Going Too Far (30 page)

The door creaked and swung half open. In his haste he hadn’t closed it properly. His hands were busy removing his trousers and he gave me a half smile and continued to undress without closing the door. Not wanting to lower my dress I too let the door hang ajar; if anyone should pass they would have seen me exhibiting myself like a wanton slut begging for attention, but in a place like this they would be hurrying to get into similar positions. I took a dark delight in the thought that it might add an edge to their excitement. Standing displaying myself like a whore in a cheap dress and shoes in a shabby hotel room rented by the hour gave me as much of a charge as being blindfolded and gagged.

Carlos pressed his body into mine, crushing me against the wall, and his hardness pressed desperately into me. His hands propelled me to the bed and I sank on to the grubby bedspread and opened my legs, not needing any stimulation and frankly not wanting it, just wanting to feel his cock push inside me and fuck me as hard as I knew he could.

We only had half an hour but he didn’t rush it. It was the last time and I understood why he wanted to turn me over and thrust into me from behind, and then turn on to his back and let me fuck him. I finally lifted my dress off so that he could watch me play with my breasts as I rode his cock. The door was still half open and, though I had heard nobody pass, in my mind we were being quietly watched. As I mashed my clitoris hard against his bone I knew I was nearly there. He was too, and his hands moved to my clit to make sure we came together on this last time.

There were five minutes left for a quick shower in the bathroom down the hall before our half hour was up. We got into the car and he drove me to the bar in silence but unlike the previous day there were no unspoken questions between us. The loose ends had been tied; our game was over.

Like the night before he almost overshot the bar, screeching to a halt just in time. Again he came round and opened the door for me, and when I stepped out he bent formally to kiss my hand. I waited with a smile of affection and regret at our farewell on my face but instead of saying goodbye in the same vein he suddenly pulled me towards him and once again kissed my mouth with passion. Taken by surprise I responded almost automatically. His questing tongue forced my head back and his other hand pulled my arse towards him; my back arched as if we were still dancing a tango. He hadn’t showered and smelled of sweat and sex and me.

Suddenly he stopped and straightened, hugged me briefly and got back in the car and drove away. Confused, I realised that people had stopped to watch us kiss; two of them were Red and Robbie, who were standing at the entrance to the bar.

‘G’day,’ said Robbie amiably. ‘Good class?’

I nodded, suddenly feeling remorseful. ‘Yes thanks. Don’t suppose I’ll get the chance to dance the tango again.’

‘He gave you a good send-off,’ observed Red nonchalantly. ‘Shame he didn’t hang around, we could have had a last drink together. We were going to say if he wanted you before us tonight we wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Excuse me! I thought we’d agreed that your opinion doesn’t come into it.’

‘No, Bliss, you’ve got it wrong,’ said Robbie, his voice grating as he held my arm firmly and started walking down the street. Obviously we weren’t going to the bar. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t count any more, now you’ve proved just what a slut you are.’

I held my breath. Was this for real, or was it the last final game?

‘We know what sort of dancing you’ve been doing for the last hour,’ said Red. ‘Did you do a special dance for him, or just open your legs?’

My legs that had opened for him were now trembling slightly. ‘Both. We danced for a bit and then went to a hotel.’

‘Sounds sleazy,’ said Robbie. ‘But that suits you just fine. Anyway, in case you’re wondering what we think about it, we think you owe us. After the nice time we gave you the other night, we reckon it’s our turn, especially as you’ve just had yours with Carlos.’ His smile was almost sinister. ‘We won’t tie you up as long as you promise you’ll do everything we tell you.’

‘That’s OK.’ I hoped it would be.

‘Good, because you don’t really have much choice.’

‘Dinner first?’ I asked hopefully.

Red grinned broadly. ‘We’ve had ours. If you’re very good we might go out later for a drink and you can get something to eat then, but don’t count on it.’

‘Fine.’

My voice was a whisper and I walked through the humid streets of Buenos Aires with my two lovely boys on either side, knowing that my last night in South America was going to be no disappointment. I wondered if they had known that Carlos and I had fucked or whether they just guessed, but knew that they didn’t really care.

Compared to Buenos Aires London was a freezing, dull, grey non-event. No vibrancy, no colour, no excitement. The people on the streets were uniformly drab; I could see how the tango started in the
barrios
of Buenos Aires, whereas all that the cockneys had come up with was the knees-up. The men I met socially seemed complete tossers compared to the sophistication of the Argentines. I couldn’t believe I’d willingly left Carlos and Red and Robbie for the asinine lads I met everywhere I went. It was as though I’d traded in David Ginola and a pair of Mel Gibsons for a gaggle of David Beckhams and Robbie Williamses.

It was also clear that my career wasn’t as easy to change as I’d airily supposed before I left. Nobody was interested in my photographs, though I thought some were pretty impressive. I had to accept that someone with a degree in fine art who’d spent the last five years designing dress materials wasn’t likely to get any photographic work. I applied for a job in Nottingham, which would have had great prospects, but as bad as London was I knew I needed the big city. It seemed likely that I was going to have to go back to my old job, but I kept putting off the phone call to say I was back. Every day I wished I were still in South America.

Kip was entranced by my adventures and inspired by my introduction to bondage, although of course he wanted some reward for being immobilised, i.e. pain. We played around once or twice but I didn’t enjoy the active role and being bound by a boringly image-conscious effete masochist just didn’t do the trick for me. His friend Stevenson offered to experiment with both of us but I didn’t fancy him, and anyway two men together would only make me miss Red and Robbie more.

Their postcards were the only bright spot in my life. Rather than go back to Patagonia they had gone up to northern Argentina and crossed the border into Brazil. They said they wished I were still with them; their second card consisted of nothing but WE MISS BLISS written over and over again by each of them alternately, and it almost made me cry. There wasn’t much doubt that they’d be popular with sexy, brown-skinned, fabulous-bodied Brazilian women and I felt wistfully jealous.

I thought obsessively about our last night together, how they had started by making me tell them exactly what had happened with Carlos. When I got to the bit about the open door Red had smiled and raised the blinds and turned on the main light, musing that maybe the tenants of apartments over the road might be interested. He made me stand by the balcony door as I had stood for Carlos and turn in slow circles so both they and anyone glancing out of the block opposite would see me posing like a prostitute in an Amsterdam brothel. After that they had me dance for them, shimmying like a lap dancer, dressed in nothing but my black holdups and cheap shoes, and I undressed them and gave Red a hand job with my red dress sliding over his cock. His come spurted all over it. I still haven’t washed it.

When I remembered that long night I would feel a quickening of the pulse in my cunt and was unable to resist sliding to the floor and slipping off my knickers, touching myself as I relived how Robbie had told me it was time I did the talking, and how I had described to them my deepest and darkest fantasies, except of course for the one about them together. While I talked I did whatever they wanted, stroking Robbie’s still hard prick and pausing in my narrative while I sucked Red gently to get him hard again, then continuing while I obediently fingered myself and masturbated with everything they handed to me, from the famous torches to my hairbrush handle and even a pair of toothbrushes, rubbing my clit – carefully – with the bristles of one while rotating another inside me.

Back in Stratford I pressed the flat of one hand over my mons while my finger stroked my clit and thought about the way they had lain on the bed with their legs interlaced, their pricks inches apart, while I sank on to first one and then the other of them with alternate strokes. As I slid down the length of Red’s massive shaft I felt Robbie’s just slightly smaller one press against my clit, and as I lifted myself and pushed down on to Robbie’s cock Red’s rubbed my buttocks. My thigh muscles started to scream at me but I was more interested in my tense and ready sex muscles and kept going until Robbie came inside me. I stayed with his cock until his groans subsided and then went back to Red. He too was nearly there and while I rode him to his climax Robbie’s hand reached out and rubbed my engorged clit with my own wetness until I came too, my cunt muscles shouting and spasming loud enough to drown out the cry of my aching legs.

Back home I came at the same time as I remembered our last almost-simultaneous orgasm, but it was a pale imitation of that tremendous explosion, and afterwards I wasn’t enveloped in the lovely, loving arms of Red and Robbie.

After a few weeks I pulled myself together. Life was passing me by – I couldn’t sit in my flat having solitary sex for ever. I had to get out and meet people; it was time to get back to work. I phoned my old firm and agreed to start the following week. Then I had a call from Marcus Livingston.

He was a friend of Red and Robbie, he said. He knew the part I played with them in Chile, and wanted to meet me. Any friend of theirs is a friend of mine, I said, and we made a date for the following night.

The next day I had an e-mail from the guys, telling me I was going to be contacted by Marcus Livingston, who was a friend of theirs, etc. They went on to say that he had similar interests to theirs and thought I might be able to lend him a hand with a project he was involved in.

I assumed the similar interests were political rather than sexual, but you never know. I dressed carefully for my meeting with Marcus in a Hackney pub: my short Liquorice Allsorts skirt and black top and, just because Red liked them so much, my black holdups. He turned out to be short and hirsute and his passion was for politics, so we talked globalism. Despite my on-the-job rôle he told me more than I already knew about the Chiloe deal; he was a leading member of what he called a mirror group to Red and Robbie’s. He offered me a job.

‘Spying again?’

‘Sort of. I’m afraid I don’t mean a job with the group; we don’t have any money. We’re looking for someone to work as a waitress.’

I won’t tell the name of the restaurant chain as I can’t risk blowing my cover. But let me tell you that it’s not only in the third world where employees are exploited. Hopefully you’ll read my shock horror report in a national newspaper one day, but I’ve become as accustomed as Red and Robbie to the apathy of the media, or indeed the public, so I’m not holding my breath.

Everyone thinks I’m crazy slaving away as a waitress for a bare minimum wage when I already had the offer of my old job back. Sometimes I think I should be doing this for a TV network, where I’d be pulling in a journalist’s salary as well. But, hey, it’s only money. My trip cost less than I expected, thanks to spending so much time under canvas, so I had some left over. That had to go; having spare cash around makes me nervous. If I’m not on the brink of financial ruin by the end of the month I feel like I’m not really living. Money just gives you an illusion of security, and who wants security anyway?

What’s more, apart from the fact that I adore the thrill of espionage, I’ve found out what a mirror group means. We share all our information with the groups in Australia and the States. The boys are back in Perth now and once a week we meet at Marcus’s house and download any information the other groups have and send ours. After the others have gone Marcus and I have a special on-line session with the guys. This week Robbie started by stripping me down to my underwear, though of course Marcus had to provide the hands and type out exactly what I looked like. Robbie then used Marcus’s finger to stroke my clit while the screen filled with his words of profane encouragement.

This week was pretty special because though I’ve asked for this before it was the first time that Red allowed me to use Robbie’s hand round his dick. I bent over the keyboard to tell Robbie how his finger was probing and stroking me, though I lost it as I came, so Red took over and told me how well I was pumping him. When his message read
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
I guessed he’d come too. Marcus seemed keen on the image of Robbie and Red wanking each other, even only as proxies. I think he hero worships them and though he’s not gay I bet he wouldn’t mind one of their hands round him, virtual or otherwise. He doesn’t get much else out of the session, though I guess he jerks off after I’ve gone. There’s always the possibility that Red or Robbie will ask him to fuck me for them, though I somehow don’t think they will.

Of course, now Red and Robbie have sort of acted out my fantasy of the two of them together, I might have to reciprocate by letting Red into the inner sanctum of my arse, via a slimline vibrator in Marcus’s hands. That possibility can stay in my head for the time being, though.

My political education hasn’t come on as well as you might expect considering my new career, but the more I learn the more committed I become. Working for a big company in a menial position would open anyone’s eyes to the outrages they get away with. I don’t know if there’ll be another assignment for me when I’ve got enough information from this job, but I don’t care. One thing I’ve definitely decided is that I’m not going back to my old job. I’ll be thirty-one in a couple of months’ time and I’m not going to risk suddenly realising I’m fifty-one and have just wasted twenty years of my life going through the same routines day after day, week after week.