she was getting with Fox fell into the ‘comfy’ category, with occasional ventures into ‘passionate’ but almost never ‘wild’, even if he did occasionally agree, in his more playful moods, to wear his yellow helmet to bed.
Only Nicola knew that, while she had a ‘Sex and the City’ kind of job, she didn’t have a ‘Sex and the City’ kind of lifestyle. So she did her research—by reading books with titles like
Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man
and logging onto such websites as nerve.com and Susie Bright’s chatroom, where she was constantly astounded by the range of human sexual practices, fetishes and fantasies. The more she learned, the more she thought about what she might be missing. Yet although Nicola increasingly sensed ‘The Itch You Need to Scratch!’, she couldn’t fault her relationship with Fox. He was loyal, protective, trustworthy, considerate and kind. He never lied, cheated or willingly created any dramas for her or anyoneelse at all. And, being a fireman, he was great in a crisis.
He was, in other words, nothing like Johnny, who bolted at the first sign of trouble and for whom lying, unreliability and infidelity weren’t so much a way of life as articles of faith.
Nicola grimaced. It was irrelevant to talk about Johnny’s way of life now.
With a combination of regret, revulsion and relief she ran her eyes for the last time up Johnny’s well-proportioned legs, lean hips and torso. Dropping to her knees, she laid her brow on his naked thighs and hugged them to herself. It occurred to her that it was an agreeable change to be able to hold onto his legs without his hand pushing rhythmically on the top of her head.
She lifted her gaze to his cock. It was flaccid. She’d rarely seen it in repose, and she studied it curiously. At some distance from its tip, seeping into the fibres of the carpet, she noticed a spray of ejaculate. Johnny
would
go out with a bang, she thought, smiling faintly.
Reaching for one of the candles from the table, she summoned her courage to look at hisface. She’d always thought of him as classically handsome, like one of those clean-cut American movie stars of the 1950s, maybe Gene Kelly, with knowing eyes and a crooked grin.
But Johnny wouldn’t sing in the rain ever again.
His neck was arched back, pulled by the long scarf that was tied at the other end around the door handle. The skin of his neck and face was suffused, livid. His dark bulging eyes were shot with blood, and his mouth was frozen in a lewd rictus.
Nicola blew out the candle and dropped it next to the corpse. Scrambling to her feet, she raced for the door. The pale carpet sucked at the spiky heels of her ruby-red patent leather shoes. Johnny had given her those shoes. He adored the way her legs looked in them, the way they caused her breasts to thrust forward and forced her arse into a porn-queen wiggle. Leaning against the doorjamb to catch her breath, she wrenched them off her feet. ‘I’m not your fantasy any more,’ she declared in a choked voice. She pitched one shoe into the darknessof the hallway. It clattered against the wall. Then she hurled the other one after it. It hit something with a dull thud.
‘Oi!’ came a gruff cry from the dim corridor. ‘Steady on there, lady.’ A thick-set man in a navy jacket and grey trousers stepped out of the gloom.
He held up the offending pump to his face while studying Nicola with narrowed eyes of harbour blue.
She stared as though seeing a ghost. ‘Y-you all right?’ she stuttered.
The apparition chuckled. ‘Lady, it takes more than being hit with a flying shoe by a breathless broad to faze me. But you oughta be careful. You coulda hurt someone with this heelage.’ His voice was deep, seductive and rough, like crushed velvet. He sniffed the shiny leather and stroked the stiletto heel of her shoe before handing it back. Then, extracting a badge from the inside pocket of his jacket, he flashed it at her and bowed with mock
Only Nicola knew that, while she had a ‘Sex and the City’ kind of job, she didn’t have a ‘Sex and the City’ kind of lifestyle. So she did her research—by reading books with titles like
Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man
and logging onto such websites as nerve.com and Susie Bright’s chatroom, where she was constantly astounded by the range of human sexual practices, fetishes and fantasies. The more she learned, the more she thought about what she might be missing. Yet although Nicola increasingly sensed ‘The Itch You Need to Scratch!’, she couldn’t fault her relationship with Fox. He was loyal, protective, trustworthy, considerate and kind. He never lied, cheated or willingly created any dramas for her or anyoneelse at all. And, being a fireman, he was great in a crisis.
He was, in other words, nothing like Johnny, who bolted at the first sign of trouble and for whom lying, unreliability and infidelity weren’t so much a way of life as articles of faith.
Nicola grimaced. It was irrelevant to talk about Johnny’s way of life now.
With a combination of regret, revulsion and relief she ran her eyes for the last time up Johnny’s well-proportioned legs, lean hips and torso. Dropping to her knees, she laid her brow on his naked thighs and hugged them to herself. It occurred to her that it was an agreeable change to be able to hold onto his legs without his hand pushing rhythmically on the top of her head.
She lifted her gaze to his cock. It was flaccid. She’d rarely seen it in repose, and she studied it curiously. At some distance from its tip, seeping into the fibres of the carpet, she noticed a spray of ejaculate. Johnny
would
go out with a bang, she thought, smiling faintly.
Reaching for one of the candles from the table, she summoned her courage to look at hisface. She’d always thought of him as classically handsome, like one of those clean-cut American movie stars of the 1950s, maybe Gene Kelly, with knowing eyes and a crooked grin.
But Johnny wouldn’t sing in the rain ever again.
His neck was arched back, pulled by the long scarf that was tied at the other end around the door handle. The skin of his neck and face was suffused, livid. His dark bulging eyes were shot with blood, and his mouth was frozen in a lewd rictus.
Nicola blew out the candle and dropped it next to the corpse. Scrambling to her feet, she raced for the door. The pale carpet sucked at the spiky heels of her ruby-red patent leather shoes. Johnny had given her those shoes. He adored the way her legs looked in them, the way they caused her breasts to thrust forward and forced her arse into a porn-queen wiggle. Leaning against the doorjamb to catch her breath, she wrenched them off her feet. ‘I’m not your fantasy any more,’ she declared in a choked voice. She pitched one shoe into the darknessof the hallway. It clattered against the wall. Then she hurled the other one after it. It hit something with a dull thud.
‘Oi!’ came a gruff cry from the dim corridor. ‘Steady on there, lady.’ A thick-set man in a navy jacket and grey trousers stepped out of the gloom.
He held up the offending pump to his face while studying Nicola with narrowed eyes of harbour blue.
She stared as though seeing a ghost. ‘Y-you all right?’ she stuttered.
The apparition chuckled. ‘Lady, it takes more than being hit with a flying shoe by a breathless broad to faze me. But you oughta be careful. You coulda hurt someone with this heelage.’ His voice was deep, seductive and rough, like crushed velvet. He sniffed the shiny leather and stroked the stiletto heel of her shoe before handing it back. Then, extracting a badge from the inside pocket of his jacket, he flashed it at her and bowed with mock
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