First Time Buyer

It just stood there. Not a care in the world. Shamelessly soliciting its' wares. 'For Sale' it screamed. So vulgar. Had it no decency? What a slut.

Grant stood beneath the sign. The description of standing may have been sympathetic. His legs gave the merest nod to the concept while his frame sought solace from gravity against the garden wall. A distant passer-by may have mistaken him for a man at peace, serenely taking in his surroundings, contented perhaps waiting for his betrothed to consider a new marital home.

A closer inspection would have reached a wholly different conclusion. His resting face gave all the evidence needed. It was fleeting, but it was there. Micro gestures, passing in an instant but repeating often enough. The closed eye lids twitched, soft cheeks winced, gentle lips formed a soundless snarl and then rested as if momentarily taken over by an invisible being. The signs of a man in pain.

"Oh you poor man. Can we help you?! Here let us sooth your brow. Let us ease your burden. But what is that smell? Your breath.....it has a faint tinge of......ah. Never mind. We'll just be leaving."

Of course. The Saturday Morning Hangover. The traditional state of the 30-something British male. The self-inflicted pain leading to the throbbing head and that inevitable sense of self-loathing formed by the realisation that there was no one to blame but himself.

That didn't prevent Grant from investing in some pretty intense resentment. A passing Volvo with a loose fan belt; a young mum with wailing baby; the distant squeal of a bus braking; a particularly self-righteous bird tweeting. And yes, even silent 'For Sale' signs. All received his passive hatred and the hope of a slow, painful afterlife.

The sign of course REALLY deserved it. The sign was the reason he had hauled his weakened frame out of bed at 8am on a Saturday, braving public transport (driving wasn't an option!), and was now being comforted by a cold garden wall rather than a warm goose down duvet.

"Mr Thorn?"

His painfully slow, alcohol dampened reactions were the only thing stopping him from jumping from his skin. The urge to rip down the advertising board and beat his attacker........well that passed pretty quickly. Instead he chose Plan B: He opened his eyes.

His move paid off.

"Abigail Knight, Mr Thorn. I think you are my 9 O'clock?"

Oh thank you universe; thank you alarm clocks; thank you 'For Sale' sign. All is forgiven.

Abigail was a picture. 20-something with milky skin; brunette, hair tied up with some break away strands brushing her cheek; a dark trouser suit with a crisp, feminine white shirt. A little shorter than him in her heals. She stood favouring one leg, the other kicked back just a little, file in one hand while nervously twirling her loose hair in the other.

"Mr Thorn?" She was almost imploring now.

"Yes. Grant Thorn", he found his voice. "Sorry you surprised me. I was thinking about something else".

He proffered his hand, part greeting and part reassurance that he wasn't completely unusual. She paused for the briefest instant before taking it, a smile brightening her face but more from relief than joy. Her hand was soft, her skin warm, and her touch gentle.

"Well let's go in, shall we?" she proposed. He held her gaze, not breaking contact as their hands also retained their hold. She had the deepest brown eyes. Had he ever really noticed eyes before? Most people had them, sure, but he felt like he'd always taken that for granted rather than really checking for himself. Until now. The distance between them seemed to be shrinking but they hadn't moved. Not a little bit.

The bird tweeted. It seemed deafening. God he hated that bird.

She pulled her hand away, a blush forming on her neck and cheek, visible against her perfect creamy skin. She shuffled her papers nervously, pulling out a set of keys that had been hidden in a small brown envelope. Wordlessly she turned down the path, the noise of the jangling keys both a distraction and a call to follow.

He followed.

Her back was as appealing as her front. Her rear shone brightly in his vision, wiggling in time to the jangle of the keys. Pert in what must have been a skin-tight pair of trouser-cum-leggings. She navigated the path delicately; her high heels pronouncing the shape of her legs.

He came up behind her at the front door. Just one step more than usual decorum would permit. As she worked the door locks he leaned forward, smelling her subtle scent.

She paused, sensing his presence. Carefully she turned the key in the final lock and pushed, stepping forward and pivoting to manoeuvre her back against the opening door. Standing side on to him in the doorway Grant could see the full flush of her face, her expression stern and accusing.

"Make yourself at home won't you Mr Thorn?", her tone now very different from the warmth of her hands just a few moments before.

He stepped forward through the doorway, turning to face her as she retreated, pushing the door back a few inches to keep space between them. Their eyes met again, the deep galaxy of brown so much closer, so rich, so inviting, but so at odds with the set of her face.

She held his gaze, a contest of wills for those few seconds. He felt the maddening urge to lean into her, to push her back against the door, trapping her while he seized her head in his hands and pushed his lips onto hers.

But he fought his instinct, giving her the win. He walked on.

He was immediately standing in a living room, which had invaded and beaten the hallway in some previous battle. The open-plan space was achingly beautiful. Two soft brown leather sofas focused the room, facing each other over a low oak coffee table. This threesome sat on an island of deep red rug, surrounded by a sea of slate-grey stone. The far wall housed a Victorian iron fireplace, flanked by oak bookcases overflowing with hard and soft bound volumes of all ages and sizes.

He loved it.

The door shut softly, while the five-lever lock had other ideas and clanked its confident presence.

"The owners did the conversion themselves. They opened up the downstairs, extended the rear and replaced just about everything: floors, windows, lights -- the works".

She tapped past him, her shoes sharp on the stone floor. She was all business now, beckoning him to follow her through an archway to the back of the house. The arch opened into a large kitchen-diner. Another island rose prominently in the middle of the room, topped with wood and surrounded by chrome and leather stools. The usual functional kitchen kit was arrayed around the walls: a large American style fridge and a huge brushed steel cooking range.

But it was the view that so captured his attention. There was no roof. Nor a back wall. Instead there was the earth and the sky. An expanse of glass stretched from the rear floor through where the ceiling would have been, exposing a deep garden, a skyline of tall trees and the heavens above.

He loved it more. He walked to the glass doors, admiring the view and the impossible feeling of space in the middle of a huge city. Could he live here? How could he live anywhere else? He caught his reflection in the glass, his lean cheeks carrying a dark stubble that matched his thick hair. His youthful features beginning to acknowledge the impressions of life, light brushstrokes evident next to his eyes and on his forehead.

His mind continued its wander, picturing a future in this place. He began to absentmindedly rub his lower back with his left hand, reaching under his leather jacket and t-shirt to ease a sore muscle. The rugby game the previous week had been more brutal than usual, and his poor bag of bones didn't recover like it once did.

His eyes extended their gaze through his own image to the reflection of the scene beyond. He could see Abigail at the wooden island, one hand resting on her papers now on the counter, the other on her hip. Her image was surprisingly clear in the glass, her perfect frame a welcome addition to an already lovely view. He could see her gaze follow his hand, fixed on the exposed skin of his muscular back, taking in the taught shape of his rear in his dark blue jeans. He kept rubbing, moving his hand left and right, pleased to see her eyes move ever so slightly to follow.

He felt himself stir, a faint but definite tightening. His arms tingled as his body began to respond to the urge that pulsed through him. His alcohol infused blood quickened; the pace of his heart loud in his ears. Could he do this? Surely this was ridiculous? The whisky from the night before dulled the doubt and fed his fantasy. The incoming tide of excitement washed away any last physical pain.

He let his hand fall and stood still for a moment, refocusing on his own reflection. One thought echoed in his mind.

If not now, when?

In one movement he turned and strode quickly towards her. The distance between then narrowed, his expression hard and focused, hers moving through surprise to shock. Still, she didn't move.

His heart pounded in his ears. Each step one closer to commitment, the sound of his footsteps hard against the stone floor silencing his doubt, repressing his reason.

Her hands clenched; her shoulders tensed, forcing her chest out towards him. It was all the invitation he needed, whether she meant it or not.

And he was on her. His hands cradling her head, her eyes wide in disbelief as his lips found hers. She froze, not resisting but not welcoming the urgent search of his tongue against her lips. Her arms rigid in their pose; it was as if her whole body hung like a statue from the hands that held her cheeks, his fingers now tangled in her hair.

His tongue probed her lips urgently. Parted slightly in surprise of his lustful advance they stood firm to further assault. He pressed on, pushing every inch of his body against hers. The hardness in his jeans found her soft void between her thighs. Still she didn't move. Seconds felt like years. Doubt resurfacing and immediately inflamed with fear.

And then the statue came to life. Marble became flesh. Her mouth yielded to his probing tongue, lips parting and caressing him as he entered her. Her head tipped to the side, locking their lips together as her hands freed from their pose and reached around his back, slipping under his jacket and enveloping his muscular back.

He released her head, sliding his hands down her neck, shoulders and to her waist, brushing the curve of her breasts on their journey south. She breathed in deeply and stroked his tongue with her own in encouraging response.

His hands, emboldened, furthered their exploration. Her skin was warm and soft over a frame toned and athletic; firm, peachy bottom; slim stomach and full, rounded breasts. He gently caressed every inch that his hands could reach. His fingers travelled the outline of her rear followed the length of her spine, and discovered her hardened nipples through her top. She shuddered with nervous excitement; all the time their mouths busy at their business and his business hardening every moment in his jeans.

He pushed her jacket back and off her shoulders, following up his success by quickly unbuttoning her shirt. She made a grab for it as it too fell away.

"No we can't, I have to..." she begged desperately before he silenced her with his mouth. She tried to talk but only managed a whimper, now topless aside from a lacy white bra. He shrugged off his jacket before seizing her rear and lifting her bodily onto the counter sending the papers spinning onto the stone floor.

He climbed on top of her, the kitchen island becoming their bed, the wood their mattress and the lovers its reason to be.

He rested on his knees as she lay beneath him. Freeing himself of his t-shirt, he bunched it into place under her head as a cushion to the firm surface. Her hands touched his waist, before gingerly caressing his toned stomach, sending a tingle through him as her soft fingers explored the smooth topography of his body.

Time to do some more exploring of his own. His fingers hooked under the waist of her leggings, moving his weight to one side and allowing the freedom for further undressing. She raised her hips as her shoes and leggings fell to the floor. Her cream, lacy panties matched her bra, and her slender frame matched his dreams.

She reached for his belt and ripped the clasp open. He rolled onto his back next to her to pull off his jeans, revealing the sizeable strain against his snug shorts. The sight of his erection made him stop suddenly -- or more precisely, what was left of his rational brain briefly seized control from the testosterone fuelled animal that was driving his advances. He looked at her, the spell seemingly broken, the realisation of what he had done dawning. The embers of fear inflamed again. Oh my god! What would she do?

And then she really surprised him.

She slid onto him, her face immediately over his, her hands pinning his arms pack over his head. He surrendered, at first in pure surprise, then relief, and then in the excitement at her control. She kissed him deeply, her hair softly enveloping his face, her hand stroking his cheek. She withdrew her tongue before gliding down his body, licking his chest, teasing his nipples between her teeth. Her breath on his moist skin sent electric tingles to the tips of every finger and every toe.

Her tongue traced the outline of his length through the cotton of his shorts. He was aching to be set free. And as if he had begged out loud the underwear was no more and he felt the warmth of her mouth envelop his being.

The sensation engulfed him. Her mouth encased his length, her tongue willing his hardness to live within her. The sensation was almost more than he could bear, gasping for breath as if suffocating under the weight of her lust. He reached out, grasping for relief from the ecstatic pain that he wished he had unwittingly brought upon himself. His hand found her cascading hair, flowing through his fingers and disappearing as her lips hastened their repetitive journey up and down, her tongue leaving a glistening trail of pleasure on his length.

Her ministrations seemed to last a blissful eternity. He could take no more -- he sat upright, his stomach taught against her gently pulsating head. He pulled her up, her lips parted, eyes narrowed in lust, her hand still holding onto his growth, gently running her fingers around its tip.

Their lips once again entwined, he reached around and unhooked her bra. The softness of her breasts hung proudly, her hard nipples nestled against his muscular chest. He held her into him with one hand behind her back as the other traced the shape of her curves, all the time her delicate fingers playing with his manhood and cupping the tenderness of his loins.

He swung her onto her back, quickly moving his attention from the wetness of her mouth to the wetness of her thighs. The sweetness of her excitement was almost effervescent, filling his nose and overpowering his other senses. He manoeuvred to the moist lace of her underwear, inhaling deeply. His tongue traced the outline of her shapely lips. She gasped, her back arching and her hand entwining with his thick hair, seemingly pushing and pulling him to stop at once but never stop at all.

His fingers snuck under the folds of her underwear, immediately encountering her yielding wetness. Gently they inched inside her while his tongue discovered her precious nerve through the fabric. He teased her, his tongue making little circles over and over again while his fingers massaged her inside. Her body rocked gently in time with his rhythm, her moans an angelic chorus.

The taste in his mouth and the scent in his nostrils overpowered any shreds of remaining reason. Sitting back he hooked his thumbs around her final wisp of clothing and pulled, her legs straightening readily in compliance. His hardness brushed her thighs as she parted for him, her hands grabbing it and pulling him in.

He lay over her, supporting his weight with one hand while the other held the base of his shaft. She brushed his hand aside, gripping him and positioning his tender head against her inviting opening. With her other hand she pulled his handsome head onto hers. Their eyes met and for a second they paused, two souls released and free to revel in instinct and urge.

The second passed. Their lips met and in the same instant he was in her, his naked length filling her inside and his body sinking onto hers. A whimper came from the back of her throat, pleasure not pain and her legs wrapped themselves around him, locking their union in place. Two hands embraced his cheeks; fingers explored his hair as their mouths came together in unfettered desire.

Gently he rocked back and forth, his pelvis pressing on to her. His movement found its mark, stimulating her where his tongue had been but a minute before. Noise came again, more a moan now than a whimper. She pushed herself up to him, her breasts firm and full against his chest. He could feel her tighten, his small thrusts in and out of her becoming more pressured, more pleasurable. He felt incredible inside her, so alive.... whole.... complete.

He quickened his pace, the intensity of their rhythm growing. Her body moved in time with his, his heartbeat fast and heavy in his chest. Their mouths still locked together, tongues exploring as very thrust came a little stronger and a little faster. Her hands moved from his head to his broad back and taught shoulders, feeling his strength as she tightened her lush, wet self around his throbbing, driving hardness.

His rhythm increased again, strong and incessant but perfectly in time with the beautiful music of her perfect body. He could feel a tremble coming through her, light but unmistakable, a signal of her abandon, of her lust. It only excited him more, a buzz of electricity added to the wet, heavenly tightness that surrounded his glistening length as it dove in and out of her yielding, womanly lips.

Gone was any sense of pain, no lingering injury. In its place: only euphoria. He willed the sensation to last forever. He chased it, hunting for it in every thrust. He found himself being drawn further and further into the never-ending moment, deeper into their passion, all consuming. The intensity grew with every quickening stroke. Their lips broke away; her hands reaching back to hold onto the edge of the counter. The tremble of her body, emanating from her pelvis now seemed to occupy every part of her. A light sheen of sweat covered their bodies which only seemed to add to incredible charge of their skin touching.

He could feel a heat building from the base of his shaft, the muscles around his penis tensing and un-tensing unwillingly. His eyes closed, a gasp of effort and concentration leaked from him as he fought the inevitable, delaying his climax with all his will. A few beads of sweat ran from his damp hair, down the side of his face and onto her chest, itself flushed and sticky.

His loins tightened involuntarily, the mental damn he had created weakening with every powerful thrust into her lush insides. He opened his eyes, looking down on her beautiful face, now screwed up in ecstatic pain. Her eyes hidden behind closed lids, not seeing but feeling every moment of the exquisite pleasure and riding the wave of tremors that built inside of her.

Her mouth opened, her lips a perfect circle and a soundless scream erupted as her body suddenly bucked and rocked violently. The tremors became a quake, her whole body became consumed in the shock of her climax. Her tightness around him became unbearable. His damn broke and the heat within him exploded, sending bursts into her depths. Pulse after pulse seemed to only extend the moment of her own climax, her body shaking more violently. His shaft felt impossibly hard, engorged as he released himself into her, each climactic thrust adding to their exquisite union.