Asking For Trouble (17 page)

Then the boa came to a halt. Released from Ilya’s guiding hands, it lay draped across my back. After all that teasing, the motionless feathers gained a weight completely out of proportion to what they were.

I felt Ilya’s touch on my buttocks, then on my knickers, front and back. In one swift movement, he scrunched the fabric into a narrow band and gave a sharp upward tug.

I yelped as the stretched material split the flesh of my vulva and sliced into the gap of my arse. He jerked again, ramming the crinkled gusset hard into me. Then he began sawing back and forth, running the fabric along my moist groove and abrading my clit.

‘What’s with all this nice underwear?’ he asked. ‘I thought you wanted to play the slut, Beth. Why don’t you wear whorish knickers like before? Cheap, gaudy bits of nothing. They suit you better, don’t you think?’

‘Ow,’ I said as once more he slammed the crumpled knickers high. ‘Yes. I was going to get some soon anyway. I swear.’

Ilya released his hold on my knickers.

‘I don’t want to see these again,’ he said, hooking a thumb either side of the waistband. ‘OK?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed.

And then he jerked the fabric down, leaving the black shiny cotton creased in the crook of my knees. I heard him move further away.

‘Mmm,’ said Ilya, and my sense of him surveying my sex was so strong that it seemed almost tangible.

In the darkness of my blindfold, that unseen gaze had
a magnifying power. My cunt swelled to a huge hungry pout: it swelled between my legs as blood pumped into my groin and puffed the lips apart; and it swelled in my mind until I could think of nothing but my cunt, hanging glossy and open below the line of my arse.

Everything else about me disappeared; my body ebbed away again. I was all cunt, inside and out. I was slick, scarlet flesh quivering with need.

Somewhere in the distance a car started up with a long whinnying sound. When the car drove away, I strained to hear the clock ticking, barely audible through the ear-covering scarf.

Ilya touched me. I groaned.

‘Greedy bitch,’ he murmured approvingly.

His fingers skimmed my outer labia, stirring the fringe of silky hair, making my arousal shoot. Then they dipped deeper to glide along my plump-sided inner crevice where I was so deliciously gorged with moisture. He rimmed circles just within the opening of my vagina, teasing out more wetness and warmth.

‘Ah, Beth,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’re always so wet for it. Your pussy’s always so ripe.’ With his fingertips, he smoothed my juices backward, up and through the furrow of my buttocks to the pursed mouth of my arse. ‘It’s getting predictable,’ he continued, sliding up more cream.

My excitement sizzled as Ilya stirred damply around my rosebud hole. Then he drove in the length of his finger, making me moan soft and deep.

‘So you know what I’m going to do to you . . .’ he breathed, cramming a second finger alongside the first. ‘Don’t you?’

He moved his two buried digits in a few quick twists, and then they were skewering in and out of me, scissoring open and shut with an intensity so rapid and wild that a massive pleasure surge streaked through my body and I could only answer with a howl.

‘Ah, you’re so hot for it, aren’t you?’ he said, working away at my arsehole.

I uttered a stream of garbled pleasure, feeling him kneel between my calves. Then he doubled that pleasure by inserting two more fingers into the liquid centre of my pussy. I groaned and gasped as, with both hands, Ilya plunged into me back and front.

He matched his rhythm, shoving in both sets of fingers at the same time: Then he started to alternate, shunting in, out, back, front, back, front.

‘So where shall I stick my cock today?’ he rasped. ‘Arse or cunt? Arse or cunt?’

‘Oh God,’ I said softly. I knew the choice wasn’t mine.

Anal sex had been on the agenda right from our first phone call. And though I was keen to experiment, and though his fingers felt good inside me, now that the dirty deed was imminent, doubts started to crowd into my mind. It was going to hurt. His prick would not slot into my arse the way it slotted into my cunt. It was going to hurt. I’m not into pain. I’d already told him that.

Ilya pulled all of his fingers out of me.

I felt him stand and heard him undress. My body was burning up with eagerness and fear. Part of me wanted him to delay, to put off the inevitable for as long as possible; and part of me wanted him to get on with it then it would be over and done with, and I’d know the truth of how good or bad it was.

‘I need better access than this,’ said Ilya, tugging at the knickers round my knees.

I shifted position so he could remove them, then he pushed my bra up so the cups and underwire were bunched above my tits. I was getting to realise he preferred me with a bit of clothing on rather than completely naked. Nudity was obviously too pure, too much like lovers. A scrap of rucked-up underwear or a raised skirt made me look cheaper, tartier, greedier.

My breasts hung free and Ilya tweaked gently on my
nipples, pulling them floorward and stretching my flesh to points. I moaned, lustful and anxious.

Then I felt his hands on my scarf blindfold and he pulled the knot a little tighter, making it press on the tip of my nose again.

A floorboard creaked on the far side of the room. I froze.

‘Who’s there?’ I asked. ‘There’s someone here, isn’t there?’ In a panic, I reached for my blindfold.

Ilya grabbed my hand to stop me. ‘Don’t be silly, Beth,’ he soothed. ‘It’s just me and you. All alone.’ He guided my hand back on to the carpet.

I listened and I could hear nothing. Ilya wafted the boa from my back. There was no one there. It was just the house groaning, the way houses sometimes do.

‘Spread your knees wider,’ said Ilya, and I did. ‘Now don’t move. I’m going to put some music on.’

‘Oh Christ,’ I complained as he moved away. I didn’t need an accompanying soundtrack, especially when – judging from his scanty CD collection – it was probably going to be classical or heavy rock. Maybe anal sex was going to hurt so much that he wanted to drown out my screams with a guitar solo.

The music started, churchy and dramatic. I recognised it from the film
Rollerball
– Bach’s
Toccata,
I think. Scary film. Scary music.

I sensed Ilya return. Seconds later, his fingers pressed into the crack of my buttocks and they were full of cool silky moisture.

He was using lube on me.

This was it: crunch time. My heart raced and I feared my bottle might desert me. But the lubricant calmed me; it felt so good.

With slippery fingertips, Ilya smeared the stuff generously up and down, lingering over my anus, rubbing steadily.

Then, with delicious ease, he slithered in a couple of fingers.

‘Ahhh,’ I said in a long sigh of pleasure. Then ‘Ahhh’ again as his two digits squirmed and pushed, greasing me richly within. I could feel myself loosening to his internal massage – and then a wider stretch on my tunnel made me gasp and squeal.

‘What are you doing?’ I implored as the doleful organ music boomed. ‘Tell me. Please. Oh, tell me.’

‘Three fingers,’ he replied in a husky murmur.

‘Oh God,’ I cried, and he twisted those compacted fingers in and out of my tightness, adding a tinge of pain to the delicious invasion.

‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ I wailed, and I had to drop forward to lean on my forearms because my body was crumbling from all the worried delight. I pressed my forehead to the ground, tilting my arse high for him and moaning constantly.

A sudden harder stretch on my walls made me cry out.

‘Four fingers,’ announced Ilya. ‘Two from my right hand; two from my left. And feel that? Now I’m really opening you up, Beth. Pushing you wide, right and left, making a gap between my fingers.’

Christ, did I feel it. I mewled and gulped for air, and he kept on working his fingers, bringing them together then apart, like miniature bellows fixed high in my arse. His knuckles bounced at my tender entrance, forcing my muscles to a fierce expansion.

I thought about elastic bands, imagined them being tested for tension, and I half feared he might break me, snap me, because the stretch was so huge. I cried out wildly, overcome with terror, begging him to stop, begging him to continue.

‘Tell me what you want, Beth,’ hissed Ilya. ‘Tell me, you –’

‘Do it,’ I barked urgently. ‘Fuck my arse, now. Please, now, now, now.’

And God, did I mean it. The craving was violent and furious. I felt so wide open for him.

‘Dirtier,’ he urged. ‘Talk dirtier.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ I complained, but this was no time for modesty. ‘I want your cock in my arse,’ I gasped. ‘Rammed. Your cock rammed in my arse.’

‘Say “dick”,’ he ordered, plunging his fingers over and over.

‘Oh please, Ilya,’ I implored. ‘Dick! Dick!’ And I fell in love with the word right there and then because it sounded so male, so deliciously coarse, dirty and obscene. ‘I want your dick in my –’

‘Up!’ he snapped. ‘Not in. Up.’

I spluttered and protested. Christ, would I ever get it right?

‘I want your dick up my arse,’ I panted, pronouncing the words as best I could. ‘I want your fucking dick . . . up my fucking –’

‘You foul-mouthed slut,’ said Ilya, snatching his fingers from me.

I heard him fiddling with a rubber as he shuffled up close. Then I felt his warm muscular thighs on my buttocks and the head of his cock pressing at my anus, so stout and powerful.

With a slow push, he entered me. His glans prised apart the swollen hoop of my arsehole and then, in a sudden sweet rush, the rest of him just slipped into me until he was sunk to the hilt, lodged solid and groaning deeply.

I let out a banshee wail of delirium. It was the most savagely beautiful penetration I had ever taken in my whole life.

At the root of his cock, my sphincter was as tight as a noose.

During one of Bach’s lulls, I thought I heard a noise
close by – very quiet, like the scuff of shoe on carpet. Again I had a fear we were not alone. A car roared by below the window. Again I reassured myself it was just imagination; the blindfold was making my hearing too acute.

Ilya began easing back, and the glide of his withdrawing shaft just set my opening on fire. I begged him not to move.

‘Wait,’ I pleaded. ‘Stay deep. Let me . . . let me get used to it.’

And he obliged. He held still while I gasped away, trying to accustom myself to the sensation of being so completely stuffed, of having such a dense meaty mass pulsing in my snug little passage.

I had to open my eyes and peer down at the aperture of light between my nose and scarf, just to bring myself back to earth. With my forehead to the floor, I could see only a strip of carpet, Ilya’s knees, Ilya’s dark hairy thighs, and, when I twisted right and left, I could see my feet. They seemed miles away.

Steadied and ready for some thrusting, I moaned and rocked forward. Ilya took the cue and grasped me just below my hips, splitting my cheeks wide with the heels of his hands. Smoothly, he drew back before sinking into me once more, deep and then deeper.

What bliss, what wicked, brutal bliss, as again and again he plunged all that rock-solid flesh into my arse.

‘Oh, yes,’ he rasped, picking up speed. ‘You lovely, dirty bitch.’

Each searing thrust took me closer to my peak.

‘Can you take it harder?’ he demanded thickly, not waiting for a reply.

‘Yes,’ I sobbed, as he rammed in shorter, faster strokes. ‘Yes.’

My whole body was glutted with near-orgasm. It was stashed in every cell, screaming out for me to press the go button. I reached back for my clit and a couple of
nudges were enough to hoist me heavenward. And, as I came, I shoved a bunch of fingers into my soaked pussy, giving my muscles something to shudder on.

With a shock, I registered the feel of his prick there, bulging into my wet vaginal walls and sliding against my fingers. It gave me a massive thrill. I could actually feel him inside me, feel his cock with my fingers rather than feel his cock with an orifice. We were touching each other inside my body.
My
body, I thought, and the intimacy of it all nearly lifted the top of my head off.

‘Ah yes,’ urged Ilya, his hips slapping at my buttocks. ‘Fuck yourself, babe.’

So I did, crying openly as I came down from one crisis and hurtled towards another. Ilya was pounding furiously and so was I. Finger-fucking and arse-fucking made me a whirlpool of ecstasy. My bones turned to jelly. I felt like I was dissolving, losing substance. Blinded by the scarf, it was as if I only existed because of the beat hammering in my groin and the violence in my arse. I was pure sensation.

When I climaxed, the explosion was nuclear. For a moment, I swear I almost believed in God.

Ilya had been pacing himself and, as my second burst tore through me, he began thrusting without restraint, grunting until he came with one deliciously sexy, pleasure-soaked groan. I felt the swell and judder of his cock with my fingers.

He stayed inside me, easing himself to and fro, making little murmurs of contentment as I rubbed his slackening erection through the walls of my vagina. Semi-hard, he slid out of me. My arse felt tender and scorched.

‘Mmm,’ said Ilya, and his lips printed a kiss on one buttock. ‘Good?’

‘Ouch,’ I said in answer. ‘Can I take the blindfold off yet?’

‘Er,’ replied Ilya. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe I like you like that.’

‘Please,’ I said, reaching back for the scarf.

Ilya gently clasped my wrist. ‘Hey, I haven’t given you permission yet.’

‘Please,’ I laughed. ‘It’s hot and itchy.’

‘Go on then,’ he said, and I pushed the blindfold up and off, then slumped on to my side, curling my body in a half-foetal position.

‘Ouch,’ I said again.

Ilya lay opposite me, bringing his knees up to match mine. Our faces were close and we stayed that way, our bodies like inverted commas.

‘Is “ouch” good?’ he enquired, brushing the tip of my nose with his.

‘I think so,’ I replied, jerking my head back from his Eskimo kiss because I reckoned it was just too heart-warming. ‘I’ll let you know for definite the next time.’