Dave s Australian OdysseyChapter 51 Down the West Coast
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East Coast, West Coast (Part 1) free porn video
It was a wet, windy New York evening when I first met Scott. I was supposed to be having dinner with my parents that evening but in usual style, my mother had another most important thing to attend to, and so it was to be my father and I. I didn’t mind. To be honest, the only time I could really have an easy conversation with Dad was when we were making fun of my mother.
But that evening, he brought Scott. He apologised profusely. Scott was an old friend from out of town who didn’t have any other company and surely I didn’t mind having him there? It wasn’t as if I could protest, even if I’d wanted to. They’d both showed up without any prior warning and by the time I got to the restaurant, the pair of them were already seated.
“Ally!”
My dad stood up but he didn’t hug me. We weren’t the hugging kind. He just kind of slapped me on the back which to be honest, was the most affection I’d ever gotten from him. When I was growing up, he used to go away a lot on work trips and every time he left the house he’d say goodbye and just sort of pat me on the back. It was embarrassing for both of us. I sometimes wonder if he ever even held me when I was a baby. My mother assures me that he did but I don’t believe half of what she says.
“Ally, this is Scott Banks, an old college friend from LA. He was in town and I invited him along. You don’t mind do you?”
“No. Not at all.” I said, ingrained manners kicking in.
“Nice to meet you, Ally,” Scott said, extending a hand.
“You too.”
I should’ve known from that first touch. Usually handshakes are a formality; meaningless but necessary, especially at work. When Scott and I touched hands, I didn’t want to let go. His fingers were strong and warm, his grip gentle. I couldn’t help checking him out. He wore blue chinos and a white button down shirt which was open at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were strong and tanned. He looked about the same age as my dad which was late forties but he still had good hair, sun-bleached as it was. His eyes were brown and he smiled with them more than he did with his mouth. Instinctively, my eyes flicked to his ring finger. It was bare.
Not that it meant anything. I sat down hard in my chair, conscious that I’d been staring. Thankfully, neither of them seemed to notice. We ordered dinner. Usually, my dad would make a point of asking me how work was going but he and Scott had enough to catch up on, though they did their best to include me in the conversation. They talked a lot about old friends, some of whom I’d briefly heard of, then about jobs and cars, families and houses. Scott lived in LA and had a half-share in a country club.
“The GPM is ridiculous,” he was saying. “But then, of course, you include the labour as direct and it shoots down. Either way though, I can’t complain. So long as it keeps going the way it’s going, I think I’ve landed on my feet.”
It sounded lovely, the way he talked about it, even though he wasn’t trying to make it so. I could half imagine living out in sunny California, sauntering into a country club, playing tennis, swimming, drinking champagne and socialising with a load of insipid blonde women. It sure would beat the long, rainy working days in NYC.
The evening wore on. I didn’t mind at all that Scott was there; it saved me from having to explain to my father why I hadn’t demanded the pay rise he’d told me I was due. The thing is, I know my father loves me unconditionally. He’s always been on my side, always had my back, even though I was a pretty awful teenager. He always thinks people are trying to put one over on me, that I’m worth more than what they value me at. When I got my first graduate job, he was so incensed at my salary, he wanted to set up a meeting with my boss. I don’t even know how I managed to talk him out of it.
Scott was good company. He was genuine, intelligent and had a great sense of humour. There was hardly a break in the conversation and the three of us talked at length about people, news, music, movies. We were in the middle of dessert when my father’s cellphone rang. He glanced at it, and swiftly excused himself. From the way he walked, I knew it was my mother.
Scott and I exchanged glances. He raised an eyebrow.
“What?” I asked.
“D’you get on with your dad?” The way he asked it made me feel like a child.
“Yeah,” I said nevertheless. “He’s the best.”
The first awkward silence of the evening set in. I dug my spoon into the ice-cream in front of me.
“So are you over here for long?” I asked.
“A week.”
“Just a vacation?”
“No. Work.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Oh. Okay.”
He caught my eye.
“You like living here?” he asked. “In New York, I mean.”
“It’s not bad. Pretty expensive.”
“I’ll bet. How ‘bout the people? Decent? Or pretentious?”
I rolled my eyes. “Strictly pretentious.” I said, and I wasn’t kidding. “This one girl I work with got evicted. She’s not poor. She just spent all her money on one pair of shoes.”
“Good shoes?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s ever worn them.”
“I got evicted once. When I was younger.”
“What? Why?”
He looked at me, then looked away, something of a smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.
“I had this girlfriend. Crazy. Totally crazy. She used to be very, let’s say, vocal, when we fucked. The neighbours complained. All the neighbours. Above below, left, right.” He let out a sigh, still smiling at the memory. “Thing was, the sex wasn’t even that good. For me, I mean. Maybe it was for her. Or maybe she was just loud. I don’t even know.”
I sipped sparkling water and tried not to look shocked by how candid he was being.
“But that was when I was young and ignorant. I would’ve fucked any girl who looked at me twice. You know?”
He caught my eye and the way he looked at me, half-challenging, half-playful, made it obvious that he wasn’t oblivious to how uncomfortable he was making me feel. To be brutally honest, nobody had ever directly said ‘fucked’ to me before, at least in the context he’d said it. It was always toned down to ‘screwed’, ‘nailed’ or even – God help me – ‘made love’. And there he was, this insanely attractive guy, old enough to be my father, talking about fucking and looking at me like my reaction was priceless.
“So you were pretty desperate, then?” I asked, in what I hoped was a disapproving voice.
He smiled. His eyes didn’t shift from mine. My God, I could hardly take the way he was looking at me. It made me want to go home, watch porn and get myself off ten times over.
“Not desperate. Just – young, I guess. I’m sure you know how it is. I was probably about your age. You’re what? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty three.”
“Same thing,” he said offhandedly, which offended me a little. “It’s just sex isn’t it? Attraction? Maybe you’re a little more reserved but the core feelings are the same.”
Instinctively, I crossed my legs beneath the table.
“Actually, it’s not the same,” I said. It was a wonder I could even speak. “I wouldn’t get with someone just because I found them attractive.”
“You wouldn’t?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “So what would it take? The whole dating thing? Weeks of pretending you didn’t want him when all you could think of was fucking him?”
I swallowed hard. My palms were sweating.
“We’re not animals, you know,” I snapped.
Scott’s smile didn’t waver. It was such a dangerous smile.
“No,” he agreed. “We’re not. We’re humans. Aren’t humans way more into sex than animals are anyway?”
I was saved from his question by my father’s return to the table. He apologised over and over and ate his
half-melted ice-cream between explaining what my mother had been saying. I couldn’t even concentrate. I felt as though I’d betrayed him. All of a sudden, Scott and I were accomplices in something clandestine and totally wrong. We’d been talking about sex, for God’s sake! My father would have had a heart attack if he’d known.
“So will you, Ally?” Dad was asking.
“I’m sorry?”
He sighed.
“I asked if you would call your mother,” he said. “And send her some goddamn flowers or something. All she ever says is that you’ve abandoned her.” He rolled his eyes. “You know the flowers she likes? Those Peruvian lilies? They always have them in that place on West 64th. And don’t just call. Go in. Write the goddamn note or she’ll kill the pair of us.”
“What am I meant to write?”
He fixed me with a glare. “You’re her daughter, for god’s sake! Happy fiftieth or something. No, don’t mention fifty. Just say happy birthday. Or else she’ll go on about how goddamn old she is. Now, where’s that waiter gone? And don’t reach for your goddamn purse. You either, Scott.”
“I don’t have a purse,” Scott said amiably.
I looked at him. He didn’t look at me but he was smiling. Tanned skin. White teeth. Dark stubble. Flicks of grey hair at his temples. Creases around his eyes. I couldn’t get over how good his white shirt looked against his skin.
Handsome guys are always so goddamn sure of themselves. His hand was resting on the table. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Men always have such unapologetically masculine hands. Strong. Veins. Rough. I tried not to but before I could help myself I was imagining his hand between my legs. The thought made my stomach flip.
But what the hell. It had been an unsettling evening. A girl’s allowed to let her mind wander. Besides, chances were, I’d never have to see Mr Scott Banks ever again.
*
I saw him the next day. The Flower Emporium on West 64th closed at half six and I only got out of work at six so I had to make a mad dash across the city to make it before closing time. Even at that time, it was busy.
It was called an emporium but it was a tiny shop really; wedged between a bakery and a toy store. I figured the little trio of shops would be a good place for last minute Christmas shopping. As it was, the stores were already getting into the festive spirit, even though December had a week to land. The bouquets in the window of the Emporium were Xmas-ed with gold and silver snowflakes and the cellophane was covered in Christmas designs. I ordered the flowers for my mother, scrawled down some words on the card and wondered if it would be extravagant to get a cab home.
Out on the sidewalk, it was cold. Cold enough for snow, though there wasn’t any. I hesitated there a minute, debating cab versus morning coffee when I heard someone yelling my name. I turned a little foolishly from side to side, not seeing anyone apparent. Then I saw him coming across the road towards me.
“Hey,” Scott said, as he approached. “Fancy seeing you again.”
I was glad it was dark because my mind was humiliating me with memories of how much of a state I’d gotten myself into over him. It wasn’t just at the restaurant. In fact, that was just the start of it. As soon as I’d got home, I’d collapsed against the front door, dragged up my skirt and coaxed my dripping snatch to an ecstatic orgasm. Twice. And then once more in the shower. I’d even gasped his name, for Christ’s sake! And this was me, sensible me, Allison Sara Oxford, the kind of girl who never masturbated, save maybe once a year.
And now he was there, right in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was meant to meet a friend for coffee, only she never showed up. So I guess I’ve been stood up.”
If I’d been less dazzled by him, I probably would have been highly suspicious. As it was, my lust-drenched mind accepted his answer as if it were the word of God.
“You wanna get coffee?” he asked. “Only I felt like we only just started getting to know each other yesterday.”
I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. I didn’t though. I said yes.
We went across the road to this place called Excessive Coffee. I’d passed by it before but had never been inside. There were tables and chairs under the canopy outside the shop and there were a couple of people smoking near the entrance. Inside, it was bigger than I’d expected with a high ceiling, tables for two, four and six, seats to look out the window, sofas and even a goddamn rug on the floor, upon which a bunch of students were sitting.
The café had all the regular kinds of coffee but they also had spiked versions, some of which were so elaborate that it was like being in an upmarket bar. The guy behind the counter asked for my ID which secretly pleased me. It’s funny; I spent all my teenage years wanting to be older and now I just want to stay young.
We drank Café Don Juans to start which were made from hot coffee, dark rum and coffee liqueur, and then topped with whipped cream. Honestly, I hardly tasted the damn thing. For one, I was busy wondering whether it was even remotely appropriate to be having coffee with Scott and having coffee with Scott came with its own cornucopia of distractions. Like the way he talked about everything but the one thing I wanted to know. The way he smiled. The flicker of his eyelashes. The smell of mint and soap. The way he held my gaze until I had to look away. I hated how composed, how self-assured and confident he was around me.
It wasn’t fair. I don’t remember what we talked about, how long we talked, how many drinks we had. All I remember was a slight lull in the conversation. I was pointedly looking out of the window so I couldn’t be caught staring at him. Commuters were hurrying past, wrapping their coats tighter around themselves. Traffic had come to a standstill; cars stuck in a unmoving queue, the drizzling rain lit up my bright headlights. Wet fumes. It was so quintessentially New York.
“Don’t do that,” Scott said quietly.
I look at him. “Don’t do what?”
He shifted a little opposite me, like he was uncomfortable.
“Don’t – do that with your tongue. It’s – distracting.”
Absentmindedly, I’d been licking the sugar off the rim of my glass. I put the glass down carefully.
“Distracting?”
Scott’s eyes met mine. They were dark, soft, hard, liquid. He swallowed.
“Don’t play games with me, Ally.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s playing games.”
He leaned back in his chair, surveying me.
“Really? How?”
“You sit here talking about all this normal stuff when last night, you were being so inappropriate. I don’t even know what you want.”
He smiled. “Does it matter what I want?”
“Yes. There must be some reason why we’re sitting here like we’re friends. We’re not friends. We hardly know each other.”
His mouth opened and then closed again. He drained the last of his absinthe-and-gin-infused espresso, his eyes flickering around the café. Defiantly, I picked up my glass and licked more sugar off the rim. He tried not to react but I felt him shift imperceptibly. His mouth tightened. Our eyes locked.
“Actually, Ally, I do need a favour,” he said finally, his voice neutral and controlled. “I picked up your father’s cell phone by mistake last night and obviously, if I’ve got his phone I can’t call him to arrange to give it back. As it is, I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. Could you get it back to him for me?”
“Sure,” I said, vaguely confused. “You’ve got it with you?”
He looked contrite.
“Well, I left it in my hotel room.”
He looked at me expectantly. I wondered briefly if I was reading too far into it. Like hell I was.
“And you think I should come with you and collect it?” I asked levelly.
“Well. If it’s not too much trouble.”
I sat there, a little stunned and a little scared. The Weeknd was playing from the speakers. People were talking, laughing, fighting, drinking expensive coffee cocktails. The guy at the next table was talking about his screenplay. Something about a stalker, a maid, and the Upper East Side. Scott Banks was asking me back to his hotel room.
I reached for my glass a little shakily only to find it was empty.
“You need another?” Scott asked.
“No.”
He eyed me deliberatively. Then he went over to the counter to pay the bill. I reached into my bag, extracted my phone and speed-dialled my father. He picked up on the third ring, his voice concerned. I made out like I was calling him to tell him I’d sent the flowers. For a second, I didn’t move, trying to process what it all meant. Then I stood up, dragging on my jacket.
Scott was in a queue, watching me languorously. I wondered if he knew I’d just been calling my father. Did it matter? We both knew he’d been lying. We both knew what he really wanted. And yet, I could hardly believe it. He seemed like so much more than me. He had so much more of a presence, was so comfortable in himself, not to mention outrageously attractive. When he walked across the room, every woman’s head turned. Everyone wanted to make conversation with him. He was like a dream.
“You ready?” He was next to me while I was still lost in disbelief. “I had them call a cab.”
I smiled. “Great.”
Great? Great?! Great that you called a cab so we can go to your hotel room and fuck.
Jesus. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t the kind of girl who had sex with guys I’d barely met. And yet, it was like I was watching myself from one of the security camera on the ceiling, as I led the way out of the café, consciously aware of Scott’s eyes on my ass.
The cab ride seemed too short. We sat in the back, not saying much. There was still time to back out, I told myself. When the cabbie pulled up outside Scott’s hotel, I could always say I’d had a change of heart. The cabbie would drop Scott off and drive me home. Home sweet home. Safe. Secure. The wall lamps and the second-hand couch. I could read the latest Vogue, catch up on the news, watch a sitcom. It wasn’t as if I had no choice.
But when the time came, I didn’t say a word. I followed Scott out of the cab, into the brightly-lit foyer of his hotel and into the elevator. It was a busy evening. The elevator was crowded and stopped at every floor. We got out on the fifth, walked past doors with gold numbers and ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs. A chambermaid went by, pushing a cart stacked neatly with clean linen. I heard televisions, music, conversations from behind closed doors. Hotels must have millions of secrets.
Scott’s room was number 511. He put his card in the door, clicked it open and let me in first. I looked around for a light switch. He got there first. The room was modern, clean, and tasteful. He shut the door behind us. The blinds were open but he didn’t close them. He moved past me, pulled off his jacket and dropped it onto the bed. I couldn’t look at him. My eyes focused on the view out of the window, the thousands of lights, buildings, people.
“Ally?”
He’d stepped closer to me and as soon as I looked up at him, he closed the distance between us.
His mouth was on mine, rough, insistent, his tongue pushing as his hands pinned mine to the wall. I felt his immovable body press against mine, hard muscle beneath his shirt. He tasted like coffee and mint. His hand was under my dress, pushing between my legs, even as I pressed them together. He broke the kiss for a second, his mouth moving to my neck. I felt his teeth graze my skin.
“Open your legs,” he breathed. I didn’t move. His mouth moved to my ear, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of it before flickering inside.
“Open them for me, Ally.”
I still didn’t move.
“You wanna play hard to get?” His whisper was like a drug. “Do it my way, or else you’re not gonna get to cum all night long.”
I bit my lip, shifting my feet apart infinitesimally. It was enough for Scott. His strong fingers pushed against my panties, and I heard him groan, deep in his throat.
“My god,” he hissed. “You are one hot little tease.”
His mouth was on mine again and the more I kissed him back, the more dominantly he responded, his tongue invading my mouth and robbing me of breath. His free hand groped a path beneath my dress and squeezed one of my tits hard.
“My god, this is gonna be good,” he murmured. “I’m gonna have fun with you, princess.”
Without warning, he pulled back, his hands moving to my waist and spinning me around to face the wall.
“Put your hands against the wall. Flat. Lean forward. Stick your ass out. No – yes. Yes.” His foot moved to the inside of my ankle, encouraging me to push my legs wider apart. Then, he’d grasped the hem of my dress and pulled it up, exposing my ass. His hand groped it momentarily before pulling back and slapping me hard enough to make me jump.
“You’ve got a fucking nice ass,” he breathed. “I could watch you walk away for hours.”
He slapped me again and pushed his fingers against the heat of my snatch. I was so wet.
“You like it when I spank you?” Scott asked. His body leaned into mine, so close that it made me shudder. “Tell me, princess.”
I didn’t say anything and he pulled back and spanked me again, and again, until I was struggling not to make a sound.
“I think you like it,” he said, almost conspiratorially. “’Cause bad girls need to get punished. And for so long you’ve gotten away with it. Acting like Little Miss Sunshine when really, you know what you do to men like me. You know how hard, and angry and desperate we get over little kittens like you. You might act like you’re all light and innocent, Ally, but I know you. I knew you the minute I saw your pretty little face.”
“You’re wrong.” I gasped, as he pulled my panties flush against my snatch.
“I’m wrong?” His tone was amused. “Don’t give me that. You love it. You love knowing the effect you have on guys like me. You’re just a tease. A hot, tight little tease. None of the guys ever get this far, do they? You need to be taught a fucking lesson.”
His hand slapped down on my ass again and he squeezed the burning flesh until I moaned. His hand went between my legs and his fingers rubbed my snatch through my panties, making my breath come out shaky. I’d always thought spanking was such a demeaning thing but despite the pain, my snatch was dripping wet.
“You know last night?” he growled. “All I could think of was bringing you back here and fucking you until you screamed. That’s what I wanna hear, Ally. I wanna hear you scream. I don’t know why. Maybe when I make you cum so many times that you don’t know which way is up. Or maybe when I make you wait so long that you think it’ll never end. Or maybe just when I inch my way into every one of yourTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.
But that evening, he brought Scott. He apologised profusely. Scott was an old friend from out of town who didn’t have any other company and surely I didn’t mind having him there? It wasn’t as if I could protest, even if I’d wanted to. They’d both showed up without any prior warning and by the time I got to the restaurant, the pair of them were already seated.
“Ally!”
My dad stood up but he didn’t hug me. We weren’t the hugging kind. He just kind of slapped me on the back which to be honest, was the most affection I’d ever gotten from him. When I was growing up, he used to go away a lot on work trips and every time he left the house he’d say goodbye and just sort of pat me on the back. It was embarrassing for both of us. I sometimes wonder if he ever even held me when I was a baby. My mother assures me that he did but I don’t believe half of what she says.
“Ally, this is Scott Banks, an old college friend from LA. He was in town and I invited him along. You don’t mind do you?”
“No. Not at all.” I said, ingrained manners kicking in.
“Nice to meet you, Ally,” Scott said, extending a hand.
“You too.”
I should’ve known from that first touch. Usually handshakes are a formality; meaningless but necessary, especially at work. When Scott and I touched hands, I didn’t want to let go. His fingers were strong and warm, his grip gentle. I couldn’t help checking him out. He wore blue chinos and a white button down shirt which was open at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were strong and tanned. He looked about the same age as my dad which was late forties but he still had good hair, sun-bleached as it was. His eyes were brown and he smiled with them more than he did with his mouth. Instinctively, my eyes flicked to his ring finger. It was bare.
Not that it meant anything. I sat down hard in my chair, conscious that I’d been staring. Thankfully, neither of them seemed to notice. We ordered dinner. Usually, my dad would make a point of asking me how work was going but he and Scott had enough to catch up on, though they did their best to include me in the conversation. They talked a lot about old friends, some of whom I’d briefly heard of, then about jobs and cars, families and houses. Scott lived in LA and had a half-share in a country club.
“The GPM is ridiculous,” he was saying. “But then, of course, you include the labour as direct and it shoots down. Either way though, I can’t complain. So long as it keeps going the way it’s going, I think I’ve landed on my feet.”
It sounded lovely, the way he talked about it, even though he wasn’t trying to make it so. I could half imagine living out in sunny California, sauntering into a country club, playing tennis, swimming, drinking champagne and socialising with a load of insipid blonde women. It sure would beat the long, rainy working days in NYC.
The evening wore on. I didn’t mind at all that Scott was there; it saved me from having to explain to my father why I hadn’t demanded the pay rise he’d told me I was due. The thing is, I know my father loves me unconditionally. He’s always been on my side, always had my back, even though I was a pretty awful teenager. He always thinks people are trying to put one over on me, that I’m worth more than what they value me at. When I got my first graduate job, he was so incensed at my salary, he wanted to set up a meeting with my boss. I don’t even know how I managed to talk him out of it.
Scott was good company. He was genuine, intelligent and had a great sense of humour. There was hardly a break in the conversation and the three of us talked at length about people, news, music, movies. We were in the middle of dessert when my father’s cellphone rang. He glanced at it, and swiftly excused himself. From the way he walked, I knew it was my mother.
Scott and I exchanged glances. He raised an eyebrow.
“What?” I asked.
“D’you get on with your dad?” The way he asked it made me feel like a child.
“Yeah,” I said nevertheless. “He’s the best.”
The first awkward silence of the evening set in. I dug my spoon into the ice-cream in front of me.
“So are you over here for long?” I asked.
“A week.”
“Just a vacation?”
“No. Work.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Oh. Okay.”
He caught my eye.
“You like living here?” he asked. “In New York, I mean.”
“It’s not bad. Pretty expensive.”
“I’ll bet. How ‘bout the people? Decent? Or pretentious?”
I rolled my eyes. “Strictly pretentious.” I said, and I wasn’t kidding. “This one girl I work with got evicted. She’s not poor. She just spent all her money on one pair of shoes.”
“Good shoes?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s ever worn them.”
“I got evicted once. When I was younger.”
“What? Why?”
He looked at me, then looked away, something of a smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.
“I had this girlfriend. Crazy. Totally crazy. She used to be very, let’s say, vocal, when we fucked. The neighbours complained. All the neighbours. Above below, left, right.” He let out a sigh, still smiling at the memory. “Thing was, the sex wasn’t even that good. For me, I mean. Maybe it was for her. Or maybe she was just loud. I don’t even know.”
I sipped sparkling water and tried not to look shocked by how candid he was being.
“But that was when I was young and ignorant. I would’ve fucked any girl who looked at me twice. You know?”
He caught my eye and the way he looked at me, half-challenging, half-playful, made it obvious that he wasn’t oblivious to how uncomfortable he was making me feel. To be brutally honest, nobody had ever directly said ‘fucked’ to me before, at least in the context he’d said it. It was always toned down to ‘screwed’, ‘nailed’ or even – God help me – ‘made love’. And there he was, this insanely attractive guy, old enough to be my father, talking about fucking and looking at me like my reaction was priceless.
“So you were pretty desperate, then?” I asked, in what I hoped was a disapproving voice.
He smiled. His eyes didn’t shift from mine. My God, I could hardly take the way he was looking at me. It made me want to go home, watch porn and get myself off ten times over.
“Not desperate. Just – young, I guess. I’m sure you know how it is. I was probably about your age. You’re what? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty three.”
“Same thing,” he said offhandedly, which offended me a little. “It’s just sex isn’t it? Attraction? Maybe you’re a little more reserved but the core feelings are the same.”
Instinctively, I crossed my legs beneath the table.
“Actually, it’s not the same,” I said. It was a wonder I could even speak. “I wouldn’t get with someone just because I found them attractive.”
“You wouldn’t?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “So what would it take? The whole dating thing? Weeks of pretending you didn’t want him when all you could think of was fucking him?”
I swallowed hard. My palms were sweating.
“We’re not animals, you know,” I snapped.
Scott’s smile didn’t waver. It was such a dangerous smile.
“No,” he agreed. “We’re not. We’re humans. Aren’t humans way more into sex than animals are anyway?”
I was saved from his question by my father’s return to the table. He apologised over and over and ate his
half-melted ice-cream between explaining what my mother had been saying. I couldn’t even concentrate. I felt as though I’d betrayed him. All of a sudden, Scott and I were accomplices in something clandestine and totally wrong. We’d been talking about sex, for God’s sake! My father would have had a heart attack if he’d known.
“So will you, Ally?” Dad was asking.
“I’m sorry?”
He sighed.
“I asked if you would call your mother,” he said. “And send her some goddamn flowers or something. All she ever says is that you’ve abandoned her.” He rolled his eyes. “You know the flowers she likes? Those Peruvian lilies? They always have them in that place on West 64th. And don’t just call. Go in. Write the goddamn note or she’ll kill the pair of us.”
“What am I meant to write?”
He fixed me with a glare. “You’re her daughter, for god’s sake! Happy fiftieth or something. No, don’t mention fifty. Just say happy birthday. Or else she’ll go on about how goddamn old she is. Now, where’s that waiter gone? And don’t reach for your goddamn purse. You either, Scott.”
“I don’t have a purse,” Scott said amiably.
I looked at him. He didn’t look at me but he was smiling. Tanned skin. White teeth. Dark stubble. Flicks of grey hair at his temples. Creases around his eyes. I couldn’t get over how good his white shirt looked against his skin.
Handsome guys are always so goddamn sure of themselves. His hand was resting on the table. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Men always have such unapologetically masculine hands. Strong. Veins. Rough. I tried not to but before I could help myself I was imagining his hand between my legs. The thought made my stomach flip.
But what the hell. It had been an unsettling evening. A girl’s allowed to let her mind wander. Besides, chances were, I’d never have to see Mr Scott Banks ever again.
*
I saw him the next day. The Flower Emporium on West 64th closed at half six and I only got out of work at six so I had to make a mad dash across the city to make it before closing time. Even at that time, it was busy.
It was called an emporium but it was a tiny shop really; wedged between a bakery and a toy store. I figured the little trio of shops would be a good place for last minute Christmas shopping. As it was, the stores were already getting into the festive spirit, even though December had a week to land. The bouquets in the window of the Emporium were Xmas-ed with gold and silver snowflakes and the cellophane was covered in Christmas designs. I ordered the flowers for my mother, scrawled down some words on the card and wondered if it would be extravagant to get a cab home.
Out on the sidewalk, it was cold. Cold enough for snow, though there wasn’t any. I hesitated there a minute, debating cab versus morning coffee when I heard someone yelling my name. I turned a little foolishly from side to side, not seeing anyone apparent. Then I saw him coming across the road towards me.
“Hey,” Scott said, as he approached. “Fancy seeing you again.”
I was glad it was dark because my mind was humiliating me with memories of how much of a state I’d gotten myself into over him. It wasn’t just at the restaurant. In fact, that was just the start of it. As soon as I’d got home, I’d collapsed against the front door, dragged up my skirt and coaxed my dripping snatch to an ecstatic orgasm. Twice. And then once more in the shower. I’d even gasped his name, for Christ’s sake! And this was me, sensible me, Allison Sara Oxford, the kind of girl who never masturbated, save maybe once a year.
And now he was there, right in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was meant to meet a friend for coffee, only she never showed up. So I guess I’ve been stood up.”
If I’d been less dazzled by him, I probably would have been highly suspicious. As it was, my lust-drenched mind accepted his answer as if it were the word of God.
“You wanna get coffee?” he asked. “Only I felt like we only just started getting to know each other yesterday.”
I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. I didn’t though. I said yes.
We went across the road to this place called Excessive Coffee. I’d passed by it before but had never been inside. There were tables and chairs under the canopy outside the shop and there were a couple of people smoking near the entrance. Inside, it was bigger than I’d expected with a high ceiling, tables for two, four and six, seats to look out the window, sofas and even a goddamn rug on the floor, upon which a bunch of students were sitting.
The café had all the regular kinds of coffee but they also had spiked versions, some of which were so elaborate that it was like being in an upmarket bar. The guy behind the counter asked for my ID which secretly pleased me. It’s funny; I spent all my teenage years wanting to be older and now I just want to stay young.
We drank Café Don Juans to start which were made from hot coffee, dark rum and coffee liqueur, and then topped with whipped cream. Honestly, I hardly tasted the damn thing. For one, I was busy wondering whether it was even remotely appropriate to be having coffee with Scott and having coffee with Scott came with its own cornucopia of distractions. Like the way he talked about everything but the one thing I wanted to know. The way he smiled. The flicker of his eyelashes. The smell of mint and soap. The way he held my gaze until I had to look away. I hated how composed, how self-assured and confident he was around me.
It wasn’t fair. I don’t remember what we talked about, how long we talked, how many drinks we had. All I remember was a slight lull in the conversation. I was pointedly looking out of the window so I couldn’t be caught staring at him. Commuters were hurrying past, wrapping their coats tighter around themselves. Traffic had come to a standstill; cars stuck in a unmoving queue, the drizzling rain lit up my bright headlights. Wet fumes. It was so quintessentially New York.
“Don’t do that,” Scott said quietly.
I look at him. “Don’t do what?”
He shifted a little opposite me, like he was uncomfortable.
“Don’t – do that with your tongue. It’s – distracting.”
Absentmindedly, I’d been licking the sugar off the rim of my glass. I put the glass down carefully.
“Distracting?”
Scott’s eyes met mine. They were dark, soft, hard, liquid. He swallowed.
“Don’t play games with me, Ally.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s playing games.”
He leaned back in his chair, surveying me.
“Really? How?”
“You sit here talking about all this normal stuff when last night, you were being so inappropriate. I don’t even know what you want.”
He smiled. “Does it matter what I want?”
“Yes. There must be some reason why we’re sitting here like we’re friends. We’re not friends. We hardly know each other.”
His mouth opened and then closed again. He drained the last of his absinthe-and-gin-infused espresso, his eyes flickering around the café. Defiantly, I picked up my glass and licked more sugar off the rim. He tried not to react but I felt him shift imperceptibly. His mouth tightened. Our eyes locked.
“Actually, Ally, I do need a favour,” he said finally, his voice neutral and controlled. “I picked up your father’s cell phone by mistake last night and obviously, if I’ve got his phone I can’t call him to arrange to give it back. As it is, I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. Could you get it back to him for me?”
“Sure,” I said, vaguely confused. “You’ve got it with you?”
He looked contrite.
“Well, I left it in my hotel room.”
He looked at me expectantly. I wondered briefly if I was reading too far into it. Like hell I was.
“And you think I should come with you and collect it?” I asked levelly.
“Well. If it’s not too much trouble.”
I sat there, a little stunned and a little scared. The Weeknd was playing from the speakers. People were talking, laughing, fighting, drinking expensive coffee cocktails. The guy at the next table was talking about his screenplay. Something about a stalker, a maid, and the Upper East Side. Scott Banks was asking me back to his hotel room.
I reached for my glass a little shakily only to find it was empty.
“You need another?” Scott asked.
“No.”
He eyed me deliberatively. Then he went over to the counter to pay the bill. I reached into my bag, extracted my phone and speed-dialled my father. He picked up on the third ring, his voice concerned. I made out like I was calling him to tell him I’d sent the flowers. For a second, I didn’t move, trying to process what it all meant. Then I stood up, dragging on my jacket.
Scott was in a queue, watching me languorously. I wondered if he knew I’d just been calling my father. Did it matter? We both knew he’d been lying. We both knew what he really wanted. And yet, I could hardly believe it. He seemed like so much more than me. He had so much more of a presence, was so comfortable in himself, not to mention outrageously attractive. When he walked across the room, every woman’s head turned. Everyone wanted to make conversation with him. He was like a dream.
“You ready?” He was next to me while I was still lost in disbelief. “I had them call a cab.”
I smiled. “Great.”
Great? Great?! Great that you called a cab so we can go to your hotel room and fuck.
Jesus. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t the kind of girl who had sex with guys I’d barely met. And yet, it was like I was watching myself from one of the security camera on the ceiling, as I led the way out of the café, consciously aware of Scott’s eyes on my ass.
The cab ride seemed too short. We sat in the back, not saying much. There was still time to back out, I told myself. When the cabbie pulled up outside Scott’s hotel, I could always say I’d had a change of heart. The cabbie would drop Scott off and drive me home. Home sweet home. Safe. Secure. The wall lamps and the second-hand couch. I could read the latest Vogue, catch up on the news, watch a sitcom. It wasn’t as if I had no choice.
But when the time came, I didn’t say a word. I followed Scott out of the cab, into the brightly-lit foyer of his hotel and into the elevator. It was a busy evening. The elevator was crowded and stopped at every floor. We got out on the fifth, walked past doors with gold numbers and ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs. A chambermaid went by, pushing a cart stacked neatly with clean linen. I heard televisions, music, conversations from behind closed doors. Hotels must have millions of secrets.
Scott’s room was number 511. He put his card in the door, clicked it open and let me in first. I looked around for a light switch. He got there first. The room was modern, clean, and tasteful. He shut the door behind us. The blinds were open but he didn’t close them. He moved past me, pulled off his jacket and dropped it onto the bed. I couldn’t look at him. My eyes focused on the view out of the window, the thousands of lights, buildings, people.
“Ally?”
He’d stepped closer to me and as soon as I looked up at him, he closed the distance between us.
His mouth was on mine, rough, insistent, his tongue pushing as his hands pinned mine to the wall. I felt his immovable body press against mine, hard muscle beneath his shirt. He tasted like coffee and mint. His hand was under my dress, pushing between my legs, even as I pressed them together. He broke the kiss for a second, his mouth moving to my neck. I felt his teeth graze my skin.
“Open your legs,” he breathed. I didn’t move. His mouth moved to my ear, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of it before flickering inside.
“Open them for me, Ally.”
I still didn’t move.
“You wanna play hard to get?” His whisper was like a drug. “Do it my way, or else you’re not gonna get to cum all night long.”
I bit my lip, shifting my feet apart infinitesimally. It was enough for Scott. His strong fingers pushed against my panties, and I heard him groan, deep in his throat.
“My god,” he hissed. “You are one hot little tease.”
His mouth was on mine again and the more I kissed him back, the more dominantly he responded, his tongue invading my mouth and robbing me of breath. His free hand groped a path beneath my dress and squeezed one of my tits hard.
“My god, this is gonna be good,” he murmured. “I’m gonna have fun with you, princess.”
Without warning, he pulled back, his hands moving to my waist and spinning me around to face the wall.
“Put your hands against the wall. Flat. Lean forward. Stick your ass out. No – yes. Yes.” His foot moved to the inside of my ankle, encouraging me to push my legs wider apart. Then, he’d grasped the hem of my dress and pulled it up, exposing my ass. His hand groped it momentarily before pulling back and slapping me hard enough to make me jump.
“You’ve got a fucking nice ass,” he breathed. “I could watch you walk away for hours.”
He slapped me again and pushed his fingers against the heat of my snatch. I was so wet.
“You like it when I spank you?” Scott asked. His body leaned into mine, so close that it made me shudder. “Tell me, princess.”
I didn’t say anything and he pulled back and spanked me again, and again, until I was struggling not to make a sound.
“I think you like it,” he said, almost conspiratorially. “’Cause bad girls need to get punished. And for so long you’ve gotten away with it. Acting like Little Miss Sunshine when really, you know what you do to men like me. You know how hard, and angry and desperate we get over little kittens like you. You might act like you’re all light and innocent, Ally, but I know you. I knew you the minute I saw your pretty little face.”
“You’re wrong.” I gasped, as he pulled my panties flush against my snatch.
“I’m wrong?” His tone was amused. “Don’t give me that. You love it. You love knowing the effect you have on guys like me. You’re just a tease. A hot, tight little tease. None of the guys ever get this far, do they? You need to be taught a fucking lesson.”
His hand slapped down on my ass again and he squeezed the burning flesh until I moaned. His hand went between my legs and his fingers rubbed my snatch through my panties, making my breath come out shaky. I’d always thought spanking was such a demeaning thing but despite the pain, my snatch was dripping wet.
“You know last night?” he growled. “All I could think of was bringing you back here and fucking you until you screamed. That’s what I wanna hear, Ally. I wanna hear you scream. I don’t know why. Maybe when I make you cum so many times that you don’t know which way is up. Or maybe when I make you wait so long that you think it’ll never end. Or maybe just when I inch my way into every one of yourTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.
Mila
- 05.07.2020
- 43
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- Category:
- Taboo
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