You had spent a week preparing, but you still weren’t dressed. You had to avoid spilling Merlot on your cream, silk top and your new boots were by the door, preventing last minute scuffs. He would text a time and place, whenever he was ready.
You kept refilling your glass and wandering back into the living room, changing the track after every few bars because you couldn’t find anything to help you stay calm. Into The Mystic was the only one to make it past sixty seconds, apart from the hour spent masturbating to John Mayer’s Gravity solo on a loop. You lit your twelfth cigarette of the day while you waited for the fake tan to dry, a mix of toxins, blond tobacco and early-evening angst on your tongue.
You were worrying because he seemed to be taking a lot of trips. He’s a journalist, that’s what he does. He had the awards to prove it, centred on the slate mantelpiece, inside his Clapham flat. You pretended you hadn’t noticed The Frank Gillard Award for radio, The Hugh Cudlipp Award for print, The BBC’s Nick Clarke Award to celebrate and recognise the best broadcast interview of the year.
His tools were strategically placed too. A selection of digital radios, neatly dotted over two floors. Even in the shower, you could never miss his show. Microphones, tripods and dictaphones scattered in various corners, the highlight being a PD150 camera, to prove he’s the ultimate professional. He looked good on camera, but he didn’t deserve the award for print. That should have been yours, but journalism isn’t fair.
The relationship had been screwed from the start, but at least you were both keen. You can’t remember exactly when he started being vague and distant, but you were losing your grip and it didn’t feel good. Why wouldn't he answer your calls when he worked away? Why would he never tell you exactly where he was staying? You should have stopped there, disappeared quietly with a clear conscience and a repertoire of sexual memories to look back on, if things ever got worse. But you didn’t. You wanted a glorious exit.
You made a list of possibilities. You were both bored with bondage. You could go away for the night. Hotel Pelirocco in Brighton had potential. You’d seen an advert for it in Scarlet magazine. You looked at the rooms on their website. The Play Room had an 8ft round bed with a mirrored canopy, a 42" plasma, a pole dancing area, a giant plunge bath, double monsoon shower heads and its own entrance from the street. It cost £250 a night and made you look fucking desperate.
You thought about dressing up as a hooker and letting him rape you in the subway by Clapham North tube, but he couldn’t handle being kinky outside his middle-class home. You had already suggested a threesome, but his ego wasn’t interested, even when you said that he could chose the girl.
His ego. The solution was obvious. It had been there all along, sitting in the corner. It was something that would flatter him and make you impossible to forget. You needed to be drunk and flawless. The first bit wouldn’t be a problem.
*******
It was almost midnight by the time you reached Infernos. You were forced to queue outside, to make the place look popular. The doormen admired your cleavage as a drum and bass riff shook the entrance. You tried to weave casually through the students and sleazes, but your heels stuck to the floor like clumpy, wet marshmallows. He had been working all evening, but you didn’t really believe him. At least it was loud enough to make conversation impossible.
You reached his stool at the bar and wrapped your arms around him. He turned and you leaned in, sucking his tongue into your mouth before he had chance to think. Just when his tongue felt like it was going to break free, you bit down on it, hard, within moments, tasting blood. You continued to kiss him as you thrust your pelvis into his. He ran his hand down your spine. His fingers froze briefly when he felt skin instead of a thong. You sucked hard on his blood. He rubbed your stockings through your skirt and you felt him getting hard. You wanted to crawl inside him, to disappear down his throat.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here” he shouted, mad with lust. You nodded and led him through the crowd, out to the icy street. He flagged a cab and you sat in the front, just to torment him. He sent you a text from the backseat and you pretended you didn’t see it. You tried to figure out whether it was Luther or Lionel croaking nostalgic naivety. The driver could only confirm it was Magic FM.
The cab stopped and he grabbed your waist from behind, whispering suggestions as you walked down the path. He pushed you through the front door and pulled your hair to reach your neck. You turned and pushed him onto the stairs, kneeling down in front of him, massaging the inside of his leg as he let out a big moan. He reached out to stroke your hair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when you reached for the opening in his boxers. He gasped when you took him inside your mouth, making a chorus of satisfied sounds. His cock was harder than you could remember it being in a long time.
You waited until he was almost ready and then stopped suddenly, grabbing his arm and pulling him up the stairs, letting his eyes ride up your skirt as he stumbled towards the bedroom, his jeans trapping his ankles. You pushed him onto the bed and he tried to pull you on top. You broke free and turned to leave.
“What the fuck?”
“Wait”
You opened the door to his office. A tax return was on his desk - £53k, but he tells everyone £60k. You thought about removing your clothes, but you wanted to capture everything. You picked up the PD150 and reappeared, smiling. He looked confused and nervous.
You put the camera in the corner and kissed him hard, reassuring him. He smiled at you in a way that made you feel needed, dangerous and good. Have you ever been with a guy who made you want to quit the rest of your life? Did you ever say or think or feel, “I want to quit my life and just fucking snort you instead?” You fucked until your mind spun sideways, peaking then fading to black. The camera kept on rolling, trying to frame your truth.
******
You wake up drenched in sweat and you’re glad it’s not your own. Mascara sticks to come, but you prise your eyes wide open, pulling at crusty, stubborn lashes trying to block your view. You want to see the happy couple, fighting for each scream.
You watch him snoring deep, oblivious grunts of satisfaction. He has a mole on his left shoulder from drinking too long in the sun. You turn away and try to decipher the shaky, frozen pixels. The screen is still too far and no-one makes a sound. You slide off the bed and make your way over to the controls. You press rewind, pause, then play, then something hits your senses.
She grabs his neck and moves his hands and puts them on both tits. His hands stay stiff and her nipples stay flat. She pulls his neck down until her nipple feels wet teeth. She slides her hand inside his trousers, reaching for the zip. He gasps when her tongue starts to move in the same direction. He pulls off her headband to let her black hair loose before yanking off his boxers so they are both completely naked. He slides a few fingers into her pussy, saying ‘Tell me how much you want it’. She ignores him and grinds on his hand at her own pace. She stares into the camera and hope she looks good.
“Spank me” she says, after one of her loudest moans.
He hits one of her cheeks and she begs him to hit her harder.
He gets in about eight or nine solid slaps before she turns over. She starts kissing him on his chest, moving her mouth towards his cock. It’s a pretty good blow job, because she’s trying really hard. She keeps sucking and he squeezes her shoulder to let him know he is about to come. She doesn’t want to move so he shoots half the load in her mouth and the rest over her face.
When she finishes, she crawls back up and lies next to him on her back. He spreads her legs and buries his face in her pussy. He flicks his tongue around her clit for a few seconds, putting a few fingers in her arse. After twenty or thirty seconds, she starts writhing and moaning with her hands on his head, pulling his face deeper into her pussy. She accidentally pulls a little too hard and hits his nose against her pubic bone.
He moves his tongue lower. He wants to fuck her in the arse and regrets peaking too early. His neck is starting to ache, but she is almost ready. He continues for a few more minutes, ignoring the pain in his neck. She screams and shudders a little and then collapses on the bed.
You wait for her to wake, so you can freeze and find your answers.
