Read Online Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd - Free Book Online

Where are your fingers?’
    ‘Inside me. My vagina’s so hot. I can feel myself, all wet and . . . and squishy.’
    ‘What do you think about? Usually, I mean. What do you get off on? What images, what fantasies do you wank to?’
    ‘Stuff,’ I said, suddenly inhibited. ‘I don’t know. It varies. Nothing special. Men.’ I couldn’t tell him the kind of things I thought about. It was too crude, too sleazy. I didn’t look good in my fantasies. I was an object, a thing abused and humiliated. I couldn’t reveal that. I tried to deflect him. ‘What do
you
think about?’ I asked. ‘No, what are you thinking about now?’
    ‘You,’ he said. ‘You being fucked at the station. You now, on your sofa, your hands between your thighs. And you and me, and the things I’d like to do to you.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said breathily. ‘What things?’
    ‘I like picturing you at Ford station. I’d like to fuck you there, but not hiding behind some building. And not with your clothes on. I’d make you strip. I’d have you naked, out in the open. Maybe I’d tie you up. Yeah, I’d tie you to a pole by the level-crossing. I’d make you face away from me. Your arse cheeks would curve out, pale because they hadn’t seen sunlight. And I’d take you from behind. I’d really ram it up you, fast and hard.’
    ‘Impossible,’ I murmured, my fingers rubbing gently on my clit. ‘Someone would see.’
    ‘This is fantasy,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can do anything. A thousand people could watch me fucking you.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘But then maybe just the two of us would be good. What about somewhere dark and dingy, somewhere I know, somewhere we both know, because I’ve never been to Ford. What about Brighton station? Yeah, Brighton.’
    ‘Too many people if we’re to be alone,’ I breathed.
    ‘Nearby then, under the low bridge that goes over the top of that road, what’s it called . . .?’
    ‘Trafalgar Street,’ I replied. ‘It’s really grim there.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just picture it. The forecourt in front of the station, going across to the taxi place, and diving underneath is Trafalgar Street. It’s dark and gloomy. Above is the . . . the ceiling of the bridge, iron girders. There are pigeons up there and water drips down, even when there’s been no rain for ages. As you walk down the slope, there’s a doorway on the left. Can you picture it?’
    ‘Yes, I know it. There’s usually a beggar or a smack-head slumped there.’
    ‘That’s the one. And when there’s no one there, it’s just litter on the step. Say, an empty binbag plastered into the corner, newspapers that’ve been slept in or on or whatever they do with newspapers. There’s a couple of crushed beer cans, maybe a –’
    ‘It’s horrible,’ I protested. ‘It’s squalid and dirty and –’
    ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But that’s where I’d fuck you. I’d push you up into the doorway, force your face into the corner. I’d stand behind you and scrabble at your skirt. You struggle but I manage to lift it up and I tug and pull at your knickers, drag them down to your knees so I can see your pale little arse. I penetrate you hard and I warnyou to shut up. I give you one thrust, then another and another, pausing in between so you feel every slam of my cock.
    ‘People might walk by,’ he went on, ‘but they’d ignore us. Oh, they might glance over, but they’d know that you were a worthless bit of trash. “She loves it,” they’d think. “Loves every minute of it.” Or they’d think: “She’s asking for it, the cheap little tart. She deserves a good fucking.” And you keep on struggling, trying to escape, get out of that doorway, but it just makes me fuck you harder and faster. You feel my dick banging high into your cunt and you beg for mercy. And I snarl in your ear: “Shut up, whore. You dirty little slut. You want it. You know you do.”’
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasped, partly in shock, but more because my