Trust Me to Know You by Jaye Peaches Page B

my haunt with late nights designing and building programmes, the closest skill I had to being artistic. When I did have sex with a man, it had not been with the typical undergraduates. I had had them spill inside me during the first year and they had ceased to thrill me. Post-graduates had intrigued, as did mature students who had travelled, worked or seen something of life. Their sexual experience had showed through. That had been increasingly what I had sought - men who took me to bed and explored my sensual side.
    I had one fling with a lecturer. I had gone to his study room to discuss my latest assignment and the hour was late. His room had been surprisingly uncluttered with the usual piles of paper, journals and books. The desk was practically clear and the shelves had books neatly arranged by subject. By his window was a leather armchair, mauled at the edges. It appeared to be well liked and used by him. With the blinds drawn, we had spent two hours talking. First about my essay, then the course, the university and eventually our extra curricula activities.
    He was charming. Legs crossed and leaning back, he had ribbed his departmental colleagues with little shame. He tore strips off the students who had fallen short of his high standards and had handed in shoddy work.
    “Not you, Gemma. You're a star,” he had said ingratiatingly.
    I had blushed and examined the grey lino floor, which showed the scuffmarks from the heels of his black patent leather shoes. Later, I found out why they were there. He had leaned forward to kiss my face as I perched on the plastic chair opposite his leather one. “OK? Don't mind if I bolt the door?” I had shaken my head and he came back to stand over me. The kissing had continued, then groping with his fingers down my knickers and then he had retrieved a condom from his top drawer. I did not question the readily available contraception, just grateful he had them handy.
    I had stripped from the waist down and he lowered me on to the leather seat. Legs up and over the high arms, head scrunched into the back of the deep seat, I had realised, belatedly, he used the piece of furniture as his perfect fucking apparatus. His shoe heels had squeaked on the lino as he added further scuffmarks to the collection. Grunting, sweating and his hair flopping over his eyes, I had been squashed and dragged back and forth on the perspiration covered leather until my exposed skin felt raw with the friction and heat. I did not orgasm. I had been uncomfortable and by the time he had filled the condom, my insides were sore too.
    He had helped me redress, offering me tissues and a glass of water. I had fumbled with my words, unsure if he wanted me to thank him. He had simply unbolted his door and combed back his hair, sending me on my way with a gentle swipe of my bottom. After that, I had only visited his room in the busy hours of the day. I had judged him right; he had sought conquests. He did not ask me to join him again and he had barely registered me as we drifted past each other in the long corridors.
    I looked down at my knife and fork resting on my plate. I could not bear to look into Jason’s eyes in case he could read my rambling memories and wanted to know the details of my sordid little past.
    “You gave up a good job to come and work at my company, why?” He was persistent.
    “Good job doesn’t necessary mean an interesting one,” I told him a half-truth.
    “I see,” he said mechanically.
    I did not think he did though. How could he? I had not revealed to him that many of my evenings and weekends were far more interesting than my last job. My past was shrouded and hidden from him. I may have spoken about my employment history and my family but he had not managed to prise open my private life to reveal what lurked behind my façade of apathy.
    There was no discussion about Sunday evening either. No mention of humiliating black books, notches on headboards or sexual needs. The assumption had