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I was eighteen when I met Mark, nineteen when we set up home together. He was fifteen years older than me. My family despised him.
But I loved Mark unconditionally, like life itself. In fact, he was my life during the three years we were together. But when I look back now, I can see how seamlessly he manipulated me, how cleverly he introduced me to that world of his. Before I met him, I could never even have imagined his kind of people existed, never would have dreamed anyone capable of such things.
We’d only been living together six months when he began banging on about how he wanted our relationship to be more open, and how I should be more accommodating of his needs. When he suggested a threesome, I realised what “open” really meant, what “accommodating” entailed. The scenario he had in mind was to bringing some pretty little thing back to our home so he could fuck her while I straddled her face.
Mark’s idea of a romantic night at home was lesbian porn streamed through his laptop onto our giant T.V., and I would sit and watch in stunned silence like the good girl he expected me to be. He’d ask me which of the girls on screen appealed the most, and to tell him the things I’d like to do to her.
Other times he’d say he was going to pimp me out to strangers, or that he would like to see all his friends fuck me, one after the other — Mark had many, many of friends. But it would upset me when he said he wanted to see me with other men. The only thing I needed in life was for him to love me — unconditionally. I wanted to be a precious thing to him.
When he saw my tears, he told me I meant the world to him, and that he loved me more than any girl he’d ever known, and that all the things he said were a kind of game. Just sex-talk to get him in the mood.
But when he was on that track, gangbangs instead of the lesbian stuff, he’d stream his favourite footage: an hour-long spectacle of degradation involving twenty or so blokes using a girl who looked no older than I was. I still recall the utter repulsion that gripped my heart the first time he played it for me. I felt so sad for the girl, was horrified that someone so young and beautiful could debase herself in such a way.
And yet, after repeated viewings over months and months, another part of me began to find the spectacle intensely arousing. All those men. Jeeez! Mostly horrid specimens with eager leers and impatient erections. I wondered how the poor thing coped with all their cum. It astonished me to see it seep from every orifice, how she endured it all without vomiting. I hated cum —and like it little better now, and can no longer swallow the stuff like I once could. These days I always spit.
But back then, in spite of myself, I found the depravity unfolding onscreen spellbinding. I would watch the eager scrabble of hands tearing at her clothes, and the shoal of fingers swarming over her peach-fresh, teenage flesh, and it filled me with a yearning I was unable to rationalise. The spectacle of such a young and pretty girl getting fucked by one man after another while taking a cock in her mouth and simultaneously giving hand-jobs to two more men . . . . What can I say? Watching it became my guilty pleasure. I would often view it when alone.
But Mark’s real obsession was the lesbian stuff, and so that was mainly what we watched. And yet I never warmed to girl-on-girl stuff like I did the gang-bang footage. All the same, I’d indulge him, tell him how much girl-on-girl turned me on, even though I wasn’t altogether altruistic when I strung him along like that, teased him by saying what he wanted to hear. I’ve always had a flair for words, and they could do little else but work their magic. And so when we’d had one of those evenings in front of the wall-mounted plasma, drank too much wine and watched clip after clip of girls with girls, I’d say how much I loved it, and how very much I wanted to be with another female. When I said that stuff, Mark would fuck me like Armageddon had been announced on News At Ten, due at midnight.
One time he asked me which girls I fancied in the real world, and I had to think long and hard. I ran a film show in my head of all the girls in my life; my friends and acquaintances, even colleagues. I quickly realised I didn’t fancy any girls in the real world at all. Not one.
But he pushed it. So I said Lucy was lovely. Lucy worked behind the bar in The Stag and Hounds.
And she was beautiful. I could say that as an aesthetic statement of fact, not one of sexual interest — though I suppose deep down her beauty appealed more than I was willing to admit. Why else had I mentioned her?
I remember the time we visited the pub together after I’d told Mark I thought Lucy was beautiful. We’d just arrived and were looking around for a seat when I saw Lucy watching us. She said something to Bev, the other barmaid, and they both looked at us in this weird way. Bev said something back to Lucy, and they turned away. Even from where I Stood, I heard Bev’s laughter.
We Girne Escort found a seat and Mark told me to go and get the drinks in. I’d never done that with Mark, he’d always gone to the bar himself because he liked to flirt with Lucy, Bev too if she were on, though she did not do as many hours as Lucy.
Lucy stopped what she was doing, stood and studied me as I walked towards her. She had a curious glint in her eyes, a slyness in how she asked, “What can I get you tonight, babe?” Then the tip of her tongue momentarily appearing, subtle between her glossed lips. I wanted to look away, but her large and heavily made-up eyes widened and drew my attention in spite of myself.
For a moment I couldn’t speak, she had pinned me like a butterfly to a mounting board. There was something about her that hinted at secrets shared, an archness that I thought spiteful. Finally, I managed to say, “Pint of Stella and a White Lightning, please, Lucy.”
She continued to hold my gaze as she pumped Mark’s pint. I was determined not to let her see how she affected me, and so I endured it in silence. And that is when the memory of what I had said to Mark about her flared in my mind like a heat rash on fair-skin. I blushed like an adolescent.
She placed Mark’s pint in front of me on the bar and then fetched a White Lightning from the cooler. When I handed her the money, she winked as she took it. She returned from the cash register, and I pocketed the change and picked up the drinks.
Then I just stood there unable to break free from the irresistible pull of her eyes. I knew that look only too well: it was the one too many men gave me far too often.
Lucy was only two years older than me, but she had the confidence of a forty-year-old. I suppose serving beer to loads of guys five nights a week grows you a personality, and a personality was something, even at nineteen, I had yet to acquire. Later I learned she’d worked on cruise ships, sang and danced in cabaret, and had once assisted a magician in Vegas.
I do not remember breaking out of Lucy’s orbit, the walk back to our seats still a blur. As I put the glasses down on the table, Mark asked, “Now tell me, Lauren: how’s your girlfriend tonight?”
********************
Even after all the porn, the talks, and then Lucy’s wink, what invaded my world the following weekend was like sexual blitzkrieg. Poor me, I had no idea war had even been declared.
It was Friday night and Mark had gone out with his mates. I no longer waited up for him to come home, as sometimes he and his friends would go into town, and then it would be the early hours before he’d roll in, usually pissed.
This night, though, I think I must have only been asleep thirty minutes when I was awoken by him gently shaking my shoulder, his hushed voice telling me I had to get up. It took me a few moments to be back in the room, emerging reluctantly from a now forgotten dream. He was insistent that I come downstairs.
I turned from him and whined into my pillow. ” Maaaark! I was asleep. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Without waiting for his reply, I buried my head under the duvet.
He pulled the covers back to expose my naked flesh, leaned over me and hissed in my ear, “Listen, you stupid girl. Opportunities like this don’t happen every day. I’ve spent ages setting this up. Now put your robe on and come the-fuck downstairs.”
I curled into a ball, but he grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me up into a sitting position. I just stared at him stupidly. “Mark,” I said “What’s going on? What’s this all about?”
“Lucy — It’s about Lucy.”
“Lucy from the pub?”
“You know very well which Lucy.”
“What about her?”
“I’ve brought her home with me.”
It still hadn’t clicked. “What for?” I rubbed my eyes.
“For you . . . Why else?”
For a moment I thought he was winding me up, but when I looked into his eyes I knew in an instant he was deadly serious. And besides, Mark did not go in for stupid jokes. With that realisation, my intestines became a tangle of fear.
He went over to the door and reached down my short kimono from the hook, brought it over and laid it out by my side.
“Slip it on and come downstairs, there’s a good girl. Lucy is dying to get to know you better.”
He began to walk towards the door again, but I was up out of bed and after him in an instant. I grabbed his shoulder, and with all my strength I turned him to face me. I spat the words, “What-the-fuck have you said to her?”
“Only what you told me.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“How you’ve got the hots for her.”
My mind began racing. How could Mark have shared something so private with a girl we hardly knew? My tongue became too large for my mouth. Dry as kindling. Words became impossible to form, a sentence the most unlikely thing to string together: “I Haven’t — I haven’t got the . . . I Haven’t got the hots for her. I only said that stuff because — because it’s what you like to hear.” Kıbrıs Escort Even as I spoke, the implications of him telling her about our sex-talk went off in tiny detonations in my brain, and I said, “Now I’ll never be able to face her again, and she’ll tell everyone in the pub all sorts of lies about me.”
“No, she won’t. Lucy is very discreet.”
I needed words to stall him, but none of more than a single syllable would come. I was reduced to, “No, no, no.” Finally, I managed, “I’m not coming down. Please tell her to go.”
He ignored my protests, said, “When I told Lucy you fancied her she was delighted. I could see it in her eyes. She said you’re cute.”
“Cute? Is that really what she said? That I was cute? I’m not a fucking kitten, Mark — and when was this?”
“When was what?”
“When did you two hatch this disgusting plot?”
“You’re being paranoid.”
Now the looks Lucy had given me at the bar made sense, and I could think of nothing more to say. We stood face to face in silence, and I saw his anger begin to simmer.
Through almost gritted teeth, he said, “For fuck’s sake, Lauren, Stop acting like a baby. Deep down you know you want this.” Then softening his tone, “Now tidy yourself up and come down and say hello. Or at least come and have a drink with us, a chat. Let’s see how you two get along.”
I knew if I didn’t go downstairs life would be hell. I was so insecure back then, continually afraid of upsetting him, of him leaving me. I only slept naked because he insisted.
When Mark left the room, I slipped on my kimono and sat in front of the mirror. I considered doing my face but decided it would take too long and that he would get mad. So I quickly ran a brush through my hair and hurried downstairs to face her.
She was standing by the bookcase. “Hi, babe. Oh, he hasn’t woken you, has he?” she said.
“I was reading,” I said.
She did not believe me, smiled tightly and casually turned away. It was as if I was the last person in the world she was interested in seeing. Her indifference reassured me, made me think maybe Mark had been winding me up all along.
I watched her scan the bookshelves, running her finger along the white matt spines of my Penguin Classics. “I have a Kindle,” she said as if she were ever-so-clever. “Takes less room,” She turned to me and presented another stiff smile, but before she turned away again, to examine more spines, I noticed how alive her eyes were.
“Yeah, they’re good for holidays,” I said.
Mark called to me from the back-kitchen, asked me if I wanted a drink.
“Have a gin and Lemon,” Lucy said, turning away from the shelves to look at me again in that bemused manner she had. For the first time, I noticed she held a half-full tall glass loaded with ice — and a slice of lemon too, and I wondered where it had come from. We had none in the house, so I supposed she had taken one from the pub.
“Gin for me too, please,” I called to Mark.
Alone with Lucy, I just stood there feeling hopeless as she moved around the living room examining our things. She would pick up items in a way that betrayed no real interest, and then place them down again. And all the time, she spoke in such a casual manner, as if politeness demanded she should engage me in conversation. But then she said something as far removed from small talk as could possibly be.
“Mark says you guys are looking for someone . . . .” she said, picking up a piece of hand blown glass my mother had brought back from Venice.
“Someone?”
“To join you . . . A threesome? I’ve got that right . . . haven’t I, babe?”
I just looked at her stupidly.
Her tone changed abruptly: “Listen, Lauren, if he’s railroading you into something. . . If you’re not up for this—Do you want me to go?”
I had not anticipated her disappointment. It was when I saw her snap out of her role as a vamp that I realised I didn’t want her to go at all. No. What I wanted was for her to come and take me in her arms. All my apprehension would disappear if she just held me.
“You being here is just a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”
She seemed to rally, assume her earlier persona, “Mark says you think I’m attractive.” She brushed heavy strands of her fabulous hair back from her cheek.
“You are,” I said.
“In what way?”
“You just are. You know you are.”
“Not good enough, babe. Try again. I want you to tell me exactly what you like.”
We were facing each, but not so close as to prevent me looking her over from head to toe. Although only a couple of years my senior, she was perhaps the most voluptuous young woman I had ever seen in real life, having being blessed with the body of a curvaceous, mature female. Her knee-high leather boots transformed her natural five-nine to six foot. Her tanned, muscular, thighs were framed nicely between boots and a short denim skirt that had small metal buttons up the front. She wore a white blouse of bright white rayon — Magosa Escort not silk — beneath which her breasts gently rose and fell as she breathed and spoke.
There was such a raw sensuality in the curve and density of her breasts. Her top was perhaps a tad too tight, giving the impression when she moved that beneath her blouse she kept soft, small creatures that at any moment might break free of their long confinement.
These were the clothes she wore for work, and I realised she must have come here directly after finishing her shift. Her makeup was as heavy as ever. I saw her eyes as art, imagined how when she readied herself for her stint behind the bar she would be like an actress preparing to take to the stage.
But tonight it was her hair set free of its usual restraints that fascinated me the most. Her strawberry blonde curls were a riot around her shoulders. In the pub she always had it tied back in a tight ponytail, giving her a facade of maturity, but now set free I saw the young woman she actually was. The mass of it was a feral sensation, an uproar of blazing locks and curls. Worn free like this, it displayed her beauty gloriously. That head of hair and her flawless skin rescued her from the illusion of maturity. And as I looked her over, I began to ache for her touch, her kiss.
But I could not bring myself to compliment her, even though her presence stirred me deeply. To do so would have been an admittance of something I did not want to acknowledge to myself. I looked away, focusing on Mark as he came to me with my drink.
He handed it to me and then stood by my side with his arm around me, his palm gripping at my bare buttock cheek beneath my kimono. We all sipped at our drinks, and for just a few seconds the only sound was the clink of ice against glass.
Then Lucy put down her glass and slowly approached, saying, “How old are you, Lauren? Eighteen, nineteen? The only reason I don’t ask for i.d. when you come to the bar for drinks is that I know you’re Mark’s girl.”
It stung to be considered an appendage to Mark. The words, “I know you are Mark’s girl” repeated in my mind. But I knew only too well that I looked young, and It bothered me. In supermarkets when buying our wine, I always had to show my driving licence to some no-hope cashier who’d be acting all snotty even though she was more than likely younger than me. I envied girls like Lucy who looked mature beyond their age.
“It’s my twentieth in two weeks,” I said.
“Oh don’t be so precious, babe. I wasn’t having a dig. I adore how you look. You make me want to do things to you that I’ve never done to a girl.” Her finger reached out and tentatively touched the corner of my mouth.
“You have such a pretty little face, doesn’t she Mark. And your skin is flawless. But I like your lips best of all. They look so-fucking-kissable.”
“Oh, our Lauren is pretty, alright: too pretty for her own good,” Mark added.
“Isn’t she just,” Lucy said.
“I think she needs the guidance of an older friend,” Mark said.
“I could be her friend,” Lucy said, as she quickly turned from me to face Mark, acting as if the idea of her being my new friend, my mentor, had just come to her and was her best thought ever. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said, “Would you like that, Lauren? Me as your new bezzie?”
Without waiting for my answer, she came closer and stood inches from me. Her hands took the tie of my kimono and loosened it, and as she did so, her eyes studied me. As she unknotted the tie, Mark removed his arm from around me and stepped back. I stood facing Lucy alone, frozen by sexual terror, overwhelmed by her voluptuous commanding presence. I was totally intimidated by her, and yet I was at a pitch of need for her. A stupefying ambivalence fixed me to the spot. I wanted so much to respond to her advance but was at a complete a loss to how I should.
When I thought about sex back then, it was all about cock. Yeah, I know, I’d watched all that lesbian porn, seen the girls moan and shake for each other. But I could not see how Lucy could please me in the same way a man could. She could hold me close and make me feel wanted and safe, but how would she complete anything she might start, satisfy me like a man? Maybe she had brought along a strap-on. The thought did cross my mind.
She just stood looking down at me while the silence of the room clawed at my ears. I began to understand that if I did not surrender myself to her now, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
She peeled open my robe and slipped both arms inside and encircled my body, allowing her palms to rest in the arch of my back. Her palms were icy and I flinched. Then her fingers gravitated to the place where my flesh is fuller, and when her palms finally settled she filled them with my butt-flesh and stretched apart my cheeks so that the two halves parted and an exquisite tightness flared across my stressed anus.
I looked across at Mark and saw he was smiling. I looked up into Lucy’s eyes, and she was smiling too. I tied to read her: a smirk but not yet smug, still uncertain of my response. But I saw how she desired me clearly enough. She wanted me far more than I did her. I became confident when saw I still had some control. But for the moment I allowed her to set the pace.
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