The Host

Sam West had been kind enough to offer me a place to stay, indefinitely, in London. My Mum told me that since his wife had died and his children had, one by one, left home (as I was about to do) he had been living alone in the huge town house, and was probably eager to have someone fill the silence there. At least if this wasn’t the case, neither of us could account for his incredible generosity. Most adults would have shied away from the idea of having a young student move into their home and disrupt their peace. Of course, I didn’t intend to disrupt him in the slightest, but he had no reason to believe I was any different to most people my age; loud, fun-loving, party animals. In actuality I had always preferred my space, keeping a safe distance from the alcohol and clubbing that had become the focus of my friends’ existences. Naturally I had been known to indulge in that lifestyle from time to time, but the creative soul within me would not allow me to go from club to club, night after night. Eventually I always wanted to be in my soft bed, between the luxurious sheets, a book in my hand, or music playing through my headphones. But as I say, Mr West, as he asked me to call him, had no idea that I was of such a gentle disposition before I moved in with him.

Upon my arrival, I was shocked by the sheer vastness of his house, and realised, very quickly, that while I might be taking up residence in his home, I could, if he wanted me to, be very far away from him at all times. In fact, there were days when we were both at home all day, and saw nothing of one another. Outside it looked like a victorian schoolhouse, the brickwork rough and faded, the paint on the front door black and peeling. Outwardly it was not an inviting place. But inside, the walls were painted in deep reds, dark blues, enticing purples, some wallpapered in silk, everything luxurious and expensive. And on every wall hung paintings and photographs; some were picturesque landscapes, whilst others were happy family portraits. All in all it was the grandest house I had ever been in. My host on the other hand looked ragged. His clothes were frayed, his face sharp with stubble, as though he did not belong there at all. He didn’t speak much, and when he did it was in a low, somewhat warning voice. He was in his late forties, maybe even his fifties, his hair greying around the edges, his face lined with the worries of his somewhat tragic life. The only part of him that suggested he was once young, were his piercing blue eyes, which, from the moment I met him, I found utterly mesmerizing.

When he greeted me, shaking my hand, I noted how small mine looked and felt in the palm of his. His fingers were long and tapered, his palms broad, easily capable of hiding my hands altogether. They were warm, but not with gentle friendship, more with the rough, coarseness of a life lived beside the fire. He showed me around the main parts of the house, speaking only when absolutely necessary and walking past what felt like hundreds of closed doors. His decision to leave so much to my imagination was, no doubt, down to his unwillingness to spend any more time than absolutely necessary welcoming me into my new home. Finally, as the tour ended, he showed me my room. He made no motion to go into the room with me. He presented me with the door, told me it was my room to do with as I pleased, but that if I wanted to change anything, I should inform him. I nodded, smiling, but his face remained serious as he nodded in reply and strode back down the hallway. I watched him go, my fascination with him already filling my mind. As he moved away I noticed just how tall he was. When we were walking, I had been occupied with trying to keep up with his strides, running, three steps to each of his. But as he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway, I tried to measure him up. He was a good foot taller than me, and, at five feet, six inches, I was just above the average.

My early days living with Mr West were spent exploring the city, which I had visited on occasion while I was growing up in Suffolk, but which I had never really seen as a citizen. I discovered book shops and record stores unknown to tourists. I saw landmarks from angles ignored by most bypassers, I made friends with people in the same predicaments as me – Londoners in it together – and I gathered travel cards and museum tickets and restaurant receipts and concert and theatre programs as if they were all precious, one-of-a-kind mementos of my time there. It hadn’t truly sunk in that I was here for as long as I wanted, that I was supposed to be making London mine, but at the same time, I was proud, wandering the city, to smile and answer that I lived there.

And all this time, I hardly gave Mr West a moment’s thought, until I was in his presence. Most evenings he and I would appear in the kitchen at the same time to prepare dinner and I would smile at him, greeting him pleasantly. I was always met with the same intense gaze, which seemed to consider me carefully, wordlessly, before he turned away to find his evening meal. We worked around each other, and due to the size of the kitchen, we rarely clashed in our needs, and were able to cook, side by side, without getting in each other’s way. Whenever our needs did converge, I would smile and step aside, and he would take up his position at the sink, or oven, completely assured that it was his right to be there. There was never a polite offer to let me go first, just this certain command of his own home. Of course, he had every right to use whatever he wanted without me getting in the way, but after a few evenings spent like this, I couldn’t help wondering if he didn’t resent my presence just a little. Perhaps he had changed his mind and did not want me living there after all. I began to make a concerted effort not to be in the kitchen at the same time as him. I wanted to make living with me as easy as possible, and on more than one occasion found myself crouched at the top of the stairs, listening to him move around, until he appeared in the hall down below me and I knew the coast was clear.

So it happened that for almost two weeks I didn’t see Mr West, except for the shadowed view I had from my place on the top step. To him, I am sure, it must have felt like he was living alone once more, peaceful in his solitude, whereas, from my point of view, I became ever more aware of him. In order to avoid him, to stay out of his way, I had to know where he was all the time. I followed his movements through the house so I wouldn’t disturb him, and even stopped listening to music in my room before I was in bed for fear of losing track of him. Life fell into a careful rhythm and I felt proud of my restraint.

But along with this meticulous lifestyle came other thoughts, other ideas. Having him so vividly in my mind meant I found myself thinking of him at moments when life was otherwise sensual. As I lay in my bed at night, one hand between my legs, pleasing myself, grinding against the mattress and pushing myself closer to that rhythm, that desperate longing, he would appear in my head and more than once I could see his large hands in my mind as I came, my body racked by the delight of it.

Most evenings it was nine thirty, sometimes even ten, before I was able to come down to the kitchen. As I stood, dreaming away, over the stove, I stirred a pan of tinned tomato soup. I stood on one foot, the other pressed against my shin, my skirt raised a little against the oven. I yawned, feeling hypnotised by the movement of the wooden spoon in the red liquid. All of a sudden, the door opened and I spun around to see Mr West standing in the doorway. I was surprised that I had no heard him coming. I didn’t understand how I had misjudged the time. I was certain he had already eaten.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled uncertainly, “I thought you had finished in here.”

He fixed me with an even stare and walked into the room. “No.”

I bowed my head over the pan again, deciding that if we had to co-exist, I could at least remain quiet and not disturb his thoughts. I heard the sound of a knife on the wooden chopping board as he cut up vegetables and threw them into a large iron pot. I dipped one finger into the soup, wishing that it would heat up faster, but it was still stone cold.

Feeling him come up behind me I shifted where I was so that he could place his pot into the large gas ring in the centre of the hob. Using a jug, he filled it with water, walking around me every time he moved from the sink to the pan. I winced, feeling so directly in the way, willing my food to heat up. Finally, as he reached around me for the herbs and I felt his breath on the back of my neck, I felt the tension inside me come to a head. Turning the heat off, I pulled my pan away, deciding I could eat it cold.

Suddenly his hand was on my wrist, stopping me from pouring the lukewarm liquid into the bowl I had prepared.

“You had best heat that a little longer.”

I looked up at him and his stern gaze met mine. The moment was alive with tension, my breathing became short as I stared into his piercing eyes, which searched my face. I could feel the warmth of his right arm as it circled my body and held my wrist firmly. I let him take the pan from my hand and place it back on the stove, clicking the gas on. I stood where I was, unmoving, not knowing what to say or do. Beyond the handshake he had greeted me with, we had shared no physical contact whatsoever, but the feel of his skin against mine sent me reeling and left me breathless.

Picking up the wooden spoon, he motioned for me to come over. I approached him carefully and, taking me by the waist, he positioned me in front of him, over the stove. Then he took my hand in his, placing the spoon in my quivering palm, and directed my stirring. His body was pressed against mine and I could feel his ragged breath on my neck, making me shiver with the intensity. As he moved my hand, I felt him begin to rub against me in the same rhythm, and before long I felt the unmistakable press of his erection pushing against my ass. The heat seeping through his trousers and my skirt and knickers. I gasped, my vision growing hazy, my head swimming. The feel of this strong, commanding man pressed against me, controlling me in this small task, made me dizzy with desire and I found my body softening in his grasp, melting against his large, strong frame. Into my ear I heard him groan, ever so softly, and I pressed back against him a little more purposefully.

And as suddenly as he pulled me against him, he stepped back, and I grasped the edge of the counter to hold myself up. He didn’t touch me again, and when my food was ready, I escaped back to my room without a word, my knickers soaked and my head spinning.

I was awoken in the very early hours of the morning by the weight of a body on the mattress beside me. Still half asleep, I struggled to blink myself awake as I felt his hand moving under the duvet, feeling his way up my thigh, underneath my skirt. His other hand slipped into the opening at the top of the white nightdress, and masterfully found my nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. I moaned, suddenly awake, and he growled in my ear, pulling me to him and pressing his naked body against me. As he began to rub himself against me, I felt his penis digging into my hip, and I let out a low moan of desire. His grip on me grew firmer and his hand covered my breast as if I belonged to him. Tentatively I stroked his cheek, feeling the stubble as his face hovered above me. But he was gripping my wrist, pinning me to the bed with complete authority. I had no say in how he would take me, and the knowledge of his complete dominance made me gasp, my cunt pulsing and wet.

Moving over me, using one hand to pin both my wrists above my head, he ran his other hand down, across my body, feeling the contours of my young flesh through my nightdress. I pressed my legs together, almost trying to hold my desire in, as the reality of the situation hit me. Was I really going to let a man more than twice my age fuck me like this? I shivered, and he leaned in very close, pulling my skirt up around my waist, his hands stroking my upper thighs, which were clamped so tightly together.

“I’m going to penetrate you.” He growled, making me moan and whimper. “I’m going to possess you.” He stroked my thighs with more purpose, smoothing his hand over my pliable flesh. “Open your thighs, show me what you’ve got between them.”

Even if I had not felt so aroused, even if the reality of this strong, experienced man moving me to his pleasure didn’t cause my cunt to pulse with desire, I would not have been able to resist the sound of his rough voice commanding me. I was at the mercy of his will, and as he held me there, I relaxed my legs, moving them apart, allowing his hand access to my warm, wet sex. His coarse fingers ran over my lips and I trembled, trying in vain, to control my shaking body. He breathed deeply through his nose, cupping his fingers up between my legs. The mastery of his touch was almost more than I could bear. My wetness dripped over his fingers and I couldn’t help pushing down against him.

He smiled knowingly, looking into my gasping face. “You are eager.” He stated. I whimpered, pressing myself against his strong hand, which was clamped over my mound. Moving again, he pressed his knee against my inner thighs, pushing them further apart, and positioning himself between my legs. I could feel the tip of his penis against my sex, gently pushing, the lips parting around him, drawing him in. I gasped.

And then he was thrusting inside me, penetrating me. I could feel his weight pressing down on me as he fucked me, pushing me into the mattress, taking me as his. There was no tenderness in his touch, just the experienced mastery of lust. I moaned, arching my back, pushing down to meet him as he moved in and out of me. Throughout, he held my wrists there, above my head, his other hand roaming my body; pinching my nipples through the opening of my nightdress, squeezing the flesh of my belly and hips and thighs, until finally his fingers found the hard pebble of my clit and he began to rub it, pushing deeper and deeper inside me. I moaned, my back arching again, so close to my pleasure, needing to come, needing to let my desire come to a head.

He leaned down, finding my nipple, and biting it through the thin material, making me cry out in delicious pain as he thrust and thrust, taking me, possessing me as he said he would. Writhing up my body, pushing deeper than ever, I felt his breath on my neck again as he growled in my ear. “Come for me.”

I couldn’t hold it back. His command rang in my ear, and I clenched my hands in fists, desperate to clutch something as my orgasm ravaged my body, making me gasp in pleasure, crying out, moaning, my body racked with pleasure, my wetness spilling over his erection. And he was taking me harder, thrusting deeper and deeper as my cunt contracted and pulsed around him.

Suddenly he pulled out and released my hands, both of us panting. “Turn over.”

I flipped onto my stomach, so eager to do his bidding, to follow every order as soon as it was given. Gripping my hips, he roughly pulled me onto my hands and knees, slipping his hard penis into me from behind and taking me that way. I could tell from the way he moved me to his will that he was now concerned exclusively with his own pleasure. Any delight I found was unintentional on his part. He held me exactly where he wanted me, his hands gripping my body as he took me, possessing me. I gasped and moaned as he used me so roughly, fucking me as though I were nothing more than a body, there to sate his lust.

Pushing deep, he held himself inside me for a moment, and then I felt the first of his cum spurting inside me, filling my ripe young sex. He grunted and thrust again, releasing again and again, until, as he slipped out of me, I felt the hot liquid dribbling from between the pink lips of my cunt.

He pushed me down onto the bed, and pulled the duvet up over my shivering body. “Go to sleep,” He ordered, and then he was gone, leaving me trembling, and gasping for air, the memory, the impression of his cock inside me, still pulsing between my legs.