Isabel
Isabel’s friends agreed that she had had terrible luck with men. Her first serious boyfriend had died in a motorcycle accident aged just nineteen. There had been others over the years, but none of them had seemed to stick. Maybe, as some of her friends thought, she was afraid of letting anyone get too close to her, having been hurt so drastically. But most of them thought it was just a question of time.
After all, Isabel was a strikingly attractive woman: a classic English rose, tall and willowy, with solemn grey eyes and lovely rich chestnut hair that she wore in a ponytail. There was never a shortage of candidates. Surely someone suitable would show up sooner or later.
Max certainly looked the part. They met at a wedding, of all things. As per the cliché, he was tall, dark and handsome; athletic, too, in an understated way. The physical attraction was immediately obvious, but as ever she was in no mood to rush things. He was Swiss, worked for a bank in the City, and although he never made much of it was evidently well-off. He courted her patiently over many weeks, careful to let her dictate the pace.
Her friends became exasperated with her indecisiveness. They pointed out that a man like Max wouldn’t hang around forever. Isabel, a woman who knew her own mind in most things, seemed incapable of a decision. It was clear he wasn’t going to push her into anything. Paradoxically, this only made him more attractive.
At last she made her move. Without exactly telling Max what she was doing, she booked a holiday cottage for a long weekend about an hour’s drive from London. It had one bedroom. She wasn’t planning to make him sleep on the sofa.
She refused to tell him where they were going, and insisted on driving them herself. In truth she wasn’t too sure of the exact location; she’d booked it via the Internet, and was following the satnav. It was August, and hot. Isabel had chosen a blue print cotton sun-dress which showed a lot of leg, something that by no means escaped Max’s attention.
The cottage turned out to be a modern bungalow, but with pleasant views, and done out in a chintzy faux-rustic style that wasn’t much to either of their tastes. That worked for Isabel: it made the place more of a neutral space. What happened there could, if necessary, stay there.
So now they are standing in the cottage’s single bedroom, all cream and powder-blue, with its king-size bed as advertised. Max has brought their bags in. Isabel’s mouth is dry.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” Max asks.
Without saying a word, she kisses him. He responds instantly. Feeling his erection pressing against her only adds to Isabel’s excitement.
Max runs his hand down her back, caressing her buttock through the thin material. A little further down he finds the hem of her dress and lifts it. His fingers discover lace and satin, and Isabel makes a soft sound in her throat before she breaks the kiss.
“I’ve wanted you for so long -” he says.
“Ssh.” Isabel slides the dress over her head and lets it drop.
He takes a moment to drink in her body. She has chosen elegant white lingerie, lacy and very feminine. A lot of thought has gone into this decision.
“You’re so beautiful.”
As he kisses her again, he reaches around her to unclasp her bra as she starts unbuttoning his shirt. Between them, his clothes are soon removed and discarded. Max stoops down to kiss her breasts, using his tongue and then his teeth to bring her nipples to an almost painful hardness. Somehow she finds herself sprawled across the bed, naked apart from her filmy panties. Max hooks his thumb into the waistband and slides them off her, and they join the rest of their clothing on the floor. Her sex is in flower, a crimson rose, crowning a trim furry mound. It’s time.
Max moves into her embrace. Her eyes are locked on his.
“Please…”
He enters her and they both sigh. She offers him the sweetest, deepest comfort he has known. It is as much as he can do to hold back, but he wants this to be good for her.
Isabel’s hands are tight on his shoulders. As he moves in her, they tighten further with each thrust. She moves with him, willing his pleasure. Her nails dig into his flesh.
Max can’t hold it any longer. Sensing this, she calls: “Yes!”
“Oh God!”
He drives into her hard, one last time, and fills her. Isabel mews in acknowledgement. Max withdraws, reluctantly, and they hold one another close.
“Did you come?”
She turns her face away.
“I thought not.”
“It’s not you,” she says awkwardly. “It’s — I just can’t. Not like that.”
“How, then?”
Isabel is tongue-tied. She wants to come, but she’s shy. She has fantasised so often about her orgasm with Max. Somehow it’s too frightening now that it’s finally real.
“Show me,” he suggests.
Isabel is caught between shame and desire. Desire wins.
She reaches down to her swollen clitoris. Their coupling has turned her on — there’s certainly no need to moisten her fingertips – and she knows this will be quick. She begins to rub herself in the familiar figure-of-eight pattern that has always worked for her.
Soon her breathing quickens. He watches, fascinated, as her orgasm grows and blossoms. She whimpers as she approaches the peak.
“Max…”
“Come for me,” he commands hoarsely, but before the words are out of his mouth it’s on her, driving the breath from her body like a punch to the solar plexus. From habit, she stifles her cry of triumph, and falls back panting, satisfied for the moment.
Max gazes at her face: glistening, hectic, radiant.
“That was so sexy,” he murmurs.
They embrace again. Her body is marvellously relaxed, soft. They kiss.
Even as Isabel is recovering, he can’t keep his hands off her. He cups her buttock, moves down to the back of her thigh. She makes a soft sound of approval into his mouth.
Max breaks the kiss. “May I touch you?”
“You are touching me.”
“You know what I mean.”
By way of reply, she rolls onto her back, thighs temptingly apart. His hand probes between them. She gasps as his fingertips gently skim the lips of her sex, and again as they find what they’re seeking.
“Oh God. Just there.”
Carefully and with exquisite tenderness he begins to rub her there, copying the figure-of-eight motion he saw her use before.
“Yes. Like that. Don’t stop.”
But Max has no intention of stopping. He watches her face. Her hands are above her head in an attitude of surrender. They grasp at the edges of the pillow. Isabel’s eyes are closed, her lips are parted. She wears a little frown as she concentrates on pleasure. No other person has ever done this to her. Somehow he has found the perfect touch.
He laps gently at a nipple but she cries out: “No! Too much.”
So he concentrates instead on her breathing, and the soft sounds that she makes now in her throat, on her clenching fists.
“Harder,” she pleads, and he complies. Isabel’s eyes fly open, her pupils wide, astonishment and delight on her face.
“Oh God, I’ve got to come.”
“Come, then.”
And she does, beautifully, washed away by wave after wave of bliss. It is a long time since she has come like that. Perhaps she has never come quite like that.
He takes her in his arms again and she kisses him with joy and gratitude.
“That was wonderful.”
Bringing her off has aroused him mightily. Isabel toys with his resurgent cock, rolling her thumb over the head until he groans.
“Your turn,” she says. “How do you want me?”
“From behind.” Seeing the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, he adds: “Not that way.”
She rolls onto her side and he spoons in behind her. He kisses the back of her neck, under her ponytail, and for Isabel it’s as if he has discovered a new erogenous zone. Her sweat is salty on his tongue.
Max positions the tip of his cock at her entrance, lingering there for a while, teasing her, while he cups her breast and squeezes gently. At last he pushes in, and she cries out. He freezes.
“Are you okay?”
“You feel so big in there. It’s incredible.”
Max’s hand moves down her flank, over her hip, and into the hidden valley. His finger finds what it seeks and she bears down hard on him, sucking in air. She isn’t sure if she can cope with so much stimulation, but there’s only one way to find out.
He’s careful not to overdo it. This is new territory for both of them. Rather than go deep, he lets her use him as the armature for her pleasure, easing herself back and forth.
For Isabel, it adds something extra; most of all his tenderness. His breath is hot against her shoulder, and she senses the effort he is making to hold back, and if there is a moment when she falls in love with him, it is this.
Trusting him, she lets her orgasm build slowly, knowing the release will be that much more intense. Max follows its progress with rapt attention, as far as he can. He listens above all to the music of her breath, its stops and catches, and the almost inaudible mewing in her throat. When he judges she is getting close, he nibbles softly at her earlobe.
Isabel gasps and her belly tightens. She can’t postpone it a moment longer. Orgasm overwhelms her like landslide. Bereft of all control, she almost screams. She lies dazed in her lover’s arms, breathless and dazzled. He has withdrawn from her, although she never felt it.
When she has returned to earth, she turns over and kisses him. They lie together like that for what seems like a long time.
“That was incredible,” she says.
“Glad to be of service.”
Isabel fondles his still-hard cock. “You didn’t come.”
“I wanted to see your face,” he admits.
By way of reply, she slides her thigh over him and guides him in. She is so relaxed, so open, that he encounters no resistance. She encloses him perfectly.
Max eases her onto her back. For a while they simply lie together, coupled. Isabel doesn’t know if she has another orgasm left in her, but it feels good. Very good.
His one instinct is to be in her as deep as he can go. He raises himself up. If she has ever been so gorgeously full before, Isabel can’t remember it. When he starts to move in her, as if by itself her hand moves down to her mound. She stares up into his eyes.
“Together,” she says.
Max wants to come — he needs to come — but he wants it to last. He forces himself to keep to a steady pace. Isabel is moving with him, her own need now clear to both of them.
He looks down at her, wanting to fix this perfect moment forever in his memory. Here half-closed eyes, dark with passion. Her disordered hair. The sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts. It’s too perfect to last long.
“I can’t hold it,” he groans.
“Not yet!”
He stops dead. Any further sensation will drive him over the edge. Isabel’s busy fingers quickly make up the difference.
“I’m coming!” And come she does with her last strength, every nerve exclaiming, a wrenching spasm of pleasure that drives a cry of pure joy from her throat.
It’s all too much for Max. He pulls back for one last thrust, balls-deep, and before he’s fully home he spurts into her.
She feels him come, deep, deep inside her, and the sensation mingles with the golden aftermath of her own climax. Max drops onto his elbows, spent and satisfied. Isabel’s hands move to his shoulders, caressing him, cherishing her lover, beautifully fulfilled at last.