Asking For Trouble (6 page)

‘I once had sex in the grounds of Kenilworth Castle,’ I said.

He gave a short, quiet laugh. ‘Who with?’

‘That’s history,’ I replied, pleased he wanted to know more. ‘It’s neither interesting nor useful.’

‘It might be,’ he said. ‘Tell me another.’

‘I once had sex in St Ann’s Well Gardens.’ This revealing of my titillating little secrets thrilled me. I hoped he would find it intriguing, arousing even.

He laughed again. ‘That’s in Hove. Congratulations. Who with?’

‘History.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It was pitch black. We could hardly see each other. We were near some bushes. We fucked.’

‘Do you like fucking outdoors?’

‘I’ve only done it three times. But, yeah, I like it.’

‘Why?’

‘I like the sun. It makes me feel horny.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you don’t wear many clothes. Your skin’s out in the open, getting all warm and slightly sticky. It feels good. And it’s easy for your lover to touch you. Take off two items of clothes and you’re virtually naked. And knowing that, when you’re just walking in the sun, is so horny. It makes you want to fuck. But usually it’s impossible. People. So you’ve got to go home.’

‘What was the third?’

‘What?’

‘The third. You said you’d only done it three times. What was the third?

‘Ford train station.’

‘Who with?’

‘History.’

‘When?’

‘In the past.’

‘Pitch black?’

‘No, broad daylight.

‘Sunshine?’

‘Yes. Brilliant sunshine.’

‘Tell me about it. Tell me everything.’

I paused, made helpless by the ending of his quickfire questions. I couldn’t just launch into a story. Did he want to lie back and listen while I regaled him with smutty anecdotes? Did he see me as a telephone sex worker? Cheaper than an 0898 version?

‘What were you wearing?’ he prompted.

Should I? Dare I? I’d never met this guy; couldn’t picture his face. But in a way that made it easier. If I’d known him properly, I might have felt embarrassed. But he was disembodied, just a voice on the phone. And I liked his voice; I liked the things he said.

‘I was wearing a denim skirt,’ I began. ‘I’m wearing it
now, actually. It’s one of my favourite things. It’s A-line, comes down to about my knees. It’s cute.’

‘Mm-hm. Is that what you were wearing earlier?’

‘Yes.’ I hated the reminder of Martin, of how I’d let him seduce me in the window for the benefit of this Ilya guy.

‘Very cute,’ he said. ‘Especially when it’s halfway up your thigh because some bloke’s trying to get into your knickers. Is it the same man? The Ford one and this afternoon’s?’

‘No. Very different. And I’d rather not talk about this afternoon.’

‘Fine. Just trying to get a picture. What else were you wearing?’

‘On top? Erm . . . some little strappy vest, white I think.’

‘Bra?’

‘No. I hate vest tops with bras. It looks ugly. Though I can understand the need. But my tits – they’re not big, they’re not little, they’re just . . . they’re good. They can support themselves, in small doses.’

‘Do you shave under your arms?’

‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I do my legs and bikini line. But not under my arms. I like the hair there. It’s soft and wispy. Just a hint of shading and texture, really.’

I was doing well. I liked his questioning: it relaxed me. His voice was clipped and practical, as if he were a bureaucrat writing down my answers. There was no heavy breathing, no husky eagerness.

‘What did you have on your feet?’ he asked.

‘Er . . . I can’t remember. Trainers, probably. Or maybe sandals. I have these sandals – I call them my geisha-girl sandals. They’ve got thick wooden soles and the top bit is just two broad criss-cross straps. I might have been wearing those. Although, I think it was probably trainers because we’d planned on walking a bit and my geisha-girl sandals aren’t that comfy.’

‘Did you walk? Is that what made you horny?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so. We’d been to Arundel. I was with a guy called Ben. He’s a kind of on-off lover, travels a lot. But when he gets back to Brighton he usually looks me up. Sometimes we just meet, catch up on news and stuff. Sometimes we go places. Sometimes we go to bed. Depends on what else is happening in our lives. Sorry, is this history? Am I boring you?’

‘Yes, it is. And, no, you’re not. Go on.’

‘Well, he – Ben – he’d just got back from months in Mexico. He said he had this desperate ache to see something green and something posh. So I took him to Arundel. It’s got a castle that’s posh. And it’s in the middle of lots of green.’

‘Another castle,’ he said. ‘First Kenilworth and now this one. Do you have a thing about castles?’

‘No,’ I said with a gentle laugh. ‘Not that I know of. Coincidence, I swear. Anyway, we didn’t go inside the castle. We just had a great day. There’s a trout farm and we fed trout. We’re good together, me and Ben. Easy. Our skin was hot. Yeah, that’s another thing about sunny days. The heat makes you feel all languid and floppy. So I was feeling a bit like that, relaxed and carefree, and –’

‘Cut to the chase, Beth.’

‘Hmm. Well, do you know Ford station?’

‘Never been, no. What’s it like?’

‘It’s like any other arse-of-beyond train station, just a . . . a hiccup in a track that cuts through the countryside. It’s got one of those level-crossing things that clunks down to stop the cars. Just two platforms opposite each other. Pretty basic – some buildings under canopies, a few blue tubs with flowers in. You’d probably struggle to buy tickets there. But that’s where you have to change trains to get the Brighton connection and we’d walked from Arundel to Ford. We ended up missing the Brighton train by minutes, so we had time to kill and there weren’t many people about. Can’t remember why, but we went
over to the opposite platform, not the Brighton side of the track. I think we just fancied it. There was only one building there. Maybe we were playing explorers. Anyway, this building was like a red brick box with windows in. It was a waiting room, but a dead one – benches and a broken chair inside, a fireguard covering a heater. And that’s where it happened, where we had sex.’

‘What? Inside?’

‘No, no. The door was locked. Leaning against it. Well, I was. We were just taking a breather, wondering what to do until the next train came. We were standing by this building, at the side of it, and I was pressing my shoulder-blades to the wall and swigging water from a plastic bottle. Ben was next to me, leaning as well and sharing the water. There was a clock on the wall above us, clicking the seconds away. It was quite loud. The back of my neck was really damp and hot. I complained, and Ben was going to cup some water in his palm and wet my neck with it. But I said, no, I liked the heat really. And then Ben, in a cheeky kind of way, bent to taste me there. He kissed and licked my neck and said I was salty. His touch, his nearness, just made all my horniness flare up. It’d been bubbling under all day – because of the heat and the not many clothes. And we’d had a smoochy kiss earlier, by the river, and his hand had slid up my vest, stroked over my back. We knew at some point we were going to end up in bed. Neither of us was seeing anybody else at the time and, like I say, that’s just what me and Ben do.’

‘So you felt aroused. Then what happened?’

‘Well, we kind of pressed close, then Ben sandwiched me between his body and the building. His feet were astride mine. And we kissed for ages, groping a bit. Then we moved round to the back. It was less exposed, more private, and we fucked.’

‘Slower, slower, Beth. Take me through it.’

I stalled.

‘Why?’ I said, my wariness returning. ‘Do you . . . Are you going to wank or something? Do you want me to do lots of detail? You know, he rammed his huge throbbing meat in my . . . my dripping-wet snatch, that kind of stuff?’

‘No, tell it your way. Whatever you’re comfortable with. And I’m only going to wank if you are.’

‘Jesus,’ I said, more to myself than to him.

‘Does it make you feel horny, remembering sex at Ford?’

‘A bit,’ I confessed, full of shyness. My mouth was getting dry. I ran my tongue around my gums and the inside of my cheeks. ‘Why? Do you . . . Does it make you feel horny?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, much bolder than me. ‘Listening to your voice makes me feel horny. Imagining some guy squashing you up against a wall makes me feel horny. Thinking about you feeling horny makes me feel horny.’

We were silent for a moment.

‘Are you erect?’ I asked quietly. My voice was nervous, scared.

‘Yes,’ he said. He paused. Then he asked: ‘Are you wet?’

I took two long breaths, trying to steady myself, make my voice clearer. ‘I’m tingling,’ I replied. I could hear the tremor in my words. ‘I’m tingling quite a lot.’

If it were possible to hear smiles, then I heard one.

‘Go back to your story,’ he said, coaxing me with a gentle tone. ‘You and this guy, this Ben, you’re kissing against the wall. You’re feeling horny. What next?’

I didn’t feel capable of running through the story, not explicitly. So I said: ‘Ask me some questions.’

‘This Ben, was he hard? Could you feel his erection when you were kissing?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘Yes. He was wearing these long, baggy khaki shorts, so his cock had space to . . . to push. I could feel the angle of him and he pressed his groin
into mine. We were so horny, just kissing, and we were nervous and giggly. Someone might’ve been watching us from somewhere and there were cars going along the road and over the track just a bit further down. We kept breaking off and checking around. Then we’d grin like naughty schoolkids and carry on.’

‘Did he touch your breasts?’

(Oh! He spoke so softly and so slowly. I don’t know why, but those words, that simple ‘Did he touch your breasts?’ sent a current of lust into my sex. I could feel my pussy really pulse and start to salivate.)

‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘But only a bit. He kind of held my waist, his hands just under my top, and his thumbs nudged up. He skimmed my tits underneath, very lightly, and he kept his body close to mine – just in case anyone was watching. I really wanted more – more of his hands. I was so horny, so hot. He pushed at my breasts with the tips of his thumbs and his touch made dents in my flesh, lifted me a little.’

‘Did you touch his cock?’

‘Not properly. Not at that point, anyway. I just slipped my hand between our bodies and felt him through his shorts. He made a little groaning noise.’

‘Then what? Did he touch you properly? Did he reach up your skirt?’

‘No. He couldn’t really get at me like that because we were still on view. There was no one around, at least, not as far as we could tell. But if there had been, if anyone could have seen us, they’d have just thought we were snogging. We didn’t do anything too . . . too risky. Not when we were at the side of the building.’

‘So you went around the back. Who suggested it? You or him?’

‘Him, I think. But I was ready for it. We’d been edging in that direction anyway.’

‘What’s round the back?’

‘A bit more of the platform. It drops down into a load
of bushes and trees. You can see fields where the bushes aren’t so tall. Oh, and you could see the top of a tall shed and you could hear chickens there, clucking and making weird whining noises. We didn’t fuck straight away. We weren’t brave enough. We had to settle in. And we were enjoying all the teasing and the danger. The heat. The sticky skin. But Ben unzipped my skirt. I was still pressed against a wall, and he unzipped me.’

‘Where was the zip? At the back?’

‘No, front. It’s got a fly, a bit like jeans.’

‘This is the skirt you’re wearing now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unzip it.’

‘What?’

‘Unzip it. Put the receiver there then I can listen. And unzip it the way Ben did.’

‘No, I don’t want . . . Why? Why do you want me to do that?’ Anxiety mingled with my excited desire and chipped away at my courage.

‘Sound effects,’ he replied. ‘You’re creating such a nice picture, it’s a shame not to have some sound effects as well.’

I gave a nervous half-laugh. ‘Do you want me to do chicken noises? Or shall I do the train approaching after we’ve had sex?’

‘Only if it turns you on,’ he replied. (That smiley voice again.)

‘Cluck cluck,’ I said dully. I was playing for time, trying to get myself back to that pitch of daring.

‘Go on, Beth,’ he challenged gently. ‘Just unzip. That’s all. You’re on the platform at Ford, pressed up against a wall, at the back of this waiting room. You’re so horny, so hot. The sun’s beating down, probably making the concrete white, hurting your eyes. Behind Ben – his body’s up close to yours – you can see trees and bits of fields. The sky’s blue, blue, blue. No one’s around, so Ben unzips you. How did he do it, Beth? Was it slow and
teasing? Or was he hungry for you? Was he desperate to slide his fingers inside your knickers?’

I swallowed hard. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was like this. Listen.’

I moved the receiver into position, holding it across my belly. Making sure the mouthpiece was close enough, I fumbled for the zip-tag with my left hand. The metal gave a light, tinny clink. Then I unzipped. As my fingers eased downward, the teeth unlocked with a low, steady purr.

Congratulating myself, I released a gentle sigh. Then I cradled the receiver into my neck, hunching one shoulder to keep it wedged there.

Eager for his response, I let my fingers stroke mindlessly along the grinning lips of my fly.

‘That was nice,’ he said. ‘Not too fast; not too slow. What happened next? Did he slip his hand into the gap? Did his fingers slide into your knickers? Did he touch you?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

There was silence. Then he said: ‘How? What sort of knickers were you wearing?’

‘I . . . I don’t know. Can’t remember. I just remember – oh God, I was so horny – I remember his fingers running along the leg of my knickers, just a fraction inside. Then he kind of moved the gusset and he began . . . he began touching me, fingering me. “God, you’re wet,” he said. His voice was all whispery and groggy, and his body was still close to mine, shielding me. I had to hold on to his shoulders. I felt weak. I was about to come.’