Ashley Lister - A Taste of Passion

She hooked her heels behind him and urged him closer. As he adjusted the position of the end of his hardness against her sex she waited for a heartbeat, savouring the anticipation as she held him on the verge of penetration.

The prospect of what she knew was going to come was intoxicating.

‘I’m sure,’ she told him.

He grinned, unhurried and clearly happy to wait for her to take the lead on this occasion. Slowly, Trudy eased herself onto him.

The rush of pleasure was instantaneous. Trudy could feel his thickness spreading her inner muscles wide and filling her. The aching need for satisfaction was replaced by the certain knowledge that he had already pushed her to the brink of climax and beyond. Her body pulsed through a cataclysmic rush of release from the simple act of his slowly sliding into her.

Was he really such a good lover? Or had she been secretly harbouring a desire for William Hart and this was the fulfilment of a previously unspoken fantasy? Trudy couldn’t decide which explanation was the more likely.

In that moment she knew it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the satisfaction of the experience.

She pressed her kisses more ferociously against his mouth. When he pulled her closer, his strong hands holding the base of her spine and the back of her neck, she felt a second explosion of euphoria rush through her being.

It was another orgasm. Another monumental release.

A flood of excitement rushed from her sex. The waves of pleasure wracked her frame. They left her trembling with a delight that tingled in every extremity. The release was so powerful she feared she might pass out. Her inner muscles rippled with a flurry of ecstatic responses that were so intense she wasn’t sure if they were divine or devastating.

She only knew she wanted more.

But, as she basked in the afterglow of her orgasm, and as she savoured the insistent rhythm of him riding back and forth inside her, Trudy could hear the intermittent beep of her smartphone’s alarm. She groaned inwardly when she realised the alarm was telling her that the muffins were now ready.

Trudy was determined to take on the quad killer. That would be this morning’s challenge. She tiptoed quietly around Eldorado, the house she shared with Donny and Charlotte, as she readied herself to do battle. She didn’t want either of her friends to know what she was doing. Today the quad killer would be a private test: something that she needed to do on her own.

Charlotte’s parents had generously subsidised the rental of Eldorado, allowing the trio to reside in a substantial, attractive property in a fairly exclusive location. Trudy and Charlotte had rooms on the upper floor whilst Donny lived in the converted basement. The ground floor was a communal living space where they occasionally met for breakfasts and chitchat or to discuss the finer points on their plans for eventual world domination of the global catering industry.

The walls and furnishings remained predominantly coloured in the same bland magnolias, oatmeals and beiges that had been there when they moved in.

The floors were hardwood.

The décor was sparse and minimalist and open plan.

It was a stylish area to entertain friends and, most importantly, it was easy to keep clean and tidy. The only problem with the ground floor level was, unless she carefully tiptoed, that the hardwood floors screamed and groaned an announcement of her every movement like some form of security siren.

Trudy checked that her keys were zipped into the pocket of her hoodie before closing the door behind her. It was barely 5:30 am. She had been home this morning for less than three hours. The world outside the door was held in the blackest night between darkness and dawn. Trudy savoured the chill of the icy weather caressing her skin. Then she began to jog steadfastly through the grey morning mist.

Every breath came out as a visible reminder of the early summer morning’s frostiness.

The brim of her black baseball cap was pulled low. Her features were hidden inside the shadows of her black hoodie. Wearing black Lycra leggings and black trainers, she figured she looked as anonymous as the shadows as she hurried along the pre-morning roads. She wanted to blend with the early-morning lightlessness and complete her run without being observed. The way she felt this morning, Trudy wanted to continue the remainder of her existence without ever being observed again. Remaining permanently unobserved, she thought, would be safest for all.

You fucked William Hart.

The soundtrack for her MP3 was set to a list of tunes intended to accompany an energetic workout. There were lots of glam rock pieces, each one heavy with power chords and inspirational lyrics. She turned up the volume so the music had a chance to drown out the catcalls of her conscience.

You fucked William Hart.

Her cheeks burned crimson. She cranked the volume higher and began running harder. Every footfall shook as it landed heavily on the ground. She forced herself to think about each step of the circuit that lay ahead. It was never a good idea to tackle the quad killer with anything less than absolute mental focus. This morning she needed something to concentrate on other than the punishing memories of the previous night. The quad killer – devilish, demanding and dangerous – struck her as the ideal distraction. Not that the memories were particularly punishing. In truth, the majority of them were rather pleasurable. But she didn’t like to dwell on the easy way she had given herself to him.

You fucked William Hart.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to banish that thought.

In a moment of typical dramatic flair, Charlotte had labelled this route the quad killer. It was a six mile run that went up some steep hills, over stretches of gruelling fields, and through a couple of treacherous woodland trails. Trudy believed it to be one of the most invigorating and challenging cardiovascular workouts she and Charlotte had ever negotiated. The name quad killer was apt because it always left the front of Trudy’s thighs in an agony of overstretched and trembling exertion. It left her quivering and on the brink of ceasing to function. This morning, more than any other she could remember, Trudy needed the quad killer to distract her thoughts. There were some things that she simply didn’t want to think about.

You fucked William Hart.

After she and William Hart finished having sex, Trudy had felt an almost irresistible urge to apologise or at least explain herself. She didn’t usually have sex with people she’d known for less than an hour. Her only previous lover, Peter, had been her one and only former boyfriend. She’d been committed to Peter for two years before they became intimate. Their relationship had lasted a further twelve months and she’d been devastated when he said it was time for them to go their separate ways.

Aside from one embarrassing drunken fumble with Terry, a blind date that Charlotte had organised, Trudy had never displayed anything like the uninhibited abandon that she shared with William Hart in the kitchen of Boui-Boui .

But she hadn’t dared put those thoughts into words. It was easier to simply cringe from the shame of having made herself so easily available to him and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

A car approached her on the road. The headlights were dusty and faraway in the pre-dawn mist. Even as it sped past her its presence seemed oddly muffled and otherworldly.

It was amazing that it had happened, she thought. The sudden desire she’d had for Bill, as well as the fact that he reciprocated her feelings and they’d been sufficiently fortunate to be in a convenient location where they could do something about their mutual attraction, had been a combination of events that would lead someone else to win the lottery. Yet, despite the fact that sex with him had felt good – incredibly good – she conceded, Trudy did not feel like a lottery winner.