Helena Page 6

  "No, that's okay, thank you for the compliment."

  "I want you Helena. Come with me. I want to make love to you. Very much."

  Freddie, I was so excited by you, by the sensation of your soft hands lightly stroking mine, untensing my rigid palm with their delicate touch; excited by the lustre of your eyes; by that velvet voice that eroticised the most commonplace of English expressions.

  "Will you come with me?" Again neither etching-viewing ensnaring, nor circumvention. It made me shiver knowing that you wanted me, knowing how easy it must have been to pick up women that you had chosen.

  It was raw, animalistic.

  I nervously hesitated, my guilt always making its dull appearance at the prospect of pleasure, especially illicit pleasure, as if I was never meant to have it, my life having conditioned me to be suspicious of physical delights.

  "Come with me, Helena!" you intoned.

  "Where?"

  "Follow me."

  You took my hand and walked me along the narrow corridor and then to the stairs, my knees almost momentarily buckling with excitement. We walked past the security guard and out of the building. Trafalgar Square shimmered before us in the crisp light of winter sunshine. I was in a daze, bewildered by the presence of you beside me; you clasped my hand firmly, encouragingly, in your own, scared perhaps to let me go in case I ran away from you, ran back to my life of compromise, of sluggish sex, of make-do and persevere.

  We climbed down the steps, and at the bottom you turned to face me, your lips on my mine, your tongue forcing my mouth open, delving inside. I felt your hot breath, and for the first time the smell of your skin, so individual, so arousing. Your hands clasped me to you, my pliant flesh pressed against the hardness of your chest.

  "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 fel
t 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.

  It wasn't long. I clenched my teeth, feeling you inside me, my sex tight around you. I felt myself coming and you coming at the same time, us merging into one pleasure, the shared oceanic joy of our mutual orgasm ripping through us simultaneously. Then, the hotness of your seed as you ejaculated inside, launching, as you knew it would, my own orgasm, each gush of you leading inextricably to another charge of electric spasm. I let out an uninhibited scream of satiation as your sperm rocketed inside me, my climax gradually eddying, blanking out my mind in the intensity of my pleasure.

  After we had finished, you lay beside me holding me in an embrace, kissing me gently on the forehead, as my head nestled between your chin and shoulder. If that old fear, if the guilt was going to return, you kissed and caressed it away so I could feel nothing but contentment lying beside you, wondering how I had existed so long without that degree of pleasure.

  I concentrated on it, tried to remember it in my mind, every single detail of what had happened between us, blanking out everything else: my work, my past, even, or especially Gregory. I fell asleep on you like that. It was the most satisfying slumber I think I have ever had.

  It is funny, but I can even recall the dream I had, which wasn't really a dream, but only the memory of what we had done. How long did I sleep? Thirty minutes, an hour?

  When I woke up you were
asleep beside me on the bed, lying supine, your legs sprawled out, your arm lazily dangling over me. I couldn't resist, Freddie. I never knew what was going to happen. It could have been the last time. I wanted to take as much of you as I could. Maybe I would never see you again, maybe I would never feel such pleasures again. It would at least be something to have you in my memory, and the more I had to remember you by, the more I could re-dream what had happened between us.

  I looked down at your long, thick cock, flaccid now, flopping down onto the bed. Stroking your scrotum as I did so, I took your length into my mouth again, tasting the salty head, spreading my tongue over the slit at the top, and slowly licking the whole length of your shaft, paying attention especially to the thick dome. I felt it expanding in my mouth.

  I don't know whether you had woken by then and pretended to sleep, or if I sent you into a half dream so you lay between wakefulness and sleep, but you didn't stir. Your tool grew to its immensity, at first tickling the back of my throat until I slid down your oiled pole with greater force I could feel it sliding further and further back, more vigorously, with greater urgency.

  Eventually you woke with a mild start, and suddenly realized what was happening to you, reached your hand to my head, and rocked me backwards and forwards on top of you.

  I could feel you twitching inside me. Then the shock of your seed flowing between my lips, hitting the roof of my mouth before sliding down my throat. I wanted to swallow every last drop of your seed as if I was swallowing you down, your life, your love, your history.

  You know, Freddie, because of that afternoon, I can never listen to Mozart now without thinking about you. You put on Mozart as we lay together, now under the duvet as the chill air had turned cold as the darkness descended on us.

  I loved being with you like that, skin to skin, feeling your warm breath on me, listening to you talk, telling me about your family, your Italian background, your world travels. You seemed to have been everywhere and done everything. You told me everything: the books you wanted to read and the books that you were determined to write. I know that you didn't intend me to feel that way, but I did feel a little embarrassed, being so inexperienced, never really having been anywhere. You made my life seem so small, my ambitions feel so, so unambitious, my life restricted by duty and my low expectations.