M: Chapter Twelve

Noor and JP are on the sofa in his flat. It is mid-Sunday afternoon
in late September, and the onset of autumn is beginning. It is cold
outside, and the last heat of the day's sun is fading, but the large
bay-windows of JP's sitting room capture all that is left of the light,
framing the couple in wraiths of shadow and gold. Noor is wearing a
fitted olive green blouse designed by Hussain Sulaiman. It is darted
with a ribbon which fastens at the side and when done-up encircles and
accentuates her narrow hips, but which is currently hanging untied. The
top has a low but narrow v-neck, indicating rather than exposing the
deep valley between Noor's breasts, between which hangs a simple gold
pendent, heavy and globular, inscribed in Arabic. The pendent was a
gift from her father, given when she graduated summa cum laude from
Yale; the inscription is a line from a poem by Kahil Gibran. It
translates, loosely, as "They have their own thoughts". In full, the
relevant stanza runs as follows:

Your children are not your children
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts

She has always treasured it, but even more so since her father's death
three years ago, after a long engagement with cancer. The green top she
bought herself, but only after the designer, who she had met at his
after-show party at London Fashion Week, said that he must have had her
in his mind's eye when he designed it. She knew it was calculated
flattery but she loved the top because of it. Noor is scrupulous about
not wearing any clothes or jewellery bought for her by her husband on
the days she sees JP.

Noor's trousers, which are gold wool, her shoes and her slight
g-string, are bunched up in a pile on the floor by the sofa. She is
sitting astride JP, looking down into his face, her knees on either
side of his, the bare soles of her feet pointing away from him. JP is
naked, his clothes also carelessly discarded, his penis firmly held
inside her. So tightly are they locked, so closely intertwined are the
thick, black curls of their pubic hair and so close in tone is the warm
brown honey of their skins that it is hard to know at a glance where
his body ends and hers begins.

His hands, under the olive green top, grip her hips tightly, and with
bent arms, elbows wedged into the sofa he is supporting much of her
weight. This enables him to make constant, minute adjustments to their
position, moving her up and down, left and right so that his
penetration of her is in constant flux, every moment fractionally
deeper and shallower. He is circling gradually, so that he is
circumscribing her; an explorer circling the inside of a
strange-world.

His concentration is absolute: a master safe-cracker, listening and
watching her intently as he delicately works the tumblers; inferring
from the slight changes in her expression and the quiet sounds which
escape her open lips, just when the right combination is about to fall
into place.

Noor's right hand is between her legs, slowly stroking her clitoris;
her left hand is on JP's face, playing in and out of his mouth. She
knows that in the moment of his orgasm, which she hopes will come
shortly after hers, he will bite the ball of her thumb just hard enough
to draw blood.

They have been locked in this position for some time, and JP's back is
wet from the exertion, but they are both very close. "Faster", she
commands, exercising impressive internal muscle control and clenching
him tighter still. Gasping, he complies, increasing both speed and
range of motion; lifting her up and down, up and down in six inch arcs,
from the base of his penis to just below its exposed head, and back
again, back again. Her fingers intensify their wet, precise work.

Her orgasm begins; first in slow, clenching waves - starting deep in
her vulva a series of slight involuntary contractions, intensifying and
spreading simultaneously; so that soon her whole body is gripped by
flowing contractions - her hands tight around his neck now, her mouth
opening and shutting with ever deepening hot breaths; her head thrown
back, her eyes dilated; her nostrils spread; her stomach taught; her
thighs in spasm, her toes played far out, the very balls of her feet
pulsating with uncontrolled energy.

Noor comes more violently, no, more wholeheartedly, more whole-bodiedly
than any woman whom JP, for all his vaulted experience, has ever slept
with before. The first time it happened - which wasn't the first time
they had slept together - he feared she was having an epileptic fit and
stopped his ministrations (on that occasion, oral), emerging from
between her thighs, mouth wet, eyes wide with concern at the convulsing
form on the hotel bed; "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to sound
nonchalant. "Keep fucking going", she responded in a voice so deep and
so different from her usual that JP wondered if she had been
possessed.

Now though, he's a little more accustomed to her full-body climaxes,
even convincing himself that their intensity is largely down to his own
prowess. That is an inaccurate assumption, but Noor has not corrected
it, reasoning correctly that it would do no good at all to be told that
she has always been blessed with easy, powerful orgasms, and still less
to know that Kamal, with ease borne of practice, can bring her to the
same state far quicker. She prefers JP as a lover though. The time he
takes is reassuring, with Kamal it feels like masturbation, not
sex.

So, on the sofa on this occasion, JP is profound enjoying Noor's,
pleasure; but not with a purely altruistic interest, for her
contractions are having a convincing effect upon his cock, and with a
familiar but never unwelcome tightening in the intersection of his
abdomen and his crotch, he prepares to join the party.

Which, predictably, because life works to certain dramatic principles,
is when a polyphonic 'phone ring - the theme tune from The A-Team -
sounds out of JP's trousers.

Determined not to break concentration, and enjoy his own hard earned
moment, JP angles deeper; milliseconds away now. He recognises the
personalised ring, though: it is his mother, calling from the family
home in Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur is + eight hours ahead of GMT, which
would make it late evening in JP's family home. With the - small - part
of his mind still capable of rational thought at this point he wonders
why she's calling so late.

"Ignore it, I thought I switched it off", he mutters through clenched
teeth, increasing his tempo, but the 'phone keeps ringing. Somehow,
without meaning to, the lovers find themselves rocking in time to the
escalating tune of the 'phone ring, and when they realise they are
doing this, all capacity for serious lovemaking is lost. Noor starts to
giggle first, still, impaled on JP, and relaxed now that her first
orgasm has passed, she starts to sing along to the 'phone: "Dud,duh,
duh---duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh-duh"; JP is put out by this. At the
moment of orgasm, men entirely loose their sense of humour. Feeling
both supremely vulnerable and triumphant, they need worship from a
distance, not mockery from up-close.

JP ignores it long enough to begin to come, hotly, wetly; but the phone
keeps ringing all the time. Noor, oblivious to JP's discomfort,
continues with her comic theme, pulling of her top and mock caressing
her breasts, which are quite beautiful, "No JP, don't stop, the music
is helping, I can come again, that Mr. T he is so hot?, fuck me as I
think of big Mr. T".

JP fumbles around for the phone, meaning to switch it off; but
inadvertently hits answer. His mother is on the phone now and he's
cumming inside a married woman who is screaming a sexual paen to
B.A.Baracus. This, thinks JP to himself, this shit is fucked up.

Clamping his hand across Noor's mouth, he rescues his phone and answers
the call. "Ma, not a good time - can I call you back?"

It was the long silence that told him that he was more right than he
knew. That something bad had happened, that this was truly not a good
time. He could hear his Mother breathing brokenly, struggling, trying
to get control of her voice, but all that came out was a ragged wetness
from the back of her throat. "Ma, what's wrong? Where are you?"

Noor, hearing the tension in JP's voice, stops, pulls off him with the
inevitable wet sucking sound, and moves to sit by his side, her hand on
his shoulder, letting him know she is there, and is waiting with him
for whatever is coming next. It is a few seconds before Mrs. Paul finds
control over her voice "JP: it's your Father", and then control deserts
her again, and that which was coming has come, and will not go
away.

So Noor sits, one her hand on her lover's back, the other unconsciously
holding the bauble around her neck; and they remain there in fixed
position, the adulterer and her lover; as on an international phone
line, news heralded by the theme to a defunct 80's action series about
five humorous mercenaries, a Mother and a Son speak of an unexpected
death.