Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 11

  ‘Stop’ is the word I hear in my head, but he touches me so delicately I think I will come apart. ‘Enough,’ I say silently.

  Unconsciously, I’m pulling his hands away and starting to fight him.

  “Beth, it’s ok. Look at me.”

  I turn my face from the wall and meet his kind face, there’s a softness there like that of a long-time lover, a forgotten memory, and it soothes me.

  “You’re safe with me.” He releases my hands and I rest my fingers in his hair: this is a safe place, a place I know. His hand cups me and I move my body to meet it. When he slides a finger inside me, I fold in around his exploring hand: we move in unison.

  “Good girl, let’s see how sensitive you are.”

  Oh …

  “You’re so wet my fingers are all over the place. Is this normal for you?”

  “Normal,” I pant.

  “So tight and moist.” He slides in a second finger and moves them in and out in a slow, rhythmic dance that I rock and arch to follow.

  “I suppose so. “

  “You know, I’m so hard for you, I could slide right inside you and you’d hardly even notice.”

  I pant more. “Oh I’d notice.”

  His hot breath brushes against my thighs. “You’d notice, but it would be so easy.”

  “Then do it.”

  He’s moving his head very slowly from left to right. “No not yet, you’re not ready.”

  “I though you said I was.”

  “Down here you are, but…” He’s climbing my body like a praying mantis, stopping only to kiss my forehead. “But up here you’re not.”

  “Aren’t you the expert?”

  The smile he gives me is simply indecent. “You have no idea. Close your eyes and relax while I slide into you, ready?”

  My head is moving up and down so enthusiastically he gives me a cheeky smile that only makes me want him more. I feel the push of his two fingers into my most private of places and arch my back to absorb the sensation. The fiery glow in my groin is so strong I grip his fingers so tight, he flinches.

  “Whoa … breath into it … wait for the spark.”

  I’m so saturated, I think I can hear as well as feel his fingers pushing deeper. I arch my body higher. When his thumb finds my clitoris, I convulse into him.

  “Good, that’s it …”

  My senses are so over-stimulated and I come so hard onto his fingers that he calls out, but his words are drowned out by my breathless whimpers. The red-hot throbbing of my first orgasm with a man is unspeakably intense.

  He slides his fingers from my vagina in a single slippery movement and I want to pull him to me, either to thank him or to hide. I’m not sure which.

  “Fuck Beth, I think I just came on your sheets.” He kisses me with a ferocity I have never experienced before, kisses fuelled by lust and pure desire. “When’s the last time a guy got you off?”

  I can only manage a whisper, “There’s never been a last time.”

  He’s shocked. “Never?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then I think you’ve got some catching up to do.” He repositions himself; his head is on my stomach, his right hand is caressing my pubic hair. “Let’s do that again, I want to get to know your body.”

  My body!

  If it could speak it would tell him, he’s made an impressive introduction already! He’s like a teenage boy, full of sexual fervour and excitement, eager to repeat the process. But surely I haven’t the energy to do that again? When I feel his hands gently opening my thighs I find the strength from somewhere.

  “I want to do this right, tell me what you want.” I know where this is coming from. ‘I want to be the best,’ he had said.

  Surely not at everything?

  “You’re doing pretty well without any help from me Ayden,” I gasp, feeling his thumb circling my clitoris.

  “Count back from ten, and then come.”

  “From ten?” I’m already panting.

  “Come on, you can do it, make it last.”

  What!

  I can’t hold out until one! He’s playing my game. That’s so unfair.

  His game starts with “ten” and I pick up the countdown. By the time I get to four, waves are lapping around my ears. Three, and I can barely speak for gasping. Two and I’m about to spontaneously combust. One is an ecstatic blur.

  When I finally come down to earth, I’m breathless, whispering his name and fisting his hair.

  My God!

  After five minutes I regain some composure. He settles himself besides me, nuzzling into my ear and wiping the sweat from my brow.

  “Well, well … I’m pleased to report that you are a very responsive woman Miss Parker.”

  As hard as I try, I can’t stop grinning, inside and out. “Beginners luck.”

  Now he’s grinning. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

  We drag our exhausted bodies closer together and I hold on tight. We kiss and I can smell myself on him; when he strokes my face I want to say thank you but it’s unnecessary.

  He’s exhausted. He could count the hours of sleep he’s had in the past three days on two hands. I turn away from him and pull his left arm across me, kissing his hand. We spend the rest of the night spooning. We slot together perfectly, conjoined and connected.

  With no more than a name to go on, Dan Rizler pieces together a simple biography of his adversary. He’s got his work cut out; “Fuck me Stone you move around more than a ferret with fleas,” he says with a sneer, shocked at the 947,320 results that roll out before him on his aging computer screen. Ten minutes in and he realises his opponent will not be an easy guy to get close to. He doesn’t seem to have a routine that will put him in any given place at any given time. There is only one certainty, where ever he is, there she’ll be. Stone will have been around her long enough to know how special she is, and gone all out to steal her from him, making her forget the time they spent together.

  For a treat, he takes out the cardboard box hidden under shoes in his wardrobe; it’s about the size of a cereal packet, only a little deeper. “What have we here?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know.

  The film of dust that has formed across the lid is thick enough to write in; he drags his forearm over it, sending the dust particles cascading onto the floor like shards of broken glass. The contents are priceless; everything he stole from her is wrapped in newspaper and arranged in the box like buried treasure.

  To the outsider, the contents are innocent enough but, upon close inspection, they become a terrifying reminder of what happened on that unforgettable night.

  With unaccustomed tenderness, he peels back the yellowing newspaper and marvels at his cache; four items, small, inexpensive but worth more to him than the crown jewels. His eyes are unguarded, etched on his face are powerful emotions, tell-tale reactions to assorted tactile, visual, aural and fragrance filled images that would disgust any other person, but not him. He would be the first to admit it, to take it on the chin. The way he feels about his girl is beyond normal: she’s his obsession.

  He takes out her small shoulder bag; the chrome fastener has become tarnished and the nap of the black suede is flattened and faded. Even so, it’s soft to touch and when he strokes his face with it, he can imagine her tiny hand brushing against his chin, held in place at the wrist. With every item, comes a memory, a fantasy that makes his head spin and his cock twitch.

  Next is her Nokia 6230. It sits in the palm of his hand like a ten pack of cigarettes, not much heavier since he removed the battery. The screen has become opaque, like a square eye clouded over with an unsightly cataract. But, that doesn’t detract from its power to excite. Very softly, he brushes the buttons against his lips, some of the letters have faded but that doesn’t matter: his mouth is against her mouth. With his eyes close, he visualises her lips parting, meeting his, swollen from crying, aching to be kissed, supressing a helpless voice, pleading. He licks his lips and enjoys the feel of her responsi
veness. She knows she can’t fight him, can’t fight the urge and gives into him, gratefully accepting his advances. Her whimpers become defenceless moans of pleasure.

  Like leftovers from a jumble sale, the two items are displayed on his duvet waiting to be added to.

  Next: her small leather purse. It has fared better over the years. The patent leather has not lost its sheen. When he holds it up to the light, keeping his forefinger and thumb either side, he can see her fingerprints, imprints of nimble fingers and thumbs that trace the lines on his face, the stubble on his chin and the flexing muscles below. Every innocent stroke takes him closer to orgasm, leads him on to a fantasy world where he is king and she’s his princess.

  But, he’s saved the best until last. With trembling fingers he delves into the crumbling newspaper and lifts out a pair of white lacy panties, unwashed, untouched by hands other than his own. They are his best kept secret, his prize possession, the one item he stole from her apartment all those years ago. He could have taken anything, but he was drawn to the delicate lace, the pungent smell, the stained crutch, evidence of her arousal, her neediness. It all amounted to subtle seduction then, and nothing has changed in almost seven years.

  Never has one man envisaged so much from so little. He sits on the side of the bed, the three items draw his eye, laid out in a row, having served their purpose. The delicate, lacy fabric covers his left hand like a silk glove, resting over his mouth and beneath his nose. He inhales deeply and breathes her in. His other hand stokes and teases, until he is fully erect: hard flesh against a rough hand.

  With his eyes closed, he conjures up her ghostly image out of the darkness. “There you are, there’s my girl,” he whispers, almost tenderly. “Have you missed me? Yes? Good.”

  His movements quicken, his breathing becomes ragged and grunts of pleasure emanate from his throat. “My special girl’s been hiding from me, haven’t you, been playing hide and seek, but I’ve found you now and it’s time for us to play another game.”

  The images and the souvenirs combined are a powerful stimulant; he jerks himself off and falls backward onto the bed, utterly depleted. “My, my. I have to give it to you princess, you never disappoint.”

  6

  I wake to the sound of bread being flicked out of a toaster. My senses combine and the images in the present are overshadowed by images from my recent past. Last night’s events linger in my mind, just long enough to create a longing to do it all again.

  Ayden’s side of the bed is cold, so he must have been up for some time, doing God knows what. I dive into the shower and wash away that tell-tale smell of sex on my skin and catch myself in the mirror. It’s still me, but I detect a sparkle that wasn’t there a week ago and a rosy colour in my cheeks. I look as if I’ve had a tonic or a metabolic boost: it’s the Ayden Stone effect.

  I apply a little tinted moisturiser and lip balm, slip on a pair of Levis and a sky blue T-shirt, to match my eyes, quick dry my hair and tiptoe into my kitchen. Ayden has his bare back to me, his dark blue jeans are hug seductively low and he’s barefoot. Even from the back, he looks out of place: too refined, too sculptured for such a humble abode.

  He’s opened up the French doors and the October light is streaming in; my shadow-filled world is bathed in autumn sunlight, transforming it into a Garden of Eden. Ayden has taken me out of the darkness in every way and this feels like a symbolic gesture.

  I saunter over and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my breasts against him. “Good morning, have you been up long?”

  He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses my palm. “Only a couple of hours, I thought I’d let you sleep.” He turns and lifts me onto the work top so we are eye to eye. “You had a busy night.”

  I try to conceal my embarrassed smile but he plants a marmalade kiss on my lips and I’m no longer self-conscious.

  “This is true,” I reply, using a turn of phrase more suited to him than me. He hears the inflection in my voice and raises a brow before turning to face me.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Nothing, I’ll get some cereal, that’s all I want for now.” I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I’ll let you know if I want anything else.”

  “Please do.” He kisses my nose and returns to my laptop on the kitchen table.

  I switch on the kitchen iPod and flick though until I find JLo. ‘I’m into You’ plays in the background while I lean against the open doors eating cereal, moving to the beat and singing along. Does life get any better than this?

  When I look at Ayden, he’s engrossed in something and typing away frantically. I almost choke when I see the small, leather wallet sitting on the middle of the table. I tiptoed out in the early hours and slipped it into his overnight bag. I felt uneasy just having it in my possession, but I feel even more uneasy now it’s found its way back to me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask casually.

  “Checking emails and finishing some paperwork, I can remote access my desktop computer in my office.” He’s talking but still entirely focused on his work.

  “That’s cool.” I wiggle to the beat. ‘I’m into you.’

  “Yes, it’s very cool,” he smiles, swapping formality for my vernacular phrasing.

  I’m so content, humming, crunching and looking at this fine example of the male form partially clothed in my kitchen. I want to take a photograph, to capture the moment ... but he breaks my concentration.

  “Are you watching me, Miss Parker? Am I being assessed?” He doesn’t even lift his head. Does he have a sixth sense?

  “No, not assessing. Just enjoying.”

  “Me too.” He raises his eyes to meet mine and smiles that smile. I stop spooning food into my mouth and feel my heart racing. Does he know he has this effect on me? ‘I’m into you ...’ Of course he does.

  The music stops and I place down the remaining cereal on the worktop. “Will you be working all day?” I enquire casually. “Or do you want to do something?”

  “I’ve already made plans.”

  “Oh, ok then, maybe we can meet up later?” I sound desperate. Did last night mean so little to him?

  “I’m taking you shopping.” He slams down the laptop lid and pushes it aside.

  “Oh, Shopping? Shopping for what?” I take a seat.

  “For clothes, for you, for Rome.” He places down his palms onto the table and his fingertips touch the leather wallet.

  All I can hear is ‘clothes,’ ‘Rome.’ Clearly my expression is as good as a thousand words.

  “You already have the tickets, remember? We just need to check our diaries, choose a date and synchronise our watches.”

  “Well, my diary is pretty full,” I tease. “I’m not sure I can fly off to Rome just like that.” My broad smile belies my words.

  “Then go get it and we’ll confer,” he orders, flicking out his smart phone.

  “OK, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” I smile cheekily.

  “Oh, you’ve already seen mine.” He holds up his smart phone for added theatricality.

  “Yes I have,” I say, biting my lip. “And very nice it was too.” I hear myself saying the words but feel myself blushing.

  “You’re very bold this morning, Miss Parker. Are you up to the ‘b’s’ in your new book?”

  “Only just, although I keep getting stuck in the ‘A’s’ You know, ankle, arse, and arousal.” I try my hardest to force a seductive stare and the quickness of his breath tells me I’ve hit the target: bullseye. I saunter over to him and sit across his lap, positioning myself between his firm abdomen and the table.

  “What do you think I’ll find in the ‘b’s’ Ayden, any ideas?”

  He outstretches his hands. “You’re the one with the English degree, why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Well, there’s ‘breath.” I kiss him softly and allow the hot breath from my body to caress his lips. “There’s ‘bottom.” I slide his right hand under my right buttock. “And let’s not forget being bold.
That’s your favourite, I think.” I feel his grip tightening around my cheek and his fingers reaching out in all directions like a wayward compass.

  “I don’t have a favourite, Beth. It’s all amazing with you.”

  A complement indeed, for one as inexperienced as me.

  I feel his hand gripping my neck, forcing our mouths together. Breathless, I try to speak. “So who am I now - Beth or Elizabeth. I can be either one for you or both at the same time - we know that don’t we?”

  “Yes we do.” His tongue finds my mouth, searching for moisture and acceptance.

  I take his wondrous face in my hands and hold him still. “I know what you’ve done, Mr. Stone.”

  “Oh really, what have I done Miss Parker?” He’s fisting my hair and pulling me to him with increasing intensity.

  “You’ve brought me back to life, no less: kissed me and woken me from my sleep.”

  “No I haven’t, you were only hibernating, sitting out a cold spell. Anyway, what does it matter?” He lifts my left leg over, so I’m straddling him; he’s becoming hot and restless beneath me.

  “It matters to me.” I pull away from him. “I need you to hear this Ayden.”

  He’s twisting his head to find my mouth.

  “Be good. Listen. You know, the Dom/Sub thing, I get it now and I’ve read up on it - but my... our version of it is, well, it’s a pale imitation compared to some of the stuff I’ve seen.” I blow out a gust of air and look to the heavens. “You and I both know I could never cause you pain.” I think he’s listening so I continue. “OK, I might buy some toys, but that’s all they are, toys.”

  He scraping back my hair, examining my face, planning where his next kiss is going to land.

  “Ayden! Focus!” Now I have his attention, but I’m looking at a frown. “So I think I know what you’ve done.”

  He leans back in the chair. “Alright, I’m listening. What have I done?”

  “You’re a planner, a strategist that’s the way you make your money. You make lists, you tick things off: Elizabeth, submission. That must have been one you haven’t had to tick off before?”