He started thrusting, gently at first, as if finding a way, assessing the terrain, seeing how much I could take. I wanted so much to touch myself at this point, to take up where I’d left off with my clitoris, but I knew that if I did, I’d come straightaway, and if I did that, then he’d probably come too. From the grunts he was emitting, his head on my shoulder, I knew that it was already hard for him to hold back and that when he did come, he would come hard.
I started pushing backwards and forwards on him, meeting his rhythm, accepting it, but letting him know that I was ready for him to increase it, that I could take it. He began thrusting harder, moving in a little deeper each time, as my resistance gave way. Between my spread legs, I could feel his balls bouncing against me, the soft fur of them. With my free hand I reached between my legs, caught hold of them and massaged them against my perineum and lips. Charles moaned, stopped pumping. ‘No,’ I heard him murmur, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to stave off his orgasm for long once he started moving inside me again.
I parted my legs a little further, to their absolute limit, so that I could accommodate him fully. Taking the signal, or unable to stop himself from going on, he jerked himself into me full pelt, to the point where I knew he could advance no further. For a moment he stopped, breathing heavily by my ear, a low moan escaping from his throat. With one hand he sought my pussy opening, slid three fingers inside, and then he started moving again, plunging his amazing cock right in and pulling it far back, to the point where he was about to be released from me, over and over. I hardly needed to attend to my clitoris: the combined action of his fingers inside my pussy and his cock in my anus had me rising, rising, until I felt I was suspended over the bed, losing all contact with the earth, opening up for the greatest climax of my life.
And it was. I tore at the bedclothes with my hands, having at last let go of my clitoris, tears pouring down my cheeks, a strange animal wail issuing forth from my throat as I felt both my pussy and my anus open and contract around Charles. He, too, lost control, riding my bucking form like the most experienced of horsemen, gripping my hip with one hand as if letting go would send him hurtling through the air. It seemed, for a while, as if he would keep coming forever. When he was at last spent, he collapsed forwards onto me, and I in turn fell forwards onto the bed, still crying a little, awed.
I don’t know how long we lay there, or if at length I fell asleep beneath Charles, even with his weight on me, but when I sat up he wasn’t there. I couldn’t see him in the room, but noticing a chink of light coming through the bathroom door reasoned that he must be having a bath.
I knelt up, crawled up the bed, wrapping the sheets gratefully around me. If only Ravi could see me now, I thought, and I felt a sudden pang for him. I hoped he wasn’t lonely. Would our marriage have survived had he done to me the things that Charles was doing to me now? Would he have done them to me if I’d asked him to, to please me? I didn’t think so, and yet it had never occurred to me to ask him. If I’d known how good it was, then I think I would. He’d have resisted, certainly. He would probably even have been disgusted. But perhaps I could, over time, have persuaded him to see such things as part of the way we loved each other, rather than the sordid acts that some people thought they were. I would have loved, I thought as I lay there, to share not only my pussy but my anus, the most intimate area of all, with Ravi, to have him worship it with his mouth and cock the way Charles had that night. To celebrate it.
I didn’t care that I was a bit sore, a bit bruised and crumpled. Charles had shown me a new source of pleasure, one more shattering than I had known existed. It hurt, yes, but in a curious, compulsive way that made me want to go on and on, hurt a little bit more. It was a testing of limits, but also proof that limits are only there to be tested, to be challenged and shifted back every time. Next time, and I prayed to God there would be a next time, I wanted Charles to push me further, to set me a new challenge, to show me that anything is possible.
I played lazily, sleepily, with my clitoris, astonished by my new appetite. Then, as if responding to my thoughts and my mood, Charles stepped out of the shadows on one side of the room and I realised he’d been standing there all along, in the darkness, and not bathing as I thought. I wondered what he’d been doing, if he’d been watching me. He stepped forwards, and I understood that he had indeed been waiting for me, waiting for me to wake up. I couldn’t see his face again, but I saw that he had something in his hand. For a time I couldn’t guess what it was, but then as he grew nearer I made out something consisting of straps and a cock-shaped apparatus. A dildo, I muttered to myself. He’s got a dildo.
I thought of my vibrator at home, hidden away in a shoebox at the bottom of my wardrobe. It was seldom used, but over the years it’s probably saved me, time and again, when the frustration got too much. Certainly, there were days when, having driven home through the grey streets of Sheffield after taking the kids to school or doing the weekly round of the supermarket, or after switching off the Hoover and thinking What next?, I’d lain back on the sofa with my legs open, pulled my knickers to one side and given myself a quick orgasm to cheer myself up. Usually it was like that – a quick fix, a brief blast of ecstasy to blow away the cobwebs and recharge myself for the drudgery. Occasionally it turned into something more. Running a bath rich with scented oil, I’d rub a handful into my pussy, furtively at first, and then dragging it out, luxuriating in the feeling, until I’d have to go and hunt out my vibrator, climb into bed, and spend a good half-hour pleasuring myself, often nearly letting the bath overflow I’d get so carried away. It was a rabbit vibrator, so I’d generally spend at least half that time teasing my clitoris with it, submitting myself to its delicious frisson and then moving it away when I felt my climax building up, exploring my wet lips with it, and sometimes the flesh around my arse too. Finally, unable to deny myself any longer, I’d push it inside me, turning on the G-spot stimulator full of beads, the swivelling head and the clitoral attachment to give myself one mighty orgasm. After that, the domestic chores were so much more manageable.
So I was no stranger to sex toys. I just didn’t know what Charles had in mind, as I watched him approach the bed. I could see his eyes now, in the moonlight streaming in through one window, and there was a dangerous glint to them. His face was deadly serious. This was not a man who took his sexual gratification lightly, as it had first seemed to me, when he so casually brought himself off on my pussy on the terrace of the Dome bar. This was a man who meant business in everything he did.
He handed me the dildo, and I understood at once. I knelt up, inspected it to make sure I was clear how it was to fit on me, and then wrapped it around me and buckled up. Charles, meanwhile, was looking around for something at the bottom of the bed. Having found it, he stayed where he was, gestured for me to join him there. I crawled down towards him, the harness secure around my waist, the dildo flopping beneath my belly, and he held his belt out to me. There was a commanding look on his face, as if he would brook no dissension, but beneath it I thought I saw something imploring in his eyes, a kind of need.
I snatched the belt from him, clasped him roughly by the shoulder and twisted him round, so that he was backed up against one pole of the four-poster. He leant his head against it, chin jutting into the air, and closed his eyes. His breath, I noticed, was coming in quick shallow gasps. Pulling his arms back around the pole until his wrists met, I wound the belt around and around them and then, with the slack, tied him to the bed. His cock was erect. For a moment I stood back and admired the sight of him in the moonlight: naked, eyes closed, lips parted slightly, as if he were letting out a long silent moan; he was resplendent.
I stepped forwards, brought the tip of the dildo to that of his cock, let it graze it, flirt with it for few seconds. He inhaled sharply, arched his back against the pole and, as I withdrew my fake dick, tried to follow it with his own, all too real. A bead of liquid shone at its tip. Reaching for it with my hand, I held it tightly for a moment, amazed
that a cock could be so beautiful. It was all I could do not to reach down and finger myself at this point, but I recognised that this was not my moment, that this was not about me. I had had my pleasure, more pleasure than many women can hope to enjoy in a whole lifetime of sexual encounters if they’re with the wrong men. This was about Charles, about some need in him for submission, for falling out of control. I went down on him, slurped and jabbed at his cock with my tongue, took his balls in my mouth in turn and then together while I shuttled one hand up and down his shaft.
Yet this was not what he wanted, what he really wanted, and we both knew it. Belly-down on the bed, I yanked Charles’s legs wide apart and pulled his knees up. He opened his eyes then, looked down at me, a peculiar half smile flitting about his lips. I met his gaze, then looked away, slid my hands between his legs and, pulling aside one buttock with each hand, looked at his anus. Like the rest of him, it was clean and neat, a lovely thing. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to want to get close to it and, in any case, I wanted to repay the compliment he had paid mine by so obviously taking pleasure in it. I licked the fingers of one hand, brought them close to him, let them flutter about his hole to get him used to the idea for a moment. Then I pushed them slowly in. He growled, as his body jerked off the bed towards me. I took his cock back into my mouth and syncopated its movements with the thrusting of my hand. Charles jerked like a puppet against the bed pole.
Before he could achieve release in my mouth, I reached around and loosened the belt from the pole and untied his hands. Sensing my next move, he turned obediently around, knelt forwards. I pulled each hand around the pole again, retied them. His head was down like a dog’s, but the arc of his back, the upwards turn of his buttocks were proud.
I wet him with my mouth, plentifully, calling forth all my reserves of saliva. I wished we had some lube, would have expected him to provide some since the dildo was clearly a stalwart in his luggage. The fact he didn’t suggested that this was such a common practice that he no longer needed it, that he would yield easily enough. I wondered if he did it mainly by himself or with other sexual partners. The thought gave me a little stab of jealousy. Who were these sexual partners: fellow travellers, like me, who he picked up in bars, or regular lovers? How many women had satisfied him with this very dildo before? And – the question came to me from out of the blue but seemed to be obvious as soon as it had posed itself – were any of his partners men?
I felt a kind of surge of anger – anger that I couldn’t have Charles to myself, that he was the kind of man I would have to share if I were to have him at all. These past couple of days I’d been kidding myself, telling myself we were an item, that I was embarking on a new and lasting relationship that could somehow be worked around his globetrotting lifestyle. I hadn’t thought it all through consciously; I suppose in the back of my brain there lurked the notion that, divorced and with no job, I’d tag along with him.
Now I saw clearly, as I knelt back up, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and brought the dildo towards his moist hole, that Charles was not the type of man to be satisfied with one person, that his appetites were too great and too varied. Keeping hold of him would mean accepting I could only ever have a little piece of him, for short periods of time. I knew that I was not a woman for whom that would be possible.
I drove the dildo into him with a kind of fury. His torso jerked forwards, his head back. I grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled it even further back, sank my teeth into his shoulder, pushing deeper, ever deeper, and then retreating slowly. For a while I continued this slow motion, teeth still in his flesh. Then I increased my pace and, as my clitoris bashed against his lower back, sending shockwaves through me, I clasped my nipples between my fingertips and pinched them hard, then harder still, until Charles and I were crying out in unison. As the dildo worked its magic on his prostate from inside, he took his cock in his fist and began pumping in time to it, and it was only a few seconds before I saw the jet of white shoot out from him, spatter down onto the bed.
As he collapsed forwards against the bed pole, gasping for breath, I let myself fall back against the bed behind me and, twisting the dildo round so it hung down over one hip, masturbated frenetically. As I flooded the bedclothes beneath me with my come, I looked over at Charles, still clinging to the pole like a shipwreck, with a mixture of love and hate fizzing inside me.
I lie on the bed, chafed and a little heartbroken. Beside me is the note Charles left for me when he went out this morning: Meetings all day. Back for dinner, I hope. Have booked you in at the spa at noon – enjoy.
Nadia is furious with me, hung up on me. I can understand why – I let her down again, and again because of Charles. She called him ‘that bastard’, told me I was acting like a teenager letting my head be turned, that it was insulting to her to have come this far with me and then be brushed aside in favour of some stranger. How could I explain to her what the past couple of days has meant to me? To do so would mean telling her how flat things were between her father and me, how lacking our relationship was in crucial respects. Although we’ve put her through the pain of our divorce, I’d rather not go into such intimacies with her, and in doing so make her see that we probably only stayed together so long because of the kids.
I’d do anything for my daughter, and she knows it. But we have plenty of time before us to sightsee, and today – today, I can barely move. My body isn’t used to all of this. The promise of spa treatments is the only thing that’s keeping me going, although I’ll have a hot bath first, see if that helps at all. Of course, again, I can’t tell Nadia the reason I’m so wrecked is that I was awake through the night, being sodomised by Charles, then sodomising him in turn. She probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. So I had to blame it on drink, and she will probably infer the rest anyway, or part of it. She’ll remain miffed for a while, but she’s an eighteen-year-old between A levels and university, and I think she’ll come round by the end of the day. Even mums have the right to let their hair down every once in a while.
13
I FEEL SO alone. Christian has gone; he checked out first thing this morning according to the receptionist. Although he’d told me he was going, his absence makes me sadder than I expected. I think of him at the dinner table last night, at Mum’s hotel, and of how wonderful he was handling Mum and Charles, despite the sour mood that hung over the table like stale lake mist. He was a blast of air in my life, potential boyfriend material, but what do I do but give him the brush off, as per bloody usual, and then go to my room and wank myself silly over a couple of girls I’ll never see again. It doesn’t make sense. It makes me sick to think I could be in his room right now, in his bed, skin against his taut, tanned body, satisfied, for once, by something other than my own hand.
And then there’s Mum. We’d had this loose arrangement to breakfast together, then have a look around Udaipur – Charles had mentioned at dinner that he’d be in meetings most of the day. Of course, if anything had come about with Christian and me, I’d have preferred to spend the day with him. But that shouldn’t have been a problem: Mum seemed to really like him at dinner, so there’s no reason he couldn’t have tagged along too.
But no, it’s too much to ask that she should spare a few hours of her precious company for the daughter she’s travelled 6,000 miles with. When I got through to her room, she answered the phone in a scarred, groggy voice, told me she wasn’t feeling up to it. I asked her why, and she said she’d overdone it on the booze. Of course, I knew that was only half the story. Maybe she did have one or two too many, but I’m pretty sure there was more to her exhaustion than that. I’d rather not know, of course. I’d rather not think about her and the creep at it like rabbits till the early hours. It hurts that she’s letting this affair with Charles take precedence over time with her own daughter.
Thinking about it now though, I wonder if I’ve been a bit harsh on her. After all, I didn’t mention to her that Christian has left, so she’s probably thinkin
g it’s no big deal my being let down by her, that I’ll be happy spending some time with him. But how would I even begin to explain to her what happened last night? The way I receded as soon as he advanced, only to go and pleasure myself in my room and then nearly cry this morning when I found out I’d never see him again. It’s idiotic. Who am I to judge her for giving herself over so entirely to this thing with Charles? At least she’s taking her opportunities by the throat, living her life at last. The same can’t be said of me.
But I don’t regret what I said to her about Charles, harsh as it may seem. There’s something cold and calculating about him, even for a businessman obsessed with wealth and status and power over other people. I’m worried that she’s falling for him, and that he’s going to let her down badly. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner it’s over between the two of them the better. In fact, I think I’m going to have start calling the shots today. Udaipur is devastatingly beautiful, but it’s dead to me now that Christian is gone, tainted by my memories of him. In fact, its very beauty nauseates me. Of course, there’s poverty here as everywhere else in India, but the lovely bits are just too lovely, a parody of loveliness, and I find myself longing for grime and squalor, a bit of real life.
I pack my things, shoulder my rucksack. I’ll go find some breakfast, and then I’ll head for Mum’s hotel and tell her we’re leaving town today.
14
SITTING HERE IN the shade of a mango tree, trailing one hand in the pool as I sip my champagne and feast on strawberries, I’m really rather glad I didn’t go out sightseeing with Nadia, in spite of my lingering guilt. I have to keep reminding myself that I deserve all this, that I’ve had very few treats in my life and that I’m not unworthy of it all. And anyway, if Charles and I are over, as I suspect we are, then I may as well take advantage of his generosity until we part ways.
Chilli Heat Page 7