“You’ll see,” he repeated.
To her surprise—and not a little consternation—they left the Underground at Barbican.
“Why are we going here?” she fretted.
“Never mind. Come on.”
He found a quiet spot, a little hidden area behind one of the many concrete staircases and walkways that surrounded the Barbican estate, pulled her into its darkness and kissed her hard, his hands under her skirt, checking her for continuing tension.
“Karl-Heinz,” she pleaded in a whisper, unbearably turned on by the dangerous dynamics of the situation. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Here.” He pressed his fingers against the gusset of her knickers until her pussy lips were outlined against the cotton. He separated them as far apart as they could go then set about rubbing and stroking her clit. The thin layer of cotton between his fingers and her bud seemed to make everything ruder and dirtier somehow. She felt how soaked it was, how it rucked and wrinkled while he stroked.
“Feels very hot down here,” he commented. “You are holding on to those balls, aren’t you?”
She clenched tighter and whimpered, hanging on to him for dear life.
With his other hand he pushed at her plug, finding the outline of the flange and jiggling it slightly so that the plug jostled inside her.
The combination of this with her filled pussy and her hot clit soon became too much to deal with. She bucked up and down and the balls made their mellow ringing sounds as she came hard, gushing until her knickers felt dripping wet.
Von Ritter laughed softly and held her tight through her orgasm.
“Good, good,” he said. “Are they still inside?”
She nodded, resting her head against his chest.
“Okay. Now I want you to kneel down on that filthy floor and suck me.”
Still clenching, her pussy fluttering around the balls as if begging to be allowed to let them go, she dropped onto the grimy concrete and unfastened von Ritter’s trousers.
He didn’t take long to come, fucking her mouth with his hand in her hair until Lydia felt that he was close. But he took his cock out of her mouth first and directed it into her cleavage, spattering the neckline of her dress and letting fat drops of spunk slide down between her breasts.
“Karl-Heinz!” she gasped. “You’ve stained my dress.”
“I know,” he said, stroking her cheek and hair. “You’re covered in it.”
She stood up, dusting the worst of the city dirt off her knees.
“Now then, my little Lydia, I have to go. Goodbye.”
“What? You can’t just leave me here…like this!”
She stared down at herself, aghast. Her wet, semen-stained dress, her prickly-hot knickers, the balls and plug now uncomfortable and starting to sting inside her. She looked—and smelt—like the lowest whore imaginable.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said gently. “You’re going to call on Milan.”
“I’m what?”
“It’s okay. I called him earlier and told him to expect you. Go on, now. He’s waiting for you.”
Von Ritter took her hand and led her out, onto the thankfully underpopulated concourse, towards the entrance to Milan’s block.
“What did he say? When you called him?”
“Not much,” said an implacable von Ritter. “Just that he’d be waiting for you.”
“And that’s why you’ve done this?”
“No, Lydia, no. I’ve done this because it turns me on. And you also. I don’t play games.”
“This seems awfully like one.”
“Well, it isn’t.”
They’d reached the door. Von Ritter pressed Milan’s button and waited for him to buzz the lock. He kissed Lydia and hustled her inside.
She watched him wave at her and turn on his heel, hurrying back towards the concert hall and theatre complex.
The Ben Wa balls struck a few notes. She looked down at herself again.
Dear God, how could she pay a call on Milan in this state? It wasn’t as if she was deceiving him or anything but this was so blatant. It was like the first challenge in a duel, with her as the proxy weapon. How would he respond?
Only one way to find out. She called the lift.
Chapter Six
Milan had left the door on the latch and Lydia could hear him rehearsing the Brahms concerto when she wandered into his spacious, bright apartment.
She felt her filthy, sex-mussed condition even more keenly, when it contrasted with the heavenly sounds pouring from his violin. Why had she let Karl-Heinz do these dreadful things to her?
Because you wanted him to.
She peered around the door, seeing him playing outwards towards the city lying beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows. His hair flew and his shoulder and elbow moved like quicksilver, his whole body an extension of the instrument.
She stepped back, her eyes full of tears.
This was not how it should be. She shouldn’t be coming to him like this.
She turned to leave, already thinking of making a dash to the concert hall public toilets and cleaning herself up in there. Not to mention getting all these…things…out of her.
“Not so fast.”
His voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Where are you going, little Lydia?” he crooned. “Do I have to come and get you?”
She coughed.
“Oh. I forgot something. I’ll just go and…”
His hand closed around her elbow and she was drawn unwillingly into the large central room and held at arm’s length for inspection.
“Have you been playing in the mud?”
Milan’s first reaction was to her blackened knees.
“No, just…”
“Von Ritter said he had a few surprises for me.” Milan put out a finger and scratched at the dried semen on the visible part of her breasts. “I had a feeling it would be something like this. Oh, hey, don’t look so upset. What’s the matter?”
Lydia looked away, swallowing a lump of tearful shame.
“If he’s done something to upset you…”
“No, not really, no, it’s not his fault. It’s my fault.”
“What’s your fault? What do you mean?”
“I should leave you both alone. I shouldn’t keep you both hanging.”
“Hey, who’s hanging? Looks like he’s had his fun and now I’m going to have mine. And I hope you’re going to join in, or it won’t be much fun at all.”
He hooked an arm around Lydia and pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.
“You feel dirty?” he said.
She nodded.
“Well, you are, you know. You could do with a wash. Go and get undressed and lie down on the bed and I’ll give you a good scrub.”
“I…” She pressed her thighs together. “Can I go to the bathroom first?” She wanted those wretched balls and that terrible plug out of her before Milan saw them.
“Oh, you know, he said something about that. He said I had to take you straight to bed.”
“He said that? What? Why would he say that?”
“Well, that’s what I’m wondering. So I’m going to find out. Come on.”
He ushered her into the bedroom.
“He’s trying to get at you,” said Lydia. “Or something. I don’t know what he’s trying to do.”
“Shh. Stand still. Put your arms up.”
Milan unzipped her crumpled floral-patterned cotton dress and pulled it over her head, revealing yet more dried patches of the German conductor’s seed.
Now, standing in front of Milan with her filthy knees and just her underwear, she suddenly felt a pulse of excitement at the thought of what he would discover.
She knew he wouldn’t be shocked—it just wasn’t Milan to be shocked at anything sexual, however outrageous. He would probably be amused. And aroused.
“Hold it there,” he whispered. “I’ll get a wash cloth.”
He went briefly to the bathroom and ret
urned with a damp, lathered flannel, which he ran over her breasts, flaking off and clearing away the evidence of von Ritter’s orgasm.
He bent lower and dabbed at her knees which, despite their eyebrow-raising appearance, were merely dusty and not scraped or skinned. Pretty soon they were clean and pink once more, and ready to kneel on considerably softer surfaces.
He unhooked her bra and reached for her knickers.
She flinched unintentionally and braced herself for the embarrassing revelation.
“What’s that? You want to keep them on? Not like you, Lydia. And besides…what’s that I can smell?”
His long nose sniffed the air around her nether regions.
“Somebody was very turned on,” he said. “Or is very turned on. Which one, Lydia?”
“I’m always turned on around you,” she prevaricated.
“I know, but…oh.”
The knickers were whipped off and Lydia guessed he had caught sight of that little peeking flange, just above her pussy.
He hooked his arm behind her knees and held her legs up straight, so that her bottom was almost completely lifted off the bed.
“He put a plug in you,” Milan exclaimed, tapping at the flat circle of latex. “I’ve never done that to you. How does it feel?”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Yes? But you don’t mind anal penetration, do you? I know that.”
“It’s not the same. I don’t try and walk around the streets and sit on a Tube train while I’m getting shagged up the arse, do I?”
Milan laughed but Lydia could see that he was aroused.
“Well, I have to give him points for creativity. Imagination. So he put that in you and what then? You sucked his cock?”
Lydia nodded, burning with shame.
“That explains the knees. And it wasn’t somewhere nice, was it? Where was it?”
“Under the stairwell by the museum.”
“The Museum of London? A public place?”
Lydia nodded again.
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” he pronounced. “From that uptight little new girl I sent to buy a violin string. A long, long way.” He smacked each bum cheek in turn and Lydia felt the plug even more keenly.
Something else happened when palm met flesh—a sound. A melodious jingling from inside her.
“Oh my God, that’s not all!” Milan sounded quite rapturous.
Really, von Ritter had chosen the wrong man to try to drive wild with sexual jealousy, thought Lydia. He could fuck her under a spotlight at the top of the Shard with the world watching and Milan would just bring along the binoculars.
“Let’s see…”
Milan held her pussy lips apart and peered down at her before inserting a finger and curling it around the lower of the two balls.
“You’ve been double-penetrated all the way to my flat,” he breathed.
Lydia thought he was going to pull it out, but he didn’t. He withdrew his finger and gave her clit a thoughtful rub.
“He still hasn’t fucked you?” he said.
“Not in the way you mean,” said Lydia, her voice low and breathy.
She was floating away on the triple-stimulation. Without thinking about what she was doing, she put her own hands to her breasts and began to stroke her nipples.
“He’s fucking insane,” whispered Milan.
He took his fingertips from her bud and rolled her over on her stomach. After pulling her onto her knees, he took hold of the butt plug and warned her that he was going to pull it out, quickly and cleanly.
She bit down on to the duvet and braced herself. She hated this bit.
It came out in a second, but her vacated space seemed to want it back, protesting by clenching as if it still had something to hold on to.
Milan had a solution for this. It involved taking off his clothes and pushing his own cock into the abandoned void. Only the smallest amount of lube was needed to let it glide in, assisted by her recent stretching.
It felt so good to have him there. She was his to use in whichever way he wanted, and a hard, hot tool was a million times better than a piece of flared latex, any day of the week.
“I’m going to make you ding-a-ling,” he crooned into her ear, and he meant it quite literally.
With every forward thrust, the Ben Wa balls chimed sweetly, a pretty accompaniment to a primitive act.
She lay braced on her forearms, accepting each deep forward movement into her well-stretched bottom, hearing the bells ring out in celebration.
“You see,” panted Milan. “When I fuck you, we make music.”
“Oh yes,” was all she could say.
“Von Ritter can’t say that.”
“No, no, he can’t.”
The balls shifted endlessly inside her, more rapidly as Milan sped up, pushing her face down into the covers, making her thighs tremble. By the time she came, with a screech that made her hoarse, she was slippery with sweat and her back passage stung with the force of Milan’s fucking, but she knew she could take more, as much as he could give her, until their bodies both surrendered to exhaustion.
He filled her arse with his seed, then pulled out of her and held her tight. Their hearts beat double-time and they slid around each other’s damp skin, kissing the salt from their lips. Their tongues curled together and Lydia shut her eyes, sailing away towards sleep, wishing that they could do the same and just be together outside the world.
Later, after cleaning up, he took out the balls and fucked her pussy too, making her keep his spunk inside rather than wipe herself afterwards. While she lay, happily tired and aching, on his bed, he went out of the bedroom and came back with a black marker pen.
“What’s that for?” she asked, yawning.
“Keep still,” he said. “Don’t move.”
She shut her eyes, too fatigued to speak more, and made no move when she felt the velvety pen nib make a ticklish progress from her right hip bone to her left, curling and meandering along her damp skin.
“Roll over,” he whispered, a minute or so after he’d finished.
She lay on her stomach and the pen nib danced over her buttocks too.
“This will come off, right?” she murmured weakly.
“Eventually,” he said.
“What have you done?”
“Turn back round. You’ll see.”
Lydia, with a vast effort, rolled over and unglued her eyelids. A curling broken line stretched across her pubis. It took her a moment to realise that it was Milan’s flamboyant handwriting and he had written on her.
“Milan & Lydia 2gether 4ever,” she read, then she shook her head. “How old are you, Milan?”
He crouched over her, grinning devilishly.
“Old enough to know better,” he admitted. “But I feel like von Ritter has set me a challenge, and I always have to rise to a challenge. Now, get dressed. I’ll call you a cab.”
Lydia propped herself up on her elbows, blinking.
“Oh,” she said with a pout. “I thought I was staying the night.”
But he was already speaking into his mobile phone.
“Hello, yes, a cab, please, from the Barbican. Yes, I want to go to Bloomsbury, Russell Street. Thank you. Ten minutes is good. Bye.”
“Russell Street? But that’s where…”
“Von Ritter lives? Yes, I know. I’d better warn him you’re coming.”
He punched in another number, seemingly deaf to Lydia’s inarticulate noises of disbelief.
“Hello, mein Herr, it’s Milan Kaspar here. You are at home? Good. I have a visitor for you. Don’t keep her waiting on the doorstep, will you? She’s exhausted, my poor little thing. Ciao.”
“I knew you were evil,” said Lydia. “I’m not some parcel to be delivered from door to door.”
“I know. You’d better tell him that, though. He started this. Come on, you aren’t dressed.”
No more than twenty minutes later, a dishevelled and sticky Lydia stood on the doorstep of von Ritter’
s Bloomsbury address. The cover of darkness meant that she didn’t draw a lot of attention, but she still felt that she must reek of filthy sex and the whole street would be smelling it in their beds.
Von Ritter buzzed her up to his first-floor apartment and she pushed open the door and marched in with a combative look in her eye.
Karl-Heinz sat in his favourite armchair, drinking cocoa in his dressing gown. He raised an eyebrow at her as she planted herself in front of him, shoulders squared.
“Didn’t he want you?”
“Oh, he wanted me, yes. He wanted me like a lover would. Like you never have and maybe never will.”
Von Ritter put down his cocoa. The look in his eyes made her shoulders sag, aggression fading into nervousness.
“Go to the bedroom,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”
“I…” Lydia trailed off. She could have told the taxi driver to take her back to Shepherd’s Bush instead of here. She could have gone straight home. Why had she gone along with Milan’s scheme? She must want, on some level, to be here, showing von Ritter what Milan had given her.
“Fine,” she said, then she repeated it for emphasis before turning on her heel and heading for the bedroom.
Von Ritter made her wait, but she didn’t care. She placed a towel on his pristine sheets so as not to stain them with Milan’s emissions and lay in a pose that displayed his penmanship at its most prominent advantage, the curly black words marking her skin with possessive elegance.
When he came in, he stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes roving over her new adornment.
“Is that a tattoo?” he asked, marvelling at it before stepping forward to inspect it at closer range.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?” Von Ritter frowned up at her. “I’m tempted now. Very tempted to have my initials tattooed on your ass, Miss Foster.”
“That would certainly raise the stakes,” said Lydia. “Next thing you know, I’d have the Czech flag on my forehead.”
“Hmm, yes. You think you’re joking, don’t you?”
“No, actually, I’m serious. Where will this end?”
“You know where, Lydia. With a decision.”
She looked down at the ink dancing across her pelvis.
“None of this is helping me to make it,” she muttered. “Not now it’s turning into a testosterone contest. I feel like a trophy. Which is weird. Why would anyone want to win me? I can’t get my head round it, Karl-Heinz. Why are you both so fixed on me?”
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