Sally (16 page)

Sally cannot really be bothered to play out a whole seduction scene. Just a means to an end. An abbreviation will suffice. She wants her Z.F., and she just wants her Z.F., that's all. She and J-C are walking heads down against the rain, hands in pockets to keep warm; silent. Sally's footfalls provide her with thinking time. She remembers back to the party where she met Richard. She recalls with a smile the flirting and the eye contact and the euphoric energy she felt. She remembers the teasing mini-kiss she planted on his lips before spinning on her heels to mix and mingle. And she sees again the erotic kissing that they launched into uncontrollably once the front door of the party had closed behind them. ‘Come to Highgate,' she had suggested. Progress had been slow, with every red light an excuse to grope and kiss each other greedily. ‘Pull over! Pull over!' Sally had cried when they were but a mile from base. Richard had swerved recklessly to the side of the road; Hampstead Heath, silent and conspiring, flanking them. Sally had dived for him. Richard, in ecstatic disbelief, remained defenceless while she sucked and licked her way down to his groin into which she buried her head for a tantalizing and all too short moment. For both, it was a taste of what was to come. And come.

Sally remembers the desperation to shed clothes as soon as her front door shut. Initially, they had tried to undress each other but it had proven cumbersome and too time-consuming. So, while they kissed, they wriggled and ripped their way out of their clothes. Burning naked, they made it to Sally's bed, the kiss which had started on the doorstep never stopped and Richard was forced to walk backwards, eyes shut, body raw, as Sally grappled and guided him into her bedroom. There, they melted into the bed and fell fast and deep into the pleasures and needs of scorching flesh.

Sally has no inclination to seduce Jean-Claude. There's no thrill to this chase. She doesn't care if he is bowled over by what a sassy vamp she is. She just wants to see what pure sex is like, no emotions attached. After all, she will never see him again. They walk and make small talk. The drizzle has stopped and a brisk wind taken its place.

‘I live quite close to where we are now. Would you like to come up? For coffee?'

Coffee, etchings! Here we go!

‘Yes, I'll come.'

S
ally was sorely disappointed by Jean-Claude's apartment. As soon as she set foot inside, warning bells rang out but she chose to remain deaf to them. In her fantasy on the way to Montmartre the day before, he had taken her to an old tenement building where the high-ceilinged rooms breathed faded grandeur. She had envisaged tall windows with billowing muslin, mismatched colour-washed cupboards in a tiny kitchenette, and a balcony with a seen-in-a-dream view. And, of course, a bidet in the bathroom. She had imagined his bed as old and high, enclosed by sinuous brass bedsteads and banked with white linen; crumpled and voluminous. She had imagined herself sinking into it while he deftly undressed her. No fumbling. No zips.

But reality usually lets a day-dream down and the details of Sally's were deflated in an instant. J-C's flat turned out to be on the fourth floor of a modern block. The lift was out of order so they traipsed up the stairs and wandered down a faceless corridor. On entering the apartment, the first thing that Sally thought was:
The man has no taste. He is a designer and yet he has no taste.

Each item of furniture was obviously expensive but nothing went with anything. Each piece was merely and clearly some status symbol. Sally's prime dismay, however, occurred in the bathroom.

Yuk, look at the state of that bath! And where's the bidet? There is no bidet. Woe.

Toothpaste oozed, solid and dry, from a topless tube; razor clippings scummed the sink. Sally recalled Jean-Claude's attractive stubble and calculated that he could not have shaved for at least two days.

Sally, if he has a grungy bathroom and no bidet for you, why are you staying? Why not go? It's not too late. You need never see him again. Think of Richard's bathroom; tasteful majolica, spick and span.

Sally refuses to think of Richard. But he's there, oh, he's there all right. Unwittingly, he's the very reason for Sally being in this sorry bathroom. She glances at herself in the mirror and is taken aback by the puzzled expression that meets her gaze. Defiantly, she smiles back. Obstinately, she won't let go of the Z.F. concept. She
has
to try it. No one will know but she. Looking at and not into the mirror, she absent-mindedly cups her hands over her breasts.

‘Sally, you are okay?' the husky French voice enquires.

How very considerate.

‘Yes, I'm fine. Give me a minute.' A minute later she emerges and Jean-Claude is hovering outside the door. He approaches and she allows herself to be kissed.

Mmm, he's a good kisser. Yes, this is fine. A good idea. I'm going to have fun.

No you're not.

Jean-Claude pulls Sally closer towards him. He grabs her arm with one hand and grabs her breast with the other. He
is
taller than Richard, her aching neck confirms it.

Ow, my arm.

Sally tries to free herself but it serves only to excite him and he grips tighter and kisses harder. He pulls away and, with a chuck of his head, he motions to a room Sally has not yet seen but presumes to be his bedroom.

The bed is unmade, the linen is striped brown and beige. J-C is undressing himself. Sally's hands are behind her back, finding the zip of her skirt which snags and catches as she pulls it down. It affords an ogling J-C a good look at her breasts doing their famous jut and he lunges for them.

He is naked while she is merely skirtless and he lounges on the bed, his erection arrogantly leering at her. Sally doesn't take her eyes off Jean-Claude; he keeps his eyes on her body, soaking up what every shed piece of clothing reveals. Sally lies down next to him and rests her arms on his chest, her legs folded around his. They kiss and she looks at him; his eyes are closed and she hears him give a throaty murmur under his breath. She smiles.

It's working.

Now his hands are everywhere, at least they're everywhere he wants them to be but they're not quite where Sally would like. She tries to guide his hand to her secret erogenous zones but he takes them away too soon. Sally wouldn't say that her breasts were being fondled; mauled rather. He's found her clitoris but is hardly sensitive to its sensitivity. He has no idea. She flinches but he reads it as pleasure and increases the pressure. Firmly, she pulls his hand. He looks up, puzzled.

‘Not like that,
comme ci
,' she guides. He looks sulky but obeys. Sally is enjoying the sensation, she is close, she is very close. But though her breathing quickens and her body writhes, he stops.

‘Don't stop.'

‘I just find Mister Condom.'

Already?

Jean-Claude seems to think so.

She strokes his back while he rolls and snaps the condom into place and as he turns towards her, she reaches to kiss him. Jean-Claude can't be bothered with that just now, there's work to be done. He spreads her legs very wide and then puts his arms under the base of her back and hauls her up high. He barges into her. Sally moans. It feels good though. They hump and grind and Sally feels her neck being bitten. It hurts, but it feels exciting. He is thrusting harder and faster and Sally uses both hands to pull his head up and into line with hers. It's heavy, but she has his eyes. They kiss.

He's devouring me.

Sally wants to go on top. She tries to shift him but he's a leaden lump of pumping flesh.

‘Jean-Claude, wait. Stop for a minute.'

‘Why, what's wrong?'

‘Nothing's wrong! Just stop so I can go on top.'

‘Okay, okay.' That's better. Sally feels she has more control. She sets a slower pace and rotates her pelvis in the way she enjoys, the way that drove Richard wild. But Jean-Claude has stopped moving. She looks at him, he is looking at the ceiling. She stops too.

‘Enough?' he delicately enquires.

‘No!' Sally retorts.

‘Later,' he suggests as he flips her on to her stomach.

As he takes her from behind she feels a surge of excitement in her abdomen. But it disappears once he's settled himself into his own pattern of bumps. It does nothing for Sally but she reasons that it is his ‘go' so that's okay. He lifts her on to her knees and after a moment's thrill for Sally, he finds his favoured pace again. He grabs her breasts and just keeps them grabbed. Sally decides it is time for a change but she cannot shift him. He is hurling himself into her, her arms are aching, her knees are getting chafed and her breasts hurt under his grip. She arches her back in an effort to free herself but his arms clasp her around her stomach and he squeezes her as he thrusts into her. Her breathing is distorted, it is not comfortable, it is not sexy at all. She imagines they must look like dogs mating.

This is not my mate.

She feels sore. She gives up. Faster he goes.

Come on, J-C, you must be close. Come on. Come.

She is bashed and she is bumped against. His pace is frenetic and he starts to moan.

Bébé, bébé. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu. Monde.

She can feel every spurt and every surge.

Mon Dieu.

He's finished.

Thank God.

Staring at the hideous linen, Sally bemoans that
hors d'oeuvres
was fundamentally
ordinaire
, that she had been deprived main course and there had been no suggestion of pudding. Now he flops down on top of her and her sore knees grate against the sheets. Her face is smothered by pillow and sweaty brute of a man. She wants to go.

‘You want to stay?'

‘No.'

So, Sally Lomax, you've had your Zipless Fuck. And how do you feel? You're walking back, through deserted Paris streets, it is almost two in the morning. How do you feel! Was it worth it? Was it as you expected? Did you like it? Do you want more? Has it made you feel good – in your body, your self? Are you happy now?

Was that it? What have I done? And why have I done it? So that was a Zipless Fuck. Erica J., you've got it all wrong. It can't have been. No, no, but it was. It wasn't like in the books, it was not like in the films. It's me – I've let Ms Jong down. I've let myself down. I feel down. I'm alone in Paris. And I feel lonely, full stop. I'm sore. Where am I? Oh, yes, first left then right.

What did I do that for? It wasn't like Ms Jong made out. I'm obviously not heroine material for her books. Richar … no, no, no, what am I saying? I don't want him. Jean-Claude, J-C,
vous êtes un grand cochon
. But if he's a pig, then I can only be a dog. I don't know what I'll think of myself in the morning, in the clear light of day. Well, I'll never see him again. I'll never do this again. But where do I go from here? Put it down to experience? It's an experience I wish I'd never had. There's the pension. I'm home and dry.

But it's not home and I'm soaking wet.

Sally crept up the stairs and into her room. She had a scorching shower and did not finish off with a blast of cold. Hot water felt more cleansing and she felt filthy. She scrubbed and rubbed and soaped her fingers, cleaning as far up as she could reach. Condom or no condom, she could feel and smell him still. He did not smell like Richard yet she was neither comforted nor pleased by this. She dried herself, pulling the towel over her body harshly. She looked at her knees, they were red. She looked at her neck and was reviled by the dark raspberry blotch she saw. A love bite was a contradiction in terms, this was a selfish lust suck and she wished it was not there.

Sally fell into bed. Her heart was pounding and her mind was rattling with a jumble of hazed thoughts.

No, no. Sleep.

She shut off and slept, dreamless but safe again.

S
ally could not quite manage breakfast even though she knew that the croissants and hot chocolate would be as delicious as they had been throughout their stay. She retired, still tired, to her room to pack. The suitcase ready and by the door, she lay on the crumpled bed hoping she could find comfort in closed eyes. But her eyes were held open and fixed on the furl of wallpaper which, today, looked yellowing and sorry. A very hot, oily tear eased its way from her tearduct, over her eyeball, to dribble lethargically from the corner of her eye down her cheek. Sally wondered what it was there for. She did not think she felt like crying. It evaporated, leaving a slight tightness to the cheek. She splashed her face with water from the tap and called ‘I'm coming!' to Cleo's knock.

‘Come in!' called Richard, over the sea and far away.

‘It's
Mzzz
Filey, from Marlborough Ward
Ink
,' Sandra announced with a wide-eyed smile.

‘Of course. Do show her in,' Richard motioned whilst sorting through the mock-Georgian folly plans.

A long pair of legs walked in, the longest that Richard had seen or thought could exist. He followed them upwards, travelling yards of sheer Lycra before arriving at a bright blue and very short skirt, teamed with matching and flatteringly cut jacket. Crowning the ensemble was a chiselled face with manicured eyebrows, perfect lips and a glossy, jet black head of hair organized into a sharp, clean, hundred-dollar crop. Sophistication personified. And in his office.

‘Carlotta Filey.'

‘Richard Stonehill.'

They grasped hands; hers were cool and strong, garnished with perfectly shaped and polished nails.

Stop gawping, Richard.

Rich
-ard,
get a hold of yourself, man! What on earth!

As she concentrated on the drawings before her, Richard absorbed the picture in front of him.

Quite frankly, I've never seen anything like her – like this!