After Martin let Sylvia go wandering across his land by herself, the fear beset him like a gnawing beast. He sat on the balcony, paper in hand, above the paths and tracks where Sylvia might have gone. His tried to read the paper, but his eyes drifted above the horizon of print, to the grass of his gardens, the fountain streaming indifferently to his heart that hadn’t stopped thumping since she had vanished through the tidy hedges onto the unkempt land beyond.
God, how long since she had left? he thought, checking his watch. Seeing it was an hour and a half, Martin cursed his idiocy of inviting her here in the first place. She’d probably tucked her wallet into her shorts and was sitting on the bus back to London, willing it to go faster, as far from him as possible.
Sylvia was so young; barely 21, with soft milky skin and deer-like legs, and a pair of breasts he could cup in his hands, two perfect round oranges that he would squeeze when he bent her over on the bed and took her from behind.
Then there was Martin; just the wrong side of 40, watching his weight and debating dying his hair. The grey strands on his head hadn’t worried him – a previous girlfriend had said it made him look distinguished. It was the ones on his chest that he found last year, when the girl was long gone, that made his heart thump with mortality.
It only took Sylvia being out of his sight for a matter of minutes for the skin on his neck to flare up with terrible trepidation, the ever-present question – why was she with him? – to pound at his brain.
There was a cynical answer to that; money. He had little doubt that that was what made her totter towards him at the cocktail party, quite intoxicated but able to hold her own part of the conversation. She’d flirted with an unconscious innocence, almost naïve, something Martin was sure would disappear when later that night he slid her panties off from under her very fitted blue dress and fucked her on the back of the limousine. But her cries had been timorous gasp of air, as if it was the first time anyone had touched her, and had made him come harder than he had in long time.
Money usually made girls bold, and his past girlfriends had gushed over the gifts he bought them, sucked him off after a Michelin star meal with a sigh of obligation, and dropped unsubtle hints about expensive holidays.
Sylvia took each gift with stunned graciousness, as if it were unexpected. She chose restaurants because she loved their gorgeous (her word) decor rather than the well-heeled clientele. She was just as happy collecting coloured pebbles on the beach at Scarborough as she was in a swanky Swiss hotel. She’d kiss his cheek so gently, and when her little hand wrapped around his cock, she was almost shy – but she never failed to make him come.
If she had gone…the paper shook in Martin’s hand. He threw it down, ran his hand over his face.
He looked down, and there she was, walking up the main path and waving at him. Her sunset coloured hair caught the rays of the fading light. Martin, unable to contain his smile, his relief, dashed through the French windows and downstairs to the back door. He met her just as he opened it.
She giggled. “Of course. Where else would I go?”
Martin looked her over as if seeing her for the first time. Bare legs, sandals, very short beige shorts that revealed the tenderness of her thighs. Her white cotton blouse was loose, concealing her breasts. He saw that it was a little dirty, marks of her adventure beyond the hedge, and that she was holding the hem up. She was cradling something in her blouse.
“What have you got there?”
Sylvia grinned, delighted, slipped past him and into the kitchen. She spilled her quarry onto the rustic table. Fruits of the summer rolled from her blouse; blackberries, cherries, mulberries, raspberries. All the things he’d forgotten that grew on his land. They tumbled forth, her giggling as they plopped onto the table. The bottom of her blouse was stained red when she was done.
Sylvia picked up a raspberry, and held it out to him.
“I found them all, and I just…went a little crazy. Here.”
Those adoring eyes, that sweet smile…how could he have thought she was leaving him? Martin took the raspberry whole into his mouth. His tongue flicked against her finger tips. Sylvia sighed lightly, and Martin leaned forward, locking his hips to hers and pressing her back against the table. He picked up a cherry from the red and black mix, and held it to her mouth.
They fed each other the fruit, either by hand, or passing it between their teeth. Sylvia bit into each one with such delicatness that she barely seemed to be cutting the flesh. The sweetness and freshness of the fruits slid down Martin’s throat, mingled always with the taste of Sylvia’s mouth. His cock began to stiffen.
The berries mashed against their lips, and soon Sylvia’s were stained deep red. No better lipstick in the world, Martin thought, and kissed her, tongue pushing a mulberry between their mouths. His cock grew harder as her tongue responded, and she gripped his hips, bucking against him.
His mouth at her neck, biting down until she arched, her breasts brushing his chest, he slid two stained fingers under the leg of her shorts. Little distance to her panties, and Martins chest surged when he found she was sopping wet. With one finger he rubbed her clit. The motion slight, but it was enough to make her shudder.
Martin couldn’t suppress his groan at how she exquisitely she said his name.
He tugged down her shorts, revealing her light pubic hair, and drenched labia. He lifted her so she sat on the table, and yanked them off her legs. One final teasing rub to her clit, and she begged him again. Martin smiled. Feeling strong, powerful, he kissed her, and said of course.
Martin lifted the hem of her blouse, brought it up over her head, and tossed it aside. Her bra was easily undone. He laid her back on the table. Oh God, she was beautiful. Naked and pale and eager, Martin took in her stained lips, pert breasts, light curve of her hips, and how her own juices were running down the inside her thigh. He kissed her, full mouthed, then picked up a blackberry, and put it between his teeth.
He broke it on one of her nipples, the juice streaming out. Lapping it up, Martin savoured its flavour and made her nipple hard. Sylvia held the back of his head, panting, writhing both toward and away from his teeth. He pulled pack, snatched up a mulberry, and tore it in half over her other one. Again he licked and sucked, the different flavour seeping in his mouth. Sylvia clung to him, her legs wrapping around his thighs. He felt her wetness through his shorts.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Sylvia?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Yes, please Martin, yes.”
“Say it then.”
Sylvia rarely swore. He heard her hesitation, and nipped at her breast again.
She moaned, and then said, voice tremulous, “I want to you fuck me, Martin. Please…fuck me.”
Victorious, Martin tore off his shirt, and unbuttoned his shorts. He grabbed her hips, brought her closer to the edge of the table. With feverish urgency, he spread her legs wider, pressed the head of his cock to her glistening lips, and bucked forward.
Fucking her was like lancing a butterfly. Her eyes lids fluttered like wings. Her cunt was so snug it made his cock feel enormous. Sylvia’s gasps were tender and lilting. She said ‘yes, yes, yes’ over and over. Martin held her down with his weight, hands gripping her shoulders. Her body was lithe and small beneath his, like he could snap it in two if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t. He’d never do that.
“You’re mine,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”
He thrust in as far as he could, and she wailed.
“Say it!” A command, and she would obey.
“I’m yours, I’m yours!”
He pulled back just enough so he could reach between her legs, and press his thumb to her clit.
No girl of his would fake her orgasm, and hers was so real that when she screamed and her limbs went stiff then trembled, a bright line of tears appeared below her eyes. Her cunt clenched so tight that Martin had to jerk back to pull himself out. Sylvia whimpered, her eyes so wet. Oh, she’d loved his cock, wanted to keep it in her. But Martin grabbed it, leaned forward, angled it at her chest, and with two sharp pumps, came over her breasts.
His cum splashed on the berry juices. Sylvia twitched, still recovering from her own orgasm, but she looked at his cock with rapt attention, mouth parted. She accepted his cum as if he were anointing her, a blessing of pure lust.
Still gasping, Martin plucked up a cherry, ran it over his sticky cum, and held it to her mouth. She didn’t need to be told what to do. Her lips puckered over the surface, a kiss, a suck, nuzzling the cherry, his cum sitting on her lips. Sylvia bit into the purplish red flesh, and her eyes boring into his, tore it away from the seed, bite by bite, until Martin held out his hand to catch the seed as it fell.
He cupped her cheek, and she placed her hand over his. Martin kissed her forehead, and she sighed.
“Mine,” he said against her skin.
“Yours,” she replied.
Martin picked her up, her body so light in his arms, and carried her upstairs to wash off the mixture of the fruit and their juices.
Jacqueline Brocker is an Australian who lives and writes in Cambridge, UK. She has had her erotic fiction published in Filament Magazine and will soon be published in an upcoming anthology from Freaky Fountain Press. You may find Jacqueline here: http://jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net/