by PJ Adams
A slight lift of one eyebrow from him. I nodded in response, and then he slapped against me again.
Slowly, steadily, relentlessly.
It was like an incredibly sexy form of Chinese water torture, that thud, thud, thud of his rock hard penis against me.
I shifted, wanting to be able to squeeze my legs together and keep that pleasure going, wanting to pull him down to me, into me.
Thud. And as he pulled away he swept the head of his manhood down, briefly teasing my entrance before pulling away.
Thud. Eyes locked on mine.
Thud. My body alive to every sensation, my body taken over by that relentless beat, by the waves of pleasure that swept across me each time he struck me.
Another blow and suddenly I was right at the edge, just waiting to be pushed...
Another, and my whole body heaved against its restraints. An explosion in my clit, my pussy, my belly, pulsing out in every direction through my body in great, crashing waves, as that hard cock kept slapping against me, over and over again.
Finally, my body slumped, spent.
With one final slap against my clit, he dragged his cock down, between my lips, pressed it against my opening, that hand still working his shaft.
Sliding into me, slowly. God I was so wet!
With his eyes still locked on mine, he pushed himself deep until he could go no further. The coarse, wiry hair at his crotch ground against my mound, his pubic bone hard against my clit, his balls against my ass.
I felt it building again, taking me by surprise, as he held himself there, deep inside me, not moving, and then, as my pussy tightened around him, there was a deep pulse inside me, a blossoming, a hot explosion of juices as he climaxed, throwing his head back with a deep, caveman grunt. His body was hard, tight, as he held himself inside me, pulsing and throbbing, as we both came together.
§
Some time later.
“Okay. You can let me go now.”
Every muscle and joint in my body was alive with pain. I don’t know how long I’d been locked up, how many times we had fucked and made love. It was all a blur.
“You hear? I said you can let me go.”
§
Breakfast at a table overlooking the Thames. He must have paid a fortune for a penthouse apartment with views like this.
Orange juice, coffee... strong, black coffee. Toast and a perfectly poached egg.
I wore one of his t-shirts and he was in a long, white robe. We made small talk while he poured the coffee. It was all incredibly civilized, given that I’d spent the night and most of the morning locked to his bed while he made love to me and fucked me, went down on me, jerked off over me, face-fucked me and more. And to think that we’d still only had one proper date.
“So what’s your favorite color?”
He looked surprised, then shrugged, the front of his robe hanging loose. “Turquoise.” He pronounced it the French way: turkwahz.
“Your favorite Beatle?”
“Ringo.” The glue that held the other three together.
“The PIN for your credit card?”
“2468. For all of them.” No hesitation. But that didn’t mean it was true, not with Will.
“Your favorite music?”
“Robert Johnson. All 41 scratchy recordings that we have left of him.”
“Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kremes?”
His face was blank. “You know,” I said. “Or don’t they have donuts in your world?”
Deadpan, he said, “Of course we do. I have a pâtissier who makes the best in London.” Then, in that seamless way of his, he switched topic, and mood: “I was wondering if you’d accompany me on Friday?”
Friday... What was Friday? And then it clicked. The funeral of Sally Fielding.
“I...” I didn’t know what to say.
“I know it’s a bit odd, asking you to come with me to the funeral of a girl I once locked up for a fortnight, a girl who keeps – kept – popping up with demands for money and none too subtle threats of blackmail. But how about it?”
Which Will was this? Those dark eyes were watchful, calculating; his tone was flippant, almost jokey; his manner was nervous, as if he was risking something, exposing something vulnerable of himself to me.
I reached out and took his hand across the table.
“When you put it like that, how’s a girl to refuse?”
33.
Will’s driver, Maninder, was waiting in the elevator to accompany me down to the car, standing there impassively with his arms folded across his broad chest as if he had been waiting like that since yesterday. Perhaps he had.
Up until now I hadn’t checked my phone, had barely even given the outside world a thought. Now, as we traveled down in silence, I saw that I had three voice-mails and a whole bunch of emails from Ellie, my assistant at Ellison and Coles.
I called. “Hey, Ellie,” I said. “It’s me. Listen, I–”
“Migraine again?” she asked, her voice just loaded with innocence. “Like that other time? They can be so bad, can’t they? My cousin Amber gets them sometimes. Often she can barely walk after one.”
“I...”
“So was it good? Was it who I think it was? Don’t worry, I’ve been through your schedule and rearranged to clear today. You are coming back I assume? He hasn’t got you tied to a bed in some exotic foreign castle, has he?”
I coughed, suddenly aware of Maninder’s eyes on me. What must he think? He must be used to how Will lived his life. Was it racist of me to wonder if this indulgent western lifestyle might be alien to his culture? He was probably as English as me. More so than Will, given his descent from immigrant Dutch traders.
“I’ll be for the rest of the afternoon,” I told Ellie. “But I’ll be out again Friday for a funeral. I don’t know how long for.” Or when, or where... “Might be all day.”
“’kay. Ciao.”
We emerged from the escalator into the basement car park, and I followed Maninder’s hulking form to the car, a low, sleek black Jag.
I sat in the back and we were silent for a while, as Maninder navigated his way across London by a succession of back-streets. Then, as we paused at a junction onto a busy road, Maninder half-turned in his seat and looked back at me. “This family is not a family to be fooled with,” he said.
I couldn’t work out if that was a threat, or a warning, or merely an observation. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not fooling.”
“Good,” he answered, and was silent for a time, as he threaded his way out into the slow-moving traffic. Then he went on: “They treat me like a son. I come from a poor background, but they saw beyond that. They are good people. You should know that.”
Now I realized what this was. It was like meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time. I remembered senior prom, when Pop had insisted on meeting Randall Stephens before agreeing to let me go. He’d used almost the same words: Look after her, Mr Stephens. Protect her and respect her. She’s a good person. You should know that.
“Thank you,” I said now. “I do know that.”
§
What to wear to an upper class English funeral? It felt shallow to be so preoccupied with the question, but I wanted to get it right. For me, and for Will. Living in England was a strange mix of the familiar and the strange. Right now I had never felt so foreign and exposed.
Friday morning, and I was picked up at ten sharp. Maninder sat impassively in the driver’s seat of the Jag, his black turban giving him the appearance of a cut-out silhouette until he moved.
Will climbed out to greet me with a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. Maybe it was inappropriate, given the circumstances, but boy did he look good in that neatly tailored charcoal suit! It hung off his square frame as if it had been made for him, which of course it probably had.
After much deliberation, I had settled on a quiet, understated outfit: black hold-ups and pencil skirt, a dark gray silk blouse and a cropped black jacket that was pinched at the
waist. My little clutch bag was a cheapie off a Portobello Road market stall, and my Jimmy Choo peep-toe stilettos were by far the most expensive thing in my wardrobe.
I tried to make conversation, but Will was in a silent mood, his expression fixed as he stared out of the window at the London traffic. After a few minutes, I sat back in the deep luxury of my seat and then, after a moment of hesitation, reached out and put my hand on his hard thigh.
He glanced down, and for a second I had the irrational thought that he was going to move my hand away, but instead he placed his own over mine, and so we sat in silence, heading to the funeral of his druggy, blackmailing, murdered ex-girlfriend.
§
I hadn’t really thought about who would be there, but of course I should have expected my brother Ethan and his new bride (who also happened to be Will’s sister) Eleanor. And there was my ex, Charlie, too. It was like a re-run of Ethan’s wedding: a small rural church (in Kent this time, rather than Norfolk), a gathering of the great and the good, elderly members of the English aristocracy dragged out into daylight and dusted down for the day.
I climbed out of the car and then paused, suddenly intimidated by it all. This was the first time Will and I had really gone anywhere as a couple, and here was my brother and his new family... Will’s family. Should I head over to join Ethan? Shouldn’t I at least go and have a chat?
At that moment, he looked up and saw me.
Always trust a man’s first reaction and Ethan’s was just what I needed right then. He stood there, tall and immaculate in his dark suit, looking bored with the conversation around him, and then he saw me and his face split with that big old grin of his, the Dunkin’ Donuts grin, as we’d always called it.
Then he looked beyond me, saw Will, and that grin dissolved.
I felt a need to go to my big brother and try to explain, try to persuade him to put the old bad chemistry he had with Will aside. They had been friends once, after all, as close as brothers.
There was a guy with Ethan, standing with his back to us. In response to something my brother said, this man twisted and peered in my direction and I saw that it was Charlie. I really should have recognized him from behind, given that he’d had his back to me a little over a year ago when he’d fled the apartment we had shared, finally getting the message that I didn’t want him there but he was welcome to the ashtray that was sailing through the air towards him.
Now it was one of those moments when everything seemed to slow down, a frozen frame of hesitation. Then Will was beside me, his arm offered for me to take, and we walked together down the gravel path to the church and the gathered crowd of mourners.
§
The service was short and surprisingly moving.
I’d never known Sally Fielding, and Will had never said much about her. I’d only even been able to piece together her story by digging around and asking people awkward questions.
Sally’s parents were in the front row. Her mother must have been about 50, but looked much younger, no doubt thanks to the attentions of some of Harley Street’s finest. Her father was a short, round-bellied man with wavy white hair and a surprising twinkle in his eye, given that he was at his daughter’s funeral. When they saw Will they rushed up and hugged him, then turned to me for a more restrained greeting.
“Willem,” said the mother, “so good of you to attend. I know it must be difficult.”
“Of course not,” said Will, still holding the woman’s hand in both of his. “Sally was a dear friend, and always an interesting one.”
“She never did like to be boring,” agreed Sally’s mother. “Or bored, bless her. You were always so kind to her.”
We sat in the second row, and if I were to extract a single life lesson from this whole experience it would be this: never arrange for your first official encounter with your boyfriend’s parents to be in the second row of the funeral of his murdered, druggy, sex-scandal-magnet girlfriend. At the very best, it makes for tension in the small talk.
And at worst?
You’ve just sat down on your cold, hard pew, one of your hold-ups has decided that its name is not necessarily an accurate clue to its function and your thong has ridden up just a little too far for comfort and every time you move you feel as if you’re flossing yourself somewhere that should never be flossed. Sitting in that pew, shielded by your boyfriend, you decide that now’s the moment for a discreet adjustment, and just as you have one hand up your skirt and the other pulling at your waistband you realize that your man has stood, leaving you exposed to a short, sixtyish lady with silver hair, an improbably balanced feathery black hat and a thoroughly disapproving stare. Like a rabbit frozen in the headlights you can’t turn away from that look, and then, when your brain finally remembers the commands to extricate your hands and get you to your feet, all you can think to say to the woman you now realize is your boyfriend’s mother is, “Hi, I’m Trudy. I was just having issues in the hosiery department.”
She managed to smile, bless her, which was quite a feat when that look of contempt had appeared to be chiseled into her saggy bulldog features. So I smiled back at her, and held out the hand that had so recently been up my own skirt.
“Charmed,” she said, with the briefest of nods. And then, turning to her son: “Willem, you excel, as ever.”
Fuck.
And so I sat, with Will between me and his parents, hoping in vain that if I sank down far enough into my hard, uncomfortable seat they might not see me at all.
34.
“Hey there, E.”
“Hey there, little sis’.”
Standing outside in the fall sun, a half-drunk pint of dark beer in his hand. No Will. No Eleanor or Charlie or uncannily intimidating Bentinck-Stanley parents. Just me and my big brother, sharing a drink, like old times, or as close to old times as we were ever going to get right now.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
I didn’t have to say any more, didn’t have to explain. Two words was all it needed. A couple of years back, our parents had gone off the highway near their Naugatuck home, and that was it: a mere moment between life and totally unexpected, un-planned-for death.
“You?”
My turn to nod.
Then we hugged, briefly, and that was it. Seven words, two nods and a hug and we’d communicated more than we had in most of the time since the accident.
§
Charlie. I’d been with him for a year, and now without him for a year after I’d kicked him out of the Islington apartment I had paid for and we had shared. Last time I’d seen him he’d been waiting for me outside what had been our home, somehow thinking that two misguided and much-regretted instances of ex-sex meant he could have me whenever he wanted. And then, when it finally sank in that this wasn’t going to happen, he’d started haranguing me about Will.
And I’ll just say one more thing before I shut my whiney posh little voice up and leave you to think things over. Who do you think benefited from Sally Fielding’s death, once she’d re-emerged? Had you wondered about that?
Sowing those seeds of doubt, of suspicion. Fueling the paranoia I already had about Will and his mysterious life. How much did I really know about him? How much did I want to know?
We were out front of the big house, about to walk down the car-lined driveway to where Maninder would be patiently waiting.
Charlie. Apart from an awkward exchange of greetings and a few hard to read looks, I’d managed to steer clear of him all day. This funeral was no place for an encounter, the way Charlie did encounters.
But no... Just as we stepped down onto the gravel driveway, I saw the shape of a man through the bushes, standing in profile, peeing up against a tree.
“Um...” said Will quietly. “Do you think we should say something...?”
Poor drunk Charlie. He must have gone into the cover of the bushes from the other side and not even realized he was on full display to anyone on the driveway, as he stood there, one hand scratching under h
is strawberry-blond hair, the other casually holding his dick as he jetted a dark patch up a tree trunk.
I tugged at Will’s arm. I didn’t want this. Maybe we could just walk quietly by.
On a gravel driveway...
“Well bugger me sideways,” said Charlie, a startled look on his face. He turned towards us, the stream of urine tailing off so that now he just stood there facing us, cock in hand.
“You might want to put that thing away,” said Will, matter-of-factly. “Unless, of course, you have an encore?”
Charlie hurriedly stuffed himself back into his pants, his face reddening in a way I’d only rarely seen before. He wasn’t a man to embarrass easily, which was just as well given the way he often behaved.
Moments later, he stepped out before us, re-finding some of his old swagger. His eyes had always been a lovely, clear blue, pale as the sky, almost angelic. He fixed me with them now. “Do you really know what you’re getting into?” he said softly. “Have you any idea, Trude?”
I glanced at Will, but he was staring at Charlie, his look giving nothing away.
“Well?”
“That’s enough, Charlie,” said Will, his voice measured and even. “Are you going to be okay getting home? I could arrange–”
“Oh sure,” said Charlie. “You could arrange almost anything, couldn’t you?”
Will turned to me, and put a hand on my arm. “He’s drunk,” he said, unnecessarily. “I think we should just–”
“Turn the other cheek, eh?” said Charlie, interrupting again, and this time taking a step towards us. “Not get involved, eh? Is that what you told Sally? Did you tell her not to get involved, not to cross swords with the sacred family?”
At the mention of Sally Will stiffened. Or was it mention of his family?
“I love you, Charlie,” he said, after a pause, forcing a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know anyone else who could take the moral high ground when you’ve only just put your cock away.”
Then he went to him, put his hands on Charlie’s arms, and said, “Come on, old boy. Enough’s enough. We’ve all had a few drinks. Let’s get you sorted for a lift, okay?”