The Icing on The Cake
Black rivers of her hair lay over the snow white pillow. Asleep and serene, she faced him with eyes gently shut. Her cheeks still glowed with the joy of their love making, the slightest of red lipped smiles the only clue.
T. softly ran his hand along the curve of her breasts to her more than womanly hips. He wanted her closer to him.
She heeded his gently calling hands, shifting under the sheets so that their naked bodies were again pressing together. T. kissed her closed lips while his hand fell over her waist and clung to her buttocks.
"Mmm... I'm still buzzing from the last time," she whispered, eyes closed. This close, T. filled his nose with the scent of her hair, made sweetly aromatic by L'Oreal. "I don't want to get out of bed."
The morning sun finally found a way through the blinds and illuminated her classic beauty with a natural halo. Feeling the light over her closed eyes, she turned over, and pressed her back into T.'s accepting front, so that they lay like spoons in a draw. "I hate birthdays. They never get any better," she said, softly moving her dark hair away from her neck.
T. kissed her there, reveling as each touch was rewarded with the provocative push of her buttocks towards his firm attention. "It's just another day," T. said, consoling her with his kisses. "Besides, you still," his kisses moved to her cheek, "are far more," they moved to the edge of her red lips, "beautiful than any woman I know." T. ended with a deep kiss on her open mouth. His hands reached her firm breasts, and hauled her towards him.
"Nigella Lawson Celebrates Birthday With Toyboy Lover - that's what the headlines will say."
"I don't care." T. slid a hand between her legs. Nigella closed her thighs around it.
"I got you something..." Nigella whispered.
"Shouldn't I be buying you the gifts?"
She didn't answer, but turned and looked T. in the eyes with her startling pupils, endearing in their colour. "It's down stairs. Come on." At that, she slid out of his grasp, and out of the bed.
T.'s hands still held her shadow as she threw on her red silken bath robe and left the bedroom with an alluring backward glance. A quick look at his Omega timepiece told T. it was well into the morning. He reached over the side of the bed towards his cream chinos, and slipped into them effortlessly.
"Hey, are you coming?"
T. followed Nigella's voice down the corridor and then down the curving steps of her Notting Hill mansion. He found her in the kitchen. Her red silk robe hung loosely off her shoulders, and the fair porcelain form in the middle of these two red streaks was as inviting as it was vulnerable.
Nigella leaned with her back against the kitchen worktop. Letting the light of the day in behind her was the glass conservatory extension, leading out into the green enclosure of her private garden. Out on the landscaped back yard stood T.'s Ducati Street Fighter 848. He had to restrain the thoughts of the previous night's joy ride as he walked into the waiting lips.
"Here..." Nigella withdrew a small box from behind her and presented it. T. accepted it with a smile and no clue as to what it could be.
He finally unwrapped a blue velvet box, within which was a small and clear plastic wallet containing roughly 3 ounces of cocaine. T. looked at her with question.
"Wait...! I said it's for you, but it's still my birthday."
T. was not amused. "What do you expect me to do with this?"
"... Just one last time, for me..." Nigella's hands pulled at the waist of T.'s trousers as the elegant stature of her face attempted a look of childish innocence. She eased herself on to the kitchen worktop, letting her robe fall to either side of her amazing breasts, and exposing the flat stomach which dived into a dark tip of groomed sexuality.
Taking the wallet from T.'s hands, she sprinkled snowflakes down the valley between her bosoms. "...Why don't you come and lick the icing off?" She pulled the waist of his trousers towards her, and sent her hands in search of him. She found him already waiting, and let her hands continue to stimulate.
Weakened by the delicate pull of her hands, T. fell into the powdered centre of her chest, and took in everything her body had to offer. His hands pulled at the neat pubic hairs between her legs causing her to shudder. His trousers were being pulled away, and snowflakes covered his extended branch, which Nigella licked clean. The cold tingle mixed with the warm pull of her mouth was numbingly arousing.
Nigella dropped a splash of powder on the worktop like baking flour and snorted it cleanly. She swore as her burning eyes scrunched together, then released. As awoken to a new sensuality, Nigella pulled T. towards her with firm grip on his attention. "I want you inside me. Now." Her words were urgent and desperate to feel the cocktail of sexual and chemical highs. T. obliged, parting her legs and sliding into the tight warmth that invited him in. That deliciously moist grip had him arch his back with instant pleasure.
Nigella tapped the remainder of the plastic wallet onto her outstretched tongue and then clasped her vixen lips around T.'s wanton mouth. They both shared the searing shock along the nerves, as well as the continued joy from their intercourse.
They grew wild with each other, writhing and thrusting, pressing and releasing until at last climax.
T. fell away exhausted as Nigella simmered on the worktop, her robe around her like the opening bud of a rose.
"Fuck, I should have got more coke." The vulgar tone didn't suit her, and T. placed a palm over her dirty mouth.
"Happy birthday. But that was the last time."
She groaned, half pleasure, half frustration. "Stop being so dull. It's just for fun."
"You don't need it."
The black felt tip streaks that were her eyebrows furrowed. "I know I don't. But then I don't need you either."
"Fine." Without care T. removed himself from the kitchen. They had done this too many times to even feign interest. The drug ruled her thoughts, but it was this that also made her so dangerously possessing. A beautiful devil-mother whose rosé was still present on his hands.
If he was to revisit the last 3 weeks since the searing noise of his bike's engine had become catalyst for this perverse side-show of sex, drugs and celebrity notoriety, he would have found not one thing different. It was a cycle of infatuated indulgence. From the moment he came across her voluptuous figure admiring his machine, indulgence and counter indulgence had played out to infinity.
"Darling, wait..." She called after him. But T. had already collected his jacket, boots, gloves and shocking pink and black Alpine Star helmet. Nigella's hands undid his efforts to get dressed. "Darling please stay. I didn't mean it... Here," she guided his un-gloved hand toward the centre of her legs. "Keep me warm."
T. eased himself away and out through the rear kitchen door to where his bike stood. There was the reassuring firm bounce of the suspension as he swung his leg over the viciously angled Ducati. Nigella's hands lay on top of his as he turned the electrics on, his display screen surging to electric life with LED readings and sensor checks.
Nigella loosely held her red silk robe around her and stood barefoot out in the enclosure of her private garden. A gentle breeze caused her robe to hug her in places so that her skin was as though it was painted crimson. She implored him with her longing but dilated eyes. "Don't go. I want you to stay. I'll make you some breakfast, ok? And then afterwards, you can do whatever you want to me..." She slipped her hand under his jacket and on to his chest. "Would you like that? You can do me however you want." She guided a hand to her throat and encouraged him to squeeze. "I'll let you hurt me... I want you to."
Torn between his lust and his despair for all this, T. struggled to come to a choice. His hands tightened around her throat, briefly, and briefly elicited a shallow whimper she stifled as she held her breath. A not so innocent lamb, offering itself for the kill... Lamely, T. said, "I'll be back in a bit," and ignited the twin cylinder, liquid cooled Testastretta engine. It growled at Nigella in a way he couldn't.
Still passionate on a coke high, she stormed away while T. put his helmet on. He looked at her as she reached the conservatory door and screamed over the twin Termigoni exhausts, "Don't fucking come back!"
T. answered with a twist of the throttle as he slowly slipped the clutch in 2nd gear. The rear wheel tore at the ground until it breathed smoke. T. wheeled the bike away, watching the furious beauty watch him.
Her dark hair fell about the fair skin of her shoulders, while her hands had given up holding the robe, which now hung loosely off her like two show curtains pulled apart to reveal a magnificent theatre.
T. blasted out the rear entrance at 8000 rpm, and was soon pushing the needle to the red and wrestling the Street Fighter's front end back to earth.
He'll be gone for an hour. And when he came back he knew what he would find. A depressive figure, far removed from the powdered high, waiting like a ghost for her contact to deliver. A quick exchange of funds. A new supply for the day. And then she will await the return of the passionate red Ducati in her rear yard. And await the passionate attention of her young lover. The one who seduced her with his Italian motorcycle. The one that preferred her as damaged goods, and so never really put his cold heart into fixing her.
T. checked the vibrating image of a car taking off behind him in his mirror. The tell of the amateur free lance photographer was the sudden move to follow a change of direction. T. dropped to second gear on his approach to the Marylebone Road and with a quick tap of the front brake and a foot on the rear, hurtled through the crawling traffic with needle point precision. Undertaking a lorry just before it hung left, T. weaved to the right and spun the bike back around, and onto the opposite side of the road. Kicking down to first gear, the Street Fighter reared its head as he pulled away. He was already heading back to her. At that moment he knew he was as much an addict as she.