Asking For Trouble Page 17

  Oh God. I recalled the next bit: me finger-fucking myself to a second peak. I was torn in two: I wanted to watch myself and yet I couldn’t bear it. If I hadn’t had ‘slut’ scrawled across my back in red lipstick, I might have been a more comfortable viewer.

  ‘Oh, greedy, greedy, greedy,’ said Pete, his words growing louder. Then he swung around to Ilya.

  ‘Oh fuck, Illie,’ he breathed, his face energised with lust. ‘My dick’s killing me. Let me give her one. Let me fuck her. Dirty little bitch, let me fuck her.’

  He was already jerking at the drawstring of his baggy trousers.

  Anticipation slammed into my groin. ‘Yes,’ I said in a barely audible whisper. ‘Let him.’

  ‘She’s all yours,’ said Ilya. ‘But, if you can hang on a minute, I’d like to see her beg for it.’ The armchair creaked as Ilya stood up.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ enthused Pete, clutching his loosened jogging pants in one fist. ‘Let’s make her beg for it. Beg like a dog.’

  ‘C’mon, Beth,’ coaxed Ilya, moving around me. ‘Be a good girl. Sit up and beg.’

  He had to be joking. He nudged at one of my arms with his foot. He wasn’t joking.

  Oh, how low would I have to sink before I got what I craved? As low as it goes, I thought, because, right at that moment, I wasn’t going to let self-respect stand in the way of hunger.

  I sat back on my heels, lifting my limp-wristed hands high, and glowered at Ilya. He smiled down at me, his face all shadows and light.

  The sound of our video fuck filled the room, mocking me with its unchecked passion. I heard myself reach clamorous orgasm and I was jealous to the point of bitchiness, inwardly cursing that slut on tape who could take her pleasure a thousand times over and take it hassle-free.

  ‘Put a bit of effort into it, Beth,’ taunted Ilya. ‘Look like you mean it.’

  I straightened my spine and half-heartedly flapped my hands.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ mocked Pete, moving a couple of feet in front of me. ‘That’s so disappointing.’

  From the TV speaker came the deliciously deep groan of Ilya’s climax, followed by some quieter moans that soon snapped off into fizz. I glanced at the screen. It was snowy and I was thankful, although I couldn’t work out if my audience had just halved or doubled.

  Ilya switched on a table lamp, filling the room with low-watt yellow and smudgy gloom.

  ‘You wanna see what you’re missing, mmm?’ boasted Pete, circling his pelvis. ‘You wanna see if it’s worth begging for, do you?’

  He released his hold on his trousers, stretched two waistbands over the hump of his erection, then dropped his clothes to his ankles. His cock sprang free, ramrod stiff and capped with crimson.

  My liquid sex fuzzed like electricity as Pete kicked off trainers and trousers.

  ‘Go on,’ he growled, pushing his hips forward and stripping off his T-shirt. ‘Beg for it, you little tart. Beg for my dick.’

  ‘I’m begging, I’m begging,’ I cried brokenly.

  ‘Like a dog,’ insisted Ilya. ‘Stick your tongue out and pant for it.’

  I winced inwardly, casting him a look of distaste. For a split-second I was stubborn, but then I thought, what the hell, it’s only dignity. You get it back – I think.

  And so I sat bolt upright, thrust out my tongue and made lots of quick huffy noises as my perky-puppy hands waggled away.

  Ilya laughed. ‘Oh, lovely,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

  Then all of a sudden Ilya was behind me, wrapping an arm beneath my breasts.

  ‘Go on, Pete,’ he urged, arcing me backward as if making an offering of my flesh. ‘Put the girl out of her misery. But use a rubber. You don’t know where she’s been.’

  Relief made my heart light and my cunt, choked with pulses, blazed up like an inferno.

  I scrambled with Ilya as he dragged me towards the sofa then plonked himself at an angle on the edge. Roughly, he hitched me upward, stretching my upper body across one of his thighs. My knees hovered inches above the ground and Ilya, arm locked tight round my ribcage, kept me that way.

  Pete muttered about condoms and I pleaded with him to hurry as I bucked into thin air. Ilya mauled one breast with the hand that held me, lowering his mouth to my ear.

  ‘You beautiful whore,’ he said in a rasping whisper.

  The nearness of those words made my consciousness go hiccup. I had a sudden sense of intimacy – of Pete, rather than me, being the outsider who didn’t quite know the score.

  Ilya’s free hand delved past my pubes to my raised clit. Taking the blistering bud between thumb and forefinger, he pinched lightly and rubbed.

  ‘Yes,’ I howled. ‘Oh yes. Please, Ilya.’

  ‘Oh, man,’ breathed Pete, positioning himself between my wide, welcoming thighs.

  His cock butted at my slippery vulva then he drove in fast, packing my overwrought pussy with stone-solid flesh.

  I wailed reckless delight, struggling for balance as Pete launched headlong into a strong, frantic fuck. The urgency of his high-speed pounding dislodged Ilya’s fingers, but in an instant they were back on target.

  ‘Greedy, greedy,’ murmured Ilya, vibrating my clit as Pete hammered and gasped.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ Pete was chanting. ‘Oh, she’s so fucking wet. Oh yes, baby, yes. Take my dick. Take my dick.’

  But I drowned him out with my own noises, feeling my orgasm rush and squeeze the very core of me to wring out every droplet of pleasure.

  ‘Oh yes,’ gushed Pete. ‘Oh, man, her snatch.’ And he was jabbing into my spasms, shunting me higher, and for a moment I thought I was falling somewhere.

  But we were all leaning – me and Ilya backward; Pete forward, striving to keep rhythm and depth.

  I was near enough sprawled across Ilya’s chest, and his hands were free to roam. Pete swung a foot on to the cushions, clasped the sofa-back and, in a half-squat, continued fucking me, his hips lunging in sharp little jerks.

  Ilya mashed my breasts hard, squashing them together and pressing them up for Pete’s rapt gaze.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Pete, eyes glued to my tits. ‘Oh fuck, baby, yes.’

  With his spare hand, Pete shoved into Ilya’s caress, fighting for a grope of my flesh. He grabbed at the cleavage Ilya had made. ‘I’m gonna shoot,’ he gasped, his rough fingers pummelling and clawing. ‘I’m gonna shoot. I’m gonna –’

  And, with a groan that became a roar, he shot. His whole body tensed as his rooted prick quivered to fulfilment.

  Then he held himself over us, his gleaming chest swelling in and out as he chased his breaths.

  ‘You horny cow,’ he said, and he pushed himself from the sofa, leaving my cunt bereft.

  ‘No,’ I murmured. ‘More. Ilya.’

  ‘Get up, Beth,’ said Ilya, and I slipped to the floor as he stood. ‘I need to piss first. So lie back.’

  He unzipped his flies. Pete laughed knowingly.

  ‘Lie back,’ repeated Ilya, and he stood there, legs astride, aiming his semi-hard cock in my direction, clearly intent on pissing on me.

  ‘No way,’ I said, scrambling out of range. ‘You’re not using me as your fucking urinal.’

  ‘Oh, but I am,’ said Ilya, smiling. ‘Grab her Pete. Keep her still.’

  Pete pounced and I wrestled uselessly against his strength, shouting, ‘No, no, let me go.’ I’d had enough of degradation. I wanted sex and nice orgasms, not stinking piss and mockery.

  But Pete gripped my forearms and I was on my back, writhing and protesting. Ilya was laughing mirthlessly, obviously not desperate to piss, just waiting for my frenzy to abate.

  ‘Open your mouth, Beth,’ said Ilya. ‘I won’t get hard until I’m emptied.’

  ‘No,’ I shouted, kicking at nothing and trying to wrench myself from Pete’s grasp. ‘You’re a couple of fucking bullies. Let me go.’

  I felt Pete relax ever so slightly. ‘Hey, Illie,’ he said in a mildly concerned voice, ‘maybe you should give it a rest. Maybe she’
s just not into it.’

  ‘She’s into it,’ replied Ilya coldly. ‘When Beth says no, she doesn’t really mean no. And if she doesn’t fucking keep still and open her mouth wide, then I’ve got one word to say to her – and she knows what it is – and then she’s out of here and she won’t be coming back. Ever. She’s got five seconds to decide. One. Two. Three.’

  I held myself rigid.

  ‘Four,’ said Ilya.

  I went limp and opened my mouth.

  Ilya gave a little snigger.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Pete admiringly as he released me.

  Leaning back on my elbows, mouth gaping, I waited for the watery insult.

  As Ilya’s piss curved towards me in a shimmering parabola, I screwed my eyes shut.

  I felt the point of impact, shockingly warm and powerful, splash on my breasts. Then it snaked up to my neck, as if he were drawing on my flesh in urine. Bathwater heat coursed over my flesh, dribbling everywhere.

  When his liquid hit my chin, I quelled the instinct to clamp my lips together. It gushed into my mouth and I locked my throat, swallowing nothing but tasting all the vile sharpness as it bathed my tongue. Overflowing piss spilt from my lips, trickling down my neck, my ears, and soaking my hair.

  ‘Mmm, that’s better,’ said Ilya, as his stream tailed off and went drip, drip, drip down my body.

  I coughed and spluttered, wiping the back of my hand across my tainted face.

  ‘I’m ready to fuck now,’ said Ilya, his drained cock thickening.

  ‘You gonna stick it up her arse again?’ asked Pete.

  ‘Might do,’ replied Ilya. ‘Or I might let you do the honours.’

  ‘Suits me fine,’ answered Pete, his hands reaching for me from behind.

  ‘No way,’ I snapped, pushing myself up. ‘You’re not –’

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t really mean that, do you?’ laughed Pete. ‘You’ll have to teach me that five-second trick, Illie. Works a treat. We can do what we want with her, can’t we?’

  They subjected me to all manner of indignities.

  They made me crawl and catch semen on my out-stretched tongue.

  I had to stand behind the sofa, bent over the back, wrists tethered, while Pete fucked my arse, while Ilya fingered me, while the blood rushed to my head and I climaxed wildly.

  They made me colour my vulva with lipstick then lie starfish-style on the floor. They prodded and poked me, jotting down a punishment tally for my every moan and squirm. Then they spanked my buttocks, counting out the score.

  Throughout they avoided all male-genital collisions. I pleaded with them to take me at the same time – one front, one back. But they wouldn’t. ‘Homophobes,’ I cursed.

  They phoned for pizza and I had to collect from the front door, wearing my dress-to-please-him undies. I think the pizza boy was more embarrassed than I was.

  The two men ate, with me as coffee table, and I didn’t get a morsel.

  The abuse continued until, finally, Pete and Ilya decided they were shagged out. They had no use for me any more.

  Pete rang for a taxi.

  I was sent home, my body aching, my mind reeling.

  I don’t know why, but it just hadn’t occurred to me that Ilya could threaten me with cuttlefish if I refused to submit.

  I’d thought that cuttlefish was my power; that Ilya wouldn’t dare do anything too nasty in case he pushed me too far and forced me to call time. And yet suddenly it seemed to have changed.

  I had no idea if Ilya was serious or bluffing. But I wasn’t going to risk finding out by disobeying him.

  Had he seen through me? Had he realised that only under pain of death would I scream out that final word?

  If so, then Ilya had a lot more power in this game than I was comfortable with. And, in turn, I really didn’t have much.

  Things were starting to look pretty damn scary.

  Chapter Nine

  HOT SEX.

  That was to be the name of my new-style gigs.

  In a powwow at the pub with Jen and Clare, we invented lots of acronyms using Body Language: Blush, Blue and Blister. But we couldn’t think of any decent phrases to fit the letters. We had silly names, like Blow-job, with silly words to match – Body Language orders women to jump on boys; and better names, like Bliss, still with silly words – Body Language is Shaun’s shite.

  In the end, we all plumped for Hot Sex.

  Jenny was full of ideas to make the room look good, and I was happy to let her deal with it. ‘Bordello chic,’ she’d said. ‘Trashy, glam and sumptuous.’

  She was going to make some great big love hearts to dangle from the ceiling – cut from polystyrene and covered in red fur – because, Jenny said, you’ve got to have love. The biggest and best heart was going to have the words ‘Hot Sex’ sewn on glittery fabric and it was going to hang in the landing outside the room, over the desk where you pay your money.

  Or maybe that would be a waste and we’d use it as part of the stage backdrop. Or maybe, if there was time, Jenny would make two great big furry hearts with Hot Sex lettering.

  There wouldn’t be time. It was a serious rush-job because Shaun was eager to get the nights up and running – so eager that I’d persuaded him to invest three hundred quid in my new venture.

  And I’d been so busy that I’d actually had to say to Ilya ‘Sorry, no can do’ when he’d phoned once or twice to fix a dirty date. Maybe that was a good thing.

  Jenny and I merged into the leisurely bustle of Bond Street, Jenny swinging a carrier bag of glitzy bits.

  It was hot and sticky and the streets were milling with all the bright young things being sexy for summer. They strolled along in the middle of the road, drifting blithely to one side whenever a car tried nosing its way through.

  ‘Martin was round at ours again yesterday,’ said Jen, hooking her plump arm in mine.

  ‘Oh God,’ I murmured, my heart sinking. ‘Has he got over me yet?’

  ‘I think he might be getting there,’ replied Jenny. ‘He still thinks you’re a bitch, though, only he doesn’t say it with as much venom these days. I think you’ve been a bitch as well, just cutting him out of your life like that. But you know my position.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said wearily.

  ‘Oh, come on, Beth,’ said Jenny. ‘You used to be bosom buddies. It’s not right to throw it all away because of a stupid affair you had together. You’ve got to put some effort into getting it fixed. You can’t just brush it under the carpet and –’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. Look, I’ll get in touch with him soon. I know I’ve been rotten but . . . I’ve been busy, that’s all. Anyway, it was Martin who suggested we didn’t see each other for a while, not me.’

  We let the dawdling North Laine crowds dictate our pace while I wallowed in some silent guilt – a double load of it: guilt because I’d neglected Martin who was once so important to me; and guilt because I still hadn’t told anyone about Ilya. I was always lying, making excuses, pretending I was in such-and-such a place when I was actually with Ilya.

  Maybe I’d tell Jenny soon. Not in detail, just that I’m seeing some guy but I’m not ready for you to meet him yet.

  At the end of Gardner Street, we merged with a jumble of people, some waiting for the traffic lights to change, others trying to squeeze past. There was a great gaggle of language students there, all with their little yellow rucksacks.

  A bunch of them jostled and screeched and a couple of kids lunged heavily into Jenny. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she cursed quietly.

  Two pairs of big brown eyes gazed up blankly at us. ‘Pardon?’ pronounced one kid.

  Jenny gave him an enormous smile. ‘You daft tosser,’ she said politely.

  And then the kid was off, giggling and shoving at the ones who’d just shoved him.

  ‘C’mon. Let’s detour,’ said Jen, as the cars collected and the man went green. ‘I’m not getting stuck behind that lot.’

  The kid
s crocodiled across the road like a yellow-humped monster, and we snuck up between the cars to escape the rabble.

  Upper Gardner Street was, as usual, quieter. The shops along there aren’t really shops. They’re more like open-fronted garages – small warehouses, I suppose – and they’re stuffed full of antiques and junk.

  I had a memory pang of the time I’d trailed Ilya down the very same street. It seemed so long ago and it was strange to remember him as a man I hardly knew; strange to think of him rounding on me when he realised I’d been following him. Given the chance, I thought, would I do the same thing again?

  I reckoned I probably would, even though the mysteries of Ilya’s life didn’t concern me as much as they once had done. I was more concerned about the way our game was developing and whether it might start getting too nasty because Ilya had the driving reins in a pretty tight grip.

  Jen and I strolled along in a lazy, summer’s day fashion. Jenny was telling me some story about a friend of a friend that I’d heard before. Jenny’s good at repeats so I was only half listening.

  My eyes were drifting over the motley assortment of furniture on the pavements in front of the garages. I was fantasising about spotting a neon sign for sale that said HOT SEX or maybe a lush chaise-longue for a tenner.

  Then, all of a sudden, my attention was grabbed because there, just inside one of the garage entrances, was Ilya.

  I carried on walking, fed Jenny with a little laugh. In my head, a confusion of thoughts whirled, but there was only one image, clear and sharp: Ilya, leaning against a clunking great wardrobe, a mug of something in one hand, talking to someone deeper in the room, laughing. He’d looked very at home. He wasn’t shopping.

  What was he doing there? Had I stumbled on the reason for his secrecy? Was he some kind of dodgy antiques dealer?

  Oh, please, I thought, don’t let that be true. Don’t let him be a wide-boy in sex god’s clothing. I’d rather have him as an unemployed builder. Or a powdery-fingered drug baron with foreign connections

  Maybe it wasn’t him at all. Maybe my eyes were just playing tricks. Perhaps I ought to go back and take a second look, just to put my mind at rest.