Here’s a real blast from the past – the first erotic story I ever had published, when I was a young whippersnapper on the staff of Forum magazine, back in 1988. Luckily it hasn’t dated too badly, which is pretty ironic considering there are some very bad dates at its heart…
The worst thing about living with Laura Montgomery was not her tuneless singing in the bath, which woke me up at quarter to seven every morning and prevented me from going back to sleep. It was not the fact that she would borrow my mohair sweater and return it to the drawer covered with make-up stains, nor was it her attempts to cook, which left the inside of the cooker covered in an unidentifiable black gunk and the kitchen looking like a bomb-site. No, these and a hundred general other thoughtlessnesses I could tolerate. The one thing that annoyed me beyond all belief was her habit of bringing home unsuitable men.
There had been a constant stream of these during the five months I had been living with Laura. Each one’s arrival was prefaced with a general announcement that he was the most gorgeous man alive, and no, he was nothing like the last one, who had been a mistake, and yes, this was it. At the most, they lasted six weeks.
The first one I remembered had been Gerry, who Laura had been in the process of disposing of when I moved in; he had passed in a blur of late-night screaming matches and Turkish cigarette smoke.
Then had come Charles, who was something in the City, the something apparently being loud and obnoxious. Conversations with Charles revolved around money, usually how much he had made and how much his Docklands penthouse had gained in value that week. Laura had managed to ignore his overbearing arrogance and egocentricity, but had grown tired of his habit of making date which were then broken at the first hint of a Stock Market slump. We still had half a packet of the expensive coffee beans which Charles drank exclusively mouldering at the back of a cupboard.
Charles had been followed by the charming, boyish Jan, who was of Eastern European extraction. He had brought to their relationship a wicked sense of fun, small cuddly toys which he would leave dotted round the flat for Laura to find, and all the attendant neuroses which went with having an overbearing mother who was only waiting for the day when he brought his blushing bride under the family roof and blessed the union with half a dozen little Jans.
However, the most unsuitable of all Laura’s unsuitable men was the current one, Marcus Barrymore. His family were so rich that he didn’t need to work and he seemed to divide his time between various men’s clubs in Piccadilly and the more exclusive of the Virgin Islands. He had the kind of voice that could grate cheese and a jacket which looked as though it had spent most of its life as a Ford Escort seat cover.
Whatever Marcus did with his money, he did not spend it on Laura. Meals were strictly at-home affairs, and as Laura was terrified of Marcus discovering that she could barely boil an egg, my help was unwillingly enlisted; I had got used to scribbled notes asking me if I could whip up a Chicken Kiev and leave it in the freezer.
Marcus’ most disgusting traits were reserved for the bedroom, although there was a slight overspill, as I had on more than one occasion staggered into the bathroom in the early hours to discover a discarded condom floating in the toilet.
He went at sex with the kind of passion country gents usually reserve for the hunt, even to the point of shouting “Tally-ho!” at the moment of orgasm. The tortured shrieks of the bedsprings were only matched by Laura’s non-stop gasps for mercy, and I found that only listening to loud rock music through headphones would block out the noise. Even today, I still can’t listen to Pink Floyd without falling asleep, although many people who’ve never lived with Laura have also said the same.
But now, finally, my months of passive resistance were about to come to an end. Tonight I was bringing my own unsuitable man home…
Geoff Palmer was head of physics at the local comprehensive school where I taught English. He had been the one member of staff out of the sixty or so who’d really made an impression on me in my first confusing week. We’d been on dinner duty together, and he had listened as I moaned about my class of third-year horrors whose idea of decent literature was Page Three of the Sun and who thought Milton was something you cleaned up after babies with.
As well as being sympathetic, he was also extremely attractive: tall, with sandy hair which he continually pushed out his deep grey eyes, and a full, almost pouting mouth. The general consensus among the more gossipy element in the staff room was that he was definitely interested in me, but there was one slight impediment to our getting to know each other a little better – Geoff’s wife, Cathy.
An early, hasty marriage had degenerated into a trial separation. Geoff rarely spoke about Cathy, and I never brought the subject up, but privately I wondered about the wisdom of getting involved with a man who, technically, was still married.
However, as the weeks had passed, our train journeys had ended with gentle pecks on the cheeks which had evolved into more passionate kisses and I had decided to take my chance. I knew that Laura was taking Marcus out to celebrate his birthday, so I made an assignation with Geoff for that evening.
Leaving school that evening, we could have been two of the kids, holding hands and giggling over nothing on our way to the Tube station. Every word, every gesture that passed between us had a sexual meaning, and I could feel myself getting wet between the legs.
At Geoff’s insistence, we stopped at the nearest off-licence to buy a bottle of sweet, fizzy wine. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ I asked.
‘Not so much drunk, more… lubricated,’ Geoff replied knowingly.
By the time we reached the flat, the sexual tension was becoming unbearable. I could have quite cheerfully begun ripping Geoff’s clothes off on the stairs if it hadn’t been for the fact that our neighbour’s cat was sitting on the landing, regarding us with a critical, unbalancing stare.
I fumbled with the key, afraid for a moment that I would open the door to be greeted by Laura. She had gone, but evidence of her hasty departure was everywhere: a discarded pair of tights hanging over the back of a chair; lipstick-smeared tissues on the table, and dirty plates in the sink.
While Geoff uncorked the wine, I slid my hands into his shirt, feeling his warm, taut body. He half-turned and pulled me to him, our soft mouths meeting in a hungry kiss, tongues pressing against each other. I could feel his hand cupping my breast through my sweater and my one thought was to feel that same hand underneath the sweater.
I slipped out of my shoes; the kitchen floor was cold beneath my stockinged feet. ‘Come into the living room,’ I murmured. ‘This is fun, but I don’t want to catch hypothermia as a result’
We stumbled into the living room. ‘Let’s get some of this nonsense off,’ Geoff muttered. He nuzzled my neck gently as he pulled at my sweater. I could feel his slowly-growing erection pressing against me.
Encouraged, I tugged off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt. He slid his lips gently down to the soft flesh at the top of my breast and his tongue flickered teasingly over my nipple. I moaned gently, feeling an insistent throbbing between my legs and needing his touch to ease the itch.
Our hands were roaming over each other’s bodies, greedily exploring every inch of flesh as it was revealed, listening for the sounds that would tell us we had found a sensitive and pleasurable spot.
I pulled down Geoff’s briefs to reveal his swelling cock. I glanced at it quickly, then looked away, half-embarrassed by the sight of this beautiful organ, bluish-purple against the sandy hair on his belly.
He sank to his knees, teasing my body with gentle nips and tugs. One finger hovered for a moment, achingly close to my hairy mound, then slipped ever so gently between my lips. His touch was like a soothing balm to my aching clitoris and I sighed, my eyes half-closed with pleasure.
Sensing my obvious enjoyment, Geoff replaced his fingers with his lips. The sensation of his tongue moving with long-practised ease coupled with hot breath at the entrance to my vagina was ecstatic. I twined my fingers in his hair, ground my hips against his face, wanting to impale myself on that tongue and die. My breath caught in my throat and my voice was thick; the words “Yes” and “Geoff” had become interchangeable.
Too soon, it seemed, the sensation became almost unbearably painful, before all sensation seemed suspended for a moment, then gave way to the warm pleasure of orgasm.
Weak at the knees, I clutched at Geoff’s head and hugged him to me, then ran one hand down to meet his cock, hard under its film of slippery juice. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything to repay his compliment and kiss his cock in love and gratitude. Tentative at first, my tongue grew more confident as I gently circled the tip, so reminiscent of a bruised mushroom. I chased the drips of salty liquid, explored under the rim and ran my tongue down the length of it, drawing one finger across his balls with a feather-light touch that made him moan. There was a look of childish wonderment on his face.
‘Oh God, Kim, you’re beautiful,’ he breathed. ‘Kiss me, honey.’
Reluctantly, I broke off from my task and our mouths met, each tasting the salt-sweet flavour of the other. I could feel his erection nosing hopefully at my entrance/
‘Yes?’ he asked softly.
‘Oh, yes!’ He gently parted the ragged flower of my lips and entered me with infinitesimal slowness, as if mindful of my relative inexperience. His movements, careful at first, gradually built to a peak of thrusting as my hips rose to meet his. My hands raked his back as I cried out with the beginnings of my orgasm; lost in my own sensations, I was still aware of Geoff’s own spasms and the trickle of lukewarm liquid down my thighs.
Seconds later, I was aware of other sounds: a key turning in the lock and voices raised in mid-argument dying away as Laura and Marcus were confronted by the sight of two bodies on the carpet, tangled together in the aftermath of orgasm.
I’m putting a card in the newsagent’s window for a new flatmate this afternoon…
