Sisters in Sin. Primula Bond

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СКАЧАТЬ I haven’t noticed him zipping himself up, but he flicks his coat closed and as he swishes away from me again there’s that scent released into the air, catching in my throat. I can only describe it as spiritual. Candles. Incense. A church smell. Then he strides across the carpet and leaves through the still open door.

      ‘Say what?’ Far away in Long Acre, Hazel sighed.

      ‘What you said about the fantasy – oh, never mind.’ I could hear the other line ringing in the shop.

      ‘Whatever. You’ve been watching too many movies, Jen. Now get a grip, buy some Venetian glass at wholesale to keep us from going bust, and get your arse back here.’

      I wasn’t ready to let her go, but before I could keep her talking, maybe share the details of that particular fantasy, the phone went dead.

      And then I heard it. Above my head. A moan, elongated as if someone was in pain, a sigh, then another moan. Impossible to ignore. The sound was brazen as it insinuated itself out of yet another Gothic window and ricocheted off the high surrounding walls. Sounds here always turn to echos: footsteps, church bells, the flapping of wings, the snap of a bed sheet. Atmospheric and intriguing, especially for a visiting stranger. But this was different. This was the private, human, sweaty whisper of sex. A creaking bed, headboard knocking on the wall. Oh God. Now I could see it. Them. In my mind. Strong male buttocks rearing up and thrusting in between eager, slender, gripping thighs.

      I glanced round to see if anyone else was listening or coming out to shut them up, but the doors and windows in the little campo stared blankly back. They looked rusty and dusty, as if they hadn’t been opened for years. Well, it was February, and foggy, and freezing cold. Only one was open, with a red curtain billowing out like a tongue over a box of geraniums.

      I was imagining it. I started to stand up, but then a woman’s voice murmured something, and her lover answered, his voice harsh with lust. Individual hairs started to rise on my neck, on the crown of my head, along my arms. The noises were excruciatingly intimate, making me blush, but they were also turning me on.

      Now there was a creaking of bed springs and they started to sing slowly, in an unmistakable rhythm. I started to rub my hands up and down my thighs. It was time to go. But I was pinned to the spot by the noises. Also I had no idea where I was, or where I was going. The ragged moans rose, became closer together, stretched into wordless gasping, sounding so close to fear or pain but we all know it’s perfect pleasure, panting in time to the creaking bed. My nipples, already cold, stiffened instinctively, my silk camisole clinging to the hard points. I covered my ears, but moisture seeped into my knickers. How desperate did that make me, getting aroused by someone else’s fucking? After my empty stalker fantasy, this was torture.

      But the square was so silent. These were the only sounds. It was like I was in the room with them, seeing them through all the stages of whispering, kissing, touching, arousing each other in their bed right through to the fucking. I knew the man was inside her now, because every few seconds he gave a groan just like a tennis pro serving an ace, and that was what turned me on. The square reverberated with the rhythmic sounds, their animal groaning as the man’s cock thrust again and again into the woman with those glorious two-tone moans. Why did nobody else hear? The bed was banging against the wall and they were almost shouting now, the moans rising to that uninhibited pitch where pleasure meets pain.

      I realised I was rocking, too, on my damp seat, cold hands rubbing at myself under my coat, fingers creeping under my skirt to find my crotch, sliding inside my knickers, one finger matching the heady rhythm echoing from the window, running up, running down my crack, making it wet, making me jealous, I could picture the sex-soaked scene through that shuttered window, the rumpled sheets, the bed thumping against the wall, their mouths open, his cock pulling out, big and hard and glistening with her juice, her pussy pink and open and wet, then him slamming her back against the pillows as he thrust inside.

      Like a wildlife film when you see lions humping. They were hard at it up there. My fingers rubbed faster across my crotch and then the woman was straining for breath, hissing, ‘Yes, yes.’ I vaguely thought, surely it should be ‘si, si’? Maybe she was riding him, breasts bouncing, hard nipples catching between his teeth, his fingers digging into her haunches to keep her rammed on to his big cock. Everything was rising to a crescendo. A ball of excitement rolled and tightened in my stomach as the creaking of the bed grew more violent. I moaned out loud as my own pussy sucked at my fingers and then I came, quickly and quietly, my knees weak as I shivered there on the stone well, cold and exhausted and even more frustrated than before.

      Upstairs the groaning and panting stopped, regained a second momentum with a kind of desperate shriek, then died.

      It was as if everyone was holding their breath, daring each other to be the first to move. Why does masturbating make you feel so alone? No one to hold or touch after, that’s why. I got my own breath back and fumbled for my guidebook as if someone was watching me accusingly. Suddenly the door beneath the window opened. I pretended to study my map but glanced over the top of it to see what voluptuous, sated creature was emerging from the house.

      But instead of a dishevelled Monica Bellucci lookalike in a fur coat and stilettos, with messed-up tendrils of black hair and scarlet lips, a slim, plain-looking figure with short fair hair in a long grey dress, thick tights and flat black lace-ups hurried out into the wintry light, fastening a billowing cape in a bow at her neck. Then, as she stepped backwards to call something up at the window she pulled a white cap and then a grey veil over her hair and fastened it with kirby grips. That woman in flagrante I’d been eavesdropping on, the afternoon adulteress, or whore, or honeymooning wife was actually – a nun!

      I stifled a snort of laughter. Maybe she was in disguise. In fancy dress?

      She put her hand up beside her mouth and called again. ‘Carlo! Answer me!’

      The man refused to come to the window. Some kind of row going on?

      ‘For God’s sake!’

      Finally a man’s hand pushed through the geraniums in the box and flung some cash down to the ground. Maybe she was a tom, after all?

      ‘Bastardo! I don’t want money!’ the nun half hissed, half screamed, waving her arms out of the cape. ‘I’m not one of your tourist groupies!’

      Her accent was almost perfectly English, the smoker’s sexy rasp totally at odds with the prim exterior.

      ‘No?’ He shouted down. ‘Well, then you should start acting like a proper girlfriend and stay the night with me for once, instead of sneaking off after I’ve given you one. Oh, just fuck off back to your little prison before they notice you’re missing.’

      ‘Don’t you dare! You know my situation there! You know I can’t –’

      I still couldn’t see her face, but I could see that she was shaking. Her hands, raised in the air as if to try and reach up to him, smacked back down to her sides, the fingers furiously twisting and bunching up the thick material of the cloak.

      ‘Well, I’m fed up with waiting. Plenty more where you came from.’ He was at the window now. All I could see was a head of dark, curly hair and a navy sweater rolled up over big strong arms. His hands were curled into fists on the edge of the windowsill. A livid red scar ran round one wrist like a bracelet. ‘Use the money to buy yourself a new prayer mat, or a Bible, or a nice fat candle, or whatever you use in there for kicks.’

      ‘Vaffanculo!’ she screeched, making the pigeon flap up in alarm. ‘Go fuck yourself!’

      She СКАЧАТЬ