by Lily Harlem
Quickly, I lifted off his cock and slithered down his body. It only took a second to remove the plug and toss it aside, then I was back over him.
“I want to hold you,” he said, tugging his arms.
“In a minute.” I grinned, wickedly. “Once you’ve told me exactly how you thought I did at acting out your fantasy.” We were still both breathing quickly.
“It was good.”
“Just good?”
“Great.”
I tipped my head and pushed several sweat-damp strands of hair from my cheek. Frowned slightly.
“Do we have to analyse it?” he asked.
“No, not at all. I just want some feedback.”
“Okay, well that was one hell of an intense orgasm.”
“Good.” I narrowed my eyes. “But what?” I knew he was holding something back.
“But, does that make me gay, that I liked that, you know, up my arse?”
I laughed. “No, of course not. It was me doing it to you, not another guy.”
He smiled, a little. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. Lots of married couples play around like that, male and female married couples.”
His shoulders relaxed as much as they could in their binds, then, “How do you know?”
“I looked it up on the internet.”
His loud guffaw filled the room. “You and the bloody internet.”
I laughed with him then said, “Happy anniversary.”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, I woke expecting Jacob to still be flaked out beside me, but he was sitting on the chair I’d occupied between his legs the night before and dressed, ready for the day. Quick-fire fast, the memories flooded my mind, and I allowed myself an indulgent smile. It had gone well, hadn’t it? Just as I’d hoped it would. I admitted his lack of wanting to share his true inner feelings about the experience had…pinched a little. Yes, it had pinched, but not enough for it to sour my mood or for me to want to ponder on it too much. Maybe he needed time to digest it, to accept that he wasn’t a pervert for enjoying what we’d done. God knows I’d been through the same sort of thing.
Once he’d fully accepted that what we did remained between us, he’d be okay. God, it wasn’t like I had a close enough friend to tell anyway, and I knew damn well he wouldn’t share our experiences with anyone at work. He always said he liked to keep his private and work lives separate, never allowing those he worked with to know anything but the basics about us.
He smiled at me, mug in hand—coffee if the scents coming my way were anything to go by—and my tummy did somersaults. He was okay, happy, and that was all I needed to know.
“Morning, love,” he said, as he walked over to me, his dark jeans rustling in the quiet. He planted a soft kiss on the top of my head and trailed the backs of his fingers down my cheek.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh, clean smell of him. He’d showered. And, of course, the thought that I didn’t look my best in the morning sprang to mind, me imagining what he saw—hair a tangled riot, face lined from being squashed against the pillow, sleepy dust in the corners of my eyes. I stretched, rubbed that dust away with my fists, and stifled a yawn. “Morning. You woke early.”
“Yep. Thought we should take advantage of the breakfast on offer. Or maybe we could go out for some. Find a little cafe. Whatever you like.”
He moved to a small mahogany sideboard that held a kettle and the paraphernalia for making tea or coffee, and switched on the kettle, which took only a few seconds to re-boil. I watched him make me some tea, taking in the sight of his muscles as they moved beneath his thin, white cotton shirt, shoulder blades that jutted, biceps that bunched. I was greedy to touch him all over, to have him strip, get back into bed, and make slow love to me.
“This’ll wake you up a bit.” He glanced at his watch as he brought the mug over, steam writhing from the top, white and thick like mist. “Then you can shower and we’ll get our day started.”
I sat up, took the mug, and patted the space beside me. He sat, knees apart, hands dangling between them. I noticed chafe marks, pink rings around his wrists, some areas darker than others, especially where the knobble of bone protruded. He rubbed them, trying hard to hide a wince.
“Sore?” I asked. Anxious over what his answer would be, I took a sip of tea—tea that didn’t taste the same as it did at home—and hoped for the best.
“A bit, but a good kind of sore.” He turned his head, smiled, then allowed that smile to spread into an outright grin.
Relieved, I smiled back. “I know what you mean. It’s something different, isn’t it? And we don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to.”
“I do,” he said quickly. “I loved it. Loved you, the way you were.” He linked his fingers, unlocked them, seemingly unsure what to do with himself.
Was he embarrassed?
“Listen,” I said, thinking it best to change the subject. “What will we do today? What d’you fancy?”
He grinned again, looked from me to his wrists and back again, a sparkle in his eyes. God, he had loved it.
“No idea,” he said, as though that look hadn’t told me exactly what was on his mind. “Though I do think we ought to see a bit more of this place. Going home tomorrow. It’d be nice to pick up some souvenirs for the girls. We could do that then come back here…”
“All right.”
I drank my tea as quickly as I could, suddenly hungry for a big breakfast that would set me up for the day. I showered, dressed, and within half an hour of waking up we were down in the hotel restaurant, sampling Amsterdam’s version of a full English breakfast. Okay, the chef had tried, I’d give him that, but it just wasn’t the same. The sausages weren’t anything like our bangers—more like hotdogs—and the scrambled eggs were runny, reminding me of cottage cheese. Still, it filled a hole, and as we walked into the lobby, my belly pushing against the waistband of my jeans, I spotted a crowd gathering.
“Wonder what’s going on?” I said.
Instead of answering, Jacob went over and asked, returning with a smile and a zest for life in his eyes. “It’s one of those tour things, but not the boring kind. You get to visit all the places the locals go to, and today is this big open-air market. Want to go?”
I did, and Jacob looked buoyed by the idea—it wasn’t every weekend we were in Amsterdam, was it? Not like we could do this some other time in the near future. I liked open-air markets as much as he did, so while Jacob went to the desk to buy our bus tickets, I dashed back to our room to collect coats, my bag, and the camera. The weather here was much the same as at home, and if it got a bit chilly as we browsed we could buy some cheap gloves.
I returned to the lobby just in time. The crowd had filed outside, forming a disjointed line alongside the bus, clapping their hands owing to the cold and stamping their feet. We’d definitely need to buy gloves. Jacob waited beside the door, and together we tagged onto the end of the queue, me feeling ridiculously excited at doing something off the cuff. And why shouldn’t we? With no one to answer to, no demands on our time, we could do what the bloody hell we pleased.
It felt good.
The journey would take around half an hour, so I began to while away the time listening to the various languages and accents of the others on board. Jacob looked out of the window as I people-watched, studying the scenery as it zipped by. One woman, aged about sixty, sat beside her husband of around the same age, her hand held tightly in his. I thought of me and Jacob in the future, how we’d take holidays together more regularly once the girls had left home. How, when we were the same age as that couple, we’d still hold hands too. Unlike when we were younger and thought older people having sex was disgusting, I stared at the elderly lovers and felt only admiration that their love still held strong after probably spending years together already. I wanted us to be like them in years to come, and we would, I had no doubt about that.
I reached over and took Jacob’s hand in mine. Squeezed it.
“What?” he asked, turning from the window to look at me.
“Nothing.”
“So why the squeeze?”
He knew why, we did it often enough, but I answered him anyway.
“I just love you, that’s all. Felt the need to show it.” I stared ahead at the back of the seat in front, small smile playing about my mouth.
“Ten years yesterday, love. It’s gone quick, hasn’t it?” He stroked my hand with his thumb.
“It has. Imagine another ten.”
“Another twenty.”
I squeezed his hand again. “We’ll make it to fifty.”
“You reckon?”
I stared at him sharply, but upon seeing the grin filling the bottom half of his face I realised he’d said it to wind me up. I playfully slapped him then rested my cheek against his arm.
“I reckon we’ll make it,” I said, my voice full of conviction. “How can we not when we feel like this?”
For the remainder of the journey, I closed my eyes and watched scenarios from that book playing out in my mind—except I orchestrated the way they went to make the fantasy completely mine. I smiled at the results.
We arrived at the market in no time—typical, when I’d found a way to amuse myself—and as the bus lurched to a stop, I stood and stretched. People filed off, dispersing into the crowd, soon gone from sight among the many bobble-hatted people getting off other buses and streaming from cars.
I wasn’t prepared for the size of the market. It would take all day to get around. No wonder the bus driver had said he’d return at four. Rows and rows of tarpaulin-covered stalls—some white, some blue-striped, some red—stretched on forever, and I glanced at Jacob to see whether we’d made a mistake.
“Fuck me, look at the size of this place!” he said, his voice animated, eyebrows high curves of surprise.
“Massive, isn’t it?” I said, itching to delve into the regimented rows and see what an Amsterdam market had to offer.
Four hours later, thoroughly exhausted but happy, we came to the final row. Earlier, we’d bought the girls a few bits and bobs, small items that would fit in our case and not take the weight up too much, but I hadn’t seen anything that called out to me, made me want to buy it. We walked on, our pace slower than it had been at the start, and I noticed one stall had rather a large gathering waiting to peruse its goods. As we approached, I tugged Jacob’s arm and led him to the side of the throng, my curiosity piqued as to what had attracted so many people. I leaned over, peered through the bodies—and caught a glimpse of a row of vibrators. What the hell? I knew the good people of Amsterdam were more liberal than us British, but bloody hell!
My cheeks heated. “It’s a bloody sex stall!” I whispered, eyes wide.
“Fucking hell! Really? On a market?”
“Yes!” I hissed. “I’m going to take a look!”
“Jesus, Karen!” He glanced about nervously.
“What? We don’t know anyone here. Come on, it’ll be funny.”
Spotting a break in the crowd, I surged forward and yanked Jacob along behind me. The deep tented area was large, rows of tables set out horizontally, the aisles between them packed with people. I gripped Jacob’s hand so I wouldn’t lose him. It was slow going, shuffling one step at a time to view the items for sale, but God, it was worth it. I wanted to buy everything, but with no room in my case I’d have to buy all these things over the internet once we got home.
“Will you look at that?” Jacob said, pointing to a long, thick butt plug with bobbles all over it. “Pleasure or pain?” he whispered.
I thought about it. “Pain, until you got used to it. Those balls would rub your—”
“All right, all right,” he said, darting his gaze about again.
“Oh, stop being so paranoid. No one here gives a shit!”
As the butt plugs gave way to love balls and clitoral stimulators, further up I spied piles of books. It took a couple of minutes to reach them, but they left me in no doubt as to what they contained. Their covers were explicit, and just the sight of men and women in various sexual poses made my cunt clench. I wanted one of the books so badly, just to look at when Jacob was away at work, and, if I was honest, to give me ideas.
I shuffled through them, soaking up the sexiness, my face heated by a hot blush. Not of embarrassment, but of arousal. Thank God the bus would be leaving soon. I couldn’t wait to get back to our hotel. I glanced sideways at Jacob, whose eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a secret smile, then continued my perusal. I found one that was just pictures, a Karma Sutra using real people, cocks and cunts on show. I studied them, aroused by the sight of the large erections and glistening labia, and glanced at Jacob’s midsection. It left me in no doubt that he was aroused too. Once I’d reached the last page, I searched for other, similar books. My assault on them was so vigorous, I knocked one pile over. They fanned out over the others, the corner of one making my mouth go dry and my heartbeat flutter erratically. It couldn’t be, could it?
I reached out, slid the book free.
“Oh my God, it’s that filthy book!” I shrieked, clamping my mouth shut as people turned to stare my way. I clutched the book to my chest, memories of having read it steam-rolling into my mind.
“Filthy book?” Jacob asked.
“Um, yes. I read it a long time ago. Before I met you.”
“Let me see.”
He reached out to take it, but with an odd, fiercely protective streak, I wouldn’t let him have it. It remained pinned against me, both my arms crossed over it.
“Karen?”
“Just…just give me a minute, will you?”
I was being irrational, I knew that, but with shame and embarrassment consuming me, I had to have a few seconds to process my feelings. That book, that deliciously filthy book, had been my first introduction to the more adventurous side of sex all those years ago. And now, these last few months, it had been where I’d got my fantasies from. The talking dirty, the rape scenario, being tied up. When those ideas had come to me, when we’d acted one of them out on our first weekend away, it had taken me a while to figure out where the hell they’d come from, but deep down I’d known damn well. I remembered feeling dirty after I’d read this book; that it was wrong somehow to be turned on by such things. The contents of those pages had followed me for days, weeks, months, years it seemed, and being as young as I was, when my friends still giggled at the idea of a boyfriend fumbling inside their knickers, that new knowledge had burnt.
Back then I’d vowed never to read it again, never even to think of it again.
When I’d left home to move in with Jacob, packing up my things had brought the book right to the forefront of my mind again. As I’d taken it out from under my mattress, my cheeks had grown hot, my stomach had bunched, and God, my cunt had flooded. I’d dared to look at it one last time, then shoved it into the bottom of a cardboard box, other books on top of it as if them being there would disguise it, and sealed the sod up tight with wide brown packing tape.
At Jacob’s I’d climbed into the attic, hefting the box up there with me, and stowed it in a dark, far corner. By the time we’d moved again, to where we lived now, I’d forgotten all about it. Jacob had been in charge of shifting boxes around, while I’d made sure our girls, small as they were then, hadn’t got into any mischief amongst the chaos.
Where the hell is that box now?
I slowly prised the book away from my body and stared down at it. The title was in Dutch, but I knew it said My Erotic Fantasies. Knew every damn word inside it. Knew that one fantasy had yet to be played out. It filled my mind, and my pussy throbbed, clit aching. I wondered if Jacob would be up for it, considering it was so out of the norm. Most people didn’t do such things, did they? But then, we’d discovered lately we weren’t most people…
Reluctantly I put the book down, took Jacob’s hand, and despite his questioning look, pulled him over to a stall designed to look like a cafe. It was relatively empty, consi
dering the number of people here, and I found us a table at the back, away from eavesdroppers. I had to explain—and find out where that cardboard box was.
I left him seated and went up to the steel counter. I ordered two coffees and a pastry each. Eating would give me something to do with my hands if I grew nervous. And I would be, because I’d never shared my reading that book with Jacob. Hell, I’d buried it deep inside my mind, forgotten about it, but as we’d begun to share things about ourselves we’d previously kept hidden, I’d begun to acknowledge where my ideas had come from. I felt I owed it to him to tell him I hadn’t thought of them on my own.
Back at the table, I placed the scarred wooden tray down and sat opposite him on a white plastic patio chair, my stomach in knots. He wouldn’t think me dirty, would he? Not after the things we’d been doing. Yet the old insecurities came back just the same. This was something I’d read when he wasn’t in my life, and although I knew we couldn’t help our pasts, it felt all kinds of wrong that I hadn’t told him about it. I felt guilty, for God’s sake!
“Look, if you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay,” he said, sipping coffee from a polystyrene cup that became distorted in his grip, the rim squashed like a flat smile. “Bound to be things we did before we met that neither of us have talked about.”
I broke my pastry in two. “Have you got any?”
“No, love, but I’m trying to make you feel better.” He popped a sultana in his mouth.
“Oh.” I felt worse. “I want to tell you because, well, it’s a part of me I forgot about for many years, but it all makes sense—why I wanted to do the things we’ve done lately. It makes me feel better to tell you because I don’t want you thinking I made the fantasies up. At first, I thought I had no idea where they’d come from, so I thought I was a raging pervert, but now I know I’m not because I got the ideas from that book and—”
“It’s perfectly normal, love.”
Jacob appeared unfazed, sipping again from his out-of-shape cup and eyeing me over the lip. Once again I was thankful I had him in my life. He understood absolutely everything.