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White Trash with Money (2)
All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman. It was, unless you're a goth, a lovely day; warm, springtime sun, not a goddamn cloud in the sky (except for a very tiny one on the north- north-eastern horizon), a cool breeze, a park lined with soft green grass and not a single yapping dog in earshot. High Street was far enough away to reduce the traffic sound to a pleasant Enoesque hum. I sat crosslegged in the middle of the cricket pitch and pretended to be meditating, eyes closed behind my sunglasses, mouth slightly open, breathing slowly and evenly from the lower diaphragm. If I wasn't careful, I would be meditating, soon; I staved this off by imagining an anvil the size of the QE2 falling directly on my head. It would appear in the sky above me, the shadow growing by degrees as it fell - Just then, the bit of light that made it through my sunglasses and closed eyelids faded. I gave a start, opened my eyes, gave another, different kind of start - "Having fun? Reached Samadhi yet?" she asked. As part of my ambitious program of standing up to her, I decided to bullshit. Holding my forefinger and thumb about five millimetres apart, I hissed, "You have no idea." She wasn't fooled; she took a bright fluorescent green waterpistol from the inner pocket of her jacket (she was wearing that suit again, and it still looked scary) and squirted my forehead. I sat back, hands spread behind me, water running down my face, and regarded her warily over the rims of my sunglasses. "What is it this time? Another perverse video?" She sat down before me, her businesswoman's skirt demurely covering her legs. "If you'd like." An alarm bell went off in the back of my mind. "Or we could have lunch. Or go see a movie." I removed my shades and looked at her with obvious suspicion. "Are you on some kind of drug?" She waved this aside. "Put the bullshit aside for a moment. I know our friendship hasn't always been, well, a linear one -" "The time you were off your head on mushrooms and you pointed a loaded gun at my head and then shot a hole in the ceiling springs to mind." " - But I'm willing to forgive and forget if you are." I simply sat there on the sun-warmed grass, looking at her, kinesically indicating that she should continue. "Okay. I've been watching your recent videos all morning - the compilation ones in particular. They turned me on, and I want to take you to bed." I almost giggled at this. "That LSD in the water-pistol sure comes on fast. You know, for a moment there, I really thought you said -" She got up gracefully and held out a hand to help me up. I looked at it as if it were a potted cactus, a lightsabre, a cobra poised to strike, the open end of a howitzer; a rabid rat, perhaps. "Ah, now I get it," I murmured. "You've really been kidnapped by the Greys, and they sent back a robot double. An evil twin, or in your case, a good twin." She just stood there, hand out. After a few moments, I got up unaided. "Essentially, I'm a very stupid person, incapable of learning from my past mistakes. So this time, I'm going to trust you." As we walked back to her car, I continued: "Even though I'll most likely end up dog food before the sun sets, or you'll test some kind of spring-loaded vaginal bear-trap on me, or try out some new kind of military hallucinogen or nerve gas..." She beckoned me to get in the driver's seat - it was a bright purple Mercedes-Benz; she got in the other side, and I backed it out of the parking spot and into the afternoon traffic. "Or you're going to wait until I'm at the point of orgasm and produce a gun and shoot me... or you'll nail me into a crate and ship me off to your white slaver friends..." "Turn left there." "Or you'll paralyse me from the waist down and keep me in your refrigerator to switch the light on and off... or perhaps you'll anesthetise me, ship me off to Johns Hopkins and when I wake up, I'll be a transsexual." "Right, at the next intersection. Don't give me any ideas." There was, however, a note of good-natured humour in her voice; previously, if she'd suggested forcing a sex-change on me, I might have been inclined to take her seriously. I kept quiet after that; I had the feeling she'd been taking notes from my suggestions.
Her new place was, like the old one, almost a palace; paid for by her father, with (I suspected) Triad money. Willow trees, wide expanses of lawns, even the odd fountain and greek marble statue. Serene and peaceful, like a Bhuddist retreat. She took me by the hand and led me inside; our footsteps echoed on wood tile. The place was empty. I could feel it. At some point, I'd continued listing things (to myself, at least) that she might be trying to do, here. Videotape us and use it to blackmail me? Ridiculous; I didn't have anything she wanted (at least, anything that she couldn't already buy or take). A jealous friend that she wanted to make even more jealous? Possibly jealous to the point of physical assault? I'd just have to keep my eyes open. The last time I'd been in her bedroom, it had the look of a harem; silk hangings and lots of cushions. Her new room looked like a Laura Ashley kindergarten; chintzy curtains, patterned sheets on a huge brass bed and lots of stuffed toys (the largest of these was a teddy bear which would have been taller than me if it'd been standing up). It was warm and dark; comfortingly so. I thought I'd imagined our conversation in the park, until she began taking her clothes off. I stood there with my jaw hanging down in growing surprise as I slowly came around to the idea that she was serious. She stood there, naked except for a white silk shirt (the tails of which almost came down to her knees), held out her hands and (this was the really scary part) - smiled at me. I had to repress the impulse to run. She saw the effect that her smile had, and her face fell. Before I could stop her, she'd come over to where I was pressed up against the back of her bedroom door and (awkwardly - I don't think she'd had a lot of practice) put her arms around my neck and gave me a hug. Strangely enough, I didn't feel like a rabbit about to be squeezed to death by a snake. As long as I forgot who I was with - the girl who'd invited me to a party which was host to a dead body in the bath-tub - I could relax and treat her like, well, an affectionate (and, somewhat lonely, I gathered) friend. I didn't intend to let my guard down, however. She dragged me over to the bed, fell back onto the sheets and pulled me over with her. I landed on my forearms, my nose five centimetres from hers, and looked into those dark, liquid eyes which had previously only held for me some fey mixture of contempt and amusement. For the first time since I'd met her, I noticed how long her eyelashes were. It was one of those awkward moments when both of us knew that we were about to kiss, but neither of us was sure who should move first. She'd always been completely dominant in the past; this time, she was going to make me do the approaching. All it took was a slight movement of my head, a few degrees rotation on the Z-axis and our mouths were aligned. Her lips were warm and soft; slowly, carefully, I felt her arms go around my neck and draw me closer. If this was an act, it was a damn good one. For a moment, I was taken with the ludicrous situation I was in; three years ago, she had seriously tried to kill me several times (not out of hatred; in fact, the closest I'd ever been to understanding any of her reasons was when she said it was an Art thing). Remembering this helped in repressing the laughter which surged up inside me. She tried to drag me down to lie on top of her, but I held myself over her, still kissing her, until she had lifted herself off the bed. I almost smiled at this. She broke contact and let herself drop back down onto the bed, idly caressing her nipples through the silk shirt. "I think I know what will help in this situation," she murmured. She reached over to a bedside drawer and produced a small plastic spray-bottle half-filled with a light brown fluid. "That's not - " I began. "No, it's not. It's a combination of perfectly safe, one-hundred-percent organic ingredients. Exhale." I did so; she placed the nozzle under my nostrils and sprayed as I breathed in. It smelled like amyl and camphor - my vision tunnelled and developed bright spots like a cathode-ray oscilloscope with a chimpanzee fiddling the knobs. I should have known; we'd once had a discussion about the terms `safe' and `organic'. I kept thinking that if she really wanted me dead, I would have been dead by now; anything else that happened would be a bonus. Very slowly, I sat up on the dangerously-swaying bed, one arm out to help keep balance (if this was a cartoon, I would've had stars orbiting my head). She sat on one hip, looking at me with the air of a scientist waiting for a laboratory rat to develop sickle-cell anaemia; while I became very conscious of my breathing, imagining that there was a brass-lined pipe going straight down my throat to a set of bellows somewhere in the basement, she grew impatient and, with a smile, gently helped me down to lie on my back and then straddled my chest, fingers gently kneading my shoulders. For a moment, I thought that I'd become a motorcycle; I lay back and grew into the feeling of blood circulating throughout my body. Random pulses of warmth drew my attention to my throat, wrists and (oddly enough) just behind my knees. I hardly noticed when she threaded her legs under my arms, brought my face up beneath the tails of the shirt and pressed herself against my mouth. Instinctively, I started exploring her with my tongue. Where the hell had her pubic hair gone? With a conscious effort I cleared my mind and set about arousing her. I had to wonder what kind of chemicals she was using; judging from the prominence of her clitoris, she was on the verge of orgasm already (I knew I wasn't that good). Intuitively, I gathered that this wasn't the time or place to start experimenting with new techniques, so I stuck to what I knew, visualising an oval-shaped zone around her clitoris and massaging it with the end of my tongue, occasionally spiralling inwards. Judging from the way she squeezed my head with her thighs, this was the right thing to do, despite her silence. Given what I knew about her, I didn't think she was the type to scream the high notes from The Ride of the Valkyries. What passed for a clear state of mind began to decay; instead of being encouraged when she started lubricating, I thought of a cartoon strip that I'd seen in Robert Crumb's `Weirdo' magazine some years ago; a disreputable character (somewhat like Siaoubo, here) called Martini Baton. I came dangerously close to giggling when I recalled one strip in particular which described her as `all wet down there'. I came very close to losing it completely; if she hadn't pushed herself back and started stripping my clothes off, I shudder to think what might have happened. There was the usual, awkward removal of the trousers and underpants (somewhere along the line, I'd had the foresight to take my shoes and socks off, thank the Goddess). I was surprised to see that I had an erection; I remembered feeling some warmth down there, but I'd thought it was another side-effect of the spray-bottle. She hooked her arm through mine and tugged me up to kneel behind her; then she turned away from me, grasped the brass rail at the end of the bed and almost pushed me over again with her behind. More to keep from falling than anything else, I grabbed her hips; she shifted until she was sitting in my lap and (my mind clearing again briefly) I took the initiative and reached around her waist to guide myself inside. She sighed as if to say `finally!' and began moving slowly back and forth, supporting herself on the rail. After the initial surprise, I found the presence of mind to take an active part in this, leaning forward and angling my thrusts along where I imagined the G-spot to be. I made a mental note to find out what that stuff in the spray-bottle was; it was delaying orgasm and keeping me erect (despite the recurring realisations of where I was, what I was doing and more importantly, to whom), almost painfully so. That, and her tightness - surgery? She was small in stature, but I knew she was far from being a virgin... or perhaps she was training for some olympic pelvic-floor event. Whatever the reason, in the moments when I was able to put my fear down, it was wonderful. Very primal; near darkness, overwhelming erotic scents and hot, sweaty entangled limbs. As we rocked the bed, the motions imperceptibly growing stronger, the spray-bottle (which had been dropped among the sheets) rolled against my ankle. Idly, I picked it up and inhaled another snort. The tunnel vision wasn't as bad this time, and the other effects were more immediate. It might have been my imagination, but for a moment I could actually feel my erection growing larger while I was thrust as far inside her as possible. Wau, I thought; I have to share this. I held the spray-bottle down near her ear, tapped her shoulder on that side; without pausing, she grabbed it, sprayed and took a deep breath. It hit her system hard; she paused, half crouching before me, and then threw herself back onto me, almost knocking me over again. Now, her thrusts had a frenetic, slightly irregular nature; for a brief period, I simply kneeled behind her and let her throw herself at me. With no warning whatsoever, she let go of the rail and grabbed my hands, cupping her breasts and trapping her nipples between her index and middle fingers. Following instinct again, I rubbed my fingers against her nipples and she went crazy, shuddering like someone was hitting her with a cattle-prod, erratic contractions squeezing me, the bed shaking like a spin-dryer. This kept up for almost a minute before she exhaled explosively and fell flat against the sheets, with me still inside her. Delicately, I withdrew, my erection flipping up as the head popped out; this pushed me right to the edge of orgasm, and all it took was a few back-and-forth motions along the divide of her buttocks to bring me the rest of the way. I almost started giggling again, seeing the traditional-porn-film come-shot up her back, but I think she would have forgiven me. Fifteen minutes later, we were still lying there, bathed in sweat; she half-raised herself on one elbow and gazed down at me with an odd expression on her face. "You know," she said hesitatingly, "The part afterwards - lying next to someone and just being held... that's the best part of all." I drew her back down to me, hugged her to me, folded together spoon-fashion. "It's only taken you about eight years of exploring to reach that decision. Some people never get there." She laughed, an unusually open sound coming from her. "That's not to say that being blindfolded, beaten and fucked senseless doesn't have its attractions." I laughed with her. "Can't argue with that."
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All work on this site is © Nikolai Kingsley unless otherwise stated. |