Sex in the City--London Page 4

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ I wailed, having to work at remembering that this was not a good place to start rotating my hips and pushing down, begging for more, harder, deeper.

  ‘Don’t invite them? Or don’t find somewhere more private?’

  ‘No … let’s go somewhere they can’t see us.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea. They’ll know, all the same. They’ll know I’m taking you away to be fucked. You do want to be fucked, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm.’ My lips were pressed tight, my voice strained and high-pitched. I nodded sharply to emphasise the importance of the point. Two fingers speared my cunt, holding me in place, owning me.

  ‘Good. I think I know a place.’

  The fingers sloshed out, he pulled down my skirt and patted my bottom again.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking my hand and entwining fingers so my own wetness was transferred to me. We walked in front of all the people lolling on the church steps and through an arched gateway leading into the churchyard.

  Behind us I could hear some whistling and laughter.

  ‘Oh God, you can’t be serious! In a churchyard! All those people out there saw us come in! What if we get caught?’

  ‘My erection doesn’t travel well,’ he said grimly. ‘This place is shady and dark. And if we get caught, we get caught. I’m having you now, no matter what.’

  ‘I don’t want to be arrested!’

  ‘You won’t be.’

  We walked along the side of the church, through a dense grove of trees. We were only halfway down the path before the illusion of distance from the London crowds descended. The chatter and clink of glasses was muffled by the foliage, even as dry as it was, and the endless traffic drone receded to a mild buzz.

  He saw the place before I did – a tree trunk bent backwards at an angle that made it comfortable for leaning against.

  ‘Right, that’ll do,’ he decided. ‘Knickers off and leaning back on that tree trunk with your legs either side, please.’

  I was breathing heavily now, desperate for him to use me, but faintly aware that this was my very last chance to back out. Did I want to use it? Should I get out of here and run like fury to Farringdon tube?

  ‘You’ve brought a …?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t know where you’ve been, do I?’ He flashed a smile, then unexpectedly jerked me towards him and kissed me. ‘But I know where you’re going. Straight on the end of my cock. Go on, then.’ He nipped at my earlobe, then spun me around and gave me a gentle push towards the tree.

  In a dream now, I stepped out of my knickers and left them on the scrubby crackly ground, then I slowly, carefully aligned my spine with the bark of the tree and parted my thighs either side of the trunk, which was slightly thicker than my body. My legs were well spread now, the bottom button of my skirt straining a little so that I had to pull it up to my waist, exposing my overripe pussy and sweaty thighs.

  ‘Mmm, let me look at you like that for a minute,’ said my sleazy seducer, folding his arms over his brown and orange striped shirt and standing with feet wide apart to accommodate the obvious bulge in his suit trousers. ‘God, that’s exactly how I’ve imagined you this past fortnight. That’s how I’ve got myself off every night, thinking of you, spread and ready for me, just like that. Fuck, you’re perfect. No, don’t shut your eyes. Look at me, sweetheart. Take a really good look around. Because by the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t be seeing straight for a long, long time.’

  He unfolded his arms and strode towards me with a demonically purposeful air.

  ‘Look at her,’ he said, running hands up my soaked hold-ups to my even more soaked splayed sex lips. ‘Lying there with it all on show, just ready and waiting. You really need this, don’t you?’

  ‘Please … just … hurry up.’

  ‘Can’t wait? Been sitting on the train every day wanting to pull up your skirt like this and show me your hungry pussy? Hey?’

  ‘Yes,’ I yelped. He lowered his mouth to my hot core and gave it a long, luscious slurp.

  ‘I can tell. You’re streaming with juice. You want it badly, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm, oh yes, I really do. Do it, please.’ By now I was rubbing my spine up and down the tree trunk, feeling everything clinging to me, ready to just grab at him and shove him inside.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to.’ He stood straight and started unbuckling his belt ruthlessly. ‘I should have brought some rope. I’d love to tie you up here, keep you like this.’

  ‘Oooh.’ No more words. Beyond that now. Just bucking my hips up, flexing my calves, holding my thighs apart with kneading fingers.

  His hands shook as he skinned on the rubber; he had to brace one palm on the tree trunk to keep from falling over. ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he muttered, to himself more than me, before slapping his body up against mine and swarming up inside me to the hilt in one sweet, sharp thrust. ‘Ah yes,’ he mouthed blissfully. ‘Ah yes. You. I’ve got you.’ I brought my legs around and tucked them under his bottom, feeling the muscles tauten, preparing for action. ‘All the way up you,’ he whispered, wanting to hold on to the moment a while longer. ‘You’re going nowhere, babe.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not.’ His body was heavy and hot on mine; it would not take much for us to start melting into each other, becoming one on the tree trunk. He pushed himself upwards without letting me off his hook and began unbuttoning my dress until it flapped either side of me. He pulled the cups of my bra over my nipples and gave each one a hearty suck. ‘Salty,’ he said. He traced patterns in the grimy sweat of my abdomen with a fingertip. ‘You’re hot. I’m going to make you hotter.’

  He held my arms at my sides and began to slide his cock in and out, slowly at first, excruciatingly slowly – I could tell that he was having to make an effort to keep from coming then and there.

  ‘You don’t know my name, do you?’ he said conversationally, presumably as part of this endeavour.

  ‘No,’ I shuddered, digging my heels into his soft pale buttocks to spur him on.

  ‘I know yours. You’re called Jane.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  His pace began to pick up; his chest crushed down on my breasts, one of his shirt buttons chafing a nipple with each stroke.

  ‘Your security pass. You wear it on the train. You aren’t wearing it now.’

  ‘Oh. Shit. Yeah. I suppose I do. Oh, please, more.’

  He wedged a hand between our pelvises, reaching for my clit and strumming it. ‘More? I can give you more. So, you don’t know my name. But you’re lying here in the open air taking my cock and begging for more. What does that make you?’

  ‘Oh, fuck, a slut, a slut, a dirty whore!’

  ‘Well … put,’ he ground out, ramming me into the tree’s trunk now, holding me down by one shoulder while his other hand worked over my clit. I was so hot, surely I was steaming, surely I would be a puddle of sweat and pussy juice by the time he was finished with me. The canopy of dry leaves overhead blurred; I even had sweat in my eyes, stinging them shut, so I had nothing more to concentrate on than the burning hot hammering taking place between my thighs and the bunching fingers on my clit and what a whore slut bitch I was to let a total stranger do all this to me without even asking his name and … oh … when I came, I cried out all kinds of things, things that made no sense at all, things that brought him smashing into his own dark climax, and he fell down on me and sank his tongue into my mouth, ending it all with the most violent kiss I could remember.

  ‘Fuck. Oh fuck,’ he said when he let my mouth free. ‘You beautiful fucking whore.’

  My throat was so dry I could do no more than rasp. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Even if I never see you again, I can die happy,’ he said, nuzzling my neck, careless of its city grit.

  ‘But you could,’ I whispered. ‘If you wanted.’

  His lifted his head, staring at me again with those shifty blue-green eyes.

  ‘I mean,’ I stammered, not quite sure where I wa
s going with this, ‘not like in a heavy sort of way.’

  ‘In a friendly fuck sort of way?’ he enquired dryly.

  ‘Well, yeah. If you want.’

  ‘I want,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you do things you never imagined you’d do.’

  ‘You already have.’

  ‘Good. And it’s Shaun, by the way.’

  Perverse bastard that he is, he made me go back to the Three Kings with him for a drink. I had to sit on the steps in my rumpled, sweat-patched, dirty dress. There was a dead leaf in my hair, my make-up was melted to fuck and my legs bore definite tree-bark patterns. This time, though, I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed the thought that anyone looking at me could see I’d just been firmly and thoroughly shagged by the ordinary-almost-even-ugly bloke sitting with his arm around me, fingers playing idly with the hem of my skirt. We kissed like swooning lovers until dark fell and we took the last train home together, parting at the station.

  No spending the night. No acting like boyfriend and girlfriend. Strictly hot, sweaty, horny, kinky, casual sex.

  Which is what I’m looking forward to right now. I’m crossing the Thames, my knickerless bottom pressed into the biker’s leathery thigh, wondering if he can tell, wondering what Shaun has in store for me today. It is difficult not to let my fingers stray crotchwards. Shaun has proved to have the very best kind of dirty mind – an endlessly inventive one – and he has led me down some very peculiar paths indeed since that tree-lined one at the side of the church. Without exception they have been worth the detour; I have discovered tastes and predilections I never knew I had.

  At last the train draws in at Blackfriars and I look forward to the prospect of breathing in some slightly less stale air, fighting my way through the crush to get through the door and on to the platform.

  At the ticket barrier I spot him, slouching against the wall in an open-necked white shirt, his floppy hair smoothed back against the heat. As usual, he waits until I almost pass him before putting out an arm and dragging me over to him by the wrist. He puts his nose in the crease of my neck and takes a deep draught of my dried-on scent.

  ‘Mmm. Have a good wank, did we?’

  ‘Not bad, thanks.’

  ‘What did you think about?’

  ‘I thought about the time you lifted my skirt in St James Park and spanked my arse in time to the marching band.’

  He chuckles. ‘That was a good one. Got another good one lined up for you now. Come on.’ He kisses me, very quickly but still managing to get a sliver of tongue in there, and leads me around to the station entrance. In a small alcove, away from the main drag, he shields me from view with his body and lifts my skirt.

  ‘Time for a quick check,’ he says, making sure I am not wearing knickers, and that I am wet, as I am expected to be. Not a difficult rule to obey; I am always wet when we meet, whether I want to be or not.

  I shut my eyes and rest my head against the sooty brickwork, breathing in tarry heat, hearing the pneumatic drills that are like the pulse of the City, always there. The thing about London is that, whatever you are doing, you can always bet that somebody has done it here before. Somebody has stood here, maybe before the river Walbrook was built over, being felt up by a nasty man who had nothing but dishonourable intentions towards her. Maybe then he was wearing a tunic or maybe he was wearing a top hat and a fob watch. But I bet he was here, and I bet there was a girl here with him, giving herself up to her dark side.

  Once he has slicked up his fingers and given them a sniff, he leans over to kiss me. I used to find his kisses sloppy, but I have grown to love them, love their indiscipline and barrier-breaching, love their careless, breathless adolescent quality.

  He takes me by the hand and leads me towards the bridge, but we do not cross it. Instead we take the steps down to the Embankment. At this section of the Thames, it is little more than a concrete pathway, the river rushing busily in front while the Blackfriars underpass road roars behind a wall. With the railway lines thundering overhead, it is not exactly a spot people choose to linger in, but, all the same, there is a brief hinterland of scrubby greenery between the path and the road with some stone benches set at intervals for lovers of ear-bleeding urban racket.

  He waits until we pass under the railway lines we travel together most mornings, then he pulls me down into the yellow-brown grass and hisses, ‘Here!’

  ‘Here?’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘People walk past here.’

  ‘They don’t stop though. People walking down here are usually in a hurry to get somewhere else. They won’t look either side. They look ahead.’

  Already he is pushing me on to my knees, lifting my skirt. The grass is prickly and I am conscious of the midday sun scorching down. If Shaun is an Englishman, does that make me a mad dog? A mad something, at any rate, to let him do this to me in our most public place yet. He has unbuckled and freed himself; he sits down on the grass and pulls me into his lap, making me gasp as I find myself swiftly and inescapably impaled on his hot, hard cock. I am facing forwards, kneeling with my knees on either side of his thighs; his arms are wrapped around my ribcage, holding me in place. I am not sure how this would look to a passer-by – I think it might not be completely obvious that I am shafted by a prick beneath my flimsy skirt, but I cannot say for certain.

  We sit there like that for a while, getting used to the position, trying to plan how it will work. I gaze across to the Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge, wondering if our dotty shapes look lewd or innocent from that distance. Trains curve incessantly around the railway bridge, in and out of the station, cutting sparks on the tracks and making that strange piping and shushing noise that they do. Their rumble makes the ground we are sitting on vibrate; their fumes surround us on all sides. And then Shaun lifts me slightly and then slams me back down, and the main event has begun. I have to lean forward, to find my angle. I put my palms on the baked earth and give him the leeway to thrust while I jiggle back and forth, already too hot, already too wet, but knowing I cannot stop this until I have shown my slutty core to the towering London skyline.

  ‘Do you think they can see us from the trains?’ asks Shaun, his vigorous thrusting making it clear that he does not care either way. ‘Do you think they are looking out of the window watching you get fucked in the open air at lunchtime on a workday? They know that this is your idea of a lunch break. You don’t get a lunch break. You get a fuck break. That’s what you need. A daily fuck break. That’s what you’re going to get. I might pencil you in for tomorrow as well. You should see my diary, Jane. Meetings, meetings, social, meetings, fucking my slut, meetings, more meetings. Uh!’

  He pulls me back up to his chest abruptly and for a second I wonder if he has come already, but then I see that two suited men are wandering up the path, speaking loudly into mobile phones in competition with each other. Shaun buries his lips in my neck, making us look as much as possible like normal lovers catching a quick lunchtime rendezvous. The men barely give us a second glance, though one double-takes briefly and smirks in Shaun’s direction before moving on under the railway lines and away.

  Then Shaun bends me back over and commences a savage onslaught, hard and fast, until I am dripping and scratched and raw and burning. ‘They knew I was fucking you, Jane. They knew it,’ he whispers, and I come, and he comes, and the Oxo Tower shimmers in a heat haze that blankets all of us while we fall forwards, wailing and sighing, on to the hard ground.

  Half an hour later we are sitting outside a riverside pub, drinking lager (him) and vodka and orange (me). It is beginning to occur to me that, in the space of six weeks, this sordid arrangement has become an addiction – something that will damage me if I cannot learn to control it. The combination of heat and sex and alcohol makes me light-headed and bold and I say things I would not normally dare to.

  ‘The men can’t take their eyes off you,’ he is saying, relishing the words. ‘They can probably smell you. One day I might invite them over.’

  I raise my damp eyebrows at h
im. ‘One day, Shaun. This can’t go on for ever though, can it?’

  His face falls a little. I want to touch his hand, but it seems against the rules somehow. Too intimate.

  ‘I’ve met someone at work,’ I tell him. ‘It’s nothing much at the moment. Coffee, chat. We’re going to the cinema this weekend. Might come to nothing, or it might get serious. And if it does, I can’t do this any more.’

  Shaun looks away, over the river, for a moment, then looks into the dregs of his pint.

  ‘You want to be a nice girl,’ he says flatly. He looks up at me squinting against the sun, waiting.

  ‘No. Not necessarily. I don’t know. I want to be … Jane. Jane who’s a slut sometimes, but a person as well.’

  ‘There aren’t enough sluts in the world,’ says Shaun wistfully. ‘Not perfect ones like you, at least. I might have known …’

  ‘Shaun,’ I say, a little distressed. ‘I’m not saying …’ I don’t know what I’m saying.

  He drains the last drops of his drink and bangs his glass down on the table.

  ‘Well, you don’t have time to say it now, anyway. I have to get back to work. To the offices of the London Merchant Bank. On Threadneedle Street.’

  I catch my breath. He has never told me anything about himself before. He is standing up, taking something from a pocket. Paper and pen.

  ‘That’s where I work,’ he says, ‘and this is where I live. Not far from you, I think.’ He scribbles down an address, three streets away from my flat and puts the paper in my hand. ‘If you want to call round. Tonight. Tomorrow night …’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’ He dithers, as if unsure how to end our encounter, looking around to the exit and then back at me.

  Time to seize the day. Time to also seize his hand.

  ‘Promise you won’t ever stop being sleazy?’

  He smiles, toothy and broad. ‘No question of that.’

  ‘I’ll see you tonight then.’

  We snog for ages, by the river, ignoring the sniggering remarks of the boozy bankers, then I have to run for my train, all the way back to where it began.