Asking For Trouble Page 3

  ‘Not bad for a shoebox,’ he said, making for the living room, his head turning this way and that.

  He set his bag down and began wandering about, inspecting the rooms and chatting away. I followed him, telling him how great my flat was and pointing out all the good bits he’d miss: look at all this storage space; did you see the marble fireplace in my living room?; this shower, now this is truly state of the art; I made these curtains, Martin. I actually made them. Pay homage.

  ‘Lot of big old windows,’ he said, and clucked ironically. ‘Be a bastard to heat in winter.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said in a light-hearted riposte. ‘Summer’s here.’

  In the living room, Martin plonked himself on the sofa, put his rucksack between his feet and began loosening the drawstring.

  ‘Didn’t get my invite to your flat-warming party,’ he said, rummaging in the bag.

  ‘I’m having a serial flat-warming,’ I replied. ‘No more than three guests at a time. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Neither,’ he said, pulling out a bottle. ‘We’re drinking wine.’

  I was just heading for the kitchen and his words pulled me up short. I turned to him, uncertain, awkward. It must have shown on my face.

  ‘It’s just wine,’ he said with a hint of exasperation. ‘No candles. Don’t worry. No shag.’

  I smiled an apology.

  ‘Unless you’re offering,’ he added with an impish grin.

  I lunged to poke him in the ribs, and for a few seconds, we squealed and grappled, trying to be like we once were: old friends, uncomplicated, our bodies and desires our own individual business. The charade worked for a while, then there was a moment’s eye contact that was just too long; and, on Martin’s part, too longing.

  With a final playful punch I drew back and went to fetch glasses.

  Oh, Martin. A decade of friendship blasted apart by sex.

  For ages, I clattered around in the kitchen, washing glasses that didn’t need washing, hunting for a corkscrew that didn’t need hunting for.

  Only Martin. He’s one of the rare people I still know from when I first arrived in Brighton, a happy little undergraduate, full of ideals and party spirit. Over the years, we’ve grown together – tears, laughter, the lot. He became, to me, a guy who could hold my hair back when I was drunk and throwing up and I wouldn’t feel disgusting; we could snuggle up in front of the telly, eating crisps, watching scary films; we’d fall out – anything from ‘I can’t stand that man/woman you’re so in love with’ to ‘you’ve bought me the wrong sort of peanuts’ – and then we’d patch things up just as quickly.

  We were as comfortable together as on old pair of jeans, and we loved each other massively. But somewhere along the line it all went a bit pear-shaped and we ended up sleeping together.

  I put it down to a combination of Martin being miserable because Emma had just dumped him; and a tacit frustration of ‘my love for you is so much bigger than this cuddle’. It’s so difficult, so confusing when you have limits on bodies and none on love.

  So we found ourselves in bed – a mistake that lasted four months. I finished it; it was so wrong, like sleeping with your brother or something.

  Martin didn’t quite see it that way. He still wanted me. ‘It’s just a phase,’ I told him. ‘In a few weeks’ time, you’ll wake up one morning and think, I must’ve been mad. I fancied Beth.’ But he disagreed, said he must have been repressing his true feeling for years, or he’d just been blind to how goddamn sexy I was.

  I went back to the living room. Martin had put a CD on, something poppy and unthreatening, and we drank a toast to ‘Beth in her new pad’.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Martin, delving in his bag once again. ‘Clare asked me to give you this. The woman who’s moved into your room found it.’

  His lips were pursed with the effort of not laughing and, with a flourish, he produced my vibrator, gold and gleaming in brash June sunlight.

  I blushed. I don’t often blush, but I did then.

  ‘Shit,’ I said softly, closing my eyes and repressing laughter of a fool unmasked. Then I snatched it from him. ‘Thanks,’ I snapped with mock vitriol. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

  Martin laughed in good-natured delight, trying to turn the moment into mere mischief. But it was more than that for me.

  As lovers we’d always been tentative and shy, inhibited by our years of friendship. Sex hadn’t been experimental or exploratory; that would’ve been like saying, ‘Hey, we’re doing the right thing, us, naked like this. Let’s push it further.’

  But we both knew it was wrong; affection rather than lust fuelled our sex – at least it did on my part – and so we stuck pretty much to the basics. My vibrator was a totem to that gap between us, a very personal and embarrassing totem.

  Much as I wanted to bury it in my deepest, darkest drawer, I decided that laying it on the table would be wiser. Feigning indifference and making a quip about batteries and ‘a woman’s best friend’, I crossed the room. My eyes flicked automatically to the faceless man’s window.

  Ever since our weird night, I’d been unable to pass my own window without checking on his. This time I was rewarded: his blind was up. I saw movement in the shadows. He was back.

  Oh, notice me, I thought. See me here, glass of wine in hand, entertaining a friend. See me as a person who has a rich, vibrant life, not as someone you’ve frightened and excited, not as someone stupidly infatuated.

  I set down my vibrator and loitered in the bay, pretending to check on the health of my new plant. Martin, sprawled on the sofa, began to chat. I perched my arse on the radiator beneath the window, told Martin how lovely the sun was, how deliciously it warmed my back through the glass, and soon we were bantering and gossiping – friends once more.

  Except I was Janus. I was a nasty, deceitful, self-centred bitch, prostituting our friendship for the sake of another man’s attention.

  It didn’t seem like that at the time, though. And I didn’t turn round; I didn’t invite Faceless to look at me. I showed him the back of my strappy vest top and all that went with it – the naked upper third of my back, my bare shoulders, arms, the nape of my neck. I showed him skin, newly gold after the year’s first sunshine. I showed him my sandy-brown, not-quite-curly hair, the ends caught back in a band. When I turned, ever so slightly, to the side, I showed him a couple of straggles falling, oh so artlessly, over my cheek. Perhaps the light would sparkle on the stud fixed in my nice, neat nose. No, too far away for details.

  If Martin hadn’t been sitting opposite me, I might have twisted on my perch and propped a foot on the radiator. In my knee-length denim skirt, I might have offered him a hint of leg – unwittingly, of course – and he would wonder who else was in my flat. Who was she laughing with and chatting to? Who was it that joined her in afternoon wine?

  But you can’t flirt for one person when there are two watching. And I knew he was watching. I could feel his eyes, as tangible as the sun’s heat, caressing my flesh.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ said Martin, destroying a comfortable lull in our conversation. His cute, comical face was drained of its bright energy.

  ‘I see you all the bloody time,’ I scoffed, trying to deflect the intensity. ‘I saw you two days ago and before that it was –’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re always with people,’ he replied, his tone wistful and soft. ‘We never used to be.’ His brows drew together in an upward slant and he looked at me steadily, his expression so painfully sad. ‘We’ve got scared of each other, Beth. I hate it.’

  For a moment, our silence was awkward and tense. I wished he wasn’t so nice. If he had a touch of the bastard about him, maybe I could fancy him. Or maybe we could have a God Almighty row, hurt each other to bits and then call it a day. But he was Martin: good and kind and unbearably generous.

  Decisively, I set down my wine glass and stood, holding my arms open as if he were a big tearful child.

  ‘C’mere,’ I said with a gentle smile.


  He came to me and we hugged – a big squeezy bear hug – and we rocked each other from side to side. For a long time we stayed that way, saying nothing except for weary mumbles of ‘Oh, Beth’, ‘Oh, Martin’.

  Apologies and regrets, as we knew only too well, were useless. The past is the past and ‘if only’s make rotten Band-Aids. So when the time came for one of us to speak, it was me, ruffling his hair and reassuring him that things would be all right. In time, we’d be back to what we once were. In time. We can’t force it, sweetheart. Be patient.

  And though I longed for that future with my heart and soul, I could not, for the whole of our embrace, shut out thoughts of the faceless man spying on us.

  Martin didn’t know he was there, but I did. My eyes were attuned and I’d seen him, standing deeper in his room than the last time and slightly to one side – but, nonetheless, most definitely watching.

  I was immeasurably thrilled to think he might assume Martin and I were lovers, about to get down to some hot, hard action. I should have been concentrating on Martin more. I should have noticed that he was pushing our sexless bear hug in a different direction. I should have picked up on the changed tone in his voice, should have listened when his playful rap of ‘I love you – I love you – I love you’ melted into a soft ‘Oh God, I want you’.

  His hand, eager and insistent, was scrunching at my skirt, wrinkling the denim up my thigh. Then it darted beneath the hem and he was squeezing and caressing me just above the knee.

  ‘Martin,’ I said in a faint breathy protest. I stroked down my leg, pushing weakly at his hand and trying to straighten the rucked-up fabric. My half-hearted attempt to deter him merely strengthened his ardour – as I’d hoped it would. His grip grew firmer and he was sliding higher, lifting one side of my skirt – the side facing the window. I made a show of lame resistance, allowing him to slide up my thigh until his thumb brushed the edge of my knickers. Then I stopped his hand with mine.

  ‘We mustn’t,’ I whispered. And my words, like those of someone on the brink of adultery, said: ‘But, God, I want it. Just let me play the part of someone struggling with their conscience, then I’ll yield.’

  And I did want it. I was aroused; my groin was gently tingling. I bore a passive lust for Martin, a legacy of our time spent as lovers. While I didn’t actively long for him or seek his touch, his questing hand had the power to turn me on. That’s why platonic hugs were so dangerous: our bodies held too much promise for each other; we knew them too well.

  In a stronger frame of mind, I might have looked to the future and stepped back. ‘No,’ I should have said. ‘For the sake of this friendship we want to rescue, no.’

  But in the haze of afternoon wine and sunlight, sex didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It was no big deal, really. And wouldn’t it be the perfect complement to this languid decadence, this drinking together when the rest of the world is in its office?

  And of course, I had my audience to consider. That probably tipped the balance for me.

  So I allowed Martin’s hand to slide up my thigh again. I feigned a dilemma, batting feebly at his hand, uttering gentle moans and mixing quiet ‘no’s with throaty ‘ahs’. His touches were restless.

  ‘Oh, Beth,’ he whispered plaintively. ‘Please.’

  Beneath my skirt, he hooked a thumb in the top of my knickers, pulling them down a little and tickling briefly through my pubes. He cupped my sex through the silky cotton, massaging me firmly through the gusset. His hungry fingers pushed into my folds and my seeping moisture made the fabric damp.

  ‘No,’ I murmured huskily. ‘No.’ I pressed my body to his.

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘You’re wet for me, Beth. Let go. Don’t deny yourself.’

  Then his hands were pushing under my vest top, reaching for my breasts. I was bra-less and he groaned to feel my soft, naked tits. He sowed kisses, light as raindrops, over my neck and face, then drew back and fixed me with an agonised gaze.

  For a long time we looked at each other, in tension, in tenderness. Our eyes were full of quick lust, and a resigned acceptance of the regret that would follow.

  ‘Come to bed, Beth,’ he said, stroking my cheek.

  I shook my head. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘I want you here.’ I sought his lips with my own and offered up a passionate, lingering kiss. A Judas kiss.

  ‘The curtains,’ urged Martin, casting a nervous sideways glance.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I replied. ‘The curtains.’ And swiftly I drew them, snatching a peek at the opposite window as I did so.

  He was still there, half in shadow, watching me. I smiled inwardly, triumphant and smug. I knew how sexy my closed curtains were – far sexier than any undressing and caressing. It was a tease to feed his imagination. And besides, there were other windows to take into account. I was a whore: I didn’t do peep-shows for free.

  Martin and I stripped hastily, silently agreeing to do it before we came to our senses. I saw his nudity with remembered unease.

  Our first, fatal undressing had shocked me, though I’d concealed it well. There’s nothing unusual about Martin’s body – it’s pale and slender, not particularly muscular, and his cock’s a pretty ordinary cock – but the revealing of it all had thrown me into confusion. I couldn’t quite believe that Martin – my best mate, Martin – had a nice neat arse, black hair at his crotch and a prick that was rearing high.

  There was something faintly obscene about his erection, especially his glans, so red and so raw. Because we weren’t abandoning ourselves; there was no surge of passion. We were wary, shy, apologetic almost; and in that context his blood-pumped cock had seemed so lewd and out of place.

  I felt as if I’d corrupted an innocent, sexualised him, and his exposed body had unsettled me deeply. It continued to do so.

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he said, sharing none of my disquiet.

  He ran his hands over my naked flesh, pulling me close then stepping away, not knowing if he’d rather look or touch. He rolled the weight of one breast in a widespread hand and cupped my buttock with his other, drawing our groins together. His hard-on pressed against my belly, then he dipped his head to take a nipple between his lips. His tongue lashed wetly. I moaned in true delight, sensation filtering into my cunt, filling out my sex-lips.

  ‘I ache for you constantly, Beth,’ he murmured, his lips smudging over my neck. ‘I don’t care that you don’t want me. But let me have you sometimes, like this. Just a fuck here and there. It won’t mean anything. No lovemaking. I won’t get hung up about it, I swear.’

  Guilt forced me to my knees.

  I told him to hush, enjoy the moment, then I took his prick far into my mouth. I caressed his tight little arse while sucking him in great gulping swallows. My saliva trickled freely and I sloshed it around his stiff, warm shaft, my tongue moving ceaselessly.

  His grip on my shoulders and his moans of enjoyment troubled the part of my soul where some principles remained. This meant so much more to him than it did to me. I was merely giving him pleasure, foolishly trying to compensate for everything else I refused him.

  And, in turn, I wanted pleasure back. My motivation was ugly – nothing grander than temporary lust. And it was treacherous – I was trading on Martin’s heartfelt desire, using it so I could close my curtains on the faceless man and gloat over him wondering about me.

  ‘Enough,’ said Martin, stilling me with a hand on my brow.

  He slipped his cock from my mouth and pushed at my shoulders, urging me to lie down. On my arse, I shuffled backward across the carpet, Martin following me on hands and knees. Hoisting myself on to the sofa, I sat back and clasped Martin’s head, drawing his lips into my sex as I spread my legs wide. Greedy. Ruthless. I knew he would give me oral until I died of pleasure – trying to make me want him, not just as a friend but as a lover.

  I was horny. I was happy for him to try.

  His mouth met with my vulva, juices mingling. His tongue squirmed into every crevice, probed at my entrance. He nibb
led, sucked and lapped at my clit. He took it all so slowly, indulging me in luxury rather than striving to make me come. And at any moment, he could so easily have made me come. Technique, in the absence of much, was one thing we’d worked on. He knew how I liked it; he knew how to push me over the edge.

  But that afternoon he chose not to. Every time my orgasm began to gather Martin would shift his focus and his pressure. He would kiss my inner thigh or skim his tongue over my labia, just when I needed him elsewhere. My nearness would subside then he’d lunge in again, drenching me in heat and teasing me back to the brink.

  Sprawled on the sofa, I clutched at his hair, smothering his face in hot cunt. I massaged my breasts. I beat and squeezed at cushions.

  I begged him: ‘Make me come, Martin. Oh Christ, make me come.’

  But he refused me, over and over, until I could barely speak. I could only wail incoherently and snatch gasps of ‘oh fuck’ ‘oh please’ ‘Jesus fuck’ ‘please’.

  Then, finally, Martin released me from the torture, not by making me come, but by stopping. He knelt back and looked at me, slack-jawed and hungry. His lips and the skin around them glistened damply. It was my cue.

  I lurched forward, urging him to lie back on the floor. He obliged, his pelvis lifting, his cock upright, searching for my lush, irresistible hole.

  ‘Just a sec,’ I said, and scurried to get a condom from my desk drawer. That had been a real treat for me when I’d first moved in: hiding little condom stashes here and there, making every room in the flat a potential fuckzone. No more having to worry about other people. The whole place was mine.

  Returning to Martin, I knelt astride him, rolled the sheath down his shaft, then, so slow and so deep, I sank myself to his root. I groaned loudly as the bliss of penetration filled me and spread through my veins. For a long moment I didn’t move. I simply sat there, stuffed with his flesh, gasping with delight.

  Then I started to ride him. My tits swayed as I rose and fell. I sucked my muscles round his cock, pacing myself so I wouldn’t peak too soon or too often – I didn’t want him to think I was having a whale of a time. When I sensed Martin was close, I rested my hands on his pubic bone, knuckled into my clit and surrendered to my need. I bucked hard and fast, letting the joints of my thumbs chafe me to ecstasy.