the physical side of your sexuality. Did I understand that right?” At my silence he prompts, gently but insistent still. “Eva?”
“Yes, yes that’s what I was trying to say. Not sure it came out quite like that, but yes.”
“Okay. And you also said you wanted to understand, experience your emotions better. Relationships, being around other people, liking yourself and being liked, being loved… Did I get that right too?” This is much more personal. Much more intimate. But he’s still spot on. Did I really say all that? Did I really let him see, hear all of that? Did I really hand him all that power to hurt me? And more to the point, starting to panic, can I get it back now?
“I, well, I’m not sure I meant. I mean, I do like myself. Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?”
He’s still gently stroking me, his cock still inside me, and I am struck by how incongruous this conversation seems to me. Not to him, though, apparently, as he continues, his voice steady, even, as though he might be addressing a business meeting or chatting across the breakfast table with Rosie.
“You tell me, love. What’s not to like? Not to admire? You’re clever, funny, talented, brave. You’ve got a body to die for, the most responsive little clit I’ve ever come across”—he pauses, flicks my clit lightly to emphasis his point—“if you’ll pardon the pun, and you’re the best lay I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a few, believe me, so I am an authority.”
I can only gasp in reply—there’s really no answer to that. He’s not done yet, though. “I repeat, what’s not to like? You’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning. And brilliant too. The full package. I can’t believe my luck that you turned up at my house that night. And that somehow I managed not to scare you away.”
Does he mean me? He can’t be talking about me. I am stunned. Absolutely speechless. No one, no one has ever spoken about me like that. No one ever thought of me like that. The best lay he’s ever had? God! I should be affronted that it comes down to sex, but this is repressed, virginal little Eva Byrne we’re talking about, flat-chested, nerdy little Eva Byrne, the boring swot with no tits, no friends and hair like a bunch of carrots. And somehow, incredibly, this gorgeous hunk of a man who knows more about sex and sensuality than anyone I’ve ever met, a one-man Karma Sutra, thinks I’m a good lay. Me! I could dance on the ceiling. Or failing that, I might just stroll across this ocean of a bathtub of his.
This can’t be real. I have to ask. My voice cracking, I whisper, “Are you just saying all that? To make me feel better? Are you just being kind?”
“Well, I hope I’m being kind. I do try, most of the time. With you. And yeah, I do want you to feel good, Eva. But that doesn’t mean I’m not telling you the truth, telling it like I see it. If you won’t believe it from me, who would you like to hear it from? Is there someone else?” His voice is soft, gentle. No accusation here, no jealousy, just concern. For me.
It’s too much. Compliments I can laugh off, admiration I can dismiss. But care and concern? Those just shoot straight through my carefully built defences and hit me direct in the heart. My face is wet, and I realise it’s not only the bathwater. Intense emotion just undoes me. I can’t handle it. Quite simply, I just never learnt how. Overwhelmed, with a gulp I turn in his arms and bury my face in his chest. I sob quietly as he holds me, strokes me, whispers sweet things in my hair.
“Beautiful, beautiful Eva. So sweet, so gorgeous, so sexy, so lovely… Talk to me, Eva. Cry if you need to. I’ll wait, then we’ll talk some more. Don’t stop talking to me, sweetheart. Please. Promise me that, love.”
My voice broken, halting, stumbling over the emotion surging through me, this strange, unfamiliar sensation that I don’t know how to handle—yet—I manage to scrape together a near enough coherent reply. “I
“Yes, yes that’s what I was trying to say. Not sure it came out quite like that, but yes.”
“Okay. And you also said you wanted to understand, experience your emotions better. Relationships, being around other people, liking yourself and being liked, being loved… Did I get that right too?” This is much more personal. Much more intimate. But he’s still spot on. Did I really say all that? Did I really let him see, hear all of that? Did I really hand him all that power to hurt me? And more to the point, starting to panic, can I get it back now?
“I, well, I’m not sure I meant. I mean, I do like myself. Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?”
He’s still gently stroking me, his cock still inside me, and I am struck by how incongruous this conversation seems to me. Not to him, though, apparently, as he continues, his voice steady, even, as though he might be addressing a business meeting or chatting across the breakfast table with Rosie.
“You tell me, love. What’s not to like? Not to admire? You’re clever, funny, talented, brave. You’ve got a body to die for, the most responsive little clit I’ve ever come across”—he pauses, flicks my clit lightly to emphasis his point—“if you’ll pardon the pun, and you’re the best lay I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a few, believe me, so I am an authority.”
I can only gasp in reply—there’s really no answer to that. He’s not done yet, though. “I repeat, what’s not to like? You’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning. And brilliant too. The full package. I can’t believe my luck that you turned up at my house that night. And that somehow I managed not to scare you away.”
Does he mean me? He can’t be talking about me. I am stunned. Absolutely speechless. No one, no one has ever spoken about me like that. No one ever thought of me like that. The best lay he’s ever had? God! I should be affronted that it comes down to sex, but this is repressed, virginal little Eva Byrne we’re talking about, flat-chested, nerdy little Eva Byrne, the boring swot with no tits, no friends and hair like a bunch of carrots. And somehow, incredibly, this gorgeous hunk of a man who knows more about sex and sensuality than anyone I’ve ever met, a one-man Karma Sutra, thinks I’m a good lay. Me! I could dance on the ceiling. Or failing that, I might just stroll across this ocean of a bathtub of his.
This can’t be real. I have to ask. My voice cracking, I whisper, “Are you just saying all that? To make me feel better? Are you just being kind?”
“Well, I hope I’m being kind. I do try, most of the time. With you. And yeah, I do want you to feel good, Eva. But that doesn’t mean I’m not telling you the truth, telling it like I see it. If you won’t believe it from me, who would you like to hear it from? Is there someone else?” His voice is soft, gentle. No accusation here, no jealousy, just concern. For me.
It’s too much. Compliments I can laugh off, admiration I can dismiss. But care and concern? Those just shoot straight through my carefully built defences and hit me direct in the heart. My face is wet, and I realise it’s not only the bathwater. Intense emotion just undoes me. I can’t handle it. Quite simply, I just never learnt how. Overwhelmed, with a gulp I turn in his arms and bury my face in his chest. I sob quietly as he holds me, strokes me, whispers sweet things in my hair.
“Beautiful, beautiful Eva. So sweet, so gorgeous, so sexy, so lovely… Talk to me, Eva. Cry if you need to. I’ll wait, then we’ll talk some more. Don’t stop talking to me, sweetheart. Please. Promise me that, love.”
My voice broken, halting, stumbling over the emotion surging through me, this strange, unfamiliar sensation that I don’t know how to handle—yet—I manage to scrape together a near enough coherent reply. “I
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