‘Sure I did. Then he told me you said Vichy water tasted like – like sex juices and I thought, how does she know? And when he said he didn’t want any payback I thought, why not? That’s another first.’
Her eyes closed and I saw Peter’s tongue brush lightly over her clit. It looked like a pink opal, hard and gleaming, set in lush pink moistness, and I heard her breathe in sharply.
‘Nice, Marjo?’
She laughed deep in her throat. ‘I’ve never had a tongue on my clit that wasn’t. Have you?’
‘Our Alsatian used to be a bit rough, but – no, sorry, only joking.’
Marjo laughed again but I could see that just for a minute she’d believed me and despite being shocked was sinfully turned on. At the same time Peter’s tongue delved deep inside her and she moaned and I saw her hands tighten around the taps behind her. It was tempting to thrust my own hand down my jeans but I decided to gamble on something better later.
Peter’s tongue was brushing broadly from clit to arsehole and back and I was slightly jealous.
‘Are you near to coming, Marjo?’
She opened her eyes. ‘Not far off. Has he already done this to you?’
‘No, we’ve just talked, apart from when he wiped up some water I’d spilled.’
‘Really?’ her eyes widened. ‘So are you next?’
I deliberated. ‘I don’t think so. What if I wanted to be next with you?’
‘Shit!’ Her breath was harder. ‘I don’t know; I’ve never done that sort of thing before.’
‘But you like the idea of it.’
‘Sure, the idea . . .’
I moved towards her and rubbed her nipples under the lace bra. My crotch made contact with the back of Peter’s head, which was moving up and down rhythmically and I knew he was lapping hard at her clit and she’d be coming before too long. I wanted to make it nice for her and pulled her bra cups down and scuffed her nipples harder. Her lips were swollen and lipsticked and I moved my mouth slowly towards them, not wanting to spoil it and waiting for her to shake her head or move away. Instead she closed her eyes and moved her head towards me. As she parted her lips I caught a glimpse of her pink tongue before my mouth closed over hers. I moved purposefully towards her so that Peter’s head was dragging the seam of my jeans over my own clit as he tongued her. As her tongue sought mine greedily and my hands luxuriated in the lushness of her breasts I thrust closer towards her and as we kissed and came Peter was forgotten, an impersonal instrument of our mutual orgasms. I wondered briefly and triumphantly if he felt used as I pressed my mons on to the crown of his head and wondered if he could feel the violent contractions of my muscles.
‘Good work, Verhoeven,’ I observed coolly as I detached my mouth and hands from Marjo and my crotch from the back of his head. ‘So what’s the result of the taste test?’
He stood up and turned towards me, then without speaking kissed me with a tongue full of Marjo’s juices. She was watching but mindful of the time we’d been in there. I handed her knickers to her while responding to Peter’s tongue.
‘Definitely Vichy, but stronger and creamier,’ he admitted when we disengaged. ‘I’ve never fucked anyone with the crown of my head before.’
‘Don’t think I’ve ever rubbed off on the back of someone’s head before either,’ I countered. ‘Not to mention kissed a woman in a bowler hat.’
Marjo tucked her blouse into her skirt. ‘Nice timing. Thank you both.’
‘Yeah, we’ll fly with you again,’ I said, winking as she left the toilet. I locked it behind her. After squashing Peter’s head between us like a double-ended vibrator I felt he deserved a bit of reciprocity. ‘You want a little tonguing too? Or a hand job?’
‘No chance of a shag?’
What the hell, as long as it was quick and impersonal. Kissing Marjo and fondling her tits had been enough excitement for one day. As I nodded OK he pulled a rubber from his pocket and I dropped my jeans and knickers and bent over the toilet. He was big and slid satisfyingly into my wetness and with a bit of drawling obscene verbal encouragement he came in no time.
Lovely people, the Dutch.
Almost twenty-four hours later I woke up with the usual, hell, where am I, before remembering. I was in Lima, I had just slept off jet lag – hopefully – and I was on Carlos Garcia’s sofa bed absolutely desperate for some water.
Groggily getting off the couch – they are just not comfortable, those things – I managed to get my brain into first gear while trying to find the kitchen. No hangover, thank God, because after my exuberant meeting with Carlos, who looked not at all like Gabriel Byrne (bad) but more like a black-haired David Ginola (good) and babbling like an idiot in the car back to his flat, I had almost instantly folded like an over-excited child. My mind was telling me that he seemed pleased and amused by my enthusiasm, though I was prepared to believe it lied and he would turn out to be totally pissed off by being landed with an impressionable unsophisticate. However, I would soon put him right.
I found loads of bottled water in the kitchen, plus coffee, bread and a note.
Good morning, Bliss! I’m at work till around five, won’t call in case I wake you. There’s some sausage and stuff in the fridge or plenty of cafés down the road (see map). Help yourself to anything you want.
A las tardes
.
That must be Spanish for catch you later; it’s incredible what the phrasebooks don’t tell you. After drinking a litre of water I did a time check. I hadn’t changed my watch but both the video and the radio alarm told me it was almost two in the afternoon. Great, we must have got back at about eight the evening before, so I’d had plenty of sleep.
The bread looked good and fresh but I wanted to explore so, after a hiccup with the shower, which finally produced hot water but not after I’d been accidentally soaked in cold, I picked up my
South American Handbook
and Carlos’s map and headed into downtown Miraflores.
Rachel and I had given each other a severe talking to about our usual careless expenditure – neither of us earns a fortune but we’re used to spending what we like and running out by the end of the month – and vowed to budget carefully on our trip. However I reasoned that as I’d saved loads of money by staying for a couple of nights with Carlos and getting a lift to and from the airport, a decent lunch wouldn’t hurt. I changed a couple of travellers’ cheques into Peruvian sols – nice name – and contemplated menus. The open-air café faced a flowerbed and after calculating that the two-course lunch was less than a fiver I got myself a table.
After tucking into a stuffed avocado followed by pasta with meatballs, washed down with local beer, I felt extremely pleased with myself. The feeling was only bolstered when I unfolded the piece of paper I’d shoved unread in my purse the night before.
Peter Verhoeven, Hotel Arequipa, until Friday.
Thanks for making the flight so enjoyable.
Central Lima might prove to be a tad overwhelming, I thought, but this was just like civilisation. Young people walked purposefully or romantically through the square, while the lunching ladies at the next table wore expensive tweed suits, despite the fact that it was quite warm. The sun shone weakly through the sea mist that lies over Lima and I suspected it might be stronger than it seemed and made a mental note to use sun block the next day. A couple of girls who looked American were sitting by the railings in front of the flowerbed with their guidebooks propped on their rucksacks and I smiled indulgently. Already I felt at home and kidded myself that in my anonymous jeans, T-shirt and shades I could pass for a local out for lunch. Amused by the idea I hid the guidebook under
Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter
and, despite my Nordic rather than Latin looks, imagined I was a moneyed Peruvian trying to improve her English before Daddy paid for her to visit the UK.
Back at the flat I had a good look round – after all, Carlos had given me carte blanche to help myself to anything. He had told me the previous night he only had a short lease on the flat as he moved around a lot, so I wasn’t surprised it was a bit impersonal. Still I was able to check his taste in books, at least the English ones – a reasonable selection of contemporary American fiction – and music, which was mainly salsa and other South American and Caribbean stuff. I put a CD on and danced round the sitting-room. Despite the flight – not just the length of it and the time change but also the fun I’d had on it – I was feeling decidedly energetic, or what Kip disdainfully calls frisky.
Before going out to lunch I’d put the sofa bed back together and now thought I’d better unload my backpack. There was plenty of room in the wardrobe so I hung up my one skirt, one blouse, one dress and one pair of trousers and rearranged the rest of the contents of the pack. I slid back the other side of the wardrobe door to find a space for my sleeping bag and mat and as I moved some shoes out to make more room was not surprised, though almost triumphantly pleased, to find that far from being sensible black office brogues or trainers there were two pairs of stilettos and a pair of black thigh-high boots. Kip hadn’t been leading me on after all.
His note had said help yourself, so without compunction I rifled through the second half of the wardrobe: bingo. A couple of basques, one black, one red, a proper lace-up black corset – bit too serious, that – and a black leather bra and shorts set.
The question was, though, did he intend me to find them? I went through the what-ifs. Did he assume Kip would have told me about his penchant for accessories, in which case he would be pleased to come home and find me corseted and high heeled? And if not, why hadn’t he hidden his little outfits? Or would he think I had a nerve poking round in his wardrobe? Not to mention, who else wore these? For all I knew, he was a cross-dresser himself.
I decided to go with my instinct and put on the red basque. It had suspenders and I had brought with me a pair of black holdups – OK, I know this was supposed to be an adventurous trekking holiday, but a girl never knows and they don’t take up much room – and little black knickers so I dressed up. Pretty good, I thought, a little bit tight, but then I’m a wide-boned woman. The boots were a good fit but disappointingly hid the stockings so I tried the shoes. I couldn’t believe how high they were. I thought I was taking high heels to the limit when I bought my cheapies but these were amazing. Unfortunately they were also too big. Seeing as my feet are pretty huge – six and a half on a good day – I started to think that maybe Carlos was indeed the wearer of the fancy dress. I didn’t want to give up too easily though and, with a flash of inspiration, put a pair of white cotton ankle socks over my stockings, then slipped into the shoes. Not a bad fit, and in my view at least a bit of a turn on, the hint of St Trinian’s making the rest look even more decadent. The heels were so high that my feet in the socks seemed to flow vertically down into the shoes, as though I was on points. If he didn’t like it perhaps I could get a cab over to the Hotel Arequipa, where I was pretty sure somebody would. One thing was for sure, somebody had to, because I’d got myself pretty excited by the getup.
It was just after five. Not knowing how far away Carlos worked I couldn’t guess when he’d be back but satisfied with what he would find I put my one skirt (the polymer Liquorice Allsorts one) and my one good top (long sleeves, low necked and stretchy jersey) over the rest and made some coffee while waiting to ask if he’d had a nice day at the office.
Despite my tiredness the night before I’d registered that Carlos looked pretty good in black jeans and turtleneck, but in a cream linen suit and collarless white shirt he was as inviting as a double vanilla ice cream and I could have licked him all over. I know, the cream linen suit is such a Latin cliché, but give a girl a break. I’m sick of hip Kip and the fashionistas at work and was happy to wallow in Carlos’s conventional and quite frankly stunning look. He smelled faintly of a musky aftershave or cologne, and though usually I like men to smell of nothing but men it suited him and I even quite liked it.
I poured him some coffee and he raised his eyebrows at the shoes. ‘Did you find everything you want?’
It was going to take time to get used to the fact that despite looking Spanish and having decidedly American cultural leanings his accent is as English as mine. Or did he speak with an American accent when in the US? I liked the thought that he could become three completely different people.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I said innocently. ‘You said to help myself.’
‘Sure, I meant you to.’ He smiled, and what a brilliant smile. Slightly dark skin, like a very good tan, so that his teeth were really white against it. Mouth wide with thin lips. Nose long and broad but straight, horizontal lines across it at the top, surprising for someone his age, forehead also slightly lined. Eyes such a dark brown they looked almost black, Tia Maria mixing into a Black Russian, as he sat with his back to the light. Hair black and thick, shoulder length, pulled back in a ponytail, though it was loose last night. Oh yes. I wanted to tell him he could help himself as well but I guessed that as I was wearing his shoes and obviously a bit more of his besides he’d take it as read.
He did. After the small talk about my day and night he gestured towards me. ‘So you dressed up for me?’
‘Well, Kip said you liked it, and after I found the stuff I thought you’d left it there for me . . . is it OK?’
A smile played round the corners of his mouth. He had a faint outline of stubble, just enough to be sexy and not too much to be George Michael-y.
‘Maybe, depends what you’ve got on. I was actually planning to dress you myself . . . well, never mind. Kip told me you’re headstrong.’
I wished I’d waited for him to dress me.
‘Oh did he? I suppose he told you he’s into gay masochism?’
‘Wasn’t he always? So, you want to show me what’s under the skirt and top?’
Did I ever. Without even explaining the miracle fabric I whipped the skirt off and pulled the top over my head before he could change his mind.