Читать книгу Sex and the Stranger 2: A Mischief Erotica Collection - Justine Elyot, Victoria Blisse, Giselle Renarde - Страница 16

Inspection over, he touched the outside of my vulva.

No. That wasn’t quite correct.

He touched – I had to search the online dictionary in my head to find the correct term. No, no. Delete! The previous phrase was incorrect. He hadn’t touched even my outer lips. ‘Maybe later.’ I hoped so.

Simon held the palm of his hand over the area above my vulva lips and just beneath my lower belly. Almost, but not quite, touching me. With great care and concentration, as if I was a precious but fragile object that could easily be broken by a clumsy man. I don’t know why, but tears came to my eyes. I blinked them away.

My Venus mount. Yes, I remembered now, from some textbook I had consulted long ago when I longed to know so much more about sex than I had access to in reality. That’s what it was called.

Simon would probably know and be able to give a detailed explanation of the provenance and meaning of this slightly pompous name. Luckily I didn’t have to say it, quiet or loud.

Under his palm, I could feel what an elegant shape that mount of Venus was. And it started to respond. Surprising me no end.

What was this?

Just under the almost-touch of Simon’s hand I could feel the skin warm up, and as he started to place his fingers, delicately, like spider’s legs, to circumscribe its luscious curve, I could feel the whole area flush with heat and expand.

Had it always done that when I was making love? How could I know so little about my own body? After all this time?

Simon leaned forward and bestowed a deep, sucking kiss on my Venus dome (and my generous blonde curls). A little stronger than the kiss he had given my thigh. A little longer, too.

Then, still holding up the generous folds of fabric with his right hand – the silk brushing my thighs, rousing goosebumps whenever he moved – he started to trace the outline of my pubic hair with one finger.

Simon had very slim, elegant fingers – it made me wonder if he really could have been a roadie, for whatever kind of band, unless he maybe was one of the guys who did the finer work of setting up decorations, adjusting wires, sliding the volume fader up and down.

I don’t think anyone had ever paid as much attention to this part of my intimate anatomy before. None of my former lovers. Not even I myself. But it must be important. ‘Venus Mount’ – the hill of the goddess of love. Further investigation was indicated.

Fortunately, Simon was dedicated to the cause. Maybe I should read the New Yorker, like he did, instead of silently mocking it. Right now, he explored my Venus-like skin as if his fingertips were recording a secret map that needed to be memorised for all eternity.

Simon repeated his subtle but insistent motion, lingering over some points (were they some esoteric pressure points? Maybe the female shaman would know.), then moving towards the top, accompanied by just a slight, playful caress of my lower belly with his thumb. I started to feel a resonance deeper inside my body.

Completely unexpected. On some level I guess I had still thought I was being nice, indulging Simon’s artistic temperament and perhaps his penchant for the unconventional, but now I wondered. Who was indulging whom?

As I was thinking that, my vagina responded with a deep, long tug on the sleeping muscles around her.

This was no gentle pre-foreplay. This was pretty much a systemwide call to mobilise.

I looked at Simon with new eyes – what I could see of him, since he was looking down, utterly devoted to his art.

Playing tunes on my body with his fingers.

Maybe I had heard wrong. Maybe Simon was not the roadie, maybe he was the musician. Maybe he was a famous musician in disguise, selecting profiles from women on our home site, women like me who were less likely to recognise him. Maybe he would have turned on his heels and fled Nepenthe if I had, falling down the stairways to heaven in his rush to remain incognito.

My legs started to tremble. I hadn’t known that my four-inch heels would have to give quite such a lengthy performance.

But I decided to stand up as long as I could. His fingers never stopped moving.

I didn’t know it then, but that was sort of Simon’s trademark: whatever he did, he performed with relentless subtlety. That was how he pleased himself.

Maybe he could feel the awakening tremors underneath his fingertips – or maybe he just enjoyed looking at me, blonde curls, pale white skin, slowly opening pink vulva.

I loved it. Warmth spread out over my skin. My breath accelerated. I had to put my hands behind my back and join my fingers to stop myself joining in.

Simon’s fingers lingered just above the top of my vulva lips. I could feel welcome pressure as he traced their luscious opening.

The entrance of my vagina started to contract. I wanted to widen my stance, to open my legs, but I couldn’t. Not on those heels and not without falling over.

So I held my position, like a good little soldier girl in the field of love.

My vagina contracted more strongly. My spine tingled all the way to my head.

My vulva lips opened further, inviting him in.

But Simon moved his fingers back up the mount. A little faster now, a little more urgently. Next time, I thought, I would like him to cover his fingertips in paint, so that I could see all the intricate tracks. Maybe in gold. Gold? My pubic mound ornamented in golden intaglios like the wardrobe of the Yellow Emperor? Where had that thought come from?

Never mind. The sensations inside my pelvis became too intense for much linked-up thinking. Every little blood vessel opened wide. Every little cell was getting drunk on happy-hour cocktails.

I tried to breathe steadily but when I took a deep gulp of air it came out as a big long sigh.

I could hear Simon respond with something between a moan and a grumble.

Then he moved back a bit so that he could look up into my eyes.

His expression was still serious and intense. So different from me. A big wide smile made its way onto my face. In spite of that difference, we connected. In a place with no passports or personal identities. Who cared what his profession was?

We kept looking at each other.

Simon kept up the rhythm. He knew my song by heart.

My vagina tightened – again in a different, unexpected place. Every nerve from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my butt vibrated inside. Like hidden threads of fire underneath an old volcano, smouldering away the centuries, covered by ash and stone, until, one day, someone ignites them and then – oh, then.

I could feel the magma rising through its secret paths. My body was dancing on a sea of flames.

I did try to stand firm on my four-inchers. Pretty, yes. Simon had liked them at first view, high on the promontory of Nepenthe, when I crossed my legs on the rough rustic bench.

Standing still, of course, denied those internal tremors their release. They had no choice but to double up on themselves. The tension grew. My fingers twirled into each other, I had to hold on so hard. These fault lines must explode at some point. Have to. Come on. Don’t you know this, in California?

Simon smiled at me, a little absentmindedly. He was still focused on his great work. Could he read me through my skin? Could he feel the trembling inside me, with those sophisticated fingers?

Another sigh came out of me.

Simon nodded. Was this the sound of a good instrument?

I tried to imagine myself as a big cello, or (they would have liked this at Esalen) a Javanese gong. But what came into my mind was a picture I had seen of that strange nineteenth-century device, the glass harmonica.

It was loved by Victorian audiences who sat, fully dressed in layers of underwear, with thick fabric on top, watching a blind young girl, herself completely covered up to the top of her neck, stroke tenderly, with naked hands, a series of slippery revolving glass rings, assembled in a long, huge phallic contraption. The glass harmonica produced high, eerie sounds, like ghosts demented by denied desire, or, as the writers of the time liked to phrase it, like the voices of disembodied angels.

Stripped of Victorian trappings, the glass harmonica is an unashamedly erotic instrument. And as Simon applied himself to me, I started to feel like that great spiral of cylinders itself, responding with internal vibrations to the virtuoso’s every touch.

A touch that now sent my vagina into a huge tremor, starting deep inside and rippling out in all directions. My inner lips parted to let the clitoris head slip out. My hips opened.

I started shaking in earnest now.

My spine buckled and heaved. I had to spread out both my arms to grasp at empty air for balance. My whole body shook with wave after wave of grand orgasm.

At that point I decided that my feet could no longer carry me. I finally let go and allowed myself to collapse onto the bed.

For a moment, as I fell back, I didn’t know if anything would hold me up. If I would fall into nothingness. If I would crash onto the floor. If a door into interstellar vacuum would open up and I would fall through, backwards, like Alice on Fire …

My landing was soft. My head bounced a bit, but my shoulders were met by an accommodating mattress. I felt dizzy, but not unpleasantly so. The wave of orgasms rolled over me. I rode that wave. I felt as if the world had splashed out on a free flight to the nearest supernova system.

Simon dived after me.

He pushed my legs down, not without once more admiring the elegant line of my four-inched feet.

He then took the long silk strips that were lined up next to where I lay and wound them around my ankles. Was there no end to his artistry?

I just lay there, warm and soft, spent but still alert.

And he took his time.

First the deepest black, right across the top of my feet. Soft and wide, but very firm when pulled together. Didn’t I read somewhere that silk is strong enough to catch a falling plane? Or something? I must ask Simon, if I remembered.

Then came the next strip, lighter in colour but equally strong. Simon went halfway up to my calves, winding one strip through another. The result, as far as I could see if I lifted my head, the only part of me that I was willing to move, was very stylish, like a black and white photograph.

The result for me was renewed arousal. All the way up from my feet, but this time fast and powerful. I wasn’t sure if it was possible to come just from having my ankles bound, but it seemed that I was going to have a chance to find out.

‘Simon,’ I said, ‘I love it. I love what you do.’ To my own ears, my voice sounded dreamy. Perhaps a little slurred.

But Simon understood me.

He reached up to stroke my cheek. Touched my best bra.

Then he returned to his work. Every tug of the silk strips was answered by renewed tension between my legs.

A few times he looked up at me, again with this intense, focused expression as if he could see something in me that I didn’t yet know.

Like the designer of an instrument, aware that every little curve will affect its resonance. And of course the tension of the strings will have to be tweaked just right. Even if it hurts a little.

Was Simon maybe the one who tuned the guitars for that famous American band? Listening to the vibration of a single note, eyes closed, head cocked to the side …

And then I wished it was not so slow. I wished he would move on, move up, move all over me …

And he did.

My ankles were now firmly bound, to each other, to the bed.

Simon carefully teased out the folds of the wide red skirt (I knew by then he would never tear such beautiful material) and arranged it in a glorious circle around my naked body.

I felt the welcome pressure of his body on mine. His shirt brushed my skin, smooth and cool. His pants a little rougher. Hot flushes ran over all my body. Yes. Gravity still worked.

I lifted my shoulder to help him spread out the fabric all round.

I felt as if I had wings. Deep-red silken wings of lust.

I threw out my arms. Simon kissed my wrists, then bound them quickly to the edges of the bed. I felt the soft caress of the exquisite silk strips. His movements were confident. No need for trial and error. Once you’ve tuned an instrument, I suppose, it gets easier to get it into shape.

He tugged on the bonds to make sure they were both secure and safe for me. My lungs had no choice but to expand.

I sighed with satisfaction.

Moving slowly on top of me, Simon put his arms around my neck and gave me a deep, deep kiss. I kissed him back.

His tongue was just as good at exploring unexpected delights as his fingers. He advanced and retreated, he licked and pushed.

Then he allowed me to respond. I tried to suck at his tongue. He let me, then he moved away. Then covered my face with little quick kisses. Then slipped his tongue back in. We savoured each other’s flavour. Then just stopped all the tricks and gave it up in one big, breath-stopping, deep, deep kiss. Then relaxed and lay still, embracing each other.

His shirt stroked my naked skin. All my body was aroused.

‘Are you ready to play?’ Simon said.

‘Yes,’ I said. Not as loudly as before, but with even more enthusiasm. Now I knew what he could do!

Simon reached over to the edge of the bed. What next? What next? I was very ready.

The embroidered veil descended over my face.

‘Better so,’ said Simon.

‘Yes,’ I said. The veil was very thin. It moved with my breath.