Trust Me to Know You (7 page)

“I do charity stuff too, you know,” he reassured me. “I’m not without a benevolent side. Tell me more about Gemma Marshall,” he looked directly into my eyes, piercing me.

I dreaded personal conversations, what did I say? I kept to the safe topic of my family. Loving and supportive and close to my protective big brother. I visited my parents occasionally but I
did not depend on them emotionally or financially since university. I was keen to point out to Jason
my independence. Graduating with a good degree, I
had been a model student. Like him, I thought I had not fitted with the typical student mob. There had been very little alcohol imbued on my part and “a number of trivial dates, most were too immature for me,” I revealed.

Trivial dates. Not entirely true. I had not been promiscuous, nevertheless, I had been horny for sex and I had selected my partners carefully to avoid bad experiences. My parents had spent all their savings putting me through university and I could not bear to fail their generosity. When deadlines and exams approached, I had concentrated on my studies, putting aside my liaisons and bedroom frolics. When the pressure had eased off, I returned to bars and pubs with my friends and courted the attention of other students.

I took precautions. I had insisted on condoms in addition to my birth control pill and I tried to avoid first night sleepovers. Can we meet again? Perhaps next week? I had used standard phrases to put off until I was sure they were decent blokes worthy of intercourse with me. Students were generally sweet, cerebral and would make you coffee in the morning. I did not go with the locals. They had notched up scores on their headboards, boasted in the toilets, and then scrawled your name amongst the lewd graffiti.

When I did rein myself in, it had been in my second year. The novelty of having sex, without lying to my parents about my whereabouts, had worn off. I had a small clique of friends who formed my study group and revision buddies. My flatmates in my tiny digs were rarely in the building and I had the TV to myself most nights. I had become deliciously studious and kept to my deadlines. My tutors had been impressed and given me extra sessions if I had struggled with a topic.

The computer suite in the university had become my haunt with late nights designing and building programmes, the closest skill I had
to being artistic. When I did have sex with a
man, it had not been with the typical undergraduates. I had had them spill inside me during the first year and they had ceased to thrill me. Post-graduates had intrigued, as did mature students who had travelled, worked or seen something of life. Their sexual experience had showed through. That had been increasingly what I had sought - men who took me to bed and explored my sensual side.

I had one fling with a lecturer. I had gone to his study room to discuss my latest assignment and the hour was late. His room had been surprisingly uncluttered with the usual piles of paper, journals and books. The desk was practically clear and the shelves had books neatly arranged by subject. By his window was a leather armchair, mauled at the edges. It appeared to be well liked and used by him. With the blinds drawn, we had spent two hours talking. First about my essay, then the course, the university and eventually our extra curricula activities.

He was charming. Legs crossed and leaning back, he had ribbed his departmental colleagues with little shame. He tore strips off the students who had fallen short of his high standards and had handed in shoddy work.

“Not you, Gemma. You're a star,” he had said ingratiatingly.

I had blushed and examined the grey lino floor, which showed the scuffmarks from the heels of his black patent leather shoes. Later, I found out why they were there. He had leaned forward to kiss my face as I perched on the plastic chair opposite his leather one. “OK? Don't mind if I bolt the door?” I had shaken my head and he came back to stand over me. The kissing had continued, then groping with his fingers down my knickers and then he had retrieved a condom from his top drawer. I did not question the readily available contraception, just grateful he had them handy.

I had stripped from the waist down and he lowered me on to the leather seat. Legs up and over the high arms, head scrunched into the back of the deep seat, I had realised, belatedly, he used the piece of furniture as his perfect fucking apparatus. His shoe heels had squeaked on the lino as he added further scuffmarks to the collection. Grunting, sweating and his hair flopping over his eyes, I had been squashed and dragged back and forth on the perspiration covered leather until my exposed skin felt raw with the friction and heat. I did not orgasm. I had been uncomfortable and by the time he had filled the condom, my insides were sore too.

He had helped me redress, offering me tissues and a glass of water. I had fumbled with my words, unsure if he wanted me to thank him. He had simply unbolted his door and combed back his hair, sending me on my way with a gentle swipe of my bottom. After that, I had only visited his room in the busy hours of the day. I had judged him right; he had sought conquests. He did not ask me to join him again and he had barely registered me as we drifted past each other in the long corridors.

I looked down at my knife and fork resting on my plate. I could not bear to look into Jason’s eyes in case he could read my rambling memories and wanted to know the details of my sordid little past.

“You gave up a good job to come and work at my company, why?” He was persistent.

“Good job doesn’t necessary mean an interesting one,” I told him a half-truth.

“I see,” he said mechanically.

I did not think he did though. How could he? I had not revealed to him that many of my evenings and weekends were far more interesting than my last job. My past was shrouded and hidden from him. I may have spoken about my employment history and my family but he had not managed to prise open my private life to reveal what lurked behind my façade of apathy.

There was no discussion about Sunday evening either. No mention of humiliating black books, notches on headboards or sexual needs. The assumption had been made and understood between us, I was there for sex and he did not need to chat me up or ply me with romantic prose to have me in his bed. As if to make the point valid, he spoke up.

“Well enough chit chat,” said Jason pushing his chair back. “Let’s to bed.”

***

The first night nerves had gone.

“
Strip
!”

Jason was commanding me now, without any please or thank you, and I did not question why he behaved in a rigorous fashion with me. I quickly complied, happy to divest my underwear too and stand naked in front of him.

“You are one hot babe. Why aren’t the boys lining up to fuck your body I just don’t know,” he said gazing at my body longingly.

I blushed with pride. I was slender though curvy and my breasts were a good size, plump and rounded. Hair was brunette and mid-length, eyes light green. He looked at the top of my thighs.

“Um, I prefer it completely smooth down there,” he waved a finger at my pubic hair.

I blushed crimson, I had let it grow back over the last few months, no need to keep it trim.

“Oh I will sort it for next time.” I sounded desperate to please. “There will be a next time?” I realised I did not know where we were going with our newly created relationship and I wanted the ambiguity cleared up. I was not going to spend another week filled with doubt. Jason Lucas either wanted to spend time with me or not.

Jason stood there, while he was still fully clothed, looking at my naked body, with his lips pursed and arms folded across his chest.

“Well I think I’m going to want to fuck you quite a lot looking like that. So let’s say it is worth you getting well waxed and shaved for me,” he smiled. “Sure, babe, let’s get to it.”

For a moment, I stared back at him and gave myself the
opportunity to absorb him. I liked to have a few seconds to take in the atmosphere, the scenario and what it would entail. I
was not one for love at first sight or even the necessity for finding my bedfellow physically attractive. In my extraordinary past, I had been with many men who outwardly did nothing for me on first meeting and then gave me a fantastic time between the sheets. What had attracted me to them was inside them, tucked away and out of sight from the visual range. I could sense it being there though. A magnetic pull reaching out and grabbing me wholly and completely. With Jason, I felt it again. With it came the additional pleasure of finding him physically appealing, but there was that something else about him that was alluring and drawing me toward him.

An hour later, I was lying panting on the bed and sticky mess between my legs. Crikey, Jason knew his positions too. Folded, bent, astride, standing we had
moved about the bed and room as he fucked me. It
did not feel like love-making, too frantic and necessary for that word. As he was in the workplace, he was totally in control,
constantly stopping and starting so I never reached my climax until he wanted me to come. In a short space of
time,
he seemed to have become vastly knowledgeable about my sexual profile. Eager, daring, rough and a willing receptacle
for his own pleasure.

His own expertise was incredible. The man knew how to have sex as if he was a walking
encyclopaedia
. I was used to experienced lovers but they generally stuck to a couple of positions for the duration.
We had started with the lovely calm lotus position, him cross-legged
and me astride him. The gentle build up
did not last long once he knew I was wet and could easily take him. He had moved about me and before I could catch my breath he had scissored me, then rode me cowboy style with my legs pressed together. He had penetrated me shallowly and without difficulty.

~

“Stand up,” he said removing his erection from me.

I had been stopped close to my orgasm and I scowled a fraction at him.

“Come on,” he cajoled.

With incredible ease, he lifted me up. “Wrap your legs around me,” he instructed and with a little jiggling around, I was lowered on to him.

“Oh my!” I said shakily.

Up and down I went on him and he was strong. I did not feel his legs give under me and his face was serene as he concentrated on keeping his balance. Yet again, he halted just as I was building up to a finale.

“Oh please,” I muttered.

“Is this too challenging for you, Gemma?” he asked with a wicked grin on his face.

“No, not at all,” I said defiantly.

“Good,” he said lying me back on the bed.

The next thing I knew my feet were bent back by my ears and my bum stuck up ready for him –
Ooo the Viennese oyster!
I
was not especially flexible and he had to hold my ankles to stop me unfolding.

“I’ve got to hold you still,” he said as he lowered back in me. “OK?”

I did not mind his restraining hands and I nodded back and shut my eyes. That time I was brought to completion by him and his pace was frenetic.

“I’m coming!” I wailed and as I did,
his thumbs pressed hard into the upturned soles of my feet. Pain shot through my feet
, resulting in me screaming for a second and in response, he eased off with his grip. My orgasm rocketed unperturbed by intrusive thumbs. Releasing me, he seemed satisfied even though he had not achieved his own climax.

He sat himself up on the bed next to me, his clothes had been swiftly removed during a brief warm up of kissing and tonguing. He was stroking his cock, almost absentmindedly as I recovered from my orgasm.

“I think, Miss Marshall, you need to clean me.”

I gaped at him and my jaw hung down.

“Yep, that’s right, mouth open for me,” he leant back.

I crawled across the expanse of bed and knelt next to him. He took my hair in hand and dragged my head down to meet his now growing erection.

“You’ve done this before?” he belatedly asked me.

“Yes, yes,” I was perhaps too eager. At some point, he would want to know where all this previous experience comes from.

Gathering the saliva in my mouth, I
opened wide to take him. I lingered on the head of his gorgeously hard penis, running my tongue in loops around the edge. Gradually I descended and
I surprised him as I sucked him deep and hard. L
ooking at his face, I could see nothing but sheer delight. My gag reflex was
advantageously light. I had been well trained by his predecessors. He groaned, leant his head back and released my hair. H
e knew I was good on my own without guidance. I took my time, teasing him with my tongue and teeth occasionally. I allowed as much of him inside my mouth as I could tolerate and sucked harder. My
hands moved around his exposed shaft as my mouth came back to concentrate on his
hard tip. There was a veneer of hair around his base, a darker bush of blondness, curly and soft. I stroked my fingers through it as my mouth sunk back down, I could barely manage the whole of him. Perhaps I teased him too much and he suddenly pulled on my hair again.

“No not like this I want to see your face. On top of me now.” He was really sounding like the big boss again.

I sunk on to him, stretching and angling for maximum penetration and as he held my hips steady,
we started to move, hips rolling and rotating. The wonderful grinding and bouncing that the position afforded to me was captivating. A rare delight to be there for so long and I revelled in the fact that I was directing the pace and mood for once.
His face was close before me. C
hiselled masculine features with a trickle of sweat on his upper lip, while his hair was damp and ruffled by my earlier exploratory hands.

Those eyes were the only part of his face that seemed to change his expression. They had a remarkable ability to change in intensity according to the ambient light or his own internal emotions. Windows to his mind, I wondered. The rest of him seemed to be ever fixed in an impassive, controlled expression. Why would he not
show his feelings to me? I shut my eyes, unable to fathom him out or decide whether he was truly enjoying my rising and falling pattern of movements.