Read Online Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page B

was averse to the anticipation. He seemed to think that it was one of the kinkiest items on the bedroom menu, whereas I thought of anal sex as the type of thing to save for a second date. I took his view on the subject to be sweetly old-fashioned and was looking forward to the moment when he decided the time was right.
    My mind wandered back to Derek and I made an effort to concentrate on him, out of politeness. He had finished his oral ministrations and I pushed myself up, moving forward to go down on him, but he stopped me and pushed me down onto the bed.
    â€˜No, babe, this is all about you,’ he said.
    I sighed, an expression that he took to be pleasure.
    His cock was big and hard at least, and his torso pleasantly firm against my chest, though I wished that instead of his endless light caresses, he would use his fingers to pull my nipples or lightly constrict my breathing. Perhaps he just needed a hint to push him in the right direction.
    I picked up his hand and moved it towards my throat.
    â€˜Whoa. You’re not one of those girls, are you? I’m not into that kinky shit.’
    I could feel his cock softening inside me.
    I pulled him down into a kiss, the sexual equivalent of changing the subject, but the moment was gone. He pulled out of me and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the sounds of the shower running, and later, he returned with two hot chocolates.
    â€˜It’s late,’ he said, handing me a steaming mug. ‘You’re welcome to stay over.’
    He was kind, at least, and versed in the etiquette of casual sex, even if not my type.
    I lay awkwardly alongside him until morning and then set about making my escape early, though I doubted that Derek would ask me for my telephone number.
    The street vendors were out in full force around Central Park, heckling tourists who took a millisecond too long to choose between ketchup or tomato sauce. I picked up a bagel and a coffee on the corner of 78th Street and Fifth, and took advantage of a morning off to drop into the Met while I was nearby.
    My mind was in too much of a whirl to appreciate art, and in the end I gave up trying to decide which of the vast array of exhibitions to visit and spent an hour in the Asian section, staring at a fifty-century Afghan head of Buddha, hoping to soak up some of the serenity visible on the features of the stone face with its long, loose ears and wide-set sleepy eyes. I took in the symmetrical brows meeting an angular nose and, below that, a plump, sensual mouth with soft lips, which gave the godlike creature a hint of humanity.
    I thought about the night I’d just spent with Derek, the last weekend I’d had with Dominik, the weeks before that, with Victor, and the time that I’d gone to the fetish club in London on my own and enjoyed being spanked by a stranger. I reflected on how all of those things, the things that I was certain at least half the world would think of as abnormal, turned me on so enormously, yet a night with someone like Derek, a nice guy, a good catch in the social sense of the word, did nothing for me at all.
    Is that what it had come to? Did I need to be restrained or surprised or pushed around to enjoy sex? Did I really want Dominik for the person that he was, or did I just like the way that he made me feel in bed?
    Opting for the long walk home instead of the humid grime of the subway, the sights and sounds of the city that had only yesterday seemed grand and exciting, today reminded me that I was cloistered, hemmed in, trapped among regimented straight avenues and square blocks. I was surrounded by monolithic glass and concrete structures that soared into the sky overhead like so many sentinels, the slice of blue sky in between building tops just a faraway glint, menacing as a guillotine edge floating above me.
    I missed London for its underground hideaways, its narrow, twisting streets and darkened alleyways, its cobbled lanes with old-fashioned names like Cock or