Helena (8 page)

"You're so
beautiful, Helena!" you said, pulling away from me, and then you
stretched out your hand and magically, miraculously (but everything
about that moment, that day seemed magical and miraculous) you
hailed a cab that instantly stopped.

I climbed
inside and you sat beside me.

You gave the
name of the street you were living in. So typical of you, Freddie,
to live in Soho amongst the elegant restaurants and the sprawl of
seedy London life. Soho was exactly the place that I would have
imagined you living in. We could have walked so close was it, but
your need was too urgent, your desire to have me.

The streets
crammed with tourists, we crawled up past Piccadilly, inching our
way to Shaftesbury Avenue, your hand entwined in mine, gripping
tight.

The taxi
pulled up, you paid, and then led me up a narrow staircase. You
didn't say anything, but smiled. You must have known you could do
anything that you wanted to me.

Opening the
door, you led me into your apartment. What nostalgia I still retain
for the place: the brightly coloured walls, the sleek sofa, the
untidy desk by the window with the old Remington typewriter and a
scraggy pile of thick books, a book lined wall of paperbacks in the
six languages you had various degrees of fluency in, the thick
velvet curtains you jokingly described as bordello red.

Part of you
wanted to take me there and then, to rip my clothes from me, part
my legs and ride me with your wild animal urgency, but you
controlled your libido. It wasn't nerves, not like an Englishmen
shying away a little at the last moment, clumsily offering a
libation, steeling himself for the moment; no it wasn't nerves that
made you ask me if I would like a glass of wine. You wanted to
savour your anticipation, your expectation.

"I don't like
to rush things, Helena. I don't want this to be just physical. Our
minds too must be engaged. I want to bring you pleasure, that kind
of pleasure that builds up slowly. We must savour our lovemaking,"
you said passing to me a glass of fine Bardolini, sitting beside me
on the sofa.

I noticed the
hefty bulge of your crotch. Maybe you were right to hesitate, to
savour, but I wanted to take you too then, to reach my hands inside
your trousers, take out your manhood and suck on your delicious
meat.

We sipped on
our wine, your soft hand delicately roaming over my body, feeling
my aching breasts, through the thick wool sweater I wore, the
pinpoints of my nipples poking through. You purposefully rubbed
your fingers over them as you stared into my eyes, no longer
smiling now, but gazing at me with all the intensity of your
lust.

I could hardly
bare it. I wanted you to take me, but still you resisted. You knew
the more the itch of my desire grew the more momentous would be its
release.

Your hand
rested on my lap, the knee length suede skirt I wore. You clenched
my thigh hard as your mouth reached over to the slope of my neck,
your tongue running over the skin, as I grasped the firmness of
your shoulder and nestled my cheek against the crown of your
head.

Suddenly, you
got up to your feet and offered me your hand. Pulling me up from
the sofa, you lead me to the desk by the window. You gathered the
sturdy tomes in your hand and dumped them on the nearby armchair
and then carefully placed your old typewriter on your desk chair,
which you dragged to the centre of the room.

I was so
excited, Freddie, I thought I would orgasm at your merest touch,
explode in my lust. You picked me up and lifted me onto the desk
and then carefully pulled my sweater over me, my breasts scrunching
up as you tugged the wool over my head.

Being an
English woman, even if I was three storeys up I was a little uneasy
about being watched by somebody; I noticed that there were some
offices opposite and a few diners in an exclusive restaurant who
might be able to see me. You smiled at me as I half drew the
blinds, so the sunshine could still pour in, striped across my
aroused body. You stood there staring at my fulsome breasts, my
nipples extended in their excitement through the cotton of my bra.
You pulled the half cups down and firmed your tongue around the
swell of flesh, flicking it across the hardened nipple, then
dragging it down over the declining slope, raising each breast in
your hand to lick the underside and then the parting.

Suddenly, you
tensed your teeth around the stiff bud of my nipple and nibbled on
it hard as I held onto you by the nape of your neck, holding on to
all the pleasure that you were bringing to my body.

What words can
I use to explain the ecstasy of your touch? The slow burning need
that prickled every pore of my skin, the winter cool air
contrasting with the red heat of my desire, the teasing tickling of
your tongue on my throbbing breasts.

Your hands
went further down, parting my legs and then tucking finger and
thumb into both the waistband of my tights and panties, pulling
them down, first to the knee, then down to the ankles, before
pulling off my shoes, so all that remained of my exposed flesh was
the waist high skirt dropping down to tickle my upper thighs.

It was so
fantastic for me, the cool air stimulating me further, my bare
bottom resting on the unvarnished wood of the desk, your hands
returning to prise my legs apart, your tongue snaking between them.
As I balanced on the desk, my outstretched arms resting on the
wood, as my genitals were exposed to your delicious eyes, I watched
you looking at me.

And then the
fire of your tongue, snaking between me, going up and down the
outer flesh of my moist opening in broad strokes, flicking in and
out of the aperture of my sex. My hand resting on your head, gazing
through a slit in the blinds to watch the toing and froing of the
street, the businessmen and the tourists, the sex touters and the
diners. I saw a couple of streetwalkers who I was sure would pay
for such sensitive attention. To watch all this and then look down
to see your coal black hair buried in me, your hands tensed around
my ankles, the spark of my lust burning, becoming flame, a flame
sensually burning me, transporting me to a place I had never been
to before.

Your
forefinger pressed against the taut flesh of my anus, seeking entry
as you lapped at me, your tongue furling around the bud of my
clitoris, enrapturing me, my lust increasing, augmenting to some
savage burning need, beyond the description of mere itch. My thighs
clenched around you, my hand grabbed hold of your hair, the slicked
strands, my mouth parting as my neck arched back with the erotic
tension created by your fervent ministrations.

I shook my
head from side to side as I felt my climax rivet my body. A tiny
snowball of pleasure located in the hard bud above the engorged
labial lips avalanched through me, until I was buried in an ecstasy
that had no specific location, but engrossed my whole body, that
was beyond my body. It knotted in some unknown core of me and then
suffused my whole body, my whole consciousness as I came on your
rigid tongue, frantically jerking and spasming on you as your hands
clenched around me. Everything was blanked but ecstasy: there was
no consciousness, no Gregory, no London, no Freddie, no Helena,
just this sweet heat searing my skin, my flesh, my
consciousness.

Your finger
snaked up me as I came gasping and screaming, prolonging my climax
as you flicked in and out of me, and nibbled on the hardened knot
of my climactic pleasure. As the release came my arms buckled in my
delight and I slithered down onto the desk, my breathing slow and
deep, my face reddened, my delight, what can I say immense,
intricate, overwhelming.

You came
beside me, our lips touching, before I clasped your head in my hand
and buried my tongue deep inside your mouth, with love, with
gratitude, with disbelief that any man could do what you had just
done to me with his tongue.

You pulled
away, went back to the sofa, and retrieved our wine.

"That was
fantastic, Freddie. I've never had an orgasm like that," I told
you.

You raised
your glass, took a sip, looked back to me: "This is only the
beginning, Helena, the very beginning."

After we had
drunk our wine, you took me into the bedroom. There was only one
print on the wall. Of course, I should have guessed. It seemed both
surprising and predictable that the only print that you had on the
wall was Leonardo's cartoon. The room itself was quite spartan:
white walls, floorboards, a double metal bed and Leonardo's Holy
Family looking out onto us, as if in some way, and I can imagine
how blasphemous this would sound to somebody like Gregory, but as
if the enrapture of the figures in the drawing were bestowing some
kind of blessing on us.

My mind was
fervid. I couldn't think straight. I pulled off the rest of my
clothes and stretched out on the bed in front of you, watching you
as you removed your silk shirt, then the black cotton tee shirt
underneath, exposing your firmed body underneath. You looked so
strong, not over muscular: your biceps were large but did not
bulge; your skin was smooth, your stomach flat; a thin trail of
black hair stretched from your navel to the waist of your jeans,
and then the thicker clump in the centre of your chest. It all
aroused me, even though I had orgasmed under the careful attention
of your tongue only five minutes before. Then you unbuckled your
belt, unzipped yourself, and pulled down your jeans, so that you
climbed onto the bed beside me in only your black cotton pants.

You lay beside
me on the bed, the thick bulge pressing against my naked skin. I
could wait no longer for what I had wanted to do since you closed
the door behind me: to take you in my mouth. I pushed you quite
hard, you laughing at my efforts, but firmly enough so that you lay
prone on the bed, your head tilted towards me.

I started at
your feet, running my fingers along the sole of your feet, and then
up to your calves. You twitched as I tickled you, before my hands
roamed higher, spreading out on the firmness of your thighs. I
massaged you, kneading you between the palms of my hand, my fingers
inching higher inside the black of your pants feeling the softer
flesh of your rump, clenching it between my fingers. You, all the
time, making encouraging groaning noises as I reached higher and
higher, until I slightly parted the cheeks of your bottom and
slipped my forefinger between the cleft of your buttocks, pressing
against the taut flesh of your anus. Then I went lower, grabbing
your swollen balls in my hands, squeezing gently and then
harder.

But I wanted
to go further, Freddie. I needed to go further. Can you remember
all this? Can you remember the amazed look in my eyes, the urgency
of my movements, the excitement I felt having a man under me that I
could manipulate how I pleased?

Do you
remember, Freddie, how I turned you over, peeled your pants over
your thick erection, pulled them down and then off your ankles, and
positioned my hand under the apex of your thighs. I watched your
steel rod spring up to me, then unsheathed the slicked helmet and
buried you deep inside my mouth. My tongue reached out to the ridge
of your dome as your tool pulsed inside me.

You moaned
above me as I took more and more of you into my mouth, pressing
down harder and harder onto you, furling my tongue around you, then
coming off you to nibble you underneath, taking one of your
testicles in my mouth while I daintily ran my fingers over the head
of your shaft.

I could feel
you growing inside me, feel you throbbing in my mouth. Each time I
went down, I went further and further so that the tip of your
member touched the back of my raw throat. I squeezed you hard, as I
kneeled over, and you at first caressed my swaying breasts, before
your hand stretched out until your finger felt the boiling heat of
me. You slid your finger into the moistness of my quim, inching it
up further and further inside me, rotating it around so it pressed
against the interior fleshy walls, and made me suck more and more
avidly on you.

And then so
quickly you pulled my mouth off you, and kneeled up, positioned me
so that I faced the fantastic drawing which had brought us so close
together, and you kneeled behind me, inserting your thick hard rod
inside me where your finger had been.

What bliss it
was to feel you inside me for the first time! How my breasts
throbbed with the sensation, with the mere idea of you entering me,
how my sex clenched around the hard meat of you! I wanted to scream
with delight, with the suffocating pleasure of you.

At first you
rocked me slowly off you, your prick inching further and further up
me, and then grasping the firmness of my fleshy bottom you
swivelled me onto your rod so that every inch of my sex could feel
your pulsating cock pressing inside me.

With a slow
steady rhythm you fucked me like I had never been fucked before,
like I could never have imagined been fucked, squirming out every
inch of pleasure from me. Then what joy as you increased your pace,
your rod going deeper inside me, pushing up so hard, so violently,
so wonderfully. My tensed hand pressed down into the softness of
the mattress, my neck arched, stretching the sinews of my neck, my
head was thrust back so I could savour every delicious thrust, you
violently panting as you fucked me, me whimpering, shrieking as you
pushed harder into me.

I reached one
hand up to tweak my throbbing nipple, my whole breast sore,
quivering with pleasure, and then with your strong hands you
gathered both my wrists together so you could angle your cock
further inside me. Your rhythm grew increasingly frenzied, as you
jabbed at me violently, gripping my wrists with your full manly
force. You wanted to come then I think, but I instinctively knew
that you would hold off so that we could climax together.