A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

  Now it was his turn to be shocked. I could feel it, in the manner his spreading fingers stiffened on their way to my crotch. ‘What! That is the truth? Did you never jig-a-jig– play sex as a girl?’

  Oh yes! I thought bitterly, distracted by the tone of utter disbelief, and vividly recalling my lonely bouts of masturbation at the swimming pool, and the cinema. ‘Of course not!’ I answered, disgusted with my duplicity at the equally outraged note of my reply. My mind was spinning crazily, my body hammering out its own urgent plea for fulfilment, but somehow, caution, or fear, or downright perversity, triumphed. Perhaps what followed waswhat I wanted, that sick facet within me that needed true satisfaction to be discovered only in that hunger to abase and debase myself in sex.

  I thought he was going to go ahead and take me by force, as I threshed anew, squirmed and fought free of his fierce grip. His hands clawed, and caught in the elastic of my briefs, dragging them partly clear, exposing the trimmed little triangle of pubic hair, before I escaped, clutched and hauled them back over my mons before I rolled onto my knees. The hard dry spikiness of the long stalks cut into my skin. Later I found my kneecaps were grazed, crisscrossed with tiny red welts, but I was unaware of it at the time. It was my turn to be the aggressor now, pressing home my attack even more desperately, sobbing as I ripped at the stiff waistband and flies of his shorts. I could see the thrusting bulge of his engorged prick straining against the cloth. I babbled frantically, my fingers searching to bare him, my words caught in my wild need. ‘I can’t let you have sex with me, Patrick. I can’t! But I understand. Please! Let me do it for you – bring you relief.’

  And all at once he gave another mighty groan, his hands fell away impotently to his sides, and he lay back, surrendering. My own excitement flooded wetly through the thin material of my briefs, I shivered, my breath almost failing. But my hands became swift with avid strength. I tore and clawed at the fastenings of his shorts, ripped them open, exposing that blackness of belly, the little fuzz of kinked curls at its base, and the brown, rising fecundity of that long column of flesh, the brown tautened scrotum and the huge pink glans, the emission of its narrow mouth glistening in the sun. My fingers were on it. I felt its throbbing heat, its power surged through my fingers, my hands, and arms, my breasts, to that beating core so moistly close to its own crisis. I grabbed at the flexing muscle, iron hard, and he lay back, his hips swaying, his buttocks squirming in the grass, moaning in yielding submission.

  Somehow I dragged with one hand his gaping shorts further down his quivering thighs, and ripped his shirt wide open, so that the gleaming length of his body, almost from knees to slightly turning, rocking, fuzzy head, was nakedly revealed to me. My fist closed around his rearing hardness. I spanned the shaft, lost in the wonder of its living thickness, its majesty of dimension. The biggest prick I had ever seen – only the second in the flesh, I painfully remind myself now, after so much more has befallen me, but definitely the bigger!

  I was as helplessly caught in the web of my own lustful, worshipful desire, as he was beneath my frenzied attack. My fist flew, harder, faster, rapping against that kinky tight clutch of hair at the root of the long column, crazy, my cunt throbbing in flowing syncopation. We were both moaning, then whimpering, in time too, and, possessed, I lowered my sweating, tear-stained face, stretched my mouth wide, and strove to take in the huge swelling dome, jaws agape before I succeeded in encompassing it like a python devouring its prey. I felt the unique taste of his fluid, its distinctive salt and sweet flavour. Breathless, I had to pull back to gasp in air, my wet lips flubbering against its wonderful swelling softness, my chin streaming with its issue and my saliva. I licked at it then, desperately, hungrily, moaning with my urgency to consume him. I nibbled, the sweat ran down my brow, my nose, my cheeks, mingled with his juice, and my saliva, in a wild meld of ecstasy. I immolated myself on his hugeness once more, felt it fill my mouth to its utmost capacity, then there was a huge heaving eruption. His hips and belly drove upwards, bouncing me violently in his thrusts. He pumped his semen deep into me, down my working throat, filling my mouth so that I had like one drowning to tear myself free. His fingers clasped convulsively in my hair and held me to him as he ejaculated into me.

  I turned my mouth sideways, spitting out the thick tide of come, felt its lubricity coating my lips, my chin, flowing onto his skin, nestling like pearls in his pubis, sealing my face in its rapidly gelling viscosity. I felt the slippery softness of the penis now, still impressively proportioned, like a snake curled about my lower features.

  It seemed as though an age had passed. I lay there, my lank hair, sweat damped and plentifully gummed with his discharge, spread across his still quivering belly, and the curling cock. The taste of him filled me, crusted about my face and neck, and even abundantly stained the crumpled bosom of my dress. Like battle-scarred warriors we finally disentangled ourselves, groaning, otherwise silent, shaken and stirred by the storm of passion we had shared. Suddenly I felt the tears coming, couldn’t hold them back. ‘I can’t go home like this,’ I whimpered desolately. Patrick quickly did up his shorts, moved down to the stream’s edge, then returned with a soaked handkerchief.

  ‘Clean yourself.’

  With weary obedience, I did as he bade me, wiping at least the worst of the thick coating of come, sweat and tears from my face and throat. At last we stood, ready to depart. The whole world looked different to me in the mellowness of the evening sunshine. ‘We cannot meet again,’ I said, my voice hoarse, and flat with my exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. You’re a lovely boy. But we cannot do this again.’

  He stood head and shoulders taller than me, gazing down with those limpid dark eyes. ‘You are beautiful, Janet. I love you.’

  Too late. I had to get away before tears engulfed me again. ‘No,’ I said, my shame and confusion making me harsh with my desire to hurt. ‘You don’t love me. You just want to fuck me.’ I flung his words back at him, and turned away, leaving him there. At least he couldn’t see the tears that streamed once more down my still unclean face.

  I avoided him for the next few days, went round in a daze of fear at what I had done, and what the consequences would be. Surely Odhiambo would betray me? And in the eyes of a condemning world I would be a sexual predator, a pervert, a schoolteacher who had abused her position of trust by preying on an innocent pupil. Except that my schoolboy was no more than six months younger than me, and had had more sexual experience than, as my unoriginal dad was fond of saying, I had had hot dinners. I was so terrified that I even hid away, taking to my bed, sending word to the office that I was sick with “influenza”, and telling Patrick (my husband Patrick!) that I was having a particularly nasty period. Not that I needed any excuse to ensure that no physical activity took place between us. It spoke volumes of the condition of our relationship that he didn’t even realise that I was a good two weeks away from my time of the month. There again, I reflected, maybe he did, and the thought made me even more miserable. In any case, he didn’t question me, and didn’t come near me. This time heoccupied the spare bed, and showed little eagerness to return to my side. By the time he did, I had been caught up in yet another immoral dilemma, one that would make my sucking on Odhiambo’s cock seem as innocent as an infant seeking solace with its dummy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT BEGAN INNOCENTLY ENOUGH, or so I thought. I was lying dozing in my lonely pit, after lunch on the second day of my “illness”, guiltily wondering whether I dared to try for a third day of illicit idleness. Despite my shame and anxiety, the novelty of this spell of solitary leisure had taken me back to the decadent habits of adolescence. Old sins die hard, and, alone in the marital bed I sought prolonged passionate relief which left me satisfied, sore and exhausted. Hearing my name being called from the veranda, I delved frantically under the sheet for my silk wisp of a nightie and pulled it over my tangled hair. I recognised the voice: Mags Evans, the wife of the deputy head of the much larger secondary school in the township of
Kengui. She was attractive, in a hale and hearty, sporty kind of way, champion at tennis, always winner of the ladies’ golf competitions, not only in Kengui but throughout the south-west province.

  We were as different as chalk and cheese. I always felt an absolute wimp beside her. Her bust made me feel flat-chested by comparison; her statuesque, deep brown thighs made my paler, slimmer limbs seem like skinny chicken legs. And mentally too, I was overwhelmed by my sense of insipid inferiority. When we first arrived at our little bush outpost, I felt very jealous of the lucky inhabitants of Kengui, with its thriving Sports Club. We were of course members, but the 30 miles that separated us meant we could not drop into the lively little club bar with the freedom of its township regulars, so I had met Dave and Mags Evans only infrequently. And now the growing deterioration of our marriage relationship meant that visits there were becoming even rarer.

  What on earth was she doing out here? I was all of a fluster, at the state of my undress, and even more red faced at the thought of how she would have found me if she had arrived half an hour earlier. The idea made my hand dive under the pillow to check that the sleek little instrument which had aided me in my self-gratification was well hidden. My face flamed anew. At least it would add credence to my claim to be running a fever. By now that brisk cheerful voice was advancing down the corridor, and there she was, standing in the open doorway, not waiting for an answer to her question of ‘May I come in?’ She beamed down on me, then her animated face changed to one of exaggerated concern. ‘Oh, my poor dear! Out of sorts, are we?’

  I sat up, self-consciously running my fingers through my lank black locks, a bent arm folded over my breasts at the low scoop of the nightgown’s lace-edged bust. I was aware of the small pink nipples and their surrounds, mistily displayed through the sheerness of the material. ‘I’m ... it’s a touch of flu, I think ... Mrs Evans. I–’

  ‘Mags, for God’s sake! You look absolutely gorgeous, you sweet girl!’ The enthusiasm of her approval made my blushes even deeper, as she advanced to hang over me and plant a quick light kiss on my damp cheek. She plonked herself heavily on the bed beside me, and reached out, took my hands in hers, held on to them tightly, so that I was overcome with confusion, stared helplessly at her. ‘Listen, my love. I’ve been meaning to get hold of you for ages. I want you, my dear, and I won’t take no for an answer, OK? And when I make my mind up, I always get what I want, so you might as well give in right now!’

  The way she laughed, her tone, and the way she tightened her grip on my clammy hands, squeezing, giving them a little shake to emphasise her words, suddenly sent a shiver of response through me. I became vitally aware of my practically naked state, the lower part of my body covered only by the thin sheet, the upper by the even flimsier nylon nightie. ‘Listen! We’re starting a new drama society at the club. Picking out a play, to put on – maybe even take it to Nguma, a few other places. Might even get a chance to perform in the capital, the National Theatre.’

  ‘But I never ... I couldn’t–’

  ‘Bollocks, baby! I’ve already got a play – you’ll be perfect for the leading role. Your looks, that wonderful voice!’

  I tried to interrupt, to stop her, deeply embarrassed, but her strength swept my protests aside. ‘Have you any idea just how drop-dead beautiful you are? You’ve got most of the guys drooling in their booze and doing God knows what to themselves in the privacy of the bog or the shower.’ I stared at her, my mouth hanging open, my hand still imprisoned in her powerful grip. ‘Come on, Jan! You mustknow!’ Suddenly those eyes were burning into me. I felt held by them, as strongly as the hands clamped around mine. ‘For God’s sake, honey! I’m in love with you myself! Crazy about you! Don’t turn me down – I couldn’t bear it!’

  And that’s how it started. It was only later I understood that she had not been joking. After all my childish dreams, and fantasies, and shame, after all this time in denial of that deep facet of my character, dream became a shattering reality.

  Mags leant in close, drew me to those magnificent breasts of hers and covered my mouth with her eagerly claiming kiss. ‘That’s what I mean by a passionate clinch, baby!’

  I could feel her knees and thighs against mine, her belly thrusting into mine, her hand on my behind, holding me in intimate contact. I was breathless, my blood thudding in my ears, as I clung helpless in her arms. If she had let me go I think I would have slithered limply to the floor at her feet. And yet I was intensely aware of Marty standing there, a few feet behind me, could imagine his deep embarrassment, for himself and for me. Eventually she released me, with a little laugh which was just a wee bit flaky, and turned me, gave me a little shove towards him. ‘There now, kids. That’s what I mean by pash, and it shouldn’t take an old dyke like me to show you how to do it! Now let’s do it again, right from the beginning. Just remember, five minutes from now you’re going to be shagging each other silly. Make me believe it!’

  I wondered distractedly who was blushing the more fiercely between poor Marty and me. Our eyes met in perfect empathy and flickered away again, as I moved accommodatingly into his arms. In a desperate kind of defiance against Mags I thrust my body against his, felt that instinctive little tremor, the fractional withdrawal of his hips to avoid that intimate contact of loins and thighs, and I pushed my parted lips, still tingling from the real sexual excitement of Mags’s embrace, against his, thrust the tip of my tongue, striving to penetrate, to break the stiffness I could feel in his tense frame.

  I had seized on the chance to become part of Mags’s world, desperately eager to escape, if only temporarily, the smothering pressures I had brought upon myself in the enclosed little community of our new home. The 30-mile trips into Kengui twice during the working week and most weekends became a lifeline for me. It opened up a new world – and a new me. Of course Patrick was very anti – we had several blazing rows, themselves a powerful indication of just how extreme the change in our relationship. I had scarcely argued, let alone stood up to him, in the six-plus years we had been together. It scared me, more than a little, but somehow I found the courage and the strength to oppose him. And he let me go. That’s the only way to describe it. Once he found I was no longer the obedient little helpmeet he had always known, he abandoned me. Not literally – not quite then. But he gave up on me, from that first small measure of my independence – or what I thoughtwas my independence. In fact it turned out that I was really searching for a new subservience.

  It was ironic that Marty and I should play the young lovers in Mags’s chosen play – and that we should be quite so good as we got to be at our roles, except for the physical expression of our passion we had to display onstage, to convey the sexual union we were supposed to be enjoying offstage. ‘Christ, kids! You’re at it like knives every chance you get! Let’s see a bit of it.’ Mags would bully, cajole, threaten. ‘Listen. I’m going to make you two actually go to bed with each other, I swear! It’s the only way! You can damn well get it together together, for real, maybe then you’ll at least learn to neck convincingly!’

  I crimsoned, sniggered like some stupid adolescent, but poor Marty looked petrified. Afterwards, when I was alone with her, I turned on Mags. ‘Why the hell did you have to say that? Poor Marty! He looked so embarrassed! I think he really thought you meant it.’

  ‘I did. Both of you look as if you’ve never had a good seeing to in your life, the pair of you! And I know how things are between you and Patrick, remember. How long is it since he fucked you?’

  I gave a strangled squeak of feeble outrage, though she didn’t need an answer to her question. She knew exactly how things were, or, rather, weren’t, between my husband and me. ‘As if Marty would ever wantto!’ I argued desperately. ‘Sleep with me, I mean. When he’s got Clio ... I mean she’s gorgeous.’

  Mags gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘If Marty’s got one at all, it’s only for pissing out of. But what the hell do you mean? Or are youtaking the piss? Don’t you realise that cow Clio can’t h
old a candle to you, if you’ll pardon the expression? You’re ten – no, a hundred! – times better looking. It’s time you admitted it – every time you walk into the club every male of every race or creed under 90 gets a hard-on.’ She gave a wicked chuckle. ‘Except for poor wee Marty!’

  I protested volubly, and with some sincerity. I still found it hard to believe that men could really find me so attractive. Not that I wanted them to, though it was flattering, I had to admit. At that particular time, what caused a much deeper fluttering excitement within me was the obvious and smouldering sexual desire Mags so clearly felt for me.

  It didn’t take long for her to have her wicked way with me. Never was there a victim more willing to be seduced. By the time poor sweet Marty and I had at least learnt to make a passable imitation of physical passion, Mags and I were lovers. She probably found my ineffectual squeals and protests of innocence hard to take, until that significant point when she finally conquered my feeble token defences, and literally stripped away the last little bits of cotton underwear that hid the objects of her hot lusts. Maybe then, when she had me spread out naked on her bed, she found in my whimpers of shame, and my incompetence, a hint of truth in my weak claims of ‘Never ... I’ve never ...’ But I was caught as fiercely as she was in the coils of burning passion by then. She might have been the aggressor, but I was so eager to be attacked, assaulted. I surrendered my body to her passion with an eagerness as wild as hers, lifted my open mouth to her kisses, spread my thighs to the imperious thrust of her knees, the welcome heaviness of her breasts smotheringly on top of me. Her splendid frame pressed me down, under her, and those knowing, capable fingers, between our writhing bellies, opened up the narrow fold of my sex, already wet with my need and hunger to be possessed.