In Too Deep (30 page)

People look at us. They look at us a lot. I still think they wonder what that old bird is doing with the gorgeous young hunk, but I don’t care any more. I pretty much stopped caring altogether very soon after Edward and I started seeing each other. And fucking each other. And doing all the other things we do together. Apart from the fact that his face is smooth and unlined, and his body is like a male supermodel’s, he doesn’t seem like a younger man to me. He’s in charge. He’s authority personified. He knows the world.

There’s a very impressive and disproportionately loud firework display going on now, and people are filtering outside to watch it. Edward winks at me, takes my glass from my hand and leads me out into the hall.

Oh. Game on. Desire charges through my veins and races to my pussy. He nods towards the stairs and urges me up them, touching my bottom as we go up. Just the simple contact makes me want to clutch myself, I’m so turned on. I can barely believe it.

He scans the landing, and we turn right along a corridor. Ahead of us, we see one of the groomsmen, a tall, fit individual I might have yearned for if I’d never met Edward. What the hell is he up to? All of a sudden, he opens a door that seems to lead to a cupboard of some kind, then slips inside, with a secret smile upon his face.

Edward gives me a secret smile of his own. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s find a cupboard of our own, eh?’

This is a rambling house, and exploring more corridors and a staircase brings us to a door that’s slightly ajar. Confidently pushing it open, Edward steps inside then beckons me to follow.

It’s an old study, someone’s private retreat. Small and cluttered, and a bit dusty, it’s still cosy in its own way. There are books around the walls, and a couple of old leather armchairs that nearly fill the space. On a sideboard, there’s a candelabra, set with fresh, never-lit candles. As I step forward into the room, Edward crosses behind me to turn the key in the lock. I spin around and his eyes are narrowed yet glinting as he runs his gaze over my body.

If I wasn’t already primed, I would be now. The way he looks at me seems to own me, and I love that. His scrutiny lingers over my breasts, and my crotch, and when he tips his head, it’s an unspoken indication that I should turn around and show him more.

‘That arse of yours, love. I’ll never get tired of it, you know. Never ever.’ There’s such honesty in his voice, real enthusiasm. He loves to play the master, but he doesn’t fool about with feigning disinterest and aloofness. He never hides the fact he’s really into it. ‘Come on, show me the goods, you sexy creature.’

Craning to look at him over my shoulder, I ease up my slim skirt, the glide of the silk lining a subtle caress and also a lick of simmering heat over my bottom. The places where he hit me earlier have settled now, but there’s still heightened sensitivity and subtle fire there.

‘Lean over. Put your hands on the chair arms, and brace yourself.’

I obey him, my heart fluttering. God, I love to show myself to him in this kind of blatant and faux demeaning way. It doesn’t actually demean me – it’s really the opposite – but the sense of theatre in it excites me as well as him.

He comes over to stand behind me, and nudges my heels apart with the toe of his polished dress shoe. As my thighs separate, I feel the sticky folds of my sex part as well. My thong is sodden, has been for hours, and the odour of my arousal seems to fill the room.

In an action of ownership, Edward thrusts two fingers into my sex. ‘Always ready . . . I love that. I love that you’re so horny, sweetheart.’

Only for you . . . only for you . . .

I bear down on the intrusion. I love it that I’m so horny too. I love that this beautiful young man has come into my life and switched everything on to full power that was only ticking over before. Right now, I don’t care that it’s probably only a temporary situation. Knowing Edward – and yes, loving him too – has given me the gift of being able to live for the day, for the moment.

‘Oh, you like that, don’t you?’ he whispers, leaning over me, the smooth cloth of his jacket sliding over my bottom. With his breath whispering against the back of my neck, he parts his two fingers to stretch me. My pussy ripples around them and my clit swells and pulses.

‘Answer me,’ he growls softly, flexing his fingers even more and making me gasp and moan in my throat.

‘I like it.’ I force out the words as he tests me, pushing me and making me rise on my toes.

‘And would you like it if I put something else inside you?’ Push, push, push . . .

‘Yes. Anything,’ I answer boldly.

‘And how about in your arse? The same?’

‘Yes . . . the same . . . in my arse.’ With his free hand he slips a finger under the ribbon that bisects my buttocks and flicks lightly at my anus, syncopating the touches with the thrust of his fingers inside me.

I can hardly breathe. I can hardly think. I can only anticipate, and feel intoxicated by luscious sexual anxiety.

‘Good girl . . . good girl . . .’ He continues to fondle me and plague me. I want to tell him to get on with it, to do his worst. But he’ll do things in his time. He’s in charge. He always will be.

And yet I can’t stop myself from moving, hitching about, tensing and stretching. This pose is killing the backs of my legs, but in my ever-gathering anticipation I barely notice the discomfort. It’s like being a mechanism that tightens, tightens, tightens, ready to discharge its energy in a huge, frightening burst.

‘Be careful, slave,’ he warns softly, still working me. The words are stern, but there’s that softer, more tender note again.

That’s what makes me come. It’s too much. Too sweet. Too great a pleasure. Unable to contain or control myself, I pitch forward in the chair, face first into the cushions, resting on one elbow while with the other I reach down disobediently and press on my pulsing clit to sweeten the moment. My hand jostles Edward’s where it’s down between my legs.

He doesn’t reprimand me, or go all ‘master’ on me. He just works with me, through the furore, making things better for me with his clever, loving fingers.

‘Well, that didn’t work out quite how I planned,’ he says at length.

I’m sort of in a heap in the chair, crumpling my posh suit and ruining my make-up yet again by burying my face in the cushions. I feel a bit teary and I’m hiding it from him, although I suspect he can probably tell. He’s perched on the chair arm beside me, and he’s stroking my dishevelled hair slowly.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be, baby . . .’ His hand pauses, and he tucks a few thick wayward strands of hair behind my ears. Lord knows what’s happened to the hairdo that cost me a fortune. I must look like a well-dressed bag lady by now. ‘I like to see you having fun. I like to feel it.’

I roll over, trying to sit straight and adjust my skirt to make myself half-way decent, but he stops me. Quite gently, but he still prevents me from covering myself up.

‘No, don’t hide it yet.’ His blue eyes gleam. ‘When I said things didn’t quite turn out how I planned, that doesn’t mean I’ve given up altogether.’

Oh, there’s that delicious thread in his voice again. Command. Confidence. Control. Even though I’ve come so much already today, I start to want again. Want him. Want . . . want whatever. With him. I risk a slight smile, then unfold myself from the chair, and assume the position again. In readiness.

‘Good God,’ he breathes, ‘You are a very special woman.’ For a moment, he’s quiet and awestruck, and then it’s like a cloak of power falls back over him and he’s all business again. All sex.

‘And you have a very special arse too,’ he observes, beginning to fondle me there again. ‘A very fine arse. An arse that should have things done to it.’ He pats and plays around the little vent between my buttocks for a moment, and then pauses and reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A second later I feel something cool and slippery being poured between my bottom cheeks, saturating the string of my thong.

‘Oh, so that’s what you mean by coming prepared,’ I snip at him, forgetting my role, but he just laughs and continues to lube me.

Oh, it’s exciting. This feeling. The wondering. The waiting. We’ve played like this often enough before, but somehow my brain seems to forget how it’s going to feel, how it’s going to go. It’s always new. Always a cause for apprehension and longing in equal parts. And it always makes me moan, and gasp and pant.

‘Steady,’ he whispers, firm yet sensitive to my chaos. He slides his sticky hand up beneath my bunched skirt and rubs the small of my back like a trainer calming a skittish horse, then, still rubbing, he reaches away.

A second later, I realise what he was reaching for. There’s firm pressure on my anus, something quite narrow but unforgiving, not a part of Edward.

The absolute devil! He’s pushing one of the unused candles into my bottom!

Everything surges inside me. Messages along my nerves, pumping hormones and juice, feelings, sensations. I gasp harder, fight for control as he penetrates my rear with the candle.

I hate it. I love it. I can’t bear it. I want more.

And all the time he murmurs, ‘Steady, steady . . .’ to calm my struggles.

He inserts it just an inch or two, not a long way, and just leaves it there. My crazed innards don’t know what they want to do. My pussy is awash, slick and flowing, my own lubrication, rather than the artificial kind, streaming down the insides of my thighs and wetting the tops of my hold-up stockings.

With the candle still inside me, he starts to play. Both with me and with himself. I hear the smooth whir of his zip and I know he’s got his cock out, even though my eyes are tight shut to help me cope with the overloading of my senses.

He fingers my clit. He pushes a digit inside my vagina. He gives my bare bottom one or two lazy slaps, stirring the heat there. Quite at his leisure, he alternates these various attentions, although he returns most frequently to my clitoris, fondling and petting it.

I’m sobbing now, at my wit’s end, but happy with it. The sob sharpens to a wail as he pinches my clit lightly and compels me to come, setting the candle bobbing in and out as my pussy clenches.

With difficulty, I hold my position. I barely know what I’m doing apart from being rocked on waves of dark sweet pleasure.

As if from a great distance, I hear the small distinctive sounds of a condom being unwrapped, and a second or two later, I feel the brush of his latex-covered cock against the under-hang of my bottom.

‘Decisions, decisions.’ His voice is sweet with humour, deliciously devilish. ‘Cunt? Arse? Cunt? Arse?’ It’s like he’s a boy choosing a hand for that hidden marble. And then he ends the debate, makes his choice, and I feel the candle slide out of me. Then I hear it hit the carpet as he flings it away.

More pressure on the tender, resisting hole. And this time the intrusion is bigger. - bigger than a candle. He pushes in and my senses riot again; dangerous, forbidden, transgressive messages fly about inside me. But as he forges on, he’s still gentling and soothing me with soft words, soft caresses. He holds me steady and rubs my clit as he starts to thrust.

I’m not soft though. I shout and blaspheme, out of my mind with pleasure. I buck about, collapsing again, grabbing at his hand, holding it between my legs, forcing him to fondle me and pleasure my clitoris, and to go on and on doing it as I come wildly, my entire lower body pulsing and clamping and rippling in furious, kinetic movement.

He holds on. He fights for control. But eventually loses it too. His voice is hoarse and passionate as he pumps and climaxes in my bottom. His words are twisted, but I understand them, and my joy is doubled.

A while later, we stagger out of the little study and manage to find a bathroom that doesn’t have a queue of waiting guests. Even though they’re all filtering back in from the firework display now, heading for the main ballroom and the disco.

We tidy up. We calm down. We exchange hugs and smiles like an entirely normal couple. Maybe we are a normal couple, for all our quirks and our disparate ages? In the aftermath of stormy passion, all is tranquil, all is easy. It’s as if we’ve been together decades, comfortable yet still adoring.

The music’s good and we dance, bopping about with the best of them. People seem to have got used to us as an item. Smiles abound. When the slow tunes come along, we drift into each other’s arms, to smooch.

‘So, weddings,’ whispers Edward in my ear after a song or two. ‘Big, lavish affairs . . . or small, intimate registry office jobs with a few folk round the pub afterwards?’

I almost freeze on the dance floor, but he buoys me up, keeping me moving to the rhythm, strong and unwavering.

Am I imagining things? Is he asking what I think he’s asking?

‘Are you asking what I think you’re asking?’ I didn’t mean the words to come out loud but they have.

‘Yep,’ he says, his hand on the small of my back, gentling me as he did before when he was doing wicked, naughty things to my bottom. ‘I’m asking.’

I should weigh things up, think things through, consider this carefully, but instead I just say, ‘Yes!’

‘Brilliant!’ he answers, then kisses me, long and sweet and hard.

When we break apart he smiles and asks again, ‘So, small affair or big and lavish?’

I laugh and kiss his cheek. I don’t care which, but I answer,

‘Lavish!’ in his ear.

‘Good girl,’ he whispers, and moving closer, we slow-dance on . . .