The SkylightThe Skylight


They come all too rarely, these immaculate summer days, and this one’s a criminal waste, like the weather’s just doing it to taunt me, flexing its omnipotence. Two weeks earlier and I’d have been in the university park, the boys playing football while the girls lounged in strappy tops and floral dresses, and we’d tire and lie on the grass with them, drink cider and flirt, limber flesh blushing in the sunshine. I’d sidle up to Natasha, easy as you like; she’d put down her magazine and dance her fingers lightly across my chest, our noses touching as she sucked a bonbon, passing it into my mouth, and sooner or later we’d get up and say farewell to the guys, freshly freed from all examination, and I’d follow her tight denim shorts upstairs and fuck her till the evening.

But today I’m sitting on my bed, the sloped grey roofs of our corner of London spread before me, back living with my old man. Through the window a faint reggae beat drifts in and out as the lazy afternoon breeze switches. The room is stale, so I stand up and open the window wide, put my head out and feel the sun on me directly, burning my skin. An aeroplane buzzes overhead. Oh, to be on the beach now – but Dave’s sticky fingers cost him his pub, so the job’s gone, and the boys will go to Ibiza without me. ‘You’ve been on holiday all year’, Dad said, but the thing about having no money at uni is that nobody else has any either, so you improvise. In London you’re just broke. The heat is overwhelming, so I go back to my bed, concede to lying this time, my eyes closing, and soon I am cradling Natasha, her warmth up against me. I pull the duvet over fully, trap it between my legs, Tash’s long back pressed to my stomach, hardening between her thighs, her breasts in my hands as I strum her nipples, slide down her smooth downy skin, warm, tender, lower, drift into the folds of the soft, smothering cocoon.

There is a sound, at the edge of my consciousness, of a door or something distant opening, and it recalls me from the precipice of sleep. I pull down the covers, wonder if Dad’s come home early for something, and drag my heavy carcass upright, blinking like a mole. A second slam, and outside across the rooftops I catch a movement. Two bare arms are emerging from a skylight, followed by a head of long brown hair tied back. I close my eyes, run my hand firmly down my face for a moment, then open and refocus. The woman is in a red bikini over bronzed skin. She lays a towel over the tiles, on the level bit above the slopes, and as she bends to spread its corners the contours of her thighs and ass stretch taut. Then she sits cross-legged, clasps her hands together, extends her arms straight above her head and leans forward, touching the ground, her whole back flat. She holds the position and I am transfixed, locked like her arms in the moment, until she releases her grasp and sits back up again. She pauses to fan her face with her hand, then takes her left leg and hoists it up straight, as high as she can get it, so her lean thighs are separated and the curve of her buttocks, flawlessly formed through the bikini, are displayed to the roofs and the chimneys and the holidaymakers zooming overhead. She tires, switches legs, but cannot hold this one for quite as long, so she fans herself uselessly again and lies back staring at the sky. I have begun to sweat.

Presently she rises, and after adjusting her bottoms flicks her hands upwards in dramatised frustration, what’s the use?, then descends through the skylight. I get up, grab my crumpled teeshirt and jeans from off the floor, my dick twitching in my boxers like an wounded animal as I hit the stairs. In the kitchen I put the kettle on and pour myself a coffee, trying to shock my system into action. On the table Dad’s left a to-do list, a fucking to-do list!, like I’m his fucking errand boy or something, instead of a nineteen-year-old perfectly capable of making his own decisions about how he spends his days, cheers. We’re out of milk, and I can’t take instant coffee black, so I tip the rest down the dirty plughole and jump into a cold shower until my hard-on subsides – Jesus, I need a woman – and I feel properly awake. In the mirror my hair is matted and I need a shave, but fuck it, why bother? I need to make some calls, got a list of job agencies pinned to the fridge, but it can wait. The longer you’re out of work the less you see the point.

Upstairs – and she’s back again! Just sunbathing this time, with a huge pair of shades that make her look like some kind of giant insect, her knees bent and splayed. She’s brought a highball of dark red liquid, the colour of the bikini, and she leans over, the absolute minimum amount of effort required, to suck some through a straw. I sit back on my bed and think about reading or watching something on my laptop, but this is better entertainment by an easy distance. I’m not sure I can be seen, but I guess I can see her, and you know what, it’s a free country, you lie there like that and I’m going ankara escort bayan to stare. I wonder how old she is; it’s a little too far to see her face properly, but her body is seriously toned, fatless, like she’s worked hard on it. I wonder if the tan’s real, or perhaps she’s a little Mediterranean herself. Her breasts are a nice size too, just right for the beach: filling out the top but not so big they flop over. She sips the drink again, it’s on my side, and as the straw enters her mouth she hesitates, the bug-eyes pointed directly at me. My hands and throat get a little tight, waiting for her to lie back over, but she doesn’t, and in that moment I know I’ve been busted. So she stands up, those gorgeous limbs in action, places one hand to her hip, lifts the shades to her crown, and stares right back.

I go over to the window and she just stands there in the same position. She must have untied her hair: it curls wide past her shoulders. I open my hands, well, here we are, and then gesture at the roof where she stands. She shrugs, turns around, and before I know what I’m doing I’m lifting my leg through the window. Just beneath my room our house there’s a small ledge where the ground floor juts out, where my brother and I used to perch and share clandestine cigarettes while our folks rowed. I walk slowly, barefoot, across the ledge, hugging the wall, and there’s a gap of a couple of feet to the next row of sloped roofs. In next door’s garden their kids are playing, the little boy chasing the little girl around, squealing after her, and what if they see me? – it’s bizarre, I’d feel like a bad example – but the woman is lying back down again like a siren, so I hop over and start to pick my way across the boiling tiles, adrenalin coursing through my body. The sky is ludicrously blue, and the clouds look like pillows, luxuriant pillows glutted with goose-feathers –


– the slate slips from beneath my feet and I fall onto the slope, grasping at the tiles as the slate crashes into the ground below, and I pull myself up and lie breathing rapidly on the flat. The children stop shouting momentarily and the woman laughs through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling, her body parallel to mine. She is probably in her late twenties and very beautiful, oval-faced, so beautful my stomach tenses; her eyes are wide and long-lashed, but though her make-up is slight I wonder why it’s there at all, if this is all she’s doing. She doesn’t need it. My knee and arm sting slightly, and I can feel myself sweating again. What do you say in this situation? What prepares you for this? I want to make a remark about ‘enjoying the view’, but that’s so crappy, so I settle on

“Lovely day for it.”

God that is awful. She laughs again and turns away, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Lovely for what?”

“Oh, anything you like. Lying around, sunbathing, drinking.”


Have I been busted again? Does she know I was watching before? She lowers her lips to the straw again and drains her drink. The final drop falls onto the towel, resting there like an incriminating blot of blood.

“What kind of exercise do you mean?”

“Oh, anything you like.”

The reggae is louder from out here; there’s park beyond our row of houses where sometimes they’ll put up a rig, and set the sound undulating across the rooftops. Lovely day for it. The woman lifts herself onto all fours, stands, and – Jesus! – begins to dance on the towel, slowly rotating round – she moves like a salsera too, from the hips, and just above the bikini bottoms she has a small brown mole which draws me in, hypnotised. I never understood what a beauty spot meant before. The bikini clings to her supreme buttocks, makes her ass look like ripe fruit. She turns back round again. My tongue must be on the floor.

“Do you want to da-“

She loses her balance for a split-second as a fresh gust of wind blows over us, collects herself with another little laugh, but this time it’s an aside-laugh directed at herself. She picks up the empty glass.

“Can I get you a drink? Come on, come down.”

The bedroom is done in white and light woods: by the stepladder there’s an elegant dressing table, a wardrobe, and above the bed there’s a painting in vivid blues and greens of a lakeside park, a man and woman in expensive old clothes laughing gaily with a picnic spread before them. The room is pristine, really tasteful and lit well by the sun. I think of our house of men; artless, messy, cluttered. As the sound of glass and ice-cubes comes from the kitchen I look in the mirror and worry again about my hair, my scrappy three-day beard, my unironed shirt. I feel clumsy just moving around the room. She comes back in with the drinks, motions for us to sit on the bed, and we clink glasses. The shades are gone, and her hair cascades over her shoulders.

“Jesus, this is strong.”

“What’s the problem? Something you’ve got to hold yourself together demetevler escort for?”

There’s something masochistic about Bloody Marys: the vodka, the pepper, the Tabasco strike you all at once, take it like a man!, get back on your feet. The woman is sitting cross-legged and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes on her face. Her stomach is absolutely flat, like an athlete’s, and her nipples faintly indent the bikini. We sit and drink in silence. Fine particles of dust swim in the shaft of sunlight streaming onto the bed.

“Did you hurt yourself chasing after me.”

I lift my elbow where a bruise is forming.

“No, it’s nothing at all. To be honest my mind is, kind of, elsewhere.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you? Perhaps I can, I know-“, and she takes an ice-cube from her glass, red drops running down her fingers, and holds it to my skin. She moves it gently up and down the bruise, the light playing through its prism, until it melts almost to nothingness, then disappears onto the bed. A trace of Bloody Mary lingers – and she moves her mouth across and licks my elbow clean. I gasp, bring my shaking hand round her neck and untie the top, so it falls, her breasts are bared, and at the sudden shock of the nudity I feel a rush through me, electric, down to the tips of my toes. The breasts are well-rounded and just a touch heavier than I imagined, globe-like, her areoles wide and dark, nipple sprung between my thumb and forefinger. She tosses her hair and smiles slightly, girlishly, the first scent of shyness, then lifts my arms and pulls my shirt over my head. As our lips meet I taste Bloody Mary again, and I run my hands breathlessly down her back, slip them under the bikini and cup her buttocks. I am hardening as she holds herself tightly to me; her size makes her seem vulnerable, her fingernails biting into my ribcage. Then she releases, pushes me away, and points to my jeans.

While I stand and unbutton my fly she takes her drink and pours it down her throat, shudders and exhales, then wipes her hand across her mouth. She is staring at my crotch in naked hunger; I step out of my jeans and my dick is fully engorged now, straining against the thin skin of my boxers, just crying to be unleashed. But first, a taste. I reach down, slip my thumbs into the ties of her bikini – for a delicious instant it sticks to her lips – then I slide it down her legs and bury my face in her cunt.

That sweet, heady wetness fills my mouth, my nostrils, and the blood rushes to my head, overcomes me as she groans and lolls, her thighs crushing my cheeks. I bury my tongue as far as it will go, up and down, her juice humming into me, and she spasms, convulses before grabbing my hair and forcing my head up, the moisture dripping warm around my lips and cheeks, her eyes wide and wild with her curls billowed around her on the duvet. Her pussy is completely shaven, really shockingly bald, and as I kiss her stomach – she smells of oil, lemon-tanged, oh heaven – and move slowly upwards I realise her whole body is hairless, almost surgically depilated, and I think why?, why are your legs shaven, why is your pussy so cleanly shaven there is not even a hint of stubble?, where is the need my dear? Those soft folds though, just to be able to- we kiss again, my arms cradling her back, her breasts pressed to me, my cock so hard it could cut glass.

She takes my hands in hers and moves them down my sides, bit by bit, until we reach my hips. I raise myself onto my knees and pull my boxers down, my dick springing tall and scarlet-headed, and we gasp together as I slip inside her. The sensation of her around me is almost unbearably pleasurable, the nerve-endings on my dick overdriven as I slide all the way to the hilt, her pussy walls tight and tender. I hold it there, can feel her gasping for air beneath my weight, then begin to slowly move in and out, increasing in tempo, and she groans faintly, distantly, her jaw slack, eyes rolled back with head tilted toward the ceiling. I drive in faster still, my hands underneath her shoulders as she wraps her legs around mine, forcing me into her, quick and more urgent – I am getting closer now, feeling my orgasm welling up in me – and she begins to moan, crescendoing and ululating with the rhythm of my thrusts, like the waves of an alarm as her body rocks back and forth, I and I feel myself about to let go – so I pause for a moment, hold her fast, my dick just nestling the entrance, until she moans and tries to force it into her, but I hold it still, her legs relax and then I push it all the way in suddenly, oh bliss, and she calls out again. I am thrusting violently now, in and out, and I swing my hand around and –


– something falls from the bedside table. A picture-frame, gold-rimmed, lies face-down on the floor. I open my mouth to apologise, to offer to retrieve it but she brings her finger to my lips, grabs my ass with the other hand and forces me deep into esat escort her again, and all is forgotten as I drive further and further, harder and harder like an unstoppable train, and she slips her hand between our stomachs to finish herself and she is screaming in pleasure, calling “oh God!, oh God!” as she reaches the edge, and the walls of her pussy tighten and contract as my knees buckle, and I can feel it rushing deep within me as she convulses and I come now, firing into her now, crying now in ecstasy, now, the sound floating up, out and away through the skylight into the afternoon air.

We lie in each other’s arms for I don’t know how long, a film of sweat on her back, the sheets soaked, and eventually I withdraw, release a final moan and roll over staring at the ceiling. She lies, her breasts and ribcage rising and falling with her eyes closed, a princess asleep in a fairytale. Her legs are still open, the lips of her pussy dilated, and as I stand, weak, my wet dick flops between my legs. My whole body aches with pleasure. While she reposes I pick the picture-frame from the floor, turn it to the light. There is a couple on the beach: a handsome man, square-jawed and strong, blonde curtains framing his eyes, carrying on his shoulders the startlingly beautiful woman now beside me, years younger, beaming with pleasure. The glass has split in the fall. I look at her, and although her beauty has not faded her face is more worn, more tired. She stirs.

“Who is-“

She puts her finger to my lips again, replaces the picture, and rests her head in my crotch facing upwards, her hands running down my biceps. Then she rolls off the bed, flirty, stumbles onto her knees, laughs loud as she picks herself up, and grabs my hand. I rise, she leads me to a door, opens it, and we are in the bathroom. It’s almost like being in a posh hotel: the marble floor, the shower with expensive bottles arranged neatly inside, the large mirror that reflects us both, and as she kisses my nipples I marvel again at her body, those toned thighs and ass with the beauty spot hovering just above. As I hold her close she starts to stroke my dick – this woman is insatiable, I am still coming to terms with before – and leads me into the shower itself.

Powerful, piping hot water soothes my fatigue; the woman uncaps a bottle and squeezes the white viscous fluid between her palms. I take some too, and soon we are rubbing it into each other, my hands cupping her breasts as she washes my torso, smiling, and when I step beneath the full force of the shower she moves down, fondles my cock and balls. My lady is on her knees, her hair now damp, and as she puts my dick in her mouth, strokes me, her exquisite tongue rolling around the head, I begin to harden again. I close my eyes under the torrent, massage her head as it gently bobs, sigh in delight – and through the waterfall there is the click of the front door opening.

A look of absolute horror as she starts, stands. “Get out!” She turns off the shower, almost loses her footing as she steps out and grabs a silk dressing gown from behind the door. She quickly wraps a towel round her head and mouths, I’ll hold him off. Go!

“Selina, are you there?”

“Just coming my darling! You’re back nice and early.”

The bedroom reeks of sex, fucking fabulous, but surely he will notice? Our clothes are scattered all about. I pull on my shirt and force my jeans over my dripping legs, leaving wet splashes across the floor, but my boxers are nowhere to be seen.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Well, I do have something to celebrate. Just a small one – smaller than that! Some of us are capable of getting through our afternoons sober, you know.”

Where are they? Where the fuck are they? The bed is a tremendous mess too, so I reach over to straighten it. I feel suddenly dizzy; the musk rising from the sheets makes me swoon, my legs buckle.

“You remember Cleland, the big client we’ve been chasing for months? Well, the final meeting was today, and the deal came though!”

I grasp uselessly at the duvet, pull it back, but there’s nothing there, nothing. I lean forwards, the room sliding beneath me, and as I fall something entwines around my toes. Collecting myself a final time, I reach down and slip the boxers into my pocket. The man’s footsteps approach the door, Selina says, “Hang on a moment darling!”, and my feet tremble as I mount the ladder, but I make it up, am greeted by the sun and a gust of fresh air on my face. Standing I can see for miles across the rooftops: my own open window, the neighbour’s garden where the children still play, and on the ground the shattered slate, but the heat is too much. I lie on the boiling tiles, my head to the skylight, and the door opens.

If anything Selina is even more gorgeous in the slim dressing gown, almost kimono-like, floating about her figure. She takes a deep breath as she enters, scans the room quickly, and then the man comes in. From my vantage the first thing I notice is the bald spot amid the blonde hair. I tense, thinking he must surely see the mess, have suspicions, but he seems oblivious to everything – his eyes are less keen than in the picture, his face more jowly. He wears a suit with the tie loosened.

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