Out of thought came the word

The Sexual Language Of Strangers: A Novel By Ben Arogundade

Four men are paid to seduce and abandon...but then one of them breaks the rules. 'The Sexual Language Of Strangers' is a novel with 18 sex scenes, 16 lonely women, 5 commitment-phobic men and 1 big secret. Read a sample below. 

By Ben Arogundade.

THEY WENT BACK TO HER APARTMENT overlooking the River Thames. She was reluctant to do so at first. She would have preferred sex at his place, so she could control her exit afterwards. When they arrived he stepped into the lounge and scanned the room. She could see that he was impressed with its interior, and this embarrassed her. She did not want to give him cause to like her any more than he did already. She fiddled with her hair, then buried her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. 

When the silence became unbearable she stepped away to the kitchen to prepare drinks. She soon returned and handed him a glass. As he reached for it he accidentally touched her fingers, but she pretended not to notice. He had touched her again; another prelude to things. “Where do you live?” she asked. 

“I've got a one-bedroom flat on the moon,” he quipped, trying to lighten things. “That zero gravity thing's tricky. I keep hitting my head on the ceiling.” 

She let out a controlled laugh, short and reserved. He asked her if she lived alone. She said she did. “Don't you get lonely?” he enquired. 

“Nothing wrong with loneliness,” she replied. “There are worse things.” 

She stepped back into the kitchen and busied herself preparing a snack. A salad was still in the colander in the sink. She turned on the taps and flushed the leaves, even though she'd already washed them earlier. He followed and stood behind her, and for a moment they both watched the dark flow of the river outside. What are you doing here? she thought. Intruder. 

He turned her by her shoulders and kissed her again, testing her mouth. Her eyes were open, watching him, and so were his. As his lips met hers once more he thought of all the women he'd ever kissed in his life, and all the emotions he'd left behind with them, like jettisoned cargo. 

They stepped away from each other and tried to talk again, but things were corrupted now. Erskine kissed her again, harder this time, trying to arouse something, to press out a sign. She met his energy, as if it was a contest. He ran his hand audaciously across her breasts and down into her underwear, his finger against the groove of her now. He would steal a sample of her smell as a memento for when he walked away from her later. She let him do it, challenging him to arouse her, ready to sneer secretly if his skills were lacking.

As they undressed she thought of her other lovers. She considered that she'd never promised to be faithful to them. Them. As if she was married to them all equally, and therefore owed them fidelity. She realised that she was becoming like her father, and this made her feel sick. 

His hands explored her form — the curve of her back, the nobbled track of her spine, the circularity of her breasts, the concave pools in the sides of her hips, the pepper of freckles behind her left ear. He focused on her hair, the way it fell across her face like a nest of cables, each settlement a fresh configuration, a new artwork never to be repeated. 

He entered her, and the connection was taut and smooth. Somehow he could not believe that he was actually inside her, after all her resistance. As she gripped his flesh the air eased out of her lungs in a mellow gust, and she poured it into his mouth, like a present. 

And in the sexual language of the strangers their connection was silent, all the energy in the action, like two noiseless engines. Sound seemed inappropriate in their synchronised seesaw. He had not earned the right to enjoy the sound of her whispers or the moans of pleasure she might make if she loved him. No man had. 

She recorded this new intruder. The feel of his muscles, the texture of his skin, the weight of his touch, the proportions of his penis. She tabulated and compared him with her other fucks, placing him within a secret top ten in her mind.  She extended her neck sideways from her body — an action like an Indian dancer — and watched as he moved against her, assessing his thrust and rhythm with a certain detachment, as if her body was not hers; as if she was there to judge, not enjoy. She had somehow lost some of her sense of pleasure. She could not extricate herself from her own caution. She wondered what she was doing it for, sexing him, if she could not even surrender herself to it. She turned and pressed her backside against him and let him enter her from there, where he could not read her, where he could not see her eyes or sample her mouth. 

She had already decided she would have an orgasm — that she would authorise it, allow it formally within herself — but it would be an empty delight, like an ice-cream cone with nothing inside. 

But then, against her will, she began to feel a strange intensity in their connection. As if to verify it she turned to face him, and quickly he slid over her, pushing himself inside her again, unable to stop. His eyes met hers, the pace quickened and they both felt themselves losing their caution. She felt a maddening friction as he rubbed against her insides, and the contact sparked her pelvis, bucking to meet his until finally, the orgasm.

They stared at each other, madly, fearfully, as if they'd both been punched suddenly in the face. In their confused pleasure they wondered how they, strangers, could bond so perfectly, so without rehearsal. And in that moment it occurred to them that they were strangers to themselves, as well as to each other. 

The energy subsided, and the two spent, fleshy slabs lay heaving and glistening under the low light and the stillness of the night. As their bodies crackled in the electric air the strangers rolled away from each other, alone again, afraid of what had happened. 

She wanted him to leave, but he lay there waiting for either of them to say something, to offer some exposition. She turned to him, suddenly impatient. “You have to leave now.” 


“Please go.”

Erskine was stunned by her coldness. He stumbled up, backing into a bedside lamp, which fell to the floor and smashed, plunging them into semi-darkness. Natascha looked away painfully. “Leave it,” she said. “Just leave it and go.” 

The Sexual Language Of Strangers (novel)

An eccentric millionaire invents a bizarre game in which he pays a team of handpicked men to seduce women he selects at random. Things begin to unravel when one of the men develops feelings for a women he seduces. As they both battle against their aversion to intimacy neither is prepared for the shocking conclusion that awaits. 

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