Читать книгу Holiday Affairs: An Erotica Collection - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 5

I come up from below expecting to be alone, but I’m not. Hunter is inexplicably there, sprawled on a sun lounger with his big feet trailing off the end, that stupid handsome hair of his gleaming in the glare.

And all I can think is: I wish his name wasn’t Hunter. I’ve never in my life known anyone called anything like that, and I don’t feel like starting now. It’s just so … beefcake. It’s so … Abercrombie and Fitch, even though I’m British and barely know what Abercrombie and Fitch is.

I don’t want to know. I just want to sit on the sun lounger he’s currently occupying and read my book, like a semi-normal person. I’m the sort who goes on sun-blistering holidays somewhere exotic, and then sits alone beneath a giant umbrella to shelter themselves from the heat – and I won’t apologise for that.

But Hunter makes me apologise. He looks up the moment I’m on deck, and smiles his winning smile, and says something I don’t want to hear, like ‘I was wondering when you’d join me.’ As though there’s a possibility that we could actually join. The universe is making new glue as we speak, for bookworms who refuse to wear bathing suits and giant jockish men called Hunter.

He’s out of his mind – perhaps literally. Lily says he’s secretly weird, that he has trouble relating to people, that his parents died years ago and ever since he’s been some kind of hermit … but I don’t buy it. People like him aren’t hermits.

They’re on the covers of catalogues, staring off at imaginary horizons. He doesn’t need this holiday. He doesn’t need to socialise. He needs to spend five thousand dollars on deck shoes, before insulting some waiter we don’t have.

Hell, maybe I’m the waiter, in this scenario. I certainly feel like one as I edge around his most glorious self, in an attempt to reach the sun lounger on the other side of the deck.

But then I see it, and suddenly I’m not a waiter at all. I’m trapped into being his holiday companion, by the presence of the seat he’s moved next to himself. He’s actually dragged it all the way across this bright-white deck to make a neat little pair, side by side.

As though that’s perfectly reasonable.

He even makes it sound reasonable.

‘Come and sit down,’ he says, which of course gives me no choice. If I say no, I’ll look anti-social and awful. And if I say yes … if I say yes …

I’ll have to sit next to him, right next to him, with the heat of the sun blasting me on one side and the heat from him blasting me on the other. In fact, I can practically feel it before I’ve even taken the lounger next to him. He’s so bright, so big, so winning – he makes the sun look like a speck on the face of a giant.

He’s the giant in question.

He’s so big that I feel crowded the second I arrange myself on the lounger, even though he’s set them a decent way apart. I can get my whole hand between them without any trouble at all, but that’s not the point when your companion is eight foot eleven. His arms span that tiny gap with very little effort, and any time he shifts a tad I can just feel him.

I can feel the heat coming off him, in waves. I can smell his suntan lotion, light and summery, and the febrile scent of his skin beneath. Sunshine skin, my mother would have called it – and it is. You can tell the kind of tan he has just from drinking in that scent: a golden honey hovering over the blush underneath.

But of course I have to confirm how it looks, anyway. I pretend I’m engrossed in my book, when really I can’t stop flicking my gaze to his immense hands – pale on the inside, caramel on the out. He’s fiddling with the tie on his shorts, which only makes the show more compelling.

Those long fingers, those heavy knuckles … and then further down the endless stretch of his solid legs. I confess, I follow them all the way to his feet, which aren’t clad in the five-thousand-dollar deck shoes. They’re bare, instead, completely bare, and somehow that’s much worse.

His feet are even more gigantic than his hands, and knuckly like them, too. They’re a real man’s feet – different to Patrick’s, all neat and clean. They make me think that he’s not an airbrushed-catalogue-model Hunter, at all, but a real one instead.

He goes into the forest, at night, and runs down a hapless deer. And then when the moon is at its fullest, he tears the thing apart, with his teeth. He tears me apart, with his teeth. He makes me want to look at his face, but I can’t, I can’t.

Why isn’t he saying anything now?

He wanted me to sit, didn’t he? He wanted me to join him, in that tiring way most middle-class people with yachts seem to demand. Patrick needs it all the time, and so does Lily, and so does Gregory – though I know there’s something different between the time they want from me and the time Hunter does.

I can feel it prickling in the air, now, between the words he thought he should say and the silence he now allows. He doesn’t want idle chitchat, I think. He wants to sit here and make me bake in his heat, until I’m so uncomfortable I could die.

And then he abruptly puts a hand on my thigh, and I think I do die. I stop breathing, at the very least, because he’s not low down, towards my knee. He’s really, really high up – almost under my sundress, in fact.

And when I don’t move away or slap him or any of the things I should do, he slides that hand higher, casually. Like he’s just turning the pages of a book he’s not all that interested in. It could even be the book I’ve just discarded, which is now lying on the floor by my lounger.

Either way – I could almost pretend he isn’t doing this at all. I don’t look at him. He doesn’t speak. There are no questions, no answers. Just his hand working further and further up my thigh, until finally he’s clasping me in a very rude place indeed.

I can feel the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, pressing tight against the taut mound of my pussy. And after a second of this, I can make out that finger rubbing in slow circles, right between my legs.

It makes me very, very aware of my greedy little hole. It’s like he’s feeling for the right spot, or maybe suggesting where it might be, through the material of my panties – and he’s right too. That is where my cunt resides, and further up oh further up … yesss. That’s where my clit is.

But he doesn’t linger there for long, either. He alternates back and forth, stroking over my hole and then back over my clit, as though testing which one I like best. I can’t decide, however. The former is so rude, so … humiliating, somehow, while the latter simply sparks pleasure up the length of my spine.

Both sensations are utterly, deliriously delicious. I want to spread my legs wider just to get more of them, but of course I restrain myself. It’s bad enough that I’m letting him rub me like this, without saying a word – as though he’s so handsome and magnificent that he just has a right to my helpless body.

Egging him on is completely out of the question. I can’t even look at him.

Until I do, and then … then I wish I hadn’t.

He doesn’t seem like himself, any more. He’s not a composed cut-out from the cover of a magazine. His eyelids are so heavy it’s almost a burden on me to carry them, and his soft lips have parted in this really suggestive way. Even if he wasn’t currently stroking my swollen pussy, I’d know what’s going on here.

It’s like he wants me to reach up and slide something into that open mouth of his, and if I was better at this – more sure of myself, sexier, an adventuress – I’d know what that something was. I’d take it out and fuck his face, until he begged me to stop.

The way I beg him to stop, after a moment of this. I have to, after all. If he keeps going I’ll come all in an embarrassing rush, just because he’s got a finger on some material and is rubbing me through it.

Too bad, really, that my protests come out wordlessly, soundlessly. I barely make it to a syllable. I just lie on the sun lounger and let him work my stiff clit to a shuddery, buckled-down sort of orgasm, while a thin breath takes the place of all the things I want to say.

Stop, I think. Don’t, I think.

But I can’t get either word out. I’m awash in this brutal kind of pleasure, of the sort that doesn’t take kindly to being restrained. It spills around the edges of my control and pushes through the boundaries I’ve long established, and once a bit of it’s free it goes on and on and on.

It’s like letting a tidal wave flow through an opening the size of a little finger. And once it’s done, the dam wall isn’t in particularly good shape. It’s cracked and battered and crumbling at the seams, in a way that’s obvious to even the most casual of observers.

I can see it in his face, as he draws away from me. His lip is faintly curled and there’s a crease between his brows, as though to say: that’s all it takes, to ruin someone like you? And then when he sits back in his lounger and picks up a magazine – as though nothing happened, nothing at all – I hear his final point loud and clear, even though he doesn’t say it out loud.

How disappointing.

* * *

I know he’s up there. I can hear his big feet pounding around on the deck, but I’m not going to go up. Not this time. I don’t know why he keeps staying behind while they go off and explore tourist spots, but in all honesty I don’t care.

He can stew up there, alone. He can conjure up some other person to torment – some girl who’s more his speed. She’s the other half of that magazine cover, and when he puts a hand between her legs she doesn’t soak through her knickers immediately. She doesn’t twist and shiver beneath his barely-there touch, as though she’s just grateful for any human contact.

Instead, she eyes him coldly, indifferently, while lying there like a statue. Later on they’ll make love on the bed behind me, in an elegant, poised sort of way. She’ll point her toes and arrange her hair just so on the pillow, and he’ll never look at her with that weird combination of incredulity and disdain.

Or at least, that’s what I’m still hoping for when he appears in the doorway.

He’s probably got her in tow now. I can practically smell her sunshine scent and hear her glassy voice – to the point where I actually start wondering if I should offer to make her a drink, too. I have all the accoutrements in front of me. The bar between the bed and the kitchenette is well stocked with all kinds of lovely things.

And I know, because I’m currently putting all of them together, for myself. I’m calling the rainbow-coloured concoction before me a ‘Burn That Sex Thing From Your Memory’ daiquiri.

Even though I don’t really know what a daiquiri is. It just sounds good, on the end of my imaginary cocktail. It legitimises fluorescent memory-loss in a glass, topped by a raft of candy-coloured cherries – one of which I devour, casually, as he strolls up behind me.

Yeah, that’s right. He strolls. He’s as casual as I am, apparently, even though I’m nothing of the kind. I’m shivering just as I did before, only without the excuse of an orgasm. And as before, I can’t really seem to function beyond this. I can’t look at him. I just stare straight ahead at the picture on the far wall, of a fisherman who’s unaccountably shouldering a huge shotgun.

Or maybe it’s not a fisherman, at all. It’s just a guy in a vest that looks like a fisherman’s, and really he’s out to bag himself a nice girl in a white sundress.

Of the kind Hunter then lifts.

I can feel him doing it, somewhere behind me. And I say somewhere, because it’s like the whole thing is not attached to me at all. I’m not wearing this sundress. I’m three hundred feet away from myself, drinking a made-up daiquiri.

While a man exposes my almost bare backside, and strokes his big hands over whatever flesh he finds there.

God only knows what he’s going to do next. I can’t imagine, because I’ve got no frame of reference for this. Usually men say things like ‘Would you perhaps want to move over to the bed?’ or similar, and even those sorts of fellows are in short supply, for a girl of my type. This kind of thing … this kind of silent thievery, heavy with assumption …

I don’t know what to do with this.

So I just stand there and take it instead. I let him rub over my ass until he works up to something bolder – both hands under the elastic of my knickers, fondling and fondling me before finally pulling the whole lot down. And then once I’m completely bare under there, he gets hold of me in a tamer sort of place.

Like the hollows of my hips – which only seems tame until he tugs me back. After that, it doesn’t seem tame at all. I’m now somehow bent over the bar with my ass bared, and though I don’t remember doing it my legs are apart.

They’re really, embarrassingly wide apart. I bet he can see everything in between, when he glances down. I bet he can see how wet I am, how swollen my pussy is – though I’ve no idea why that’s the case. He hasn’t touched me anywhere in particular. He hasn’t said anything filthy, to fire me up.

He just breathes hard and manoeuvres me into position, while my heart thunders between my legs and perspiration gets me in its cloying grip. I’m so hot, I think, so boiling boiling hot, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

It’s him who has to put the fire out. He has to do something, even though I’m afraid of what that something might be. If he fucks me, I might die. The dam will definitely crumble and my face will never recover from this kind of burn, and that’s how it will be until the end of time.

Only it isn’t like that at all. When he puts one heavy hand on my shoulder and one heavier hand on my hip, I don’t flinch. I’m crying, but I don’t want to tell him to stop. I want him to use me up like this, to be that guy who thinks he can have whatever he wants – because God knows he can.

Go on, I think, go on, and then I feel him sliding something thick and solid into my unbearably tight little cunt and ohhhh I can hardly believe it. I can’t believe he’s actually going to fuck me; I can’t believe his cock feels this impossibly big – or that I’m slick enough to take him.

But most of all I can’t believe that he moans, as he takes me.

He gets about halfway in and then he just lets it out, low and guttural, thick with frustration. Like he actually wants this, somehow, like he actually needs it, and if he doesn’t get it soon he’s going to go insane. He’s going to shove into me, hard, and fuck me like a savage.

And I don’t know whether I’m unhappy about that or not. It sure doesn’t feel like unhappiness. It feels like I want to spread my legs wider and take him deeper, and when he finally eases all the way in and groans hot and heavy against the nape of my neck, I do it anyway.

I arch back against him, and spread myself for him, and let him get a handful of my breasts – first one, then the other. Though even that’s not enough. I have to fumble with the front of my sundress until the whole thing is open and he can get his hand inside, and once it is it’s like a relief. He can get at all of me, now. He can play with my tight nipples as he eases back and forth in my slick cunt – slow and easy at first, but soon it’s fast. Soon it’s hard and reckless and I’m clutching at the arm he’s got across my belly, as he fucks into me. I’m urging him on, without words.

Dear God, there can’t be any words for this. There are just moans and guttural grunts and the occasional gasp, when he hits my G-spot just right or I clench a little too tightly around his thick cock. And they get louder, too, the longer this goes on. By the time he’s almost got me off the floor and over the bar – pounding me hard with one hand on my hip and the other on my throat – we’re like animals.

I’m so wet it’s running down my thighs; so turned on I might actually come just from the feel of him fucking into me. And then he gets a hand between my legs and slithers a finger over my swollen, slippery clit – and that’s it. I do come. I come shamelessly, unlike the day before. I cry out and let myself shake through it, without an ounce of caring in me.

No – it’s only afterwards that I care. That I realise what I’ve done, what I’ve let myself become. If I was an easy, quick-to-orgasm little slut yesterday, what must I seem like now? I didn’t even care whether he wore a condom or not. He could be creaming into my filthy little whore’s pussy as I realise all of this – and the thought isn’t half as awful as it should be.

In fact, it excites me. I hear him coming, I feel him coming – all jerky and as uncontrolled as I was, a moment before – and I thrill with the idea of him filling me up.

And then it’s over, and we’re back in the land of condom-wearing and shame-experiencing. I mean, of course he wore a rubber. He wouldn’t fuck a thing like me without one and even if he did, there’s still that expression on his face that I’m just waiting for. I’ll turn around and it’ll be there, that mix of disdain and incredulity.

Only when I actually do, his face is not as I remember it. The crease is between his brows, true enough – and that perfect upper lip is curled. But I can’t quite make the expression fit into the box marked Magazine Model. It doesn’t go with this season’s version of Ripe Contempt.

Instead, I see it anew. I feel it anew, as hot as the sun on my skin, as bright as its light in the sky.

He’s not disgusted that I would do something like this. He’s amazed that I would let him. That’s what this is: amazement. I just misread it, because of all the years I’ve spent studying the covers, instead of the contents.

I don’t think he saw daylight for the better part of a year, Lily says, in my head. And then I speak, to make up for all the things I didn’t say before. For all the things he obviously can’t.

‘More,’ I tell him. ‘Make me feel it. Make me burn.’