Whipping Up A Storm 4

JULY:

After the longest day in June, it’s only the old, with nothing else to occupy their minds, that feel the need to comment on the gradual change in daylight hours. It goes unnoticed to Hooper and Zola. They do notice, that although it remains hot and the days stay long, the summer seems to be cheating them out of time. This has nothing to do with creeping darkness. It is because they are busy. Zola’s work in fashion means she has autumn and winter outfits to consider, and Hooper is juggling his numerous jobs on the side, while chasing acting assignments. There is talk of casting for an upcoming James Cameron epic. But that is surely a flawed project. History shows, any film with the doomed liner Titanic in its title, is similarly fated.

Where possible, their games continue. It is what they do – the way the cards have fallen. They don’t discuss it or sketch out a schedule. There are no ground rules. No lists of do’s and don’ts. Largely, their fantasies don’t spill into everyday living. Well, not that much. Said in jest, Zola often throws the odd threat his way, or simply as an incentive for him to hurry as he prepares an evening meal. It is hard to tell which of them prefers what they do the most: Zola the dominant, or Hooper the submissive. Despite the regular discomfort and stabbing pain their encounters bring about, Hooper finds her dominance tremendously exciting. Perhaps it is because Zola is such an unlikely candidate for the role. For a start, she is so youthful, so sweet-looking, lightly framed, small, or almost waif-like one might say. Dress her up in a pair of silks, and the gamblers downstairs could be cheering her home on the favourite in the 3.30. But boots or a pair of shoes with wicked heels change all that, lifting her to great heights. Add the whip she uses so proficiently, and, in the context of their games, she becomes Fay Wray to his King Kong; Hedy Lemarr to his Victor Mature; Lauren Bacall to his Humphrey Bogart; Ava Gardner to his Frank Sinatra. The list he is familiar with goes on ...

Constantly varying her approach, she can be a harsh mistress that sets a furious pace, or a scornful and bored adolescent, anxious to exercise her sexuality at his expense. Occasionally, they have nothing more than a romantic interlude, but even then, Zola revels in an air of mystery and intrigue. Part shielded by dark glasses, the blackness covering her eyes keeps Hooper guessing, makes his heart race, reminds him how simple it is for her to flick a switch in his brain if she reaches for the whip.

One Saturday, after a microwave pizza and a glass of Pinot Grigio, she clears the plates away, and without warning encircles his neck with her arms, her mouth bearing down on his to seek out a longed-for kiss. The kiss is out of control, sloppy, and loaded with intensity.

With scrabbling fingers, Zola finds the recently opened wine bottle. Holding it by the neck, she raises it to her lips. A sudden spout of chilled liquid enters her mouth. She lets the wine rinse and dance on her tongue for only a moment. Then she presses her lips to Hooper’s once more, the wine trickling between their open mouths in an icy stream. Suddenly, they become participants in a Roman orgy. There is undisguised laughter as the wine, warming by the second, passes between them, some of it running from their lips and over their chins, decadently dribbling over their bodies.

Zola shrugs out of her jacket which slides from her shoulders. Her blouse crinkles away, and floats to the floor in a crumple of cream.

In turn, Hooper frantically tears at his shirt, undoing the buttons without discarding it, and grappling with the clips and zip of his trousers, from which springs his lengthening penis.

"See, you’ve turned me into a torpedo," he gasps, as it bloats to cartoon proportions.

"Then sink me, Mr Torpedo," Zola hisses, making it seem like an order, as she sees the erect, purple-tipped member advance with a will of its own.

There is a pause. They exchange another icy shot of the wine between giggles. With faces delightfully and temporarily numb, they become more serious.

Now on his lap, Zola traces a fingernail along his eager penis, causing him to gasp before drawing her closer. Zola throws her head backward, hair willowing over her shoulders as Hooper clasps her. She tears at his chest, swamping him with her body, patterning his back with blood-red nails.

His hands roam her skin, unhooking her bra, cupping her naked stiff breasts.

She shifts on his thighs, frantic to be free of panties that two pairs of hands now seek to remove.

Hooper rocks her back and forth, working his way inside her as the coiling pair fuse into one slippery figure.

Zola is grinning then frowning. Her facial expressions alternate between intense pleasure and concentration.

He drives deeper into her, muttering and whispering how she has released his torpedo – launched it into open seas. How he loves the way she makes him feel. There are other random words of esteem, an outpouring of everything he has felt but only now announces. Zola rides him hard, intent, and serious faced, but through her cries she squeaks with pleasure. Hooper hangs on as she pumps up and down.

Zola’s eyes are wet, her mascara a streak of black. She lowers her face to his, threatens to swallow him whole. She closes on his mouth. Her lips are smeared with her lipstick. It tints her teeth with what could be the blood of a raw, carnivorous feast, making her appear vampiric. And she rides him as she would ride a vampire’s steed, spurring him on to a lung-bursting sprint. Her nails rip at his flesh, his face, his shoulder, his neck, his upper arms. Finally, Hooper holds her through the twists and turns of her orgasm.

It takes time for normalcy to return. Bare-chested, Hooper puts his trousers back on. Zola recovers her blouse, her light jacket, and panties. They guzzle ice-cold water from the fridge, while their joint panting and their hot breath fills the room then subsides.

It is Zola that provides the follow-up. "You’ve been a good boy. Good boys get rewarded. I know just what you need. You need an expert’s touch."

Such assurance from one so young. She tells him there is no urgency. That to claim his reward, he should remain calm and pace himself. As she speaks, her hands go to the waistband of his trousers. She undoes his belt with snappy, quick fingers, in the manner of a woman that is used to taking such action. Then his trousers become a wrinkly wreck at his ankles.

Benevolent hands trace a line round the tops of his boxers. Thumbs hook beneath the elastic, ease them over his bulging penis and allow them to follow the trousers to the floor.

Zola tells him to step out of the items at his feet. She is still talking, explaining how he is due well-earned relief, and how she intends to provide just that. As if in proof, out of nowhere, her hand: as she inferred, a connoisseur’s hand, soft, expert, feels velvety as her thumb and index finger glide over his shaft, offering only minimum pressure.

He stands in front of her, trembling. Unnaturally perpendicular, to call his penis erect doesn’t do it justice. Never mind a torpedo, it is a rocket ready to launch. Regardless of a busy shift so far, it is ready and waiting, straining for its freedom. So much so, it doesn’t take long for Zola to activate ignition.

Hooper has been with women so frantic in their actions they must have thought they were operating a bilge pump. Not Zola. In the half-light, against his bloated penis, her slender baby-pink and white hand may look positively small – almost deceptively insignificant – in reality, it is anything but. Her fingers, dipped in red nail polish, glide over his taut skin. She is already ahead of him. Her hand, agonisingly slow, remains constant. Gradually, to the motion of Zola’s hand, a hand that is barely moving; a hand that is the centre of his universe, he feels his legs buckle. She circles the tip of his penis with the edge of her nail, then comes the gossamer touch of her finger and thumb, then it is withdrawn, leaving him aching with desire.

"Look at him," says Zola teasingly. "He’s been such a bad boy. So bad Zola has had to punish him. But he’s going to be a good boy now! Such a good boy once we get rid of that nasty stiffness. He’s going to feel a whole lot better when Zola’s finished!"

He is lost. Lost to the motion of Zola’s hand; that almost stationary hand; a hand that stops the clock on the wall, that makes time disappear.

It doesn’t take long. The dam begins to burst. Urgently, but slowly, with a force that starts in the soles of his feet and climbs through the arteries of his body. Zola’s fingers drag and draw sperm from a chasm only she can access. He has never known a woman exercise such control over him. He judders as a thousand rapturous darts swim to the surface. Even during the first onslaught, the sight of Zola’s angelic fingers working their magic, allied to her innocence, eyes seemingly questioning what an earth she has started then, knowing she literally has him in the palm of her hand, changing to an expression of satisfaction, drives him to greater ecstasy.