The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa Page A

anticipation. Slowly, oh so slowly, he obeys my command.
    Oh, my Cicero! I’m not your mistress …
I
worship
you
!
    He is erect, as I knew he would be, his penis jutting from his dark-furred loins like the unyielding branch of a mighty oak.
    I want it in me.
    I want it now.
    I cannot wait.
    His eyes meet mine, arrogant and sultry, and there’s no time now to play games of remonstration and imperious disapproval. I throw myself backwards on to the couch’s edge, fling up my skirts and open my legs.
    Without instruction of any kind, my lover moves between them, sinks naked to his knees again and presses his face between my thighs. Somewhere in the background I hear a faint ripple of outraged disapproval – probably as much for the fact that I’m wearing no undergarments as for Cicero’s presumption – but there’s nothing they can do about this and they’ve never been more distant.
    To me now, and to him, they no longer exist, even though we all still operate in the public domain.
    His tongue seeks out my pleasure, furling to a point, examining my intimate topography with its sensitive touch. He licks, he laves, he teases, cruising this way and that, and up and down, side to side, visiting every part of my sex from top to bottom and back again.
    At first he avoids the most critical nexus, delicately skirting around it, except for tantalising flicks. My hips begin to lift of their own accord, seeking him, almost pleading with him mutely to grant release. He’s on his knees before me, and I’m the one begging with my body for his beneficence.
    I groan, ‘Please,’ and for a moment I’m dragged out of our zone of inclusion by the ricocheting gasp of outrage and amazement. Even though they all envy me, they can’t break the rigid conditioning they’re barely aware of.
    But still I plead. I mutter. I groan. I whimper. I implore, inarticulately, to be granted ecstasy.
    And because he loves me, Cicero smiles against my flesh … and grants my wish. He closes his warm lips around my centre and delicately sucks.
    I rear up from the couch. I howl and buck. I grab at Cicero’s crisp dark hair and jam his face closer to my crotch. My feet and ankles pummel his broad bare back, thumping and pounding against his bare skin.
    It’s too much to bear. I black out. Crying his name …
    Just moments later, I return to myself again. But not to the ghostly babble of feigned indignation and disapproval that I’d dimly perceived as a soundtrack to my pleasure.
    No, as I open my eyes, and reach for Cicero, I see a blank white ceiling, not the fresco of labouring slaves. I turn and see the ‘off’ light glowing red upon the console.
    We’re alone now, just the two of us, no longer a part of the public domain of the holosphere.
    ‘I don’t think you’re going to be very popular after that performance, my love,’ murmurs Cicero wryly, settling his long, glorious and still rampant body on the couch beside me. ‘I feel there will be reports of your recidivist behaviour winging their way, even now, to your mother.’
    ‘I’m sure there will, but do you know? I really don’t care,’ I proclaim, reaching for the gleaming red-hot bar of his rigid penis. I’m not sure I really want to talk about my mother the Matriarch whilst handling my lover’s genitalia in a way that’s far from mistresslike. But even so, I decide to clarify my bravado. ‘Who do you think I get my wicked ways from, Cicero? Who do you think recommended a rogue like you to me as my body servant?’
    Cicero laughs softly, reaching, with a large strong hand, for the back of my head.
    Compelled to bow before him, I smile happily and become servant to his master. Taking him into my mouth, I bestow a very private pleasure …

Are We There Yet?
    ‘WHERE ARE WE going?’
    ‘It’s a surprise.’
    ‘Oh, go on. Tell me.’
    ‘Don’t be so impatient, wench.’
    Wench? What is this? A sexy pirate fantasy? It’s Stone’s clapped-out Toyota we’re about to board,