Adventures in Gastropornography

When Flynn left the attic room and made his way down the narrow staircase, there had been nothing on his mind beyond the bathroom. The irritations of the evening had left him. He'd done what he said he'd do. Cooked the meal, for which he was being well paid, and first thing in the morning he would be back in his car and heading for home. No point brooding on Elena Hayley.

The bathroom was a marble affair with a glass shower screen and the sort of chrome taps it would take a couple of Nubian slaves to turn. He idly looked at the jars of cream and soap, artfully arranged on the glass shelving, a ceramic bowl filled with sea shells. The room smelled of her, he realised. The perfume she wore. There was no sign that Charles Hayley, her husband, used this bathroom. Presumably he had a matching one somewhere filled with shaving gear and - judging by what little he'd heard of his conversation - cricket bats.

They seemed an unlikely couple. She, young, attractive, intelligent. He, an overweight tweedy presence behind the wheel of the Range Rover. The money must be his, Flynn thought, though she was something in television and probably pulled her weight financially. Not for the first time he wondered what he could do with the kind of money the Hayleys had. A wave of resentment spread over him as he stood in the bright forensic light of the bathroom. He couldn't help feeling he'd been made a fool of.

Elena and Charles Haley were regulars at the restaurant. A week ago she'd asked to be allowed back into the kitchen to meet him, an elegant figure in an evening dress with pencil straps. He'd been thickening a beurre blanc and as she stood at his shoulder chatting she'd leaned forward to look into the pan and he'd felt the weight of her breast against his upper arm. It was probably nothing. But when Charles had appeared a moment later, filling the kitchen with his bulk she'd swayed back a fraction breaking the contact. However absurd it seemed he couldn't shake off the idea there had been some kind of promise in that touch.

It was this he realised, which had made him take the job. He had no need to trail out to country houses and cook for dinner parties. And yet no sooner had she sent word that she'd like to take him away for the weekend to entertain a few friends that he was scribbling her directions on a napkin and promising to be there for six.

He'd been wrong about her, of course. Once he had unloaded the gear from the Volvo, and been shown to the kitchen, she began issuing instructions as if he had been merely another member of staff. She was pleasant enough, but distant and fully occupied with her guests once they had begun to arrive. The weight of her breast against his arm was a distant memory as he unpacked the vegetables and began to break asparagus spears with a sharp snap.

And yet if that was all there had been to it - .

Anyone can make a mistake. But Flynn wasn't entirely convinced he had been mistaken. At the end of the evening when he'd cleared away and was tasting the first illicit cigarette of the night outside the kitchen door, she found him again, a softer Elena this time, who seemed inclined to linger and talk. She'd been drinking, and when she left had leaned in to kiss him. Only instead of kissing him she'd darted her warm wet tongue playfuly over his cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him dizzy in the smell of her perfume, unsure of anything except the difficulty he was going to have in getting to sleep.

Flynn looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The nightcap had helped. But he was wide awake again now. It was going to be a long night.

Back on the landing he could hear snoring. It was coming from the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. He paused for a moment by the door and listened. Despite the frustrations of the evening he felt a moment's sympathy for Elena Hayley. This wasn't a quiet rumble, the sound of someone grazing quietly in the fields of sleep. Great shuddering gasps were coming from the other side of the door. It sounded as if a machine was running somewhere in the room - a huge fleshy machine badly in need of a service.

He pushed gently at the heavy panel and felt the door give under his hand. The noise was much louder now. Steady and laboured. It must be shaking the furniture, he thought. In the light from the landing he could see the huge mound shuddering on the far side of the bed. He might easily have left it at that. Returned to his attic and spent the next few hours dozing fitfully in the narrow bed. But the idea of violating the intimacy of the Hayley's bedroom after an evening spent scurrying around below stairs seemed too good a chance to pass up. Flynn took a step into the room and stood for a moment, protected by the noise, enjoying the sense of trespass.

As his eyes grew acustomed to the poor light, he became aware of a second figure, on the near side of the bed, awake this time, looking up at him in the dark.

Instinctively, he put his finger to his lips. She said nothing. Instead she closed her eyes. For a moment he wondered if she was asleep after all. She hadn't moved. Can people sleep with their eyes open? Or was he merely being dismissed as he had been earlier? Not even worth the effort of being told to get out. This time he felt no inclination to creep away like a servant. Why should he? Why, he hadn't even been asked forward to meet the guests and receive congratulations on the meal. And when one of the visitors - the Irish girl, with red hair, the looker - had found him clearing up , Elena had just laughed and made some remark about brawn in the kitchen. Well, damn you, Elena Hayley, he thought. Damn you.

He moved a step closer to the bed. The light was poor but he could see her eyes were still shut.

She lay on her back, one arm folded beside her on the pillow. He stood for a moment, looking down at her. She seemed wrapped in the warm vulnerability of sleep. He wondered if she was dreaming. He'd knew that in sleep a paralysis overtook you, so that when the mind wandered freely there was no danger you would act out the fantasies of the dreaming brain. Men had erections while they dreamed and women, they said, grew moist. Asleep or awake? He had no way of telling. Then, with the memory of her tongue burning his cheek, he reached out and took her hand.

She offered no resistance. It came to him as easily as if the sinews had been cut. For a moment he held it in his own, dizzy with the sense of power his positon gave him over the sleeping woman. He took her index finger and uncurled it. Then lifted it to his lips and let them close round it. He heard a small intake of breath, felt the finger flex against his tongue.

Her eyes were still shut. Was she playing dead? Hoping he might go? Well, if she was she would be disappointed.

He knelt beside her, at the head of the bed, and let his hands run down the smooth skin of her arm to where it disappeared under the duvet. Her breathing was slightly laboured, her lips parted. He didn't kiss her. Instead, let his hand slide into the cavernous warmth of the bedding. She was wearing a nightshirt of some kind. A tee shirt? No. A woman like Elena wouldn't wear a tee shirt, even in bed, even with a man like Charles. He took the material and drew it gently towards him. But she was lying on it, trapping the fabric under her. He pulled harder. This time asleep or awake, she raised herself slightly from the bed, lifting her bottom clear of the sheets, so that the shirt could slide upwards. She still hadn't opened her eyes. Kneeling behind her head, taking his time, he reached forward and folded back the duvet. Then with both hands took the edge of the nightshirt and lifted it over her breasts, revealing them for the first time. He looked at her, lying there in the faint light leaking from the landing. She was beautiful. There was no doubt about that.

Beside her the mound of flesh spluttered, shuddered and settled once more into it's regular noisy rhythm.

The breasts under his hands were fuller than he'd expected - much fuller than he had imagined when she had leant against him in the kitchen. He felt the tips harden under his touch. Now he leaned forward and let his tongue bruise the nipple. Still she lay immobile, silent, only her body answering him as he moved to the other breast and took it into his mouth. Then he began to move lower, kissing the smooth underside of the breast and the crease where it met her belly. Now he had to set one knee on the pillow by her head as he worked, moving down, searching for the indentation of her navel. He dipped his tongue into the depression and heard her moan. He did everything as smoothly as he could, anxious to keep her in the warm langour of this twilight world between sleep and waking. His hands ran over her narrow waist to her pants. He hooked his thumbs into the flimsy cotton where it lifted at the hip bone. Once more she raised herself at once so he could slip them off. He felt her hands at his shorts, searching for him, taking him in both hands and folding her lips over him, taking his length into the velvet warmth of her mouth.

Still he wouldn't be rushed. He ran the tip of his tongue over the inside of one thigh - then the other. Her legs parted as if he'd touched some secret catch. She opened to him, wanting him, wanting his tongue. He flicked lightly at the soft down and her parting lips. Tasted her. Then with culinary skill opened her up and at last drove his tongue deep between her moist folds. She arched to meet him, taking his weight, lifting him clear of the bed as he drove into her while she worked feverishly at him with her own lips.

There was a spluttering beside them, a sudden explosive snort. And then silence.

They froze. It was too late to try and move, to slide to the floor and make his escape. Besides even if he could get away, what Elena had been doing to him might just make him stay and take the consequences. The silence went on. Was Charles lying there beside them in the dark, staring at the ceiling? Would he decide to roll over and hump his wife before he drifted off once more? For a moment, neither of them dared breathe. And then, incredibly, as the silence spread around them, he felt her move, felt her lips move in long slow strokes along the length of him, and suddenly he didn't care any more what happened, didn't care if the whole house woke and found him drilling his tongue into the warm moist depths of the woman under him, trying to burst the ripe berry hidden in her folds. He sucked hard on her clitoris, firm as a haricot. Almost at once she began to come with long shuddering moans that shook the bed. He was with her now, beyond the point of no return, beyond caring, spurred by her own climax he came. He felt her swallow and continue working at him while her own orgasm faded, until, released at last, he lay heavily on top of her and tried to catch his breath.

As if their own pleasure was the signal he'd been waiting for, the lump beside them began to snore.

Flynn rolled sideways, out from under the duvet. And lay on the floor looking at the ceiling. A hand reached over the bed and trailed lazily along his thigh. For the first time since he arrived, he was happy. All was right with the world. It was time to go. He got to his feet, bent and kissed her and offered a whispered "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she whispered.

As he opened the door and slipped out onto the landing his brain was racing. Something was wrong, something that upset the picture of his evening that had been forming in his head since he entered the room, something about the voice, the soft lilt of Ireland... And before he had time to assemble the pieces he collided with a figure on the landing. It was Elena Hayley.

"How dare you?" She hissed. "In my house? I've been watching you. I've been watching since the moment you opened that door. I saw everything you've been doing in there!"

Flynn's reaction was purely instinctive. When he thought about it afterwards he realised how lucky he had been. With time to think he would never have done it. Instead some primitive part of his brain understood something that might otherwise have escaped him, might have escaped them both and his left hand reached for Elena, hooked behind her neck and pulled her towards him. She tried to push him away but as he stepped forward to kiss her, his right hand reached inside the kimono and down between her legs. Despite the underwear he could feel she was wet. He started to push her backwards towards the stairs and somewhere between the door and the other side of the landing her struggles changed and had begun to answer him instead of fighting back. He backed her onto the stairs. She had begun to climb them in reverse, tearing at his back with her nails. They were half way up before he got into her. She came almost at once, holding on as if she was on the slopes of the Eiger and not a small back staircase.

But fresh from his encounter in the room below Flynn wasn't ready yet. He pulled out of her and taking her hand helped her up the remaining stairs into the room. Elena Hayley wasn't going to get away that easily. Once through the door she collapsed onto the bed.

"Look at me," he said. She turned towards him. Her breathing was beginning to return to normal.

"I have to go -" she started to say. "Charles -"

"Take off the kimono."

There was a moment's silence.

"Now look. That was very good but you must understand -"

"Take off the kimono."

He could hear her breathing. Neither of them moved.

"Do it."

"I really don't - "

"Do it."

Slowly, she reached for the tie at her waist.

"You have no right -"

"Now."

The silk of the kimono fell open. She was wearing a camisole top. Matching briefs that he'd easily pushed aside on the stairs.

"You've given me the run-around since the moment you came into my kitchen, Elena Hayley. But not any more. Now you're going to do exactly what you're told. Do you understand?"

Silence. But she was listening. Something had changed in the room. There was a third presence conjoured out of his certainty, something that made it impossible for her to leave.

"Say ‘Yes'."

Her breathing was heavier now.

"Say ‘Yes'."

Very soft. "Yes."

"Take off your top."

She shook her head but did as she was told.

"And the pants."

"Please -"

"Be quiet."

She removed them carefully, threw them on the bed and waited.

"Come here."

She came towards him. Completely naked now. And stood in front of him looking defiantly into his eyes.

"Kiss me."

She leaned forward and as she did so he turned his head away.

"Not there."

She knelt in front of him, steading herself with a hand on each of his hips. And took him into her mouth. He wound his fingers into her hair, guiding her. Moving her head backwards and forwards, pushing himself deep into her throat. Then he pulled her head back so that she was forced to let him go and look up. He ran the index finger of his other hand from her brow, traced each eyebrow, then the length of her nose to her lips. He slid the finger into her mouth. Her lips closed obediently round it.

"On the bed." She climbed to her feet, went back to the bed and lay down. "Turn over." She turned. "Kneel up." Again she did as she was told.

He stood behind her. This time there would be no ambiguity. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

He waited.

"If you don't want me to fuck you, you can go now and that's the end of it. All you have to do is say. Do you want me to fuck you?"

Still nothing.

Flynn struck her a stinging blow across one buttock with the flat of his hand. It must have hurt. His hand was smarting. Elena Hayley cried out and spun round to face him. Her eyes registered disbelief and shock.

"Turn round." Flynn's voice was steady. Calm. "Turn round and get on your knees. "

He breathing was unsteady now. As if she'd just run a mile.

"Turn round."

Slowly Elena Hayley turned and lifted her backside into the air.

Flynn ran his hand over her smarting buttock.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes."

Flynn hit her again.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes please."

This time he didn't wait. He took her as she kneeled on the bed, entering her from behind, driving into her, taking his own pleasure with no thought for hers. It was a surprise when she came again as he emptied himself into her.

Flynn was up first in the morning. Packing his gear into the back of the Volvo before the rest of the house was awake. He had planned to get clear before anyone appeared. He could send the bill on. But as he closed the estate lid, and struggled with the sticking lock, Elena emerged from the house and came towards him. He hadn't made up his mind how to play this encounter if it happened and was happy to let her decide. He turned to face her with a smile. She met his look calmly. It was the Elena of the dinner party that spoke to him, not the Elena of his attic room.

"Mr Flynn," she said. "I'm glad I caught you." She handed him an envelope. "The meal was outstanding," she said. "My husband asked me to say how grateful we all are for your efforts."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. If you ever need - "

"Goodbye, Mr Flynn." And she turned on her heel and headed back towards the house.

Flynn was at home when he opened the cheque. It was for twice the amount they'd agreed.