The melancholy wail of the alto saxophone lingered in the air as Ian packed up his sax and left the stage. The audience stayed silent until the last vestiges of the notes drifted away, paying homage to the music they’d been moved by before breaking into enthusiastic applause.
Ian smiled, feeling the adrenaline rush of igniting a crowd with his music, but as fast as the smile appeared, it vanished, his body reminding him that smiling was an unfamiliar sensation. Ever since Amanda had left him, there was no reason to be happy. She’d taken his dreams when she’d packed her bag and taken her belongings from his flat, along with his favourite John Lee Hooker CD – leaving him with a Grease Megamix tape by way of replacement.
She’d been gone for nearly a year now, but every day he was reminded of her in some small way: a woman walking past wearing her perfume; a song playing on the radio that they’d first heard together. Even shopping at the supermarket was full of memories as he passed the fruit and veg that had formed the bulk of her diet.
There had been other women, of course: younger, dimmer, less demanding – but none of them matched up to her. They satisfied the physical urge but left Ian feeling empty afterwards – dirty. He wanted to feel special, the way she’d made him feel but was scared to gamble on love again so deliberately chose people he knew he could never fall for. And if someone who could be right for him came close, he ran away, terrified that they’d hurt him the way that she had.
As Ian walked into the dressing room, he was lost in a cloud of thoughts, tears welling up at his memories. Even now Amanda had the capacity to make him cry, not because she’d left but because he felt guilty for his own part in their break-up. He spent hours every night wondering whether they’d still be together if he’d said the right thing, if he’d behaved differently; wondering whether their failure to work had been because so much of his life was a failure nowadays – or whether she was the cause. His friends told him to move on but she was lodged as firmly in his mind as his own name. She was part of him.
There was a knock at the door. “Hello.”
Ian started at the voice. Amanda. But how… Why?
He bit down his disappointment as he opened the door and realised it wasn’t her. And yet… Something about the way that the strange woman held herself reminded him of Amanda. Although this woman’s features were finer and more delicate, the smile that hinted around her lips was familiar, and as she stepped towards him, he caught a whiff of Amanda’s perfume, light but sensual.
As he looked closer, there were other similarities: the body was that which had been engraved on his memory for night after lonely night; breasts softly swelling out, waist gently tapered and hips elegantly curved. Her legs were similarly fine to Amanda’s, slim thighs and sensually rounded calves tapering into delicate ankles. She was like Amanda, only better.
The woman stepped towards him and held out her arms. Almost on instinct, Ian fell into them, breathing in the familiar smell of Amanda’s hair, arms wrapped around her frame fitting in the way that he’d never forgotten. As she pressed her lips to his, he knew it had to be her. The kiss was one he’d felt a thousand times and his manhood swelled accordingly. The woman’s lips pressed lightly against his, tongue flickering lightly over his own as she deepened the kiss.
Part of him wanted to ask who she was, why this was happening but thought was rapidly overcome by feeling: he ceased caring. All that mattered was that he felt like he was home for the first time in twelve months.
The woman’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling his lips more demandingly onto her own, tongue probing deeper and hips moving in a seductive rhythm against his own. He could feel his arousal coursing through his veins, the heady ‘thump, thump’ of his blood pounding in his temples drowning out the questions in his mind. He felt the woman’s hands trailing down his neck, gripping his shoulder-blades, moving to his buttocks and pulling him closer to her.
He could feel himself being sucked into her, felt as if they were sharing the same breath, the same heartbeat. As her hand insinuated itself between their bodies and smoothly undid his fly to fondle his hardening column, he had to draw in his breath sharply. The grip was heaven: firm, smooth, constant. The woman’s teeth bit into his neck as she stroked him and he could feel vivid sparks of pleasure darting through his centre.
Ian pawed at the woman clumsily, suddenly filled with an urgent desire to touch her, to possess her. She didn’t stop him, just continued to stroke his thickening member as he fumbled with her dress, eventually losing patience and ripping the flimsy silk from her frame. Underneath the dress she was naked, her luxuriant pubes all that hid her from his view.
The woman grappled with his cock, sliding it inside herself with no pre-amble. She was already slick with longing. He thrust into her once, twice, three times – then couldn’t stop himself. He was drowning in her wetness, the pulsing of her centre around him feeling like a death-grip, forcing him to relinquish his seed. He screamed as he came, holding her tightly. But the screams of bliss gave way to sobs as his cock shot out the last of its load and reality came back to the fore.
The woman in his arms faded into nothing and he became aware that he was sitting in a damp dressing room, cock in hand, a sad trail of semen dribbling over the back of his hand. He hurriedly reached for a tissue, all too aware that the act following him would have nearly finished his set and would be backstage any second. He knew that he had to stop this, had to forget.
But when the knock on the door came, his heart still gave a leap of hope.
To hear this story, download Sex Talk With Emily Dubberley (show six)