Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [105]
“Would you believe Princess Diana?”
“No.”
“Now I am embarrassed.”
Jane was consumed with curiosity. “You have to tell the truth.”
“Pam Ewing.”
“Who the hell is she?”
“You have been out of touch. She’s Bobby Ewing’s wife, on Dallas.”
Jane remembered the television show and the actress, and she was astonished. “You can’t be serious.”
“You asked for the truth.”
“But she’s made of plastic!”
“We’re talking fantasy here.”
“Can’t you fantasize a liberated woman?”
“Fantasy is no place for politics.”
“I’m shocked.” She hesitated. “How do you do it?”
“What?”
“What you do. With your hand.”
“Kind of like what you’re doing, but harder.”
“Show me.”
“I’m not just embarrassed now,” he said. “I’m mortified.”
“Please. Please show me. I’ve always wanted to see a man do that. I’ve never had the nerve to ask before—if you turn me down I may never know.” She took his hand and placed it where hers had been.
After a moment he started to move his hand slowly. He made several rather halfhearted strokes; then he sighed, closed his eyes and started to rub it in earnest.
“You’re so rough with it!” she exclaimed.
He stopped. “I can’t do this . . . unless you do it too.”
“It’s a deal,” she said eagerly. Quickly she slipped off her trousers and panties. She knelt beside him and started to stroke herself.
“Come closer,” he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse. “I can’t see you.”
He was lying flat on his back. She shuffled closer until she was kneeling upright beside his head, with the moonlight silvering her nipples and her pubic hair. He started to rub his prick again, faster this time, and he stared at her hand as if transfixed as she caressed herself.
“Oh, Jane,” he said.
She began to enjoy the familiar darts of pleasure spreading from her fingertips. She saw Ellis’s hips start to move up and down in rhythm with his hand. “I want you to come,” she said. “I want to see it shoot out.” Part of her was shocked at herself, but that part was swamped by excitement and desire.
He groaned. She looked at his face. His mouth was open and he was breathing hard. His eyes were fixed on her cunt. She stroked the lips with her middle finger. “Put your finger in,” he breathed. “I want to see your finger go inside.”
That was something she did not normally do. She pushed her fingertip inside. It felt smooth and slippery. She put it all the way in. He gasped, and because he was so excited by what she was doing, she got turned on, too. She turned her gaze back to his prick. His hips jerked faster as he fucked his hand. She moved her finger in and out of her cunt with mounting pleasure. Suddenly he arched his back, thrusting his pelvis high in the air and groaning, and a streak of white semen shot out from him. Involuntarily Jane cried, “Oh, my God!”; then as she gazed, fascinated, at the tiny hole in the end of his organ, another jet came, and another, and a fourth, spurting up into the air, gleaming in the moonlight and landing on his chest and her arm and in her hair; and then when he collapsed, she herself was racked by spasms of pleasure fired by her fast-moving finger until she, too, was exhausted.
She slumped, lying beside him on the sleeping bag with her head on his thigh. His prick was still stiff. She leaned over weakly and kissed it. She could taste a trace of salty semen on the end. She felt his face nuzzle between her thighs in response.
For a while they were quiet. The only sounds were their breathing and the rushing river on the far side of the Valley. Jane looked at the stars. They were very bright, and there were no clouds. The night air was becoming cooler. We’ll have to get inside this sleeping bag before too long, she thought. She looked forward to falling asleep close to him.
“Are we weird?” said Ellis.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
His prick had fallen sideways and lay on his belly. She teased the red-gold hair of his groin with her fingertips. She had almost forgotten what it was like to make love to Ellis. He was so different from Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre