Erotic Amusements

by Justine Elyot

  She began to kick, but this proved counterproductive, shifting the elastic upwards once more, so she laid her legs flat and simply thrust her pelvis up, a querulous shove that he must be able to interpret. But it seemed that he chose not to.

  He held back until Flipp had fallen, whimpering, into a state of tortured acceptance that she must await his will, then he whipped the knickers off and shoved a hand between her fattened lower lips, seeking out her clit.

  That first contact of roughened thumb with sensitive flesh was enough to tip Flipp over her edge; the blood rushed to her face while a heightened orgasm flooded her from toe to crown, forcing tears from the sides of her eyes.

  “Rocky.” The word fell brokenly from gloss-slicked lips, which were soon silenced in a kiss.

  She was left to wait again while Rocky knelt up and undressed. His eyes were opaque with lust, his fingers clumsy in their haste.

  “I love you so much,” Flipp told him, still deep in the glowy aftermath of her climax. “You could stay inside me forever.”

  “I might take you up on that,” said Rocky shortly, before rolling her over onto her stomach and climbing up behind her, guiding his hard cock to her still-wet cunt and sinking it in to the hilt.

  The duvet accepted Flipp’s gasped breaths, muffling them, while her fists twisted clumps of the cheap cotton cover.

  Rocky held her still by the hips, the heels of his palms kneading her bottom as his cock assuaged its hunger, over and over, driving them both to a place where only the rhythm and the feeling existed.

  After one particularly savage set of thrusts, Rocky held himself still for a long moment, causing Flipp to twist her neck up in an effort to read his thoughts.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I’m so close.”

  “I know,” he said, breathing deeply. He reached down to remove a clump of hair from her eye. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Always. I’ll always trust you.”

  “’Cause I was wondering, maybe when your divorce comes through, we could…”

  Flipp yelped and tried to wriggle her way around to face him, succeeding only in spearing herself deeper on Rocky’s prick.

  “You can’t propose to me in the middle of fucking me doggy-style,” she objected, giggling hysterically. “What’d we say when the grandchildren asked us?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I think you’ve driven me a bit mad. I just need to know that you’ll be mine. A guarantee.”

  “You’re insecure.”

  “I couldn’t bear to lose this.”

  “Neither could I. You need to trust me too, Rocky. I feel the same way you do. Unless you turn into a monster, I always will. Okay?”

  He smiled his crooked smile, bent down to kiss her cheek.

  “Okay. I’ll stop being inappropriately romantic now. And fill you up. Watch out, babe, here it comes.”

  Flipp was still laughing when she came, storming into a hiccuppy, giggly, howling tornado while Rocky poured himself into her with all his might—which was considerable.

  “So why are you so insecure?” she asked afterwards as they lay spent on the bed, contemplating room service. “I thought you must know how much I love you. But you still have doubts?”

  “I doubt myself more than I doubt you, really. I’ve spent all my life hating myself. Thinking I didn’t deserve anything good, that the life I had working for Cordwainer was going to be it. Never thought I’d have a, you know, proper relationship that wasn’t just a shag and a promise. Having something good in my life is new. To tell the truth, it’s a bit worrying. I’ve never had something I cared about keeping before. Well, apart from the bike.” He chuckled, as if embarrassed at this unburdening.

  “It’s easier not to care, in a way,” Flipp whispered, kissing the underside of his neck. “I get that. Unhappiness can be addictive. Hard habit to break. I thought Rhodes was my saviour for so long—because of the way he warped my mind, it never occurred to me that I could do better, find real love. It was easy to let him manipulate me. Didn’t require any thought, any strength. But we’ve found our real strength now, Rocky. Now we’ve got it, we can’t let it go. Can we?”

  “No.”

  Flipp put her hand over his where it lay on her stomach and looked up at the discolourations on the ceiling. This was how their lives looked now—blank, endless, stained, but not disastrously so. Now they finally had what they deserved.

  From her spot on the crowded beach, Michelle took one last look at the Fairhaven. Huge For Sale boards hung over the windows of the promenade bar, though the place hadn’t closed—some kind of temporary manager seemed to be installed. She doubted it was at Cordwainer’s instructions—he still hung on by a thread in Goldsands General, according to Jeremy—but all the same she felt too frightened to enter the building and reclaim her belongings.

  She turned a slow 360 degrees on her beach sandals, taking in for the last time the perfect confluence of blue skies and sparkling sea and golden sand. The season was in full swing now and yacht sails dotted the horizon, a backdrop for the nearer inflatables and pedaloes. From the rickety-rackety pier, thin screams from the Dive of Doom carried through the warm air. Caesar’s Palace was boarded up, pending auction. Small children dripping ice cream from cones wove past her. Sand castles were everywhere, along with windbreaks and shouty, slightly drunken parents.

  Michelle raised her eyes to the distant chalky cliffs. That was where she was headed. Onwards and upwards. Out of here.

  She pushed back her shoulders and made the effortful trudge through the hot sands until she reached the steps to the Esplanade. Her eye-rolling cab driver, parked on double yellow lines, gestured impatiently, and she jumped back in.

  “All right?” he asked brusquely. “Can we get going now?”

  “Yes. Take me to the railway station, please.”

  “Right you are. Where you going? Anywhere nice?”

  “I don’t know really.”

  The cab driver narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Perhaps he thought she was another runner. They were common enough, especially around the station, where they could slip so easily into the surrounding maze of crumbling terraces, all one-way streets.

  “So what you going to do when you come to buy your ticket, then?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  She paid up, to his visible relief, and headed into the ticket hall. At the kiosk, a billboard for the Gazette proclaimed that Cordwainer’s name had been wrongly blackened.

  She walked back out again, suddenly needing air, and headed back to the beach. Once there, she began to walk in a mindless easterly direction, with no aim in mind other than the mechanical perpetuation of motion, and its attendant calming effect on the brain.

  When she reached the viewpoint at the far end, where the beach met the low incipient swell of the cliffs, she stopped and sat down on the bench, catching her breath. She had walked for forty minutes and her soles were beginning to smart in their unsuitable sandals.

  She watched a group of people on Jet Skis off the wooden pier, churning up the waves, little dots of fun, oblivious to the weight of her soul.

  “Where am I going?” she asked aloud.

  “I don’t know,” replied a voice behind her, “but perhaps you’ll consider going there with me.”

  She stood and confronted the speaker, suddenly unnaturally calm, against all expectations.

  “Charles. Are you sure you’re well enough to be out?”

  “It was a scratch,” he said, peering down at the damaged arm, its bulk straining against the shirtsleeve. “They wanted to keep me in, but I can’t lie around all day. I discharged myself.”

  “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine. And besides, so do you.”

  “Well, I’ve seen a ghost. What do you expect?”

  “Did they tell you I was dead?”

  “All but.”

  “So why aren�
��t you in mourning?”

  He was close now, close enough to reach out a hand. But was it conciliatory, or was it conniving?

  “After the way you treated me?”

  He let the hand drop.

  “Yes. I know. For what it’s worth, Michelle, I’m truly sorry about that.”

  “So it’s Michelle now? I have a name. I am a human being.”

  “Yes, I accept that. In the bizarre artifice of our relationship, you must admit, it was easy to forget. You enjoyed the objectification, didn’t you?”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Yes, and I miscalculated the location of that point. For which I apologise. Sincerely. Profusely.”

  “Sincerely,” echoed Michelle. “Where are you going? What’s your plan now?”

  Cordwainer grimaced. “The plan is, there’s no plan. Regardless of your retraction in the press, I’m finished in Goldsands. Too many councillors, movers and shakers, diving for cover. They won’t want their names associated with me. Despite what you’ve said, the mud has stuck.”

  “It was real mud,” Michelle pointed out. “I didn’t say a word that wasn’t true.”

  “Yes, well, truth and I have a glancing acquaintance at best. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either. Seems we’re in the same boat. Would you like to be vague and directionless with me?”

  “You surely aren’t serious. After everything…”

  “I am serious. I underestimated you, and I regret it. You are a good businesswoman, and you have a streak of self-preservation I didn’t reckon on. You are intelligent, attractive and…well, we were compatible on that particular level, weren’t we? Hmm?”

  “This…isn’t a trap?”

  “Only inasmuch as I intend to get you into my wicked clutches. For purposes that will benefit you. I hope. We can start a new business, somewhere abroad. I have money in offshore accounts—how does Monaco grab you?”

  “Why? Why would you want me with you?”

  “We could have a wonderful life together. Money, luxury, sex, companionship. I was close to death for a while, and it has made me value company in my declining years, especially feminine company.”

  “Feminine company. And money and sex. What about love, Charles?”

  “Oh, you women,” he muttered. “Don’t be silly, Michelle. This is the offer of a lifetime. Just say yes and let’s go.”

  Michelle reached out for one of his hands. Elegant, long-fingered, perfectly cold and smooth, it was like a waxwork hand.

  “Charles, I’m sorry, but the answer’s no,” she said after a pause. “I know you think you’re honouring me and I should feel privileged. But you should go and honour some other poor cow. I don’t feel privileged. I feel I can do better. I will do better, even if I’m alone for the rest of my life. But I wish you all the best, and I hope you break the bank in Monte Carlo. Goodbye.”

  He slipped his hand from hers and for one second, his expression of hurt bewilderment made her want to change her mind, kiss him, give him comfort.

  “Goodbye,” he said with stiff courtesy. “And good luck.”

  He returned to the car parked alone at the side of the grassy verge. Michelle watched him climb in, start the engine and drive off. Then she walked to the edge of the viewpoint and looked out, letting the light breeze tangle her hair and her thoughts.

  Back to town. Go to Cutting Crew and book a retouch of my highlights. Then go to the estate agent and put in an offer for the Fairhaven.

  She stretched out her arms, opened her mouth and breathed it in, tasted it, along with the salt and the seaweed. Freedom at last.

  About the Author

  Justine Elyot is a U.K.-based writer of erotica and erotic romance. When her first book, On Demand, became the last ever title to be published by iconic British label Black Lace she had no idea it would end up at number one in the Amazon U.K. erotica chart, but it went some way to making up for the sadness of losing a publisher. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and she writes for a variety of publishers, always working to extend her range and skills. She lives in a town much like Goldsands, but minus the hot biker boys, alas. Nonwriting jobs have included gutting fish, waitressing, tax collection, tourist information, teaching and writing advertising copy but not, unfortunately, opera singing, which she does on a strictly amateur basis. She is always delighted to hear from readers. Erotic Amusements is her third published novel.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9206-6

  Copyright © 2011 by Justine Elyot

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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