by Lulu Taylor
She looked back at him, not understanding.
‘Touch yourself,’ he urged, his voice mellow and hypnotic.
She hesitated, feeling shy.
‘Do it. Don’t be embarrassed. It is utterly natural.’
Delicately, slowly, she pushed her fingertips on to her clitoris and massaged it lightly. It was already swollen from the recent activity, still pulsing with desire, and it responded with a quiver, sending small waves of pleasure through her.
‘That’s right. A little more. Relax, my love. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you are beautiful and everything you do to yourself is right. And …’ his voice dropped even lower … ‘you are exciting me greatly.’
This made her breathe harder, and rub a little faster, picking up the delicious nerve endings with each circle of her fingertips. She dipped downwards into the depths, oiling her fingers with her own juices, before returning to the bud.
‘Yes.’ His voice was low. ‘Open to yourself, darling. Let me see you. God, you are amazing …’
She let her knees fall open, parting herself to his gaze. The pleasure was building in her, her breath coming faster. She began to move unconsciously, arching her back and twisting her head from side to side, responding to her own incessant touching. Then she couldn’t resist it any longer, rubbing harder and harder and then crying out as the delightful shiver took hold of her, shuddering along her limbs. ‘Oh! Oh …’
The marquis smiled, pleased with her, then took her hand and placed it on his stiff rod. It felt huge, smooth and warm under her hand, rearing up from its nest of coarse curly grey hair at the base. ‘You’ve warmed me up again with that little performance. Now, my darling, a few strokes and I’ll be able to join you in bliss.’
She rubbed the hot flesh, moving it up and down the shaft. ‘Harder,’ he whispered, and folded his large hand over hers, moving it up and down with firm, fast strokes. ‘Yes … that’s it, that’s it …’ He gasped, and his cock jerked under her hand. A small fountain of white fluid gushed from its tip and down over her knuckles.
The marquis was still for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he sighed and looked at her. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He passed her a silk handkerchief. ‘You have given me great pleasure. I hope we will be able to please each other like this many times.’
‘So do I,’ she said, thinking, I’ve done it. Now I really am a woman.
In the weeks that followed, she and the marquis spent many hours in his little flat as he tutored her in how to make love. He adored her body, and while he was happiest simply gazing at her and caressing her breasts and bottom, or lying between her slim thighs, his penis thrusting hard into her until he came, he also took his duties as teacher seriously. He taught her how to please him with her mouth, and did the same for her, showing her how to draw out her pleasure by slowing down her ascent. He made her bring him to the peak of orgasm and then allow it to fade away, so that when the climax came, it was all the stronger and more necessary for the delicious wait. ‘Never hurry,’ he insisted. ‘That is the worst way to make love.’ He would spend the first hour of their time together kissing, massaging and stroking her, sometimes bathing her or using aids to warm her up and open her to her erotic nature. Then they would use new techniques or practise what he had already taught her. She revelled in the luxuriousness of sex, and delighted in what she learned about her own body.
I don’t know why anyone does anything else, she would always think as she crossed the Seine and headed home. But I suppose not everybody has the luxury of time, the way we have. And she remembered what the marquis had done that day with the pair of cold jade balls, and shivered with pleasure.
Romily sent a postcard to Imogen from the palazzo in Venice where she was staying in advance of a society wedding.
Dearest Midge,
You may be at Oxford – and having a wonderful time, I hope – but I am also expanding my education with the help of a lovely new friend. Can’t wait to see you. Can you come and see me this summer? Please say yes. Now I have to have my hair done, such a bore. Tell Allegra I love her and miss her too.
Lots of love, R
P.S. MG4E
Chapter 16
Oxford
2003
WHEN SHE WOKE up, the guy from the night before was still in her bed. In the narrow college single, Allegra was jammed between the cool wall and his smooth brown back which was emanating heat like a radiator, so that she was freezing on one side and boiling on the other.
Who is he? she wondered blearily as she realised she was desperately thirsty. The man’s body had blocked her in, and her basin and water glass seemed unreachable. Oh, yeah. It’s Paddy. Bits of the previous evening were coming back to her now. She’d met him in the college bar in Hertford, they’d flirted, got drunk, gone back to someone’s room, drunk even more and ended up staggering back to her place, and of course she’d ended up shagging him. They’d writhed around the bed, doing all the actions, and after a while she’d let him push himself into her and they’d bounced around for a bit. Had he been wearing a condom? Yes … that’s right, he’d had to go and get one from his jeans … then he’d finally come but she hadn’t, and when he’d asked if she wanted him to help her, she’d pushed him away, laughing, and said, ‘Don’t worry, honey, I think I’m past it, to be honest,’ and then they’d fallen asleep.
She’d slept with loads of guys and never had an orgasm with any of them. Every time she started to enjoy herself, something clicked off and stopped her feeling anything.
She nudged him in the back. ‘Wake up, Paddy!’
He stirred, then grunted, then rolled on his back and yawned, releasing a waft of stale breath. Turning to look at her, he blinked and smiled. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘What’s the time?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ She poked his arm. ‘Get up, can you? Let me out. I’ve got to get a drink.’
‘Sure,’ he said amiably. ‘I’d better be on my way anyway. Got some rugby training today.’ He got out of bed and started looking about for his clothes while she pulled on a T-shirt and gulped down a glass of water. When he was dressed he said, ‘Thanks for last night by the way. Are you around tonight or tomorrow? We could always go to the King’s Head, if you fancy a drink?’
‘Oh, no … no, I think I’m busy. Really sorry and everything.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged as if to say that he wasn’t bothered either way, it had only been a suggestion and not one he cared about. ‘See you round.’
‘Sure. ’Bye, Paddy.’
Allegra shut the door behind him with relief. She hated seeing them the next day: it was only worthwhile when she was drunk or high, and the guys seemed so intensely desirable, and the whole encounter full of drama and possibility. It was so simple: a boy, a girl, and the excitement of the game of seduction. In boring daylight and awful sobriety, it was all so much more complex, and she couldn’t bear the thought of them seeing her as she really was. And she was always haunted by the knowledge of the sexual failure of the night before – no matter how much she was pretending to get off, she never could – and so she preferred it if the men were out of her life as quickly as possible.
*
She texted Imogen and they arranged to meet at a café near the library. It was supposed to be a study day, they had decided, to try and catch up somehow with the mountain of work.
Allegra coiled her hair back into a loose bun and put on a pair of dark glasses, hoping that her hangover wouldn’t get worse. Today she simply had to get over it: it was important that she tackle this week’s essay and try to get on top of her workload.
How does everyone else manage? she wondered, as she went out on to Turl Street and headed for the main road. They must somehow. Is it only me who can’t seem to find the time? But it’s not as though I’m out raging on my own, is it?
The problem was that examinations were beginning to loom large in their consciousness: at the end of the summer term, they would have to sit their Honour Moderations, and pass them, in ord
er to return for their second year. The examinations would cover all the work they’d done in their first year, including the dreaded Anglo-Saxon that Allegra hated. That meant she’d have to memorise several of the set texts so that she could ‘translate’ them convincingly in the exam, gambling that the ones she’d learnt would come up.
But it was so difficult to knuckle down and work, with so many pleasant distractions everywhere. As the spring advanced into summer, Oxford had burst into bloom and the college gardens and university parks became alluring: rugs were brought out, games of croquet were played, punts were hired. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in a stuffy library, poring over pointless poems.
How hard can it be? Allegra thought. I mean, who on earth revises for Mods? They won’t be strict about it. No one expects first years to perform very well, with all the stress we’ve been through adjusting to life at Oxford.
She was sure that if she bombed, she’d be able to talk her way out of it. After all, her tutor loved her. She’d seen him glance appreciatively at her legs more than once, so he was definitely on side. So she might as well carry on having a good time while she could.
Imogen frowned at her. ‘Are you all right, Allegra? You look terrible.’
She pulled a dismissive face and took another bite of her bacon sandwich. ‘I’m fine. God, I’m starving. This tastes bloody fantastic.’ She was jigging her knee and her hands were trembling: her alcohol and cocaine hangover was kicking in, and she could feel her spirits swooping downwards into bleakness. The only possible remedy was plenty of sweet, filling food, to try and push her blood sugar back up and combat the depression. ‘Do I really look rough?’ She looked down at her jeans, scuffed Converse trainers, and the grey shirt she’d knotted at her waist.
Imogen stared at her for a while and then said gently, ‘Yeah. You do. Are you OK, Allegra? Really?’
Allegra looked away and then laughed. ‘’Course I am. I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s so hectic at the moment.’ She took another bite of her greasy, reinvigorating sandwich. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m not going out much at the moment. I’m trying to revise for Mods. My tutor’s been putting the fear of God into me – apparently I’ll be sent down without question if I fail.’ Imogen looked worried. ‘It’s a bit nerve-wracking. I’ve just finished an essay on Yeats for tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Allegra said, perking up. ‘I was going to ask if I could borrow anything you’ve got on Yeats.’
Imogen frowned. ‘Well, yeah, of course you can. It’s just that …’
‘What?’
‘Well, you’ve been borrowing quite a lot lately – which is fine, I don’t mind,’ she said hastily. ‘But …’ She struggled, obviously trying to find the right words. ‘Don’t you think that it’s worth doing a bit yourself? I know we’ve got different tutors and everything, but someone might notice that our work is identical. And you won’t be able to borrow anything in the actual exams.’
‘Oh,’ Allegra said stiffly. Imogen was right, she knew that. She’d started cadging the odd page of notes the previous term, and then essays which at first she used as models for her own before eventually she began copying them out almost word for word. Now she relied on Imogen almost entirely to keep up with her work. She was secretly ashamed that she was using her friend so blatantly, and usually because she was simply too tired and hungover to do the work herself, but she didn’t like to think of it that way. ‘Well, don’t you think that it’s the least you can do? Considering how much you owe my family. I mean, you wouldn’t have gone to Westfield at all if it weren’t for my parents. Have your mother and father ever got round to paying back mine for the school fees?’
Imogen gasped, her eyes full of surprise and hurt. She flushed red. At once, Allegra felt guilty and mean. But couldn’t Imogen see how rotten she was feeling? Besides, it was true that Imogen owed her: without Allegra, she wouldn’t be going to the kind of glamorous, exciting parties she seemed to enjoy so much.
Imogen still seemed stunned by her last comment so Allegra said, ‘Don’t lend it to me if you don’t want to. I don’t care.’
‘It’s all right,’ Imogen said quietly, looking down at the table. ‘You can have it if you like. I’ll need it back in time for my tute tomorrow afternoon, that’s all.’
‘OK.’ Allegra wanted to make up for her spiteful remark so she said, ‘There’s a big party tomorrow at that new cocktail place on Walton Street. Want to come?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. I’m going out with someone.’
‘What?’ Allegra leaned forward, surprised. ‘Who?’
‘A guy from Magdalen. He’s called Sam. I met him in college, he’s friends with the bloke in the room next to mine.’
Allegra stared at her. She’d grown used to the idea that Imogen didn’t have anything to distract her from being Allegra’s wingman as they whirled through her social life. Of course Imogen had got off with boys, and been interested in people, but nothing had ever really come of it, and that was the way Allegra had expected it to continue as long as she needed her. It wasn’t that Imogen held no attraction for men: she was very pretty in her own quiet way, with those big grey eyes that showed everything she was feeling, pink cheeks and ripe figure. She might not have the aristocratic ranginess that Allegra and her other friends had, or the shimmering blonde hair that seemed to draw men like an irresistible flame, but she had qualities of her own that perhaps she herself didn’t realise. ‘So who is he?’ Allegra said at last. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s lovely.’ Imogen couldn’t help giving a broad smile and her eyes brightened. ‘Nothing glamorous, quite ordinary really, but very kind and funny. That’s important, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm. Of course.’ Allegra really didn’t have any idea. She chose her men on quite different criteria – mostly looks, availability, and how much they seemed to want her. There was no shortage of candidates after all. She was intelligent enough to realise that her good looks and pedigree explained why men paid her so much attention, flattered her, pampered her, and tried to give her whatever she wanted. It wasn’t unusual for huge bouquets to be waiting for her in the porter’s lodge, for men to arrive at her room bearing gifts, and for her pigeon hole to be stuffed with notes and invitations. If she’d wanted, she could have dined out every night, been taken to expensive restaurants and smart hotels whenever she felt like it, the bill paid with a Coutts card by whichever lucky man was her escort for the evening. And he would probably end up in her bed, as well, if she felt like it or got drunk enough.
‘I don’t think we’re properly going out yet,’ Imogen continued, ‘but I think we’re going to. He seems really keen. It’s so exciting. He’s got brown hair and hazelly eyes and he’s quite tall and he loves cricket, he’s mad about it …’
‘Have you had sex?’ demanded Allegra.
Imogen shook her head. ‘No … not yet. But if everything goes well, I guess it won’t be long. I hope so. I think Sam would be really sweet with me.’
Allegra put her sunglasses back on. ‘Can’t stand this light,’ she muttered. She was ashamed of it, but somewhere in her heart, a rope of jealousy was uncoiling. Why should Imogen get a caring, affectionate lover – a proper boyfriend? Would this Sam person take her away? ‘Can’t wait to meet him,’ she said at last, trying to resist the blanket of misery threatening to envelop her. Why do I feel like this? I can have anyone I want.
‘Shall we go to the library?’ she said, suddenly wanting to be somewhere where they couldn’t talk about Sam. ‘I’ve got tons to do.’
‘OK,’ Imogen said, giving her friend a quick look as though making sure that the nastiness of earlier had been forgotten. ‘And I’ll give you that Yeats essay, if you like.’
Chapter 17
‘DID YOU ENJOY the film?’
‘Yes, it was good. I liked the ending, it made me quite teary.’
Sam took Imogen’s hand as they wandered along Walton Street and she leaned her hea
d on his shoulder. They’d been going out for only a fortnight but somehow it seemed much longer. Life at Oxford, with its eight week terms, could be so intense: plays were auditioned, cast and put on in a matter of three weeks; fashions appeared and disappeared in half a term; people were always dashing about, with an essay or two to write a week, on top of all the other things they had to occupy their time. Some people thrived and flourished under the pressure, others buckled. Most coasted as best they could, doing the work they had to do while devoting as much time as they could to their social life and everything else that Oxford could offer. Imogen liked the sense of busy activity and time rushing by. She feared she was naturally lazy and that only by being chivvied along by the relentless timetable would she get anything done.
‘Shall we go back to yours?’ Sam said casually. He hardly ever suggested going back to his shared house on the Banbury Road because there was little privacy there, so it wasn’t unusual for them to go back to her room. But Imogen knew at once that this time he had something in mind. It was no surprise. They’d been getting ever closer to it. They were meeting almost every night – she’d been introduced to his circle of friends at Magdalen, and he’d been over to Christ Church – and each time they ended up getting just a little steamier. It was obvious what the next step was.
‘OK,’ she said. She’d already decided: Sam was the one she was going to sleep with. She was so fond of him that it was very close to being in love, even if she knew in her heart that this wasn’t it. There was cosy affection, and pleasure in his touching and kissing her, but there was no grand passion. He didn’t thrill her, excite and engage her imagination – he was lovely, but he wasn’t romantic hero material and that was that. There was only one person who made her feel that intense yearning, and that was Xander. But it was her secret, something she would share with no one else because it was so impossible. No matter how hard she tried to get close to him, he was always so far away. And, besides, he had a beautiful girlfriend and would never, in a million years, look at her.