She still had socks on. Her knickers were gone, she couldn’t really remember how; her unzipped dress and unfastened bra were crushed and tangled under her shoulders.
Somewhere in the flat she could hear him moving, small movements, not loud. She lay on the floor, and breathed, feeling her insides adjusting to their sudden urgent use, feeling fluids cooling on her thigh.
There were footsteps.
He put a mug down on the floor not far from her; a rich scent of hot chocolate embraced her. He took a grip of her hair with one hand, and pulled her up to sitting, pulling dress and bra off over her head and tossing them away. He sat on the floor behind her, his thighs afork her waist.
He put the mug into her hands. It was large, and full, and sprinkled with grated nutmeg. She held it with both hands; partly because her body still felt loose and uncoordinated, partly because its warm solidity was comforting.
She leaned back against his chest. The chocolate was rich, sweet and hot. She sipped it appreciatively. His hands found her breasts as if they owned them, using them roughly. She sipped the chocolate.
—–
Jennifer had introduced her to him; he wasn’t really one of their social circle. He hadn’t been at Oxford with them, didn’t work in the bank. She didn’t actually know where he did work. She didn’t know him well. He didn’t speak much.
He had a van. Jennifer had suggested, when she was moving out of their shared flat into her first flat of her own, that she ask him if he would help her move. He had.
—–
It wasn’t that she definitely wasn’t going to have sex with him. She’d seen him looking at her, and enjoyed it; she’d looked at him. And she had asked him to help her move. Men do do things for you, if you’re beautiful; and she knew that she was beautiful. But it had been a pretty big ask, on so slight an acquaintance. There hadn’t been — she didn’t think there had been, she hadn’t intended there to be — an implicit offer of services in exchange.
Nevertheless, probably, in a few weeks, once he’d shown he could behave with dignity and restraint, once she’d determined whether he was witty enough — and rich enough — to impress her friends, she might have invited him into her bed, to make gentle, rational love in the dark.
He twisted a nipple between his fingers. She squirmed against him, moaning.
—–
She wasn’t quite sure how it had started. She’d been in charge all day — well, of course she had, she always was. And, it was her flat, her furniture. She’d been being a bit bossy. She’d seen that he didn’t like that.
But — although she was tall, and quite fit, and trained in self defence — he was a bit intimidating. Quiet and controlled. She’d felt — all day, she’d felt — the need to keep control. They’d more or less finished; the last box was up from the van. She’d told him to make coffee.
And then it happened. The power balance changed. He’d sat on her desk chair, and pulled her roughly over his knee.
And she’d let him.
She’d never been spanked before.
—–
She finished the chocolate, put the mug down on the floor, leant her head back into his shoulder. He held her there for a long moment, and then got up. He pulled her up by a firm grip in her hair, and, holding that grip, pushed her through into the bedroom. Her bed, she saw, was neatly made now; he must have done it while she had been lying on the carpet, recovering.
He pushed her onto it, and took her from behind again, as swiftly, forcefully, and with as little ceremony as before.
Sex without a condom was interesting. It did feel different, a little; but what was really different was the lack of that awkward pause to find the bloody thing, and take it out of its wrapper, and roll it on; and that other awkwardness, at the other end of the process, to discard it.
Spent, she slept.
—–
It was dark, save for the wash of street lights from the street far below. He was in her bed with her, for the first time naked. She rolled over furtively, to look at him. In the gloom, she couldn’t see much. She ran fingers lightly across his cheek, feeling faint stubble.
Reassured that he was sleeping, she ran her hand down his body. His cock — she knew already, because it had been nestling into the cleft of her arse before she’d stirred — was more than half hard. It pulsed, and twitched, and stiffened in her hand.
She hadn’t actually seen it yet.
He flipped her suddenly onto her back, before she knew he was awake; he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and, pressing her wrists into the bed with his hands and his weight, found her entrance surely. He thrust deep into her.
It was the first time he had taken her from in front, the first time she’d been able to see. But not to see much; he was a dark shape hanging over her in the dimness, a dark force hammering into her.
She came, quickly, easily; and then, very soon after, to her surprise, again, and then again.
—–
She realised that she was not being quiet. Always, before, when she had made love, there had been people she knew only two sheets of plasterboard away. Always, before, she had been quiet. Always, before, she had led, chosen the man, the occasion, the position, the pace. That was, she’d been sure, how she liked it.
She’d been wrong.
—–
She woke again; there was daylight in the room — early dawn light. She realised her new bedroom faced east. She was alone. She stretched, and looked at her wrist watch; before six, no need to stir, yet. She stretched lazily.
There were sounds elsewhere in the flat. A toilet flushed. In the kitchen, the espresso pot hissed. She stroked her sex, thoughtfully. It was responsive, greedy.
—–
She was disappointed that he was fully dressed. He put one mug of coffee on the bedside cabinet beside her, and strolled over to the french window, sipping from another. He opened the window, and disappeared out onto the little concrete-walled balcony that lay beyond.
She sat up and sipped the coffee. He hadn’t asked how she liked it. It was black, and bitter; but it suited her mood. The dawn air, spilling in through the open window, was champagne cold. Her nipples, already alert, erected further, and small shivers ran through her.
She slipped out of bed, and picking up her mug, went, still naked, onto the balcony. There were no buildings as tall on this side, and the twelfth floor is a long way up. It still felt daring — sexy — to be naked, there.
His back was to her. She laid a hand on his waist.
He turned. He shrugged, and his battered leather jacket slid down off his shoulders and down his arms. He laid it over the balustrade.
He took her mug from her, and set it on the balustrade beside his own, a little distance from his jacket.
He lifted under her buttocks, a little tug. She jumped up and wrapped her long legs around his waist, kissing him for the first time.
And… that took some time.
At last she broke the kiss. He turned them, and sat her on his jacket on the balustrade. She clung to his neck.