‘Ohhh, well, you’re a villain with a heart as black as pitch, then. Did they have pitch in those days? Not quite sure what pitch is, to be honest.’
‘Stop wittering. I can’t bugger you if you’re going to witter on. In fact …’
He lets go of one of my hips to reach an arm forwards and cover my mouth with the palm of his hand. Oh, I love that. Might make the hair pulling difficult later on, but still, so worth it.
‘Should have got a gag,’ he mutters, then he sets to work, taking me to my limit, reaming me out with a ferocious will.
I pant and moan into his palm, shutting my eyes, feeling the beads of sweat form on my brow and the slippery passage begin to sting.
He is an expert, knowing my body as if he has made a study of it, which in a way he has. With one hand gripping my waist, he jolts back and forth, making me feel the full impact, holding nothing back.
Once he is sure the wittering-menace is past, he takes his hand from my mouth and moves his fingers below, to my swollen, needy clit.
He presses on it and circles it, keeping up the pressure of his cock in my bum all along, never letting up for an instant. He knows when I am about to come; he is familiar with the signs, and that is the moment he chooses to grab my plait and yank it hard.
Oh, the endorphins surround and imprison me. I have no escape from them as they ping-pong around me like a force field. And then comes the deeper pleasure, building from below, spreading through my cunt and my arse before transforming into blinding climax. I am a channel through which the violence and emotion of sex is transmitted. Its primal urgency is what I am made for, and what I live for.
In that moment, at least, it always seems so.
In that moment when Lloyd fills my most private parts with his semen, it seems so, and when he wraps my hair around his fist and holds it there, keeping my neck held back. When he puts his fingers to my mouth again, so I can smell myself and taste myself on them, I know I have fulfilled my purpose. I have done what I am here for.
But afterwards, lying together, limp and immobile, it seems different. Then it seems that sex is linked with everything else in the world, a sense I’ve never had before. It had been a recreation, a pleasure, something cordoned off and hidden from all other aspects of life, separate and yet all-consuming. I had been a train spotter of sex.
Now, with the most minimal physical alteration of my circumstances, I could see it differently.
It was not just about pleasure gained, but pleasure given. My loves and desires informed all areas of life, flowing in and enhancing the most mundane of experiences. The sight of Lloyd’s worn-out, sweat-sheened face was all part of it, as was my desire to make a sandwich and run a bath. The universal web, with love at its heart, was almost understandable now, in the aftermath.
Almost.
I could reduce it to this: live well; love well.
It couldn’t really be that easy, could it?
The cod philosophy faded once I’d eaten my sandwich.
‘We should have a house-warming,’ said Lloyd, trying to catch drips of fried egg yolk on his plate.
‘We don’t live in a house.’
‘A flat-warming, then. Yeah?’
‘What do you have in mind? Canapés and wine?’
‘We should invite all our friends. You know, our close friends.’
‘Oh, right. An orgy then.’
‘Don’t you think?’
‘How fitting.’
‘Start as we mean to go on. Or go on as we started. Or something.’
‘Yeah.’
***
So, an orgy.