Going Too Far (2 page)

‘Thanks, Bliss. Does that mean I’m forgiven?’ He was smiling in his wolfish, sharp-toothed, wild-man way.

‘Like buggery,’ I replied, rather compounding my earlier error, as he licked his lips at the prospect of painful, unlubricated anal penetration. ‘Let’s start again, Kip.’

I planted myself in front of him, hands on hips and looking down on his jet black Razor Razor haircut. ‘Your role is to play Mr Sorry. You are contrite and you want to try to compensate me in any way you can for potentially ruining my trip. I want you humble.’

‘Oh, I am,’ he assured me, pulling off the tie and starting to unbutton his shirt. ‘I am so sorry, mistress. I’ll do anything you want, anything at all, to make up for what I’ve done.’

‘Yes, you bloody well will, but I don’t know why you think you can take your clothes off. Your compensation to me is to do exactly what I want you to do but without me punishing you. Get it?’

A snarl replaced his smile. ‘All right, spoilsport.’

‘That’s you, not me. Do your shirt up; Vicki’s coming round in a minute with some of her gear.’

‘God forbid she should see a man’s naked chest,’ he said sullenly, but still not rebuttoning. ‘So you’re going to punish me by making me watch you two make out and then send me home untouched, I suppose?’

‘Wrong. She’s not the type to enjoy an audience, though if she was it’d be a start. As you didn’t give me a chance to get a word in on the phone you can hardly complain that I’m going to have to give some time to somebody else. For all you know I had the whole local Territorial Army coming round to give me lessons in naked square bashing. Whatever that is.’

‘I should be so lucky. What time’s she coming? Let me give you a quick hand job as phase one of my compensation package.’

I looked at my watch. ‘Ten minutes. OK, then. I need to release some tension.’

Lifting my skirt and slipping down my knickers I moved closer. The restraint of knicker elastic against parted thighs turns me on usually but I decided I wanted maximum input and so stepped out of them and spread my legs wide. ‘Actually, I don’t want to hear your voice for a couple of minutes. Get your tongue moving, and do it fast.’

His head went obediently towards his target and his tongue connected, making me aware that anger is a real turn on. But I was still furious with him, and decided that not only did I not want to hear his voice but I didn’t want to see his face either. So I dropped my skirt over his head and imagined he was Gabriel Byrne. I’ve always had a thing for older men and, as you may have gathered, for men with black hair. Of course Kip’s half Irish as well, but he wasn’t in my mind at the time. Gabriel’s tongue was going up and down my slit and then fastening urgently on my clit, and I bucked my hips back and forth, thinking of what I could do for him given half the chance. The tongue wasn’t quite hard enough though.

‘Your tongue’s fantastic, but can you leave it and finger me?’ I instructed breathily, talking to Gabriel. Encouraged, Kip’s head emerged from my skirt as his right hand moved into place. ‘Not you, prat,’ I snapped, exasperated. ‘Get back under the skirt, I don’t want to see you. And shut up.’

He did as he was told, maybe a bit confused as to who exactly I had been talking to, and I resumed my conversation with Gabriel as he pressed down on my mons at the same time as rubbing the fiery tip of my clit. ‘That’s brilliant; that’s perfect; I’m nearly there; you’re fantastic; oh my God . . .’

Gabriel brought me to a shuddering, knee-trembling climax and gripped me with just the right amount of pressure as my muscles clenched and unclenched against his hand. If only I could repay him. Briefly I lost myself in a reverie of how I could do just that but then realised there was a head up my skirt.

‘Christ, get out, Kip. You’ve done your bit for now.’

His head came back into view and I smoothed my skirt down, inspecting it critically. It’s a new fabric, a polymer-enhanced linen and silk mix that is going to be everywhere next year, take my word for it. It was printed in one of my own designs, a dizzy black and white spiralling print with fluorescent pink and yellow blobs, just like Liquorice Allsorts, born of op art out of Jackson Pollock, which is going to be everywhere, etc. I’m very pleased with my skirt; the odd sample coming my way is the only perk of fabric design, but at least it means that I’m not totally dressed by Oxfam or George.

‘Bloody big head, you’ve stretched my skirt.’

‘That’s it, moan. You were talking nicely enough to me just now.’

‘No I wasn’t: I was talking to Gabriel Byrne. He was there in spirit; you were just the right hand.’

‘What does that mean? I don’t get any credit for it?’ He licked his fingers, his big tongue curling in what I presume he thought was a suggestive manner, but I could have assured him it was not.

I looked down. ‘You’ve got a stiffie; what more do you want?’

‘You know . . .’ He pouted suggestively and licked again in a travesty of a top-shelf mag. It’s hard to know whether to laugh or cry at him sometimes.

The bell rang and he stopped licking and wiped his hand round his mouth as I answered the door.

Vicki seemed to have forgotten my flat was already furnished. A stereo, lampstand, TV, two large but sickly-looking plants and four heavy boxes were decanted from the back of her brother’s estate. His painting and decorating gear was still in the car.

‘And this is without your clothes,’ I observed. ‘Going to be a tight squeeze.’

‘Not many of those,’ she retorted gloomily.

We embraced, with an extra long hug as I feel sorry for her. Correction: I felt sorry for her because she was living with Jo, but now she’s getting out I think things can only get better. Jo is a totally self-absorbed bitch, neurotically obsessed about getting older, and she’s been taking it out on Vicki. The poor girl has really suffered; it’s been like living with Sister George. Vicki’s actually quite attractive but thanks to jealous Jo she’s spent the last year making herself more and more frumpy so that Jo could be the attractive one. Still, with a bit of luck, let loose in my flat with my extensive pre-owned wardrobe and makeup at her disposal she might pull herself together.

‘You know Kip, don’t you?’

‘We’ve met,’ she said, nodding disinterestedly at him. ‘Your shirt’s undone.’

‘I was just doing a Gabriel Byrne impersonation,’ he explained. If Vicki was confused she didn’t remark on it.

‘Where shall I put this stuff for now?’

‘There’s plenty of room in the bedroom.’ She followed me in and I put the first box down near the window and turned on the light. I only go in there to sleep and dress so I keep the curtains drawn. Sex in bed really turns me off and I never let anyone stay the night, so I think of the bedroom as my nun’s cell.

We traipsed in and out with the stuff while Kip watched from the settee. It’s not that he’s lazy: he just likes being ordered to do things, so I disappointed him. Vicki likes to keep men fairly arm’s-length as well as being shy, so she wasn’t going to ask him either.

‘Get the beers in, Kip,’ I finally ordered, as his desire to be told what to do became palpable. He went towards the kitchen.

‘No, you tosser, from the off-licence.’

He nodded resignedly and I heard his old beloved Volkswagen Karmann Ghia rev up as I put the TV at the foot of the bed. The off-licence is two hundred yards away but Kip doesn’t believe in walking. His car, his Suzuki Bandit and his mountain bike are equal in his affection, so it’s not that he doesn’t like exercise. It’s just that he thinks that feet are for being whacked with a ruler from time to time rather than for motion.

‘You still screwing him, Bliss?’ asked Vicki, almost incredulously.

‘Only now and then,’ I answered. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

She shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose, once you get past the trendy hair and clothes. He’d be better if he admitted to himself he’s gay.’

‘He’s not,’ I assured her. ‘He’s a masochist. Well, mainly. It’s not that he hasn’t been with men, it’s more that he doesn’t mind too much who’s doing the hurting.’

‘Oh, right. So why are your knickers on the floor?’

I winked at her. ‘He owed me one. Actually he still owes me several. Jealous?’

‘Don’t be daft. I’m not interested in straight women. It’s time you learned to take no for an answer.’

It amuses me to tease Vicki. I don’t really fancy her at all, but I think she quite likes me pestering her from time to time, especially lately when her confidence has been so knocked by Jo. To bolster it I told her about Kip’s idea of watching me and her together.

‘If he’s a masochist he wouldn’t enjoy it, would he? Most men are pathetically keen to know what lesbians get up to, and the thought of watching two women should be a treat.’

‘Yes, but then the scenario was that I send him home without any contact.’

She continued trying to work out whether that wouldn’t still be a treat for a masochist while I put my knickers back on, taking my time over it as though I was trying to get her going. Her cheeks were quite pink and I think she took it as the compliment it was intended to be. It has to be said that I do have nice long legs – my calves enhanced by the cheap black stilettos I bought to go with the posh skirt – and fairly muscular but shapely thighs, crowned by a nice blonde bush and lovely pink lips, plumped and moistened of course by Kip’s attentions. The knickers were pretty good too: a rather pricy cream satin thong, only mine thanks to Dad’s last cheque. As I pulled them up I turned round as though unconsciously to show her my back view, just so she could see what she was missing. Smoothing my skirt down for the second time I gave her a lecture about the material and the role of polymers in twenty-first-century fabric technology, inviting her to feel the texture of the skirt. She felt my arse, laughing, and I wondered if one day I might persuade her that the odd straight woman wouldn’t hurt, personally or politically.

Kip came back with a case of Beck’s and I made him confess the enormity of his crime in conspiring to put Rachel out of action. Of course as Vicki was having the flat it hadn’t occurred to me to ask her if she might take Rachel’s place. She’s only a social worker so I don’t suppose anyone would mind if she didn’t turn up for work for three months. In fact if I told you which borough she worked for, you’d probably bet they wouldn’t even notice. Anyway she looked almost offended at the idea that she could possibly give up her case-load for more than a long weekend, so that was that.

She left after just one beer, which is probably just as well when you know what a terrible driver she is, leaving me and Kip cracking open the second bottle and looking at each other challengingly. I was still slightly confused as to whether I should punish him, or whether not punishing him would be the greater punishment.

‘Phase two of compensation package,’ he offered. Having had a large vodka and a beer I was feeling mellow and tempted to agree and get him to give me a nice lazy screw but he was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.

‘I have a friend –’ he announced, leaving the sentence hanging. As it was I was fairly impressed; I thought Rachel and I were the only ones he had.

‘I have a friend,’ he repeated, ‘in South America.’

‘What?’ Astonishment would be too mild a word for my reaction. ‘Why didn’t you say so before? Where is she?’

‘He,’ he corrected. ‘Charlie, or Carlos as he now calls himself, is at this very minute –’ looking at his watch he made mental calculations ‘– eating his lunch in a seafood restaurant in downtown Miraflores – and in case you don’t know, that’s in Lima.’

Stupefied, I looked at him vacantly. ‘Which Lima?’

‘How many Limas are there? Lima in Peru. The one you are flying to in a few days’ time. I managed to get in touch with him and he says –’ he scrutinised the piece of paper ‘– that he would love to meet any friend of mine and show her round the city.’

I snatched the paper out of his hand. ‘Oh yeah? Let me see.’

It was an e-mail from Lima, all right, or so it said. Carlos started off with ‘hey buddy long time no hear’ stuff and then went on to say he’d been in Peru for a couple of months as a representative of a development agency and, yes, he would be delighted to meet me. He’d be in the office all day apart from lunch at a seafood restaurant, etc.

‘If this is kosher, how come you didn’t tell me before? Even if Rachel had been coming, it would have been nice to know someone in Lima.’

Kip had the smug look of a magician who’d pulled off the perfect sleight of hand.

‘Because last time I heard from him he was in the States. However, he just happens to be originally from Peru, so when it turned out that Rachel was going to be in plaster for six weeks I phoned him at work to see if he had any old aunties or mates in South America and, amazingly, they told me he’d been working there himself for the last six months, moving around a bit, and was actually at this moment in time in Peru. They gave me the e-mail address and
voilà
, or
hola
, if that’s more appropriate.’

Studying the e-mail I tried in vain to think of the Spanish for ‘there you go’, but could only come up with
ecco
!, which is most definitely Italian. Half of me decided I should kick Kip out now that he’d atoned in some way, though not completely, for his part in Rachel’s downfall and get back to the language tapes but the other half was so pleased to have a contact in the one city I had been feeling slightly intimidated by that the least I could offer was a reciprocal wank.

‘That’s hello,’ I said absently. ‘It’s –
ecco
– bollocks, I keep thinking of that one – it’s
voilà
, no it’s . . . oh sod it. Where do you know him from? And what did you mean, Charlie who now calls himself Carlos? If he’s from Peru, how come he used to be a Charlie?’

‘Because he’s half English and half Peruvian, a bit of a donkey like you.’

‘Watch it. Now I’ve got his e-mail address you’ve got nothing to trade with. Insults are out, except in the me-to-you direction. And I presume you didn’t mean he’s hung like one.’