Holiday Affairs: An Erotica Collection. Various

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      Only it isn’t like that at all. When he puts one heavy hand on my shoulder and one heavier hand on my hip, I don’t flinch. I’m crying, but I don’t want to tell him to stop. I want him to use me up like this, to be that guy who thinks he can have whatever he wants – because God knows he can.

      Go on, I think, go on, and then I feel him sliding something thick and solid into my unbearably tight little cunt and ohhhh I can hardly believe it. I can’t believe he’s actually going to fuck me; I can’t believe his cock feels this impossibly big – or that I’m slick enough to take him.

      But most of all I can’t believe that he moans, as he takes me.

      He gets about halfway in and then he just lets it out, low and guttural, thick with frustration. Like he actually wants this, somehow, like he actually needs it, and if he doesn’t get it soon he’s going to go insane. He’s going to shove into me, hard, and fuck me like a savage.

      And I don’t know whether I’m unhappy about that or not. It sure doesn’t feel like unhappiness. It feels like I want to spread my legs wider and take him deeper, and when he finally eases all the way in and groans hot and heavy against the nape of my neck, I do it anyway.

      I arch back against him, and spread myself for him, and let him get a handful of my breasts – first one, then the other. Though even that’s not enough. I have to fumble with the front of my sundress until the whole thing is open and he can get his hand inside, and once it is it’s like a relief. He can get at all of me, now. He can play with my tight nipples as he eases back and forth in my slick cunt – slow and easy at first, but soon it’s fast. Soon it’s hard and reckless and I’m clutching at the arm he’s got across my belly, as he fucks into me. I’m urging him on, without words.

      Dear God, there can’t be any words for this. There are just moans and guttural grunts and the occasional gasp, when he hits my G-spot just right or I clench a little too tightly around his thick cock. And they get louder, too, the longer this goes on. By the time he’s almost got me off the floor and over the bar – pounding me hard with one hand on my hip and the other on my throat – we’re like animals.

      I’m so wet it’s running down my thighs; so turned on I might actually come just from the feel of him fucking into me. And then he gets a hand between my legs and slithers a finger over my swollen, slippery clit – and that’s it. I do come. I come shamelessly, unlike the day before. I cry out and let myself shake through it, without an ounce of caring in me.

      No – it’s only afterwards that I care. That I realise what I’ve done, what I’ve let myself become. If I was an easy, quick-to-orgasm little slut yesterday, what must I seem like now? I didn’t even care whether he wore a condom or not. He could be creaming into my filthy little whore’s pussy as I realise all of this – and the thought isn’t half as awful as it should be.

      In fact, it excites me. I hear him coming, I feel him coming – all jerky and as uncontrolled as I was, a moment before – and I thrill with the idea of him filling me up.

      And then it’s over, and we’re back in the land of condom-wearing and shame-experiencing. I mean, of course he wore a rubber. He wouldn’t fuck a thing like me without one and even if he did, there’s still that expression on his face that I’m just waiting for. I’ll turn around and it’ll be there, that mix of disdain and incredulity.

      Only when I actually do, his face is not as I remember it. The crease is between his brows, true enough – and that perfect upper lip is curled. But I can’t quite make the expression fit into the box marked Magazine Model. It doesn’t go with this season’s version of Ripe Contempt.

      Instead, I see it anew. I feel it anew, as hot as the sun on my skin, as bright as its light in the sky.

      He’s not disgusted that I would do something like this. He’s amazed that I would let him. That’s what this is: amazement. I just misread it, because of all the years I’ve spent studying the covers, instead of the contents.

      I don’t think he saw daylight for the better part of a year, Lily says, in my head. And then I speak, to make up for all the things I didn’t say before. For all the things he obviously can’t.

      ‘More,’ I tell him. ‘Make me feel it. Make me burn.’

      Lust from the Mummy’s Tomb

      Rose de Fer

      ‘So whose tomb are we robbing?’

      Sir André Walden frowned. ‘We’re not robbing anyone’s tomb,’ he said, turning around from the front seat to fix his niece with a stern schoolmasterly look. ‘And I trust you and Peter won’t make me regret my decision to allow you in.’

      Val matched his frown and nodded with exaggerated seriousness. ‘We understand, sir,’ she said.

      Beside her Peter stifled a laugh and cupped his wife’s shapely bottom, making her squirm.

      The jeep crested a little rise and sand swirled around them in the warm umber glow of the desert sunset. The Sphinx and the Pyramids were far behind them now and if they were travelling along any kind of road it wasn’t at all obvious.

      André said something to his assistant, Hossam, in Arabic and pointed off across the horizon. Hossam glanced back at his passengers and shook his head, shifting gears roughly and making the jeep lurch. A heated conversation ensued which neither Peter nor Val could understand. The Egyptian seemed unhappy with the destination and from André’s patronising tone Val guessed that her uncle was telling him off over some silly local superstition.

      Eventually Hossam gave in to André and waved a dismissive hand. Peter and Val exchanged a look and shrugged.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ André said, turning back to them. ‘My assistant objects to “outsiders” being allowed into the tomb before it’s been fully explored. He’s afraid you won’t show the proper respect.’ He made it clear by his tone that he shared Hossam’s concern.

      Peter rolled his eyes. ‘Honestly, what is the big deal? We’re not bloody grave robbers. We’re not going to dig up some mummy and cart it back to London to display in our front room. We just want to take some pictures in the tomb.’

      ‘Yeah, and anyway,’ Val said sweetly, ‘it’ll be great publicity for you. Maybe some rich Egyptophile will give you more money to preserve the tomb. Or whatever.’

      André arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Or whatever,’ he echoed. ‘Yes, more publicity is just what Egypt needs. After all, it’s not as if thousands of tourists descend on the desert every year, tearing up the landscape and defacing the sites in the hope of stumbling across some priceless find that will make them rich.’

      ‘Come on, we’ll be good, we promise. Won’t we, Peter?’

      ‘Of course we will. And we promise not to dig anything up. We didn’t even bring a shovel.’

      ‘There wasn’t any space left in the first-aid kit,’ Val added with a wink to her husband.

      André eyed them as though certain they were making a joke at his expense. Then his features softened and he shook his head with an indulgent smile.

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