Eighty Days White

by Vina Jackson

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, when he’d removed the sheet that I had pulled around my shoulders in the night. ‘I want to see you.’

  He had already brought me a cup of coffee on a tray and a plate of sliced fruit with a spoonful of honey dribbled over the top. Next to the cup of black coffee was a little jug of cream.

  I could definitely get used to this. Guys my own age weren’t likely to bring me breakfast in bed. They were just too worried that the slightest kindness would make a girl think that a rock on the finger and a white picket fence was just around the corner.

  Older men weren’t like that. They were nicer to women. Took it all a bit less seriously. I liked that.

  Dagur was in his early thirties, I guessed. Maybe a little younger. He looked reasonably ordinary with his clothes on, though I supposed that might have been because he was always in the shadow of the charismatic Viggo Franck. But naked he was beautiful. Almost entirely hairless, muscled, and with that tattoo that rippled when he walked. I was getting wet again just thinking about it.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow, babe?’ he asked. He was sitting down on the edge of the bed with a laptop balanced on his knees. Every now and again he would reach over and idly stroke my ankle until I wriggled all the way down the bed so that my legs were hanging off the edge behind him and his hand was resting just below my pussy instead of on my calf.

  He looked up and grinned.

  ‘Oh, like that, is it?’ he said, moving on top of me and slipping a finger inside me, casually moving it around until I began to moan and grind against him. The sheet scratched against my back as I slid further down the bed to push his hand in deeper. Last night had been good, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted Dagur to fill me again, fill all the parts of me that Leonard had left empty.

  His laptop clattered onto the floor.

  ‘More,’ I said, ‘I want to feel more …’

  My feet found purchase on the floor and I pressed down to gain traction as I wrapped my hand around his wrist and pulled, guiding him.

  ‘You’re too tight for that, babe.’

  ‘Try harder,’ I insisted, pushing his fist inside further. ‘Fill me.’

  Dagur’s eyes flashed and in an instant he had me pushed hard against the bed with my legs over my head and his fingers slipping in and out of my cunt. He curved his hand around to ease its passage and I winced as his fourth finger slipped in and stopped abruptly at the knuckle.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. He leaned forward and stroked my cheek with extraordinary gentleness. Then he reached under the bed and pulled out a bottle of lube. It smelled strongly of cinnamon and was cold and wet against my skin.

  ‘Why don’t you try?’ he said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I want to watch you fist yourself.’

  He took my palm and pressed it against his own, coiling his fingers over mine to indicate how much smaller my hands were than his.

  ‘I’m not sure that I can …’ My mind tried to conjure up the appropriate image, but it just didn’t seem possible.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, then slid his hand out of me slowly and took hold of my wrist to guide me in. His fingers were damp and sticky.

  ‘Have you tried DP?’ he asked, as I slipped one finger, then two, then three, then four inside.

  ‘DP?’

  ‘Double penetration. Two men at once.’

  ‘No,’ I breathed, almost overcome with the thought that my entire hand was millimeters away from sliding into my vagina. My surprise had almost overtaken my arousal and for a moment I was distracted, imagining the physical possibilities.

  I’d never had a threesome. But I knew that Liana had – her first boyfriend had wanted to experiment with his bi side and had invited a friend along one night, with her permission. Liana had told me how after she’d watched the two men suck each other off, they had agree to both fill her. She had straddled one and the other had kneeled behind and entered her anally. When she related the story I had imagined how she must have felt, like a queen, riding two of them at once.

  She’d laughed when I told her that. And now I understood why. Most likely such a situation for her would have meant a double loss of power. I saw it the other way around. Having two men looking at me longingly, worshipping my body, touching me the way that I asked them to. After she’d left, I’d disappeared into my bedroom and fantasised about it with the door firmly closed and my hand between my legs.

  ‘But you like the idea, don’t you?’ Dagur asked again. ‘I can see how wet you’re getting. Does it turn you on, thinking of two men’s cocks inside you?’

  He had bent his head to whisper directly into my ear. His Icelandic lilt lent a rough, hard note to his words that made me catch my breath, and forget all the other distractions rushing around in my mind as my body throbbed with a sudden rush of desire. If I hadn’t already been lying down, then Dagur’s voice would have made me weak-kneed and light-headed. Leonard had been the first man to make me realise how much I enjoyed the sound of dirty words spoken aloud, but he wasn’t the last.

  ‘Oh God, yes,’ I replied. Every nerve ending beneath my skin strained for release.

  ‘Well, I can’t give you that now, but this will be close enough.’

  His hand locked around the base of my thumb and wrist and he pushed gently until I felt myself open and I slid all the way inside.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, in wonder. The inside of my opening was not as I had expected. I was tight at my entrance, but inside, totally accommodating. I stretched and twisted my hand, exploring. For a moment I closed my eyes, ignored Dagur entirely and sank into the sensation of my fist pressing inside me, filling me to the brim.

  When I opened my eyes, Dagur was staring at me with shining eyes.

  He made a growling sound in the back of his throat and flipped me over onto my side, pressing my knees up against my chest and holding my wrist firmly in place.

  ‘More,’ I moaned. Even my fist wasn’t enough. Would never be enough to fill all the blank spaces inside me that Leonard had left behind.

  I squirmed as Dagur tugged at my breasts, grabbing and twisting each of them in his palm, kneading my flesh roughly as though he had lost control of his own senses. His teeth were sharp against my skin as he brought his mouth to my bare neck and nipped.

  ‘I’ll give you more,’ he croaked. His voice was ragged. His finger pressed against my arsehole until that opening too gave way for him, inviting him in.

  ‘Oh God, you’re so tight,’ he whispered as he began to move his finger in circles and then added another.

  ‘More,’ I instructed, and Dagur let go of my wrist and fumbled under the bed again to find a condom. His hands were shaking almost as much as my body. Then he reapplied the pressure to my fist, pushing my hand deep inside again as his cock found its home deep within my arse and I cried aloud with the sheer overwhelming joy of it all.

  The pressure of his cock brushed against my knuckles, separated from the bare skin of my hand only by the wall that stood between us, the separate entrances of my cunt and arse.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ I asked him as I slid my hand up and down to heighten the sensation.

  ‘Fuck yes, I can feel that,’ he said as he curled me up into a ball and took hold of a knot of my short hair and began to thrust faster and faster until his body tensed and tightened and I knew that beneath the thin skin of the condom his semen was flooding inside my anus.

  His chest was slick with sweat when he collapsed against me and held me against him without bothering to remove his cock. He kissed me gently on the lips and ran his fingertips up and down my flank.

  ‘Ow,’ I said, as I pulled my hand free. My wrist ached from having been trapped in an uncomfortable position. Dagur took my hand and brought it to his lips and kissed the back as if he were greeting a princess.

  ‘That was impressive,’ he said. ‘But you didn’t come?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. I’d never seen the point in lying about it.

 
‘It was strange. I could feel my muscles tensing as if I was going to come, but it was as if I was so full that I had no room to climax. Like I could tighten but not let go.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he mused. Then propped himself up on his elbow and shifted his weight so that he was leaning over me with his body pressed hard against mine. ‘I’ll fix that. If you just give me a minute or two to recover.’

  He was true to his word, and we spent the rest of the day in bed together, a tangled heap of limbs in damp sheets.

  It was early evening when I finally returned to my room in Dalston and crawled into bed to relax at last.

  Any solace that I found in the pleasant ache of my body and the peace of my own company was lost in my worry for Liana that kept resurfacing no matter how many times I reminded myself that, like me, she was now a grown woman and had always been able to take care of herself, even if her behaviour didn’t always tally with my own.

  Finally, I resolved to phone her and check on her state of mind and, if necessary, attempt to cheer her up with news of my latest escapade.

  ‘Oh, Lily,’ she giggled, ‘you slut!’

  ‘How dare you, young lady!’ I responded in the same tone, pretending I wasn’t in on the joke.

  ‘In the nicest possible way, of course,’ she added. ‘One minute you’re all shacked up with your older lover boy and the next minute you’re gallivanting off with a rock idol.’ She sighed. ‘I’m jealous. Though I would have gone for the lead singer or the guitarist. Drummers are definitely on the lowest rung of the groupie ladder, I reckon. Typical of you to start at the bottom. Do you plan to work your way up?’

  ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m not the one who likes being tied up and spanked.’

  ‘Takes a slut to recognise a slut,’ Liana concluded the banter. ‘So, tell me everything. I want all the juicy details about your rock star. Was he wild?’

  ‘Not that wild,’ I reassured her. ‘Though he did introduce me to a few new tricks.’

  ‘He sounds like a beast,’ she continued.

  ‘Actually, he’s rather nice, although I wouldn’t call him the boyfriend type.’

  ‘Or the white picket fence type, I guess?’

  ‘Definitely not the marrying kind,’ I confirmed.

  ‘So, tell me about these new tricks. You never know, I might learn something.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I laughed.

  The weeks went by and Dagur and I continued to see each other casually as his tour schedule and my work allowed. I quickly became inordinately fond of him during the time we spent together and enjoyed every single moment with him, both in and out of bed. He was fun to be with, an imaginative and energetic lover with a wicked sense of humour. In fact, a total contrast to Leonard whose melancholy inner life was never far from the surface, even when he was at his most expansive and joyous. When Dagur laughed, there was no holding back and the roar rising from his throat was anything but subtle, so full of life and uncensored. And when he fucked, he gave himself body and soul to the task, maybe a touch selfish but untiring and attentive to my responses and tremors, playing me like he did the drums with fire and precision, riding the rhythm, dictating the tempo, taking as much pleasure from his professional artistry as from the welter of physical sensations the lovemaking triggered inside his body.

  He was not sentimental though.

  Once he queried the ankle chain I still wore. The symbolic gift that meant that every time I looked down I was reminded of Leonard. ‘Another guy?’ he queried distractedly. When I nodded, all he said was, ‘I don’t mind. I really don’t, you know.’

  Sex, for him, was a game, and one he enjoyed playing with gleeful abandon. As much as he enjoyed playing his drums, performing or eating. A basic need, which he indulged in wholeheartedly, quite free of reservations or afterthoughts.

  Of course he liked me, but I had the sense that I could have been any girl. We were interchangeable, disposable, temporary harbour pleasures on an endless hedonistic road. He would never hurt any of us, but neither would he make any promises of permanence or happy-ever-after to us. We were friends, fuck buddies. It didn’t mean anything beyond the moment and the brief comfort of good sex between relative strangers.

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Liana observed on the phone one evening. ‘No hang-ups involved. Just enjoy it while it lasts,’ she added.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘So he’s not ideal, but who is?’ Liana queried.

  Maybe, deep down, I didn’t aspire to be a slut after all.

  When Dagur was hard and loud and metronomic, pumping inside me like a Viking warrior unleashed, I yearned for Leonard’s quiet gentleness, and when my horse-tattooed drummer had relaxed and wrapped his muscled arms around me in sensual embrace, I would be begging silently for one of those rare moments when Leonard’s face loomed above me with his expression stuck in eternal contradiction, as if his soul was battling with his innate sensibility, and his thrusts accelerated, aligning themselves with the rise of my own pleasure, taking the pulse of my life and responding in perfect unison.

  One night, after Dagur had arrived at my flat late after a gig in East London and we lay folded up against each other in my narrow double bed, my body still suffused with the inner glow of our earlier lovemaking, I woke suddenly in the early hours of the morning. It was still dark outside, and I must have been dreaming, my thoughts all in a jumble, people, events, things scattered randomly across the back screen of my sleeping mind. Dagur was lying on his side with his arm clamped affectionately over me, snoring lightly, a man sated and at peace with himself. I should have felt satisfied too, but when I looked up at him, I just began missing Leonard. Badly.

  A case of the wrong man at the wrong time.

  I wriggled out from under Dagur’s grip, reached across to my bedside table, and picked up my phone. Calling up the contact list, I scrolled down to Leonard’s number and my finger hovered over the ‘call’ button for an eternity, as my mind tripped the light fantastic between certainty and fear and a whole range of feelings in between.

  Then it came to me that wherever he was – if he was still in Europe and not travelling somewhere else right now – it would be the middle of the night for him too and he didn’t deserve to be wakened from his slumbers at such a bad hour when all I would say was likely to make little sense and not change anything about what held us apart and always would do.

  I then thought I could send him a text message, but quickly came to the realisation that I would be quite incapable of saying what I wanted to say properly, choosing the right words, conveying the precise feelings that were cutting me to shreds.

  Maybe Leonard was, at the same moment, unable to sleep and also hesitating with his mobile phone in hand, sharing the same thoughts, juggling with the same doubts. I wanted to think so.

  So I put the phone down on the floor by the bed, looked at Dagur’s broad shoulders and listened to his breath. My hand slipped under the covers and reached down to his crotch. I cupped his balls in my hand, feeling their inert weight and quickly he stirred and rolled onto his back and his limp cock began to grow, just an inch away from my lingering fingers.

  I slipped my head under the covers and took him into my mouth. In the darkness, surrounded by the sweet combined odours of our warmth, I sucked until he was fully erect and pulsing and then manoeuvred myself on top of him and deftly inserted his length inside me. His eyes were still closed, but I was sure he knew what was happening. I was riding him bareback and I didn’t care.

  He moaned. A lazy sigh of satisfaction. I thrust against him determined, hungry, burying his rigid cock deep inside me.

  Again and again, until it almost felt I was fucking myself, using him as a prop. The way he no doubt felt when he fucked me or another fan or groupie, I speculated.

  I already knew I wouldn’t come this time. But I thirsted for his hardness to fill me, to split me apart until I screamed and the ghost of Leonard left the room, incons
equent, a thing of the past, someone I must forget if I was retain my emotional sanity. Hello, Dagur; goodbye, Leonard. That way, it almost sounded like the title of a song. Goodbye, Leonard, hello, rock ’n’ roll.

  Dagur was oblivious to my discontent. It was neither here nor there to him who initiated the sex between us, and the fact that I might wake in the early hours of the morning desperate to be filled was, in his mind, an ordinary and perfectly acceptable state of mind and nothing to be remarked upon, though he did insist that if we were going to carry on fucking unprotected, we would need to get ourselves tested. His attitude made me blush, but it also gave me a sense of confidence and freedom to more readily accept my own desire. Dagur merely frowned when I mentioned in jest that I had become a slut, as if he had never heard the word and couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Unlike many other men, Dagur didn’t believe there was such a thing as too much sex or too many partners. It was simply a necessary part of being alive.

  I resolved to be more like him, and spend less time wondering about who I should and shouldn’t be going to bed with and just get on with the business of enjoying myself.

  So when he called and invited me to come along with him on a photo shoot his management had set up, I decided to throw caution to the wind and agreed.

  ‘Aren’t the whole band coming?’ I asked Dagur, presuming that he must be doing promo with all the other members of the Holy Criminals.

  ‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘Promotional stuff goes through our manager, and he felt much of the publicity material that involved me was a bit out of date. He wants to refresh the portfolio. Viggo and the others all did new sessions weeks ago. I’m the only one left. I’ve been putting it off for ages, but our manager is getting a bit uptight.’

  ‘Scared the camera will leech your soul?’ I teased him.

  ‘Guess I am. He’s actually a well-known lenser. Better known for his fashion work. I heard about him through the gals in the management office. Today he might only be doing some test shots. Nothing formal. But I’ve always felt uncomfortable being snapped on my own; with the rest of the band it’s OK, we fool around a bit. So the photographer suggested that I bring a friend …’