After Hours: Black Lace Classics (8 page)

And Micky gave it. Through half-open eyes Venny was aware of someone – a girl – passing the lift as she went downstairs, and pausing for a moment to look at the enticing scene inside it; the man on his knees, his
head buried between the wide-spread legs of the naked, gasping woman.

This is crazy, thought Venny, but she could feel the mad pleasure building and building as he lapped at her, eagerly cramming his fingers now into her wide-open and willing cunt, pumping wildly at her as if he was using his penis, his lovely stiff penis, and not just his hand.

A couple passed by on the stairs, pausing to smile and point at the lovers in the lift. Venny saw them, was scandalised at her own reckless behaviour, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t, not when these glorious feelings were overtaking her, changing her into the
houri
, the man-eater, the wildcat she only ever was in her darkest dreams. Now, with Micky giving her cunnilingus, right now she enjoyed their startled, eager eyes upon her naked, heaving breasts, enjoyed the fact that she could see the watching man had come erect, that the woman’s eyes were avid with arousal. The couple passed on and were gone, and at that instant she came in hot, crashing waves of release, shrieking with pleasure. Micky’s hand squeezed her thinly concealed mound and she came again, instantly, and kept coming until the unreal feelings of sublime ecstasy were gone and she was left there panting in the lift, with this laughing-eyed stranger who was now standing up and kissing her lips so that she tasted herself on his tongue.

‘Oh God,’ said Venny weakly when they finally broke apart. Coming back down to earth, she realised that she felt a little cold; quickly she bent and tugged up the
thong and the transparent purple harem pants, aware of him lustfully watching the heavy swing of her breasts as she moved.

‘Your nipples are still sticking out,’ Micky observed in a voice roughened by passion.

‘I’m cold,’ Venny excused herself.

‘I could warm you up.’ He kissed her hotly, stirring her again in a way that she could not quite believe possible. ‘And why did you pull your pants up? What makes you think I’ve finished with you? I haven’t come inside you yet.’

Venny glanced down the front of his body and saw the hard jut of his cock under his trousers. She had a momentary vision of her hands unzipping him, letting his cock spring naked and hot into her hands. He wasn’t, she thought, wearing underpants. His penis would be bare. And what colour would it be? Brown or white or red or even purple in its passion? Venny groaned lightly, unable to stifle it, and looked up to see that he had read her thoughts.

‘You want it,’ he murmured, coming closer. ‘Come on, Venny,’ he whispered coaxingly. ‘Push your pants down. Let me in. Let me fuck you now.’ His lips were leaving a trail of kisses upon her shoulders and on her throat. She shivered with arousal. ‘I’ll fuck you hard, Venny. I’ll fuck you until you can hardly stand, and then I’ll lay you on the floor right here and bring you off so hard you’ll think World War Three’s started. What do you say?’

What Venetia Halliday said, to Micky Quinn’s absolute shock, was no. Even when he woke up the next morning in his little Whitstable base, yanking back the curtains to stare accusingly at the grey ocean as it churned up onto the pebbled beach not twenty yards away, he could still not quite believe it. He wasn’t the type of guy to think he was God’s gift to womankind, but even so his pride was hurt. He was, after all, an excellent cocksman, and she’d certainly enjoyed herself in the lift, and so, not surprisingly, he had thought that her answer would be yes. Or even yes, please.

But she had said no.

Damn.

He glared at the gulls, dipping and spinning in the hot shrieking blue of the summer sky. He glared at the fishermen’s boats, which were hauled up along the beach. Some of the men were mending nets. Others sat and smoked and talked. He exhaled, releasing his pent-up irritability as he always could when he was here. He
loved this place; it had always felt like home to him. All right, it was little more than a shack that had been passed down through the mostly impoverished Quinn family for years. The hut had been changing hands within the Quinn clan long before Whitstable had become the chic weekend retreat it now was for Londoners – long before he had even been born, much less dreamed of being a chef, of owning his own restaurant. Or chain of restaurants, better yet.

He wasn’t normally the type of guy to brood, either. That was brother Caspar’s bag, not his. He was happy-go-lucky, cheery, the life and soul of every party. But as he stood there naked and looked out at the pounding surf and the sky and the birds and the fishermen, he felt far from his usual happy bunny state.

She’d said no.

And dammit, he had really wanted her to say yes, because, OK, he fancied her like crazy. But he did have another angle. Her pal had filled him in on the dirt about the restaurant she owned. The bank had turned her down on Monday for a loan, and her chef had walked, taking her staff with him.

Well, snap, he thought. The bank had turned him down on Monday too. That had really pissed him off. He had sussed out a good little place in the West End that he could convert and get up and running. He had worked out a business plan, and he hated working out business plans. He had even forced himself to be appropriately obsequious to that pain-in-the-arse bank manager, and he loathed having to kiss arse.

So here he was, standing in his one single asset, this hut on the seafront, without a business of his own or a job working for someone else. He would have to settle – he knew this and accepted it as a thoroughly bitter pill – for working for someone else. But there was Venny, and where was the harm in combining a little business with a whole lot of pleasure? It could all work out so well. He was a chef; she needed a chef. Perfect.

But when he’d hinted pretty heavily that he was free, she had blanked him. And then, after he’d pleasured her in the lift, she had cut him dead again.

Incredible.

But hey, are we downhearted? he asked himself briskly.

He thought about that.

Well, yes, actually we are, he admitted. In fact, we are very pissed off indeed with that uptight hyper-controlled bitch Venetia Halliday, OK? She’d told him to post the cheque on, and then she’d punched the button to take them back up to her floor, and she’d stepped out, leaving him cold.

Amazing.

And for now he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do about it. None whatsoever.

‘Hey, lover?’ said a soft female voice from the bed. ‘What’s so interesting out there, hm?’

Shaking Venny Halliday from his mind – if only temporarily – Micky turned back to the bed. There, dishevelled from sleep, lay the blonde vampette from Flora and Caspar’s flatwarming party. She smiled
seductively up at him, and her eyes strayed down his body with every sign of appreciation.

‘I like the flame,’ she said huskily.

‘What? Oh.’ Micky caught up suddenly. ‘Oh, this.’ He swivelled and glanced down at the inch-long flame tattoo on his left buttock. Then he straightened and grinned at her. ‘I was seventeen when I had that done in Soho. I was a bit drunk too. In fact, it pretty much came as a surprise when I woke up with it the next morning.’

‘I bet all the women love it,’ said the vampette, sitting up without bothering to pull the sheets up with her.

Micky smiled at her. She was extremely pretty and petite everywhere except in the tits department. Now those had definitely come off the peg, he thought. No way were they for real. He’d noticed last night when he was busy mounting her that they didn’t move by a centimetre while he pumped away, and that was a sure sign of plastic pulchritude. Micky held very liberal views on breasts, as he did on most things. He liked them in all shapes and sizes and colours, and if they were plastic – well, that was OK. The only thing he really hated was those cheaty little bra inserts that made everything look more promising than it really was. By the end of the evening, when the bra came off, a guy couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

His little vampette was also a dyed blonde, but he didn’t mind at all that the hair on her head didn’t match that between her short but shapely legs. It was kind of sexy. She’d been hanging around outside the flats getting some air when he’d come out like thunder after
being blown out by Venny. And somehow she’d ended up in his four-wheeler, and he’d driven down to the coast, as he always did when he was pissed off.

When he needed to stay over in London, he usually crashed out on Caspar and Flora’s couch, but last night he had felt the need for space, for distance, for freedom in which to think things through. And now here he was, him and his little vampette, and they’d had an enjoyable night – a very enjoyable night, in fact. And he didn’t even know what her name was. Nor, he realised, did he want to.

‘Come on.’ He held out a hand. ‘Let’s get cleaned up.’

The vampette scampered out of the bed like a child after a treat, and they ran naked into the bathroom and into the shower stall. Micky switched on the hot water and found the vampette already stroking his erect cock as he reached for sponge and shower gel. It was one of those citrus-scented gels, the sort he loved, reminding him of sherbet lemon sweets from his childhood. He tipped a thick splodge of it onto the big natural sponge and started to soap the girl’s breasts. Enhanced or not, they were certainly eye-catching. He concentrated on her coffee-coloured nipples, giving them plenty of rubbing in varying degrees of pressure, from tiny tickles to hard presses. The vampette groaned and leaned back against the sea-green tiles of the stall, her hands still clamped upon his rigid penis, stroking and pushing in a way that promised a rapid descent into orgasm and sexual oblivion if he wasn’t very careful.

He drew back a little to free his cock, which was already oozing a little drop of come from the slit at its tinglingly sensitive tip. Reluctantly she let him go, only to make a lunge for his balls with a roguish giggle. He liked a girl who could laugh during sex, although preferably not at too crucial a moment. He took deep calming breaths and thought of light bulbs while she kneaded the old love dumplings, cooing over them and whispering flattering little things about them.

‘They’re big,’ she whispered, and that was always a winner as far as he was concerned. Didn’t all men like women to comment on the huge dimensions of their sexual equipment? Of course they did.

‘Oh, they’re getting hard,’ she cooed.

Hard was good. He liked hard, too – almost as much as big. It was getting difficult to concentrate on the light bulbs, though. He tried fluorescent tubes instead, but the tubes made him think about upright cocks, and then he looked at her beautifully enhanced breasts and felt her fingers lifting and fondling his balls, and he was done for.

With a growl of releasing passion he lifted her up against the tiles and pushed her legs open with his hips. She wriggled a bit further up between him and the wall of the shower stall, eagerly angling herself to get the head of his penis aligned with her cunt.

‘Come on, lover, do me – do me now,’ she whispered excitedly, and Micky put the sponge aside and used his mouth instead on her delightful tits with their dark erect nipples while he used one hand to guide
himself to her. Oh, and she was so wet! So deliciously, wonderfully wet and welcoming again, soothing him like a balm and inflaming him too. This was better than eating oysters, better than caramel sauce on chocolate pudding. Now he realised he was thinking about food. And food wouldn’t help him hold back. It would only turn him on even more; it always did. Food and sex were inextricably linked, for him. Food and sex were all that mattered, when you got right down to fundamentals.

‘You like seafood?’ he panted against her ear, grabbing the lobe gently, so gently, in his teeth and nibbling at it.

‘Mm,’ she murmured. ‘Do that harder,’ she gasped.

‘We’ll get seafood for breakfast,’ said Micky, happy to oblige. He bit her lobe quite hard as he pushed the first crucial half-inch of his full penis up into her wide-open vagina.

The vampette whimpered with pleasure.

‘Oysters,’ breathed Micky in her ear, pushing his cock up just a tiny bit further. Her cunt clasped him like a silken glove.

‘Lovely,’ she groaned.

‘Shrimp,’ he said, pushing deeper, but not too deep. Too late to hope for restraint now; still, he was doing his best.

‘Crab in butter sauce.’ Push. ‘Lobster tails with fennel and mustard.’ He pushed up, up,
up.
Suddenly he was lodged in her as deep as he could go. ‘Sea bass poached in cream and Cassis – oh, you’re like cream too, aren’t you? All creamy and wet.’

He pushed his hands up over her water-slick belly
and up to those humongous naked breasts so that he could caress them. Her legs, up around his waist, clutched at him harder as he pinched a nipple in perfect time with each thrust of his cock.

‘Oh,’ she moaned, her head back, her chest thrust out in invitation. He slipped his free hand lower to find the little button beneath her mound and pinched that, too, very gently.

Now he started thrusting in earnest, and each thrust was accompanied, like a perfect meal, with a thrilling assortment of added sensations. Her nipple was pinched and kissed and bitten, not to the point of pain but very much to the point of pleasure. Her clit was tantalisingly tugged with each urgent thrust of his penis into her. Micky thrust very deep, luxuriating in her moistness, her heat. To hell with slowing down now. He was relishing her like a feast.

And like all feasts, sadly, this one had to end. It ended when the vampette climaxed with furious gasps of ecstasy, clutching at him and madly writhing against him. Suddenly it was too much and he came in hot jolting spurts, groaning with the pleasure of it, pumping crazily at her until every last drop of his passion was spent.

‘Oh, you’re something special,’ murmured his little blonde vampette luxuriously, kissing and biting his ear as they descended gently from among the clouds. ‘I’ve never met a man who’s kinky about food before. It’s an amazing turn-on, hearing you talk while we’re doing it.’