A Desirable Property Read online

  Title Page

  A DESIRABLE PROPERTY

  by

  NICOLE DERE

  Publisher Information

  A Desirable Property first published in 2002 by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  New Authors Welcome

  Copyright © Nicole Dere

  The right of Nicole Dere to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  ‘Turn,’ she went on. ‘This way. Bend over the wheel again. Put your arms up and hold on.’

  She made me turn around and spread myself with my front resting against the huge tyre. Obediently I stretched my arms up on either side of its thickness and grasped the oily metal supports. My breasts were squashed against the rubber now, as were my tummy and the insides of my spread-eagled thighs. She did not fasten my wrists but just left me clinging there, and a second later I understood why; she needed to use the leather belt as an instrument of chastisement. With the buckle end firmly wrapped around her fist, she brought it down in a flaring line of fire across the centre of my exposed buttocks. I screamed and twisted free of the wheel, clutching at my stinging flesh.

  Part 1 – Jane’s Story

  Chapter 1

  I woke up just as the cabin lights came on for the end of the in-flight movie. Carl was still sleeping. His brow furrowed in a frown of irritation, his thin face stirred slightly on the hard little pillow, and then he sank back into full sleep once more. I studied his still youthful looking features with an almost shocking sense of voyeurism. It wasn’t often I got the chance to catch him so off guard. Relaxed, his face still showed that grace and handsomeness that slipped over at times into a beauty that might almost be considered femininely soft.

  Beautiful youth. That was still the phrase that sprang automatically to mind when I recalled the first time I had seen him. I loved looking back on those early meetings when we had been so infatuated with each other. They were the golden times, the best of times, as they say. So much had changed in the four years that came after. Even two years ago, when we bowed to custom and agreed to mark our partnership by marriage, I was beginning to have those secret doubts, scarcely expressed even to myself, that our relationship would continue to blaze on magnificently, happily-ever-after. But wasn’t that the way with all lovers and relationships the world over? Nothing that precious, that intense, could last forever. It is part of the human condition that everyone changes and adapts. Perhaps this fresh start, this new African setting – we were nearly there, the plane would be landing in an hour or so – would be the answer to our amorous status quo.

  Something must be done, I told myself, painfully caught in a very uncomfortable introspective moment hanging between heaven and earth. Things could still be resolved, could still possibly be saved, between us. I felt hot, actually flushed with emotions, and I squirmed with shame in my seat as I vividly recalled yesterday afternoon in the anonymous luxury of the airport hotel in London…

  The tension crackled and hovered between us like electricity. It was the first time we had really been alone together, with time to spare, for days, after the round of parties, farewells and meetings to prepare for Carl’s prestigious posting to his firm’s East African office.

  ‘You lucky bastards!’ I knew that was how everybody saw us. The good-looking young couple, everything going for us, winging off to an exciting new life together. And it was true – or could be true, if only we could somehow tear ourselves free of all the shadows that trailed like cobwebs after us in our personal relationship.

  Sex. That is why I was blushing now, because the word kept hammering brutally in my brain, even as I automatically refuted it with scathing contempt. Love, say love, that’s what it is, not just the animal rutting you’re conjuring. But the mocking voice of my own libido went on lashing me with its scorn until I felt tears pricking behind my eyes in the capsuled privacy. I saw again, and felt, Carl’s eyes on me as I undressed, ashamed and yet making it something of a peep show as I slipped off my skirt and my top, moving round in my sexy new underwear, knowing I looked good and letting him catch a leisurely eyeful. Bending my arms up behind me to unhook the mesh of the bra, aware that my nipples already showed mistily through it, their tiny points nearly thrusting out of the gossamer material, tingling with rubbery hardness and a desire to be caressed. Thumbs hooked at my hips I eased down my tiny briefs and sat on the edge of the wide bed to slide them in a tangle off my feet.

  Without looking at him, I could feel his eyes burning into me. My heart thundered, and between my thighs my sex throbbed with fierce urgency. How many weeks was it since we had made love? The length of time could almost be measured in months rather than weeks. Certainly we had not made love the previous night in the luxurious bed, its cool wide loneliness seeming like acres when I curled to sleep, with Carl still drinking with his buddies down at the bar.

  ‘If you loved me, you’d want to fuck me!’ How many times I had longed to scream that at him. But of course I was too well bred, too civilised – we both were – to hurl such crude truths at each other. Besides, I was constantly telling myself that wasn’t true anyway. Even if we didn’t fuck, the love was still there, somewhere. Somehow. The heat of shame burnt fiercer at the torment of memory.

  My unfaithfulness – such an old-fashioned word, my smart brain sneered, even though the word carried all the weight of its undiminished condemnation for me. Less than two weeks ago I had lain in another bed, with my legs bent up around Peter’s sweating waist, my nails digging into his humping shoulders while his prick skewered me in an agony and ecstasy which drove me at last to a mindless coming, ankles crossed, pink heels hammering on his pounding buttocks. ‘Oh God, I needed that!’ I sobbed, and shrivelled with shame afterwards at the naked, desperate truth of my cry.

  Carl is unfaithful too, I reminded myself, trying to ease my tender conscience, just as I had through all the clandestine fucks of my affair with Peter. I had no real proof though, not one shred of evidence. I couldn’t convince myself, no matter how hard I tried, that he actually was unfaithful to me. Instead, I believed that Carl had gone off sex, gone off me. It didn’t really help to make me feel any better. Nor did the even greater subterfuge of trying to tell myself that I loved Peter bolster my self-esteem any. I was in love with Peter’s kisses, with Peter’s hands, with his all too rampant cock, with our burning physical hunger. It was better than all the frustrated, lonely playing with myself I had been doing for so long. I was tired of the teasing masturbation that went on behind the locked bathroom door, under the fragrant lather of my bath. Being with Peter was no worse than that, anyway, I unsuccessfully argued with myself over and over again.

  Then yesterday, as I sat perched on the end of the bed in the hotel room, like some naked tart, I suddenly felt that Carl and I might make our first move towards this long awaited fresh sta
rt. My heart, and my cunt, were throbbing with the need and want for it. I lifted my eyes nervously, shyly, caught his burning look, and the wordless communication leapt like sparks across the gulf of our estrangement. He lunged at me, knocking me backwards, his clothed body thrusting against me, his hands clawing, devouring, his open mouth possessing mine, tongue penetrating, moaning and shaking with passion. And, perversely, my hand caught his wrist as his palm fitted over the curve of my vulva, his fingers stroked at my dark pubis, prodded at the dampness of my labia. Why? I could wonder now, belatedly, bemused at my contrariness, my acute mistiming. ‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Wait, let me have my bath first. Come and talk to me.’

  And in my stupid mood of cock-tease I made him sit, watch me slide and slither, stand and wash myself, every intimate curve and plane of my flesh, while he stared avidly, eyes bright, scarcely talking while I prattled on lightly, wickedly, of the new life ahead of us, our great African adventure, as though the last thing on my mind was my screaming desire to be screwed to exhaustion.

  Back in the bedroom, damply fragrant with perfume and talc, my dark little snatch fluffed up, my sweet sex dewy with anticipation, I let the towel fall, spread myself on my back on the bed, lewdly, in a come-and-fuck-me pose, my right leg drawn up and bent at the knee, thighs parted, presenting my sex to him like a bitch in heat. Which was exactly how I felt. ‘Get your clothes off,’ I growled, and he hastened to obey.

  The nightmare developed slowly; unlike his tumbling haste as he tore off his gear and fell on me with that animal fury. His kisses, his hands, his fingers dug like claws into the yielding softness of my breasts and of my pliant bottom, spreading my thighs. ‘Take it easy,’ I panted, only half pretending to be afraid, excited by his lust yet perversely still wanting to slow it down, to tease it out to the exquisite limit. And then I felt his prick, wet and slimy, smearing my belly and the insides of my thighs as he lunged at me, again and again, buckling, softly impotent and incapable of penetrating me. His cry was of utter despair.

  ‘No, no,’ I gasped, holding him on top of me by force, feeling the stiffening of his muscles, everywhere except in those vital few inches of penis trapped between our heaving loins. ‘It’s all right. Wait, just take it easy. It’ll be all right.’ And I meant it. My own throbbing hunger was temporarily calmed by my compassion, by my wish to help him. I remembered how clumsy our first attempts at lovemaking had been, and how it had been up to me to get it right, to get him safely inside me, to take charge. I had loved it, it had felt great at the time, and when our flesh fused it was even more wonderful just to let go, to surrender to the power that shot through every fibre of my being, and to know we were both equally helpless in its thrall.

  If I didn’t come when he did he would wait until we had both recovered a little, and then slowly rekindle the passion, playing with me, with my breasts, suckling them. Then he would let his tongue and lips and teeth trail all over me, from my face and my neck down to my breasts, belly, thighs, legs, feet, and all the way down to my toes. Then, inch by slow inch, he would move up again until I was once more a mass of screaming need, before his mouth and his delicate fingers honed in on the wet and beating centre of my want, his tongue curling, lapping up the cleft of my vulva to the tiny nub of sensation, his fingers now deep and working rhythmically inside me. My buttocks clenched and my belly rose, buffeting him as I howled in the lost apocalypse of my coming.

  I felt so ashamed afterwards that the tears always came. I lay there, eyes shut, returning slowly while his soaked face lay across my thigh. I couldn’t look at him until I had been to the bathroom, cleaned myself and composed myself to face his love again. I was always aware in that first gentle, post-sex kiss, of where those lips and tender tongue had been only moments before.

  Now, in the hotel, I had to go on playing the whore, the temptress, and I rolled him off me, lay across his stiff body, sensing the depth of his shame, his wish now only to flee the scene. I held him, by will as much as by strength, captured that flaccid prick, shrunk and shrouded in its collar of foreskin, slimy with his copious emission. It was so slippery and diminutive I could only hold on to it with difficulty, gently caressing it with my fingers. Then I bent, felt my hair stroking his belly, and then mingle with the black curls of his pubes, and let my lips pucker and kiss the folds of his penis, my tongue lapping at its brown satin softness. My thumb and finger slipped back the hood of his foreskin, bared the shiny tip of the helm with its narrow little slit. My tongue flickered, tasted the salty tang of juice, then I pushed my fingers down harder and felt the responsive convulsion, the swelling, and I closed my parted lips over it, took the entire head in my mouth and sucked deeply, slowly, until it swelled more, filling the warm wet cave of my mouth to its roof.

  His prick beat so strongly, I thought with a feeling of mingled disappointment and delight that he was about to come in my mouth. My neck muscles tensed. In spite of myself I jerked instinctively and his prick emerged, with an audible little plop. Contritely, I captured it, smothered it into me again. The helm was clear now, and I could feel the flange where it rose from the thickening shaft. I let it free of my mouth once more and began to lap at it greedily with long strokes of my tongue, up from near the base of his balls to the swollen ridge of his helm, my fingers continuing to massage its warm, throbbing length, pressing it into his belly, nestling its head among the nest of his pubic hair. I would have got him stiff, would have climbed on him, fitted him into my vagina, rode him to a proper coupling, I was sure, when suddenly with a mighty heave which took me by surprise, he dislodged me. He gave a growl of pure pain and rage and flung me sprawling, then rolled over onto me, reversing our positions. He struck me an almighty slap across the outside of my thigh with his open palm; a ringing blow that sent fire darting through me and brought up a fiery red print on my skin still visible twenty-four hours later.

  Yelping with startled anguish I found myself stretched on my back, my legs apart. His fingers were hooked in my thighs as he spread them wide, exposing my cleft mercilessly. Then his hot face was thrust at me, at my sex, rooting, gnawing, lapping, in a bestial frenzy that stunned me – until I felt my wayward flesh responding to this brutality with an urgency too powerful to resist. My hands fell from his hunched shoulders, my head fell back on the tangled coverlet, and I groaned, my belly lifted now in helpless cooperation at his rutting, buried face. The feeling of want and hunger and excitement spread remorselessly, until that moment when I lost sense of everything, except that pounding rush of sensation carrying me up and up to the explosive force of an orgasm that ripped through me, and left me spent and sobbing helplessly in its consuming wake.

  Now, in the newly lit cabin of the plane, his eyes opened, looked into mine from a few inches away, and darted guiltily aside as if he, too, at that instant, was sharing the awful memory of those minutes after the cunnilingus on the hotel bed, when my sobbing had quietened and he pushed up from between my spread thighs and hurried without a word to the bathroom. The water ran, splashed noisily, and he emerged again, clad in a robe, which he kept on while he hastily pulled on his briefs and then completed dressing, picking up his scattered clothing without glancing at my sprawled nakedness.

  ‘I’m going back down to the bar,’ he said. ‘I’ll give Jerry a ring. See you later.’ His voice was guttural and harsh with enmity. I lay still after he had gone, too weary and apathetic to move. When I did finally move, my face felt scalded with shame at seeing the dark wet patch on the cover where my parted thighs had been.

  My gloomy reflections quashed the brief glimmering of hope for our future. We sat in silence as the stewards brought round breakfast, and then hastily cleared the trays and made brisk preparation for our landing. The disembodied voice from the flight deck began to speak, and then abruptly lapsed into silence again. Nothing happened. The new redness of a tropical sun slanted into the cabin, tingeing everything with its strange old, gold light. Seats were brought upright, and we waited to hear the imminent landing being announced.


  There was a sudden stirring, a an odd sense of confusion, and two of the flight crew girls came hurrying along the aisle from the forward end of the aircraft. I glanced up curiously at their faces. My heart faltered, and a great lurch of terror speared me. Their expressions were almost identical – sheer horror. Behind them were two men and a girl. I saw only her short blonde hair and attractive face. Then all three were shouting and brandishing what my incredulous gaze registered as stocky automatic weapons. There were some gasps and one or two muted cries went up from the seats around us. One of the stewards stumbled, went down on one knee, and the man immediately behind her gave her a hefty kick that sent her sprawling full length at our feet.

  ‘This is a hijack! You are all prisoner! Do not move or you die!’ The man screamed, his voice penetratingly shrill. He reached down, grabbed the weeping steward by her dark hair and dragged her to her feet. He flung her stumbling forward again, thrusting her down towards the rear of the plane.

  His companion moved too. The blonde girl, dressed in military style khaki shirt and slacks, stayed in the front compartment, in the doorway that led to the flight cabin. ‘Sit still!’ she yelled. ‘You are now all hostages!’ Her English, and her control, were superior to those of her fellow terrorists, and they made her presence, as well as her gestures with the gun, all the more menacing. ‘We have radioed our demands. We will land shortly. Do not move or speak, or I will shoot, okay?’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Please, can I go to the toilet?’ My voice came out as a scratchy whisper. The blonde girl, who was coming round collecting our passports, studying each photo carefully then scrutinising the features of its owner, stared at me, her grey eyes cool, expressionless. I felt my face burning. ‘I’ve wet myself,’ I murmured pathetically. It was true. I hadn’t realised I had done so until I was shocked to feel the small circle of damp at my bottom, the unpleasant clinging of the triangle of silk to my crotch. We were still caught in the stunning unreality of what was happening to us. I had no idea how long we had all been sitting there transfixed while the three terrorists moved rapidly up and down the central aisle of the plane. And there was another, a fourth hijacker, in the flight cabin.