Asking For Trouble Read online

  A sudden harder stretch on my walls made me cry out.

  ‘Four fingers,’ announced Ilya. ‘Two from my right hand; two from my left. And feel that? Now I’m really opening you up, Beth. Pushing you wide, right and left, making a gap between my fingers.’

  Christ, did I feel it. I mewled and gulped for air, and he kept on working his fingers, bringing them together then apart, like miniature bellows fixed high in my arse. His knuckles bounced at my tender entrance, forcing my muscles to a fierce expansion.

  I thought about elastic bands, imagined them being tested for tension, and I half feared he might break me, snap me, because the stretch was so huge. I cried out wildly, overcome with terror, begging him to stop, begging him to continue.

  ‘Tell me what you want, Beth,’ hissed Ilya. ‘Tell me, you –’

  ‘Do it,’ I barked urgently. ‘Fuck my arse, now. Please, now, now, now.’

  And God, did I mean it. The craving was violent and furious. I felt so wide open for him.

  ‘Dirtier,’ he urged. ‘Talk dirtier.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I complained, but this was no time for modesty. ‘I want your cock in my arse,’ I gasped. ‘Rammed. Your cock rammed in my arse.’

  ‘Say “dick”,’ he ordered, plunging his fingers over and over.

  ‘Oh please, Ilya,’ I implored. ‘Dick! Dick!’ And I fell in love with the word right there and then because it sounded so male, so deliciously coarse, dirty and obscene. ‘I want your dick in my –’

  ‘Up!’ he snapped. ‘Not in. Up.’

  I spluttered and protested. Christ, would I ever get it right?

  ‘I want your dick up my arse,’ I panted, pronouncing the words as best I could. ‘I want your fucking dick . . . up my fucking –’

  ‘You foul-mouthed slut,’ said Ilya, snatching his fingers from me.

  I heard him fiddling with a rubber as he shuffled up close. Then I felt his warm muscular thighs on my buttocks and the head of his cock pressing at my anus, so stout and powerful.

  With a slow push, he entered me. His glans prised apart the swollen hoop of my arsehole and then, in a sudden sweet rush, the rest of him just slipped into me until he was sunk to the hilt, lodged solid and groaning deeply.

  I let out a banshee wail of delirium. It was the most savagely beautiful penetration I had ever taken in my whole life.

  At the root of his cock, my sphincter was as tight as a noose.

  During one of Bach’s lulls, I thought I heard a noise close by – very quiet, like the scuff of shoe on carpet. Again I had a fear we were not alone. A car roared by below the window. Again I reassured myself it was just imagination; the blindfold was making my hearing too acute.

  Ilya began easing back, and the glide of his withdrawing shaft just set my opening on fire. I begged him not to move.

  ‘Wait,’ I pleaded. ‘Stay deep. Let me . . . let me get used to it.’

  And he obliged. He held still while I gasped away, trying to accustom myself to the sensation of being so completely stuffed, of having such a dense meaty mass pulsing in my snug little passage.

  I had to open my eyes and peer down at the aperture of light between my nose and scarf, just to bring myself back to earth. With my forehead to the floor, I could see only a strip of carpet, Ilya’s knees, Ilya’s dark hairy thighs, and, when I twisted right and left, I could see my feet. They seemed miles away.

  Steadied and ready for some thrusting, I moaned and rocked forward. Ilya took the cue and grasped me just below my hips, splitting my cheeks wide with the heels of his hands. Smoothly, he drew back before sinking into me once more, deep and then deeper.

  What bliss, what wicked, brutal bliss, as again and again he plunged all that rock-solid flesh into my arse.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he rasped, picking up speed. ‘You lovely, dirty bitch.’

  Each searing thrust took me closer to my peak.

  ‘Can you take it harder?’ he demanded thickly, not waiting for a reply.

  ‘Yes,’ I sobbed, as he rammed in shorter, faster strokes. ‘Yes.’

  My whole body was glutted with near-orgasm. It was stashed in every cell, screaming out for me to press the go button. I reached back for my clit and a couple of nudges were enough to hoist me heavenward. And, as I came, I shoved a bunch of fingers into my soaked pussy, giving my muscles something to shudder on.

  With a shock, I registered the feel of his prick there, bulging into my wet vaginal walls and sliding against my fingers. It gave me a massive thrill. I could actually feel him inside me, feel his cock with my fingers rather than feel his cock with an orifice. We were touching each other inside my body. My body, I thought, and the intimacy of it all nearly lifted the top of my head off.

  ‘Ah yes,’ urged Ilya, his hips slapping at my buttocks. ‘Fuck yourself, babe.’

  So I did, crying openly as I came down from one crisis and hurtled towards another. Ilya was pounding furiously and so was I. Finger-fucking and arse-fucking made me a whirlpool of ecstasy. My bones turned to jelly. I felt like I was dissolving, losing substance. Blinded by the scarf, it was as if I only existed because of the beat hammering in my groin and the violence in my arse. I was pure sensation.

  When I climaxed, the explosion was nuclear. For a moment, I swear I almost believed in God.

  Ilya had been pacing himself and, as my second burst tore through me, he began thrusting without restraint, grunting until he came with one deliciously sexy, pleasure-soaked groan. I felt the swell and judder of his cock with my fingers.

  He stayed inside me, easing himself to and fro, making little murmurs of contentment as I rubbed his slackening erection through the walls of my vagina. Semi-hard, he slid out of me. My arse felt tender and scorched.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Ilya, and his lips printed a kiss on one buttock. ‘Good?’

  ‘Ouch,’ I said in answer. ‘Can I take the blindfold off yet?’

  ‘Er,’ replied Ilya. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe I like you like that.’

  ‘Please,’ I said, reaching back for the scarf.

  Ilya gently clasped my wrist. ‘Hey, I haven’t given you permission yet.’

  ‘Please,’ I laughed. ‘It’s hot and itchy.’

  ‘Go on then,’ he said, and I pushed the blindfold up and off, then slumped on to my side, curling my body in a half-foetal position.

  ‘Ouch,’ I said again.

  Ilya lay opposite me, bringing his knees up to match mine. Our faces were close and we stayed that way, our bodies like inverted commas.

  ‘Is “ouch” good?’ he enquired, brushing the tip of my nose with his.

  ‘I think so,’ I replied, jerking my head back from his Eskimo kiss because I reckoned it was just too heart-warming. ‘I’ll let you know for definite the next time.’

  Ilya grinned. ‘Did it make you feel degraded and humiliated and sluttish?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ I smiled. ‘Not even with all your dirty talk. I’m getting used to it.’

  ‘Thought you might be,’ he replied. He reached for my hand and gently sucked on the tips of my fingers.

  ‘You must be losing your touch,’ I said.

  Ilya released my fingers and laughed loudly before placing a kiss on my nose.

  ‘Oh, sometimes you’re just too damn sweet,’ he said, rolling on to his back. ‘Makes me feel like a complete and utter bastard. You’ve no idea what I’ve just set in motion, Beth. No idea.’

  He was right. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.

  Chapter Seven

  ILYA OBVIOUSLY HAD some wicked plan in mind; something nasty and debasing, I reckoned, to challenge my limits and stretch the tension of our game.

  I found that pretty daunting because I wasn’t sure what my limits were and I didn’t think Ilya knew either.

  We were playing a kind of sexual brinkmanship and the stakes were high.

  Words like ‘no’ or ‘ouch, too painful’ or more likely ‘ugh, too demeaning’ counted for nothing in our deal. There was only one word to signal
‘stop that’ and it came with a heavy penalty because in the same breath it also meant ‘stop’ as in the end, finito, game over, goodbye.

  If Ilya pushed too far, then he’d lose everything. So every push was a risk; a careful balancing of nudging the limits against the threat of collapse.

  But I was smitten. I was ripe for exploitation. I could see how this game of ours might get seriously unbalanced.

  I tried to think up a challenge Ilya would enjoy in order to put things on a more even keel. But I couldn’t. When a man likes the idea of something, he just goes for it. Women have a much tougher time, even modern, clued-up women like me. I like cheap and sleazy. I like humiliation and abuse. I like fantasies of forced sex and being made powerless. But I don’t like admitting to it.

  I could think of plenty of challenges Ilya would hate. I could play the bitch: make him squirm and beg for mercy; drip candle wax on him; flog him with a belt. Or I could take his anal virginity with my vibrator.

  But I’d hate it as well. I wanted Ilya to be my real man through and through. I wanted him to keep on dominating me, making me sluttish and getting me to do things I’d never done before.

  Besides, I didn’t want to take the risk of him calling cuttlefish. My fear was that, if the going got tough, he’d be prepared to say it. I wasn’t.

  Ilya didn’t realise it, but he had the power to make me do anything. Cuttlefish was buried deep in my body. I wasn’t going to say the word that would finish us.

  I was so glad he didn’t realise it, because that’s where my power lay – in Ilya’s constant awareness that, if he went over the top, I just might crack and cry out the dreaded C-word.

  The implications of what we were doing preyed on my mind, as did Ilya’s secretiveness.

  I’d quizzed him about his powdery fingers and his refusal to allow me into his flat. He’d just said he’d been doing a spot of DIY when I called – real DIY, not wanking – and that his flat had been a tip and he’d just had an accident with some Polyfilla. I didn’t believe him.

  But I didn’t feel in a position to demand a better explanation. While his strangeness still disturbed me, I was gradually accepting the fact that Ilya preferred to keep himself to himself and that I simply had to go along with that.

  But then my life hit warp-factor eight, as it’s prone to do, and my Ilya worries had to take a back seat.

  It was mid-afternoon and I was at the desk in my poky, cluttered office, half listening to my answerphone messages.

  There weren’t many – or not many that mattered. I jotted down a couple of numbers I needed to get back to and shuffled at some paperwork.

  There wasn’t much to do. When Body Language is in full swing then I usually pop into the office daily to check my messages and I need to spend a fair few afternoons there per week, organising gigs, publicity, doing the accounts and stuff. But in summer, there’s no need.

  I didn’t want to hang around and probably wouldn’t have done except that the barmaid had said Shaun – big boss manager of the pub – wanted to see me.

  My body ached from too much fucking. Ilya had called on me earlier that day, announcing that he had to go away for a while. He’d said he wanted to get in credit, dirty-sex-wise, to keep him going until he returned.

  He was always so bloody flippant. And he was always doing disappearing acts.

  Sometimes he’d let me know beforehand. Other times he’d just vanish, and it would only dawn on me that he’d gone because his flat was still and dark.

  I really missed him when he was away. I couldn’t imagine him giving me a second thought.

  And wherever he went and whatever he got up to was clearly none of my business.

  ‘Been away?’ I’d ask, trying to be casual.

  ‘Visiting friends,’ he’d reply.

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ I’d say.

  And then he’d say ‘London’ or ‘not really’ or ‘yeah, it was OK’.

  End of conversation.

  He was, however, starting to reveal other snippets about himself: that he was British born and bred, father Bulgarian, mother Italian. So that helped explain his raw, dark beauty. The family had anglicised the name. Fair enough. He also said he was a builder by trade, that he’d come to Brighton looking for work but to no avail.

  I didn’t believe that one. Like a lot of things he told me, it just didn’t ring true.

  And on top of all the practical information I was lacking, there was also something about him as a person I couldn’t reach. There seemed to be a kind of wall around him, as if he would never allow anyone to get too close.

  At first, I’d thought, Well maybe that’s a good thing: it fits with the game-plan of us being purely physical, free from heartfelt attachments. But on my part it was starting to feel strained, like a one-night stand on a tape loop. It was unnatural.

  Ilya could still be tender and affectionate, but it was only surface tenderness, little more than a moment of his thinking I was cute or something. He was good at being emotionally remote. I wasn’t, although I was doing my best to make it seem as if I were.

  I wasn’t going to reveal that this strange thing we’d got going meant far more to me than it did to him.

  I was hooked. I was hooked on him and hooked on the game. Ilya occupied my every thought. It was obsessive, but not in the way falling in love is obsessive. It wasn’t heady and floaty and euphoric. Oh, it was exciting, thrilling and all-consuming, but it wasn’t celebratory like new love.

  Our game was undercut with a bleak, intuitive knowledge: we weren’t heading for blissful happiness and fireworks popping in the sky, but more towards a dark, dangerous implosion.

  I told myself I preferred it that way.

  I emailed some people to confirm gigs I’d got lined up for October, added a few more addresses to my mailing-list database, then abused the privilege of having a phone that the pub pays for – bills, rental, the lot. They do it because I’m good for business and they like to keep me sweet. I don’t exploit it too much, but an occasional free natter doesn’t hurt.

  So I phoned Paul in Sydney for a quick hello. He said it was a cold winter’s night and he wished he were still in Brighton. Then I phoned Jen, who had some advice to dole out about Martin, which made me feel irritated and horribly guilty. We chatted away until the expected rat-tat-tat sounded on my office door.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ I said in my efficient phone voice just as Shaun poked his head round the door. ‘I’ll get back to you nearer the time. Goodbye.’

  ‘Cheapskate,’ came Jenny’s voice as I hung up.

  ‘Not interrupting, am I?’ asked Shaun, entering.

  ‘No, no problem,’ I replied, swivelling to face him. ‘I’m all yours.’

  Shaun, dressed in his usual shirtsleeves and waistcoat, went to perch his arse on the small window sill. He’s only a bit of a kid – barely out of pimples – but he manages the pub and likes to think he’s a man of the world.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ he said after we’d got through some small talk. He crossed his ankles and thrust his fists deep in his trouser pockets. ‘How do you fancy doing a few more club nights? Maybe something a little different from the usual? You see, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking and –’

  ‘Ooo, dangerous,’ I teased.

  He smiled uncertainly. ‘I’m keen to push it,’ he went on. ‘Broaden the market, pull in more punters. And I know you can do it, Beth. You’re just the person. You’ve got the contacts, the enthusiasm. You’re a smart girl. And we’re already halfway there with Body Language. It’s getting a good reputation. But, like I say, that’s only halfway there.’

  I frowned at him. ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said. ‘What’ve you got in mind?’

  ‘To be basic,’ he said, standing up and loosening his collar. ‘More body.’

  ‘Can you be more basic?’ I said. ‘Are you saying you want me to increase the amount of performance-art stuff? Because I won’t. I’m cutting down on that side of th
ings. Doesn’t work. I’ve struggled enough trying to find decent artists. My idea was to make next year more language, more spoken word. People –’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s all smart-arse student stuff, isn’t it?’ said Shaun, propping an elbow high on the filing cabinet. ‘Just . . . literary wank.’

  I gave a small incredulous laugh. ‘Shaun, you haven’t got a clue,’ I said. ‘Have you actually noticed what goes on at my gigs? It’s not full of precious, po-faced twats going, “Hail the great author and wasn’t that deep.” Jesus, get up to speed. People come along. They listen to some interesting stuff. They have a laugh. They drink beer.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Shaun, slicing his hand at the air. ‘But not in summer! You see, the way I look at it, you’ve got your audience – a young crowd, open-minded – but when term finishes they’re thin on the ground. So you expand your catchment area. You spice things up. You bring ’em in and you grab ’em by the balls.’

  I sighed heavily, hardly listening as Shaun burbled on about new ventures, chasing the market, competitive edge and loads of other bollocks.

  I didn’t really know what he was getting at, except that it sounded like he wanted me to work harder. He’d never stuck his nose into my club before. He just ran the pub and left me to it.

  ‘So what’ve you got in mind for these extra nights?’ I asked. ‘If you give me something a bit more concrete then maybe I can think about it.’

  ‘Sex,’ said Shaun, walking over to the window. ‘To be basic, sex.’

  I had to bite my tongue to stop myself asking if he’d ever had it.

  ‘Sex sells,’ he continued, perching his arse on the sill again. ‘If you do some sexy gigs, and I mean really sexy, then we can maybe keep the bar takings steady. Probably increase them. And it’ll be great publicity for –’

  ‘What?’ I scoffed. ‘You want me to put on lap-dancing shows or something? Like that place in Hove? Do you seriously think –’

  ‘No, no, not that kind of sexy,’ said Shaun. ‘Something more, you know, younger, trendier. Something . . .’ He trailed off.