Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd

cock plunging, his tempo building. ‘What do they do?’ He reached a hand out and kneaded one breast. I could sense him restraining his urgency.
    ‘Yes, oh fuck. Different things,’ I cried, urged on by hisquickening rhythm. ‘Sometimes they beckon me over. Or I sit on the stage, spread my legs. They crowd around me. Stuff notes in my knickers. Someone cheats, stuffs his fingers in my cunt. I groan. I like it. They laugh because I’m so wet. They . . . They say coarse things. They egg him on.’
    ‘Go on, give it to her,’ he suggested, his voice rich and husky. ‘She loves it, the randy little whore, the dirty little slut.’
    ‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Give her all your fingers. Someone hold her legs still. Let’s see that greedy wet pussy taking all his fingers. Go on, harder. Make her beg for mercy. Make her beg for cock.’
    ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said in a near-scream.
    He rewarded me. Wild and eager, he hammered his prick into my depths, a finger near the root of him rubbing my clit. Ecstasy raced through me, shivering and urgent. It bunched around my core, tighter and tighter, and I howled and cried as my release exploded in one giant, delirious, starbursting orgasm.
    Oh fuck.
    Ilya thundered on, grunting and pumping. His lips were stretched in a rictus of torment, his head thrown back, his neck corded and taut. On a prolonged groan, he came. I felt the tension in his body and the deep shudder of his thrust, and, to my utmost relief, I didn’t feel the gush of him ejaculating.
    When he withdrew, I saw the rubber wrinkling on his prick, its teat drooping with liquid. I just hadn’t felt it. I guess my vagina wasn’t concentrating. Thank God one of us is in control, I thought. He was obviously the type of guy who can distract you with one hand and slip a sheath on with the other. Expertise. I like that in a man.
    Ilya snapped off his rubber, then flopped down beside me.
    ‘Words fail me,’ he said, harking back to our phone call.
    ‘Mm-mmm,’ I replied.
    We lay there, silent except for our short, fast breath. No small-talk, no big-talk. Just a meaningless fuck. That was the deal, wasn’t it?
    After a while, Ilya said, ‘I liked your fantasy. Have you got many more like that up your sleeve? Maybe I can help fulfil them.’
    Satisfaction had sobered me up and I struggled with a niggling embarrassment.
    I wasn’t too keen on baring my innermost fantasies. They weren’t exactly clean and sweet. Besides, I didn’t know if I wanted them fulfilled. I might like the image of being fucked in some graffiti-scrawled toilet, but that didn’t mean I actually wanted it to happen. In reality, it would probably be piss-stinking and grim as hell.
    So I liked seedy, sleazy low-life, but I liked it where it was: in my head. Ilya obviously didn’t. He wanted me to open up so he could make it happen, make my bad dreams come true.
    If I’d realised how well suited he was to do that – to drag my dangerous, dirty fantasy down to his dangerous, dirty reality – I might have kept my big mouth shut. But I didn’t. Bit by bit, I told him everything.
    ‘Variations on the theme,’ I mumbled.
    ‘You mean the sleazy theme?’
    I shrugged. ‘Suppose so, yeah. I’m not really a Seychelles beach type of girl.’
    ‘I can tell.’ He grinned. He rolled on to his side and rumpled my top over my breast, squeezing my flesh through the blue crochet web.
    ‘So what is it about sleaze?’
    ‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘Haven’t really analysed it. I just like it.’
    ‘But what is it that you like? Have you got a thing about neon or something?’
    ‘No, I just like picturing things where I’m being used, objectified, degraded, that kind of stuff. It’s liberating.I’m in someone else’s hands. I’m not being me. I’m made cheap. I’m just a thing for sex, a body, an orifice. And fantasy, I guess, is all about –’
    ‘I thought you hadn’t analysed it.’
    ‘I haven’t. But I’m trying to