed. But you got yours too, didn’t you? We were always equal when it came to playing the bitch with a whip routine, and I had you over a pillow once, remember? I was playing with your ass, a finely gym-honed vision of suntanned pert firmness. I gently nipped your cheeks with my teeth, grinning as you wriggled. Then edging your thighs apart I ran my tongue deep in between from the base of your cock, to your ass hole which is where I lingered, gently flicking over this most sensitive place. With each measured stroke of my tongue, a shudder ran through your body and you’d squirm, only to be stilled by a stinging slap to your ass. Your ass was tongued and spanked until I reached underneath and felt you ready to explode. Murmuring “turn over”, I slid happily onto your hard cock and rode you like an over-enthusiastic pony club virgin.

  Though it was already blatantly clear now that this was going to be a love of the self-destructive variety, destined to end in therapy not marriage, I couldn’t stop. Alarm bells should have triggered the first time you pushed me down onto my knees, by my hair, and told me to suck your cock. I stared up at you incredulously. “Suck my cock,” you ordered again and then, using your fistful of curls, forced my head towards your groin. As I struggled to pull away, your other hand reached between my thighs. I was soaking and got more so as you spread me wide and spanked my pussy. Gently at first, then a little harder. I moaned and with one fluid movement, you took advantage of my distracted state and slid your cock deep into my mouth. There was no gentle love for us, no lazy early-morning spooning whilst you kissed my neck and stroked my hair, not when there was a sofa to be bent over, a table to be fucked on, handcuffs to be used, a ruler to be brandished, an argument to be had, a cutting comment to be made and retribution to be delivered.

  The end came as violently as I always did. We’d been bouncing barbed emails back and forth all day. I was wearing a skirt you thought was inappropriate for the office. One that looks deceivingly respectable lying on the bed, but entirely not so when wrapped around a well-shaped female behind. A black pencil skirt that touched my knees, but was tight enough to transform my walk from a confident stride, into a languid saunter. You used to love this skirt. Happy you were not, and you got less so when I decided to join my team for a few drinks after work. I knew I was taunting you but I didn’t care. I went out to the bar next to the office and ignored your texts and phone calls. Particularly when they became increasingly frequent after ten. Midnight, and as I made my way towards your apartment, my defiance was steadily losing a battle to nerves. I had been an utter bitch and you were not known for your patience under such circumstances. Unfortunately I couldn’t slip in unnoticed. The entrance to your building was through an underground car park and I had to call for you to buzz open the main doors. The phone rang and rang. You picked up only to hang up immediately, cutting off my hello. Looking up I saw the light from the lift flick on, signifying someone was on the way down. I leant uneasily against the bonnet of your car, and waited. The entrance doors opened and there you were, still wearing the suit you’d had on that morning, standing a few metres away from me and not smiling. I tried a hesitant grin. It elicited no response. If anything your jaw clenched shut an extra millimetre or so.

  “OK, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed, “I’m sorry for ignoring your calls, I’m sorry for not...”

  “Turn around,” you interrupted, “put your hands on the bonnet of the car and please just shut the fuck up.”

  Now would have been the time to shake my head in offended disbelief and wal
k away. But having heard the story so far and witnessed my somewhat positive response to imminent chastisement, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I didn’t take that course of action. Instead I obeyed, turned around and placed my hands on the car.

  “Now pull up your skirt.”

  Jeeeeeeeesus. I looked over my shoulder, were you joking?

  “Pull it up, don’t make me come over there.” It would appear you weren’t.

  Flushing slightly and whispering an apology to my feminist sisters, I inched my skirt up. Not an easy task but with a bit of strategic wiggling it crept upwards, navigated my undeniably round ass until it rested, belt-like around my waist. My knickers were displayed to you in all their scanty glory, sheer and black, hugging my cheeks. Nervously I shifted from one foot to another. I heard the gentle hiss of a belt being pulled through trouser loops. Footsteps brought you closer to me. I could feel your stare, moving heatedly up my legs, resting on my ass. I wasn’t expecting to feel, though, your hand rest on my hip. Your palm felt cool against my skin. Your fingers curled around the waistband of my knickers and slowly, slowly pulled them down to beneath my ass, then down to my knees. Your hand moved back up, cupped my left cheek and gently squeezed it, assessing the fullness. Did you mean for your finger to brush over my pussy as you did that? It sent a jolt through me, my hands slipped over the polished surface of the car and a small moan escaped, cutting through the silence. Moving away from me, I looked back and saw for the first time the belt in your hand, folded over. Having enjoyed many an Indiana Jones fantasy ever since watching Harrison brandish a whip in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the jolt of fear I felt as I saw that belt took me by surprise. Feeling the flood of wetness to my pussy, however, did not. Would you really do it? Surely not. My deliberation was rudely interrupted by the whistle of a belt in flight followed by a sharp crack as it connected beautifully across my ass. You barely gave me time to gasp before delivering the second stroke, which landed perhaps a centimetre above the first. Tears prickled insistently. It hurt; you were hurting me and I still wasn’t moving. Again I turned to look at you; your arm was raised, the belt loose in your hand and as it fell once again, hitting the very top of my thighs, that tender skin beneath the swell of my bottom, I bit my lip and you saw a tear slip out, slide down my face and splash onto the surface of the car. Angry, I twisted my head away so didn’t see you move until you were against me biting my neck, whispering that I had to learn my lesson, that I was a bad girl. Your hands travelled to my ass, traced the hot marks the belt had left, then in between, enjoying the slippery warmth and the force with which I pushed back onto your fingers. Deftly, you opened your trousers. Your cock sprung out, thick and hard, and then you were blissfully deep inside me. You fucked me with all the anger you had, months of it hoarded and now tinged with regret. But it felt so good and though we both knew we were, in our own fucked-up way, saying goodbye, we savoured every last second, every last thrust, every last caught breath. Bruised you left me. I watched you walk away.