Her eyes on Neill, she reached an awkward hand down towards the broken mug.
‘No, Natalia,’ he chuckled, tossing his unopened mail into the corner. ‘Do you want me to show you how to bend down properly?’
He lightly grasped her limp fingers toward the breakage.
‘Shall we do it together?’
His hand was on her back, as he began bending his knees, and she followed along, looking to each other as they lowered to the floor like two sceptical old ladies in an Aerobics class. And just as she faced to reach for the largest piece of broken cup, the bit that said ‘CON’ - oh definitely, was her last thought - his hand gripped the back of her neck.
He arose, whilst her head knocked against the counter in a moment of tussle, dropping the porcelain shard again where the lettering further broke into ‘ON’ - as she felt two fingers thrust down the hems of her leggings and knickers.
The cool air of the kitchen swam at her bare bottom, her arms seeking support from the round drawer knobs, as his leather shoes parked stoutly aside her twirling socked feet.
‘Of course I don’t care about that mug. Nor the one you drink from. Pull open that drawer in front of you and hold onto it. In the time it takes me to finish my fag, you’re going to stay exactly like that.’
She drew a breath of disbelief as she yanked open the drawer of kitchen utensils. A click of his lighter behind her, now a waft of tobacco and cold air as she shivered, trying to crane her head round. Was he just standing there, watching her goosepimpled buttocks? Between which, an excited pulse she knew within a couple of minutes would be emitting a glistening show from those three wanks she now wished she didn’t have.
Three puffs later:
‘Well, that looks just like one of the crystal drop earrings I bought Rose in Tiffany’s when we were over there. Although yours is more than that cunt ever gave me back. Talk about a de-pendant.’
‘Er, didn’t she buy you cufflinks?’
She could sense, if not see, his pause of surprise.
‘She did… the ugliest ones I’ve ever seen.’ His hand swept earnestly to her kinking thigh. ‘No, no, don’t ruin it! You’ve splatted it now—!’
Tracing down her skin, she shuddered.
‘Ah, there we go, it’s still hanging out with us.’
She wasn’t sure if she was going red from the position or from mortification.
‘Neill—’
She began to rise her shoulders, as his hand braced her neck like holding her underwater.
‘You’re right, we should get on with this. I’m getting as hang-ry as you, so to speak. Have a rummage through the drawer, and I’ll let you pick which tool I’m going to hit your bottom with.’
Hit? This was new language? Third spanking in three days and this was next level of what she’d signed up for in this sleepy Brontë cottage. Her hand hovered like a sea creature over the tools, sifting through ladles, scoops and serving spoons; knives, knife sharpeners, and a variety of pointed inappropriate choices, as he stepped out, and returned to hear her bleat:
‘Erm, Neill, I, I don’t know. There’s nothing…’
‘Nonsense.’ His fag-holding hand shot past her cheek and pulled out a large silver palette knife as her wide eyes followed up sideways.
Throwing fag into mouth, he beat the air with it like swatting a fly, making a ricochet that made her rise again nervously.
‘Down, girl—’
He gripped her hip and tested three rudimentary slaps around her bum.
‘Ow! Oh—! Ooh!’
‘That one should do,’ stopping as she wobbled around. ‘Or maybe—’
He clattered the palette knife back into the drawer and reached for a sharp-edged, metal lifter instead.
Her eyes widened even more.
‘Wait, wait, what about this?’ she raised a wooden spoon.
‘You want to be spanked with this?’
‘Well, n—OHH-OH!’ - as he test-whacked it. ‘What about a tea towel instead… s-sir?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know, twist it round, like a soft whip…’
‘I like your thinking. I’ll save that for another time. Here, hold this. Have a drag on it whilst I compare it to the other one…’
Natalia took his fag sceptically as he first beat the air behind her, then began flipping the metal lifter over haphazard areas of her bottom, flinching her left and right till her lame effort of inhaling the cigarette fell away.
‘Nope. I don’t like any of these.’
He tossed the lifter, took back the fag, gave it a final puff and stubbed it out.
A moment later, she was staring at the pan she’d burnt pasta in, held right in front of her face.
‘How do you fancy being spanked by the Saucepan Man?’
‘Ohhh…’
‘So when I joked about you burning my cottage down, you actually nearly did it?’
‘I, I’m really sorry, I—’
‘How long do you think you left the pan on for?’
‘Erm… twenty minutes.’
‘Twenty would have not burnt it like this.’
‘Thirty. Or forty, I, I don’t know…’
‘Forty lashes. Certainly. Better look back in that drawer for something to bite on.’
She was so dazed by his speed of scheming she could barely move her hand to the drawer.
He sighed, leaned in, took a ladle with a thick handle and lodged it across her mouth as she gasped, wondering if it’d all gone too far - but also couldn’t help being amused by the creativity of it all - as if watching herself bent over, bracing now, as she felt his body spasm backwards about to strike, as the first one hit her left buttock - it wasn’t too bad - but he must be starting light, if there’s forty to go…
Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap! - left and right in a rhythm like he was playing her buttocks like bongos, building faster and faster to an exhilarated cry by the time he got to the end, till he dropped the pan with a smash on top of the broken mug as it splintered into even finer bits around her feet.
‘Don’t move. You don’t want to cut your feet on that.’ He took hold of her hips as her whimpers ebbed. ‘Oh my Jesus God, look how wet you are now…’
As though the sun had risen from the raincloud of her torment, and in words as reverent as prayer, his hand came to where she imagined it must look like the hanging stalactites of a cave by this point.
‘Absolutely beautiful…’
The ghost of a finger touched there for a moment, like delicate snowflakes on a window he was admiring, then, he takes hold of her and lifts her, rising her straight up out of the debris as he swiped it away with his shoe, and brings her down over his lap as he lowers into a kitchen chair.
He takes his hand to smoosh the snowflakes with two twirling thick fingers and evangelise as wistfully as a child on Christmas Eve:
‘God, how much I would love to fuck you right now.’
The gentle touch was almost more unbearable than her stinging buttocks, burning as hot as a forgotten hob whilst her clit ticked madly like a broken ignition switch.
‘Do you…? Er… shall we? But you’re with, with Joan…’
She wasn’t even questioning whether she was ready. It felt in that moment all she wanted to do was please him. And to wank her clit. Dear Lord, wank her clit before it explodes.
‘It’s like a flower, compared to what it looked like earlier today…’ he continued as though half-talking to himself, ‘a flower that would be a travesty to pluck before its petals unfurl into full bloom. Well of course we could trim your stem and stick you in a vase, but fuck that analogy…’
She frowned.
‘Fact is,’ he sighed, ‘I’ve never had this much fun with foreplay. Every day with you represents one second of foreplay I’d normally spend with a woman…’
He pushed in and out again, and then in again further, feeling around the fleshy bulb up inside there, as her head lowered in soft panting breaths, writhing in his hand, where he detects a rivulet of caution, tension, as his finger chafes a knot of flesh at one side.
‘How does that feel? Right in your pussy, how does it feel?’
‘Ah, kind of… new. A bit… weird, ah, ah, a bit nice…’
‘How many fingers?’
‘Huh?’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Er… two?’
He pulls them out and cracks his hand over her buttock.
‘OH—!’
Back in. ‘Altogether.’
‘I don’t know, er… three?’
A finger came to her clit whilst the others stayed inside. ‘Good. Good girl. You want to be my girl, don’t you? And not wait till you’re 18 to have my cock right up in here?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she quietly pants. ‘Yes, yes…’
‘Because once I dump Joan he will be up here like a whippet,’ he prodded deeper, ‘you know that?’
‘Yee-ah… yes…’
To find herself affirming these prompts like wedding vows gives her this sudden feeling of unfurling, melting, into the perversion of his grasp; police sirens in her belly wash away like lullabies, as though he was no longer a headteacher but his shirt arm as homely as calamine lotion on cotton wool, her hackles settling like a cat’s belly into its owner’s palm.
His hand came around her face and thumb stroked her lips, pushing inside to lever her teeth open, murmuring:
‘Open, open… that makes you so…’ nuzzling her head into his shoulder: ‘…So wet. Wait, I had a golf ball somewhere. Now that would be handy right now…’
‘Huhgh? What foh?’
‘Could’ve sworn I saw it round on the kitchen ledge. Have you seen it. White one…’
She blinked over at the vase. The thought of a golfball going in her mouth like a gobstopper seemed somehow different from holding a Pritt Stick or ladle handle like a cute doggie. She prickled with goosebumps as trickling lubrication from the very knot he was touching came now in a rush.
‘Neill,’ she said, ‘please touch harder. Make me come now, please please, please—’
‘Had you been wanking before I got home?’
‘Er…’
He slapped her bum.
‘Ahh!… Just a little bit…’
‘Just a little bit,’ he imitated. ‘Thought so. Your cunt feels different after a wank. So how do I know whether it’s your wanking or my spanking that made all this?’
He was drawing out strands back and forth and now put the fingers to her mouth.
‘It’s… mmf—’ She still wasn’t quite used to the taste of herself.
‘Your pussy needs to be trained. From now on, you don’t wank your spoilt little clit—’ as he rubbed it - ‘without my permission, do you understand?’
‘Ye-yeah… er, but… Neill, keep rubbing that bit. And my clit, and my clit, please, I need to come…’
‘You can have one for every finger you take. How many?’
‘T-Two? …Ah, ah! Three? …Four—’
‘Four? Are you sure? I’ll do three up here and—’
He wriggled a moistened thumb tip into her anus.
‘Nnngh! No, no… ok, ok, just three.’
‘Tongue or fingers. You choose.’
‘Tongue! Tongue, oh my god tongue…’
He lifted and pushed her up next to the kettle, pinned her knees back and began to gulp on her, and it was such a relief to be licked and sucked into the hoover of his mouth that she didn’t even care she needed the toilet again, as she came thrusting and squealing, and on the third, headbutting the spice rack, as her arm flew out and knocked the other mug crashing to the floor, just as a shower of Neill’s ejaculate followed.
She slid to the floor broken-legged next to the two smashed mugs whilst he collapsed exhausted back into the chair, where they eyed each other like a pair of guilty panting dogs on heat.
He nodded to the breakage.
‘Just remembered. That R mug was from my other cunt wife. So we got rid of both mugs. Well done.’
‘What about the cufflinks in your drawer?’
‘Keeping those. They’re worth something.’ He wiped his face on a teatowel. ‘Shepherd’s Pie for dinner?’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNq0pah8kfB
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcDzd8dIifZ
*
She needed to reclaim her body again, feel it as her own, with hands he’d said he’s sending away like evacuated war children. She needed to warm them upon her body to remind it they belonged to it, after being stuffed and poked and whacked, licked better again by father-tongue, as she, Natasha Neill, watched her mottled bottom in the bathroom mirror spanked by the Saucepan Man. Smart arse indeed.
She rubbed away the blotted mascara under her eyes. She wasn’t ready to go back downstairs. Taking a wander up his loft stairs, not able to find the light, she flopped onto the unmade single bed there.
Maybe she’d write about all this in her diary when she gets home. Home? Where is home? Shit, if she brings her diaries here, where would she hide them? She could conceal her mad pubescent ramblings up here, further obscured in legibility by her own scrawled spider font. She can’t have him reading her ‘little teenage diaries’ like he’d once joked. Is he a snooper? Would he spank her for writing naughty things? Wanking with her pen. She, Pilot, his rare breed cat, holding pens and penises in her pretty paw. If she drops them she gets her written ripostes ripped and her knickers ripped and whipped like a whippet and… her thoughts were fragmenting… she felt her mouth droop open, she heard her own snore… ah!… she was falling asleep. Like catching red-handed that stealthy intruder, the sleep chemical of her brain now flooding her ears and her eyelids and her muscles. Will Shepherd’s Pie be cold and angry if she doesn’t get up now, was her last thought… before she was plunged into a soft, silent blasting movie show.
There was Neill. She could hear his voice, the everyday music of her life now. He was sitting in his office. There was a bow and arrow on his desk, and she held a cup of tea that somehow couldn’t reach her lips.
‘If you cry too much I’ll put you out with the bins like Goldilocks.’
‘Wha… erm… what do you mean?’ She even stammered in her dreams.
Joan was behind him, making more tea. But I can’t even taste this one, she thought.
‘I try to do everything you say, sir. Three teabags full, sir.’
‘Tell your mum she’s going to jail. And then I’ll take you to Waitrose, and fuck her like you mean it.’ Fuck her? Like who means it? Now he and Joan are smiling across the desk like it was all a ruse, and then she is reaching for Joan’s hand, to cry on her shoulder, whilst Neill is prompting, ‘Natalia, Natalia?’ as her eyes open to the real Neill, silhouetted against the light of the downstairs landing.
‘Natalia? Are you ok? I was taking a leak and I heard you whimpering up here like a lost lamb.’
‘I was dreaming of Joan.’
‘What in deuce are you dreaming about Joan for?’
‘Don’t know. And about you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not Neill. More like, the Oh!-Neill.’
‘Mr O’Neill! Ha! Come on,’ he tugged at her, ‘dinner’s ready and we’ll eat in front of the fire. There’s crumble for dessert and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, hm? Have a smoke with me, right in the living room. Tobacco? Weed? Lollipop? There’s still four left. I’ll let you suck or bite it however you want as long as you face me the whole time…’
She was over his shoulder like a limp doll down the two sets of stairs, plonked on the couch in front of a flashing TV and fire and handed a bowl of Shepherd’s Pie with steamed broccoli.
‘Here you go, little lamb.’
‘Oh thank you shepherd.’
‘Who’s not so shit.’
‘No way,’ she smiled, as he sat down next to her and spooned her under his arm whilst she blew a hot forkful of beef.
‘That reminds me,’ she said between licks of potato, ‘guess who made friends with me today. Since you upgraded me with lambsfur and yoga…’
‘Mm?’ Mid-kissing her head in response. ‘Who?’
‘Alana Reynolds.’
‘The lipgloss lush you were standing looking worried next to earlier?’
‘Worried only because her mum saw us that time.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps not a good idea to upgrade your mates right now then.’ He squeezed her hip. ‘Stick to Sam.’
‘I wouldn’t call Sam a mate.’
‘I’ve seen you often enough with her. Looking mightily bored, I’d add.’
‘Only because she keeps telling me about her dad’s tiffs with her mum. Apparently he’s done a runner and I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Sometimes I forget it’s not just me. What is it with dads walking out on their children?’
He sighed as he tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘I know darling. Maybe your mum living without you will make her realise what she’s missing. The fact she was cooking on Saturday tells me she’s desperate to perform. Stay a few more days and we’ll see the cunt up on Masterchef.’
‘Isn’t that what your kitchen looked like earlier?’
‘All the better for it. You go so well in every room of this cottage it will be a shame for you to leave. I feel like ringing yourmum and asking, please, please can we keep her?’
She laughed, digging fork prongs into her tongue.
‘…I’ll feed her, look after her, and walk her off every day…’
‘Walk her off?’
‘It’s a typo.’
‘Better than she looks after Ras. Bet she’ll kick him out again tonight.’
‘Same for you if you don’t finish that broccoli up before dessert. Right—’ He disentangled his arm and stood up. ‘Fag time whilst you make sure you text your mum. Crumble’s at the bottom of the oven, whilst I’ll be at the bottom of the garden trying to bring forward the signing of the contract to midweek so I can wash my hands of the Arse by the weekend.’
‘Who are you, Pontius Pilate?’
‘No, Pilot is you. Pontius means of the sea, so definitely is you, little mermaid.’
‘Wait, Jesus! Can you perform a miracle and feed my phone 5000 pence again?’
‘Barclaycard’s in my wallet on the table.’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTwhjOnWdM6
*
Mouth full of apple crumble and phone credit replenished, Natalia scrolled onto Facebook where she’d sent a hello to the bald, blue-eyed Anton yesterday.
The message had been ‘seen’ with no reply. Scrap that then, as she scrolled onto her Yahoo Mail to hit unsubscribe on an email from LinkedIn, lingering her hold on Neill’s credit card and pondering that pile of unopened statements he’d just added to earlier.
He’d never know if she paid for a quick cheeky one-month membership so she could send a message to the hairy Anton.
She entered the details, then it said it was verificating. She panicked for a moment,thinking it would send a passcode to Neill’s phone.
Then it completed. A moment of relief later she was typing:
‘Hello, sorry to bother you but I’m looking for the father of Natalia Molova from Leeds as she wishes to speak to him. I came across your name and wondered if you are connected? Thanks’
She hit send before wondering if it sounded stupid. She hadn’t a clue what she would say if it was him. Hello dickhead, why did you bugger off? She hoped it wasn’t her dad at all.
Neill was outside for forty minutes, probably consuming his entire pack of cigarettes by the time he returned with a face as black as the night.
‘Hey. Everything… ok, O’Neill?’
‘Yes. Well, good news,’ as he tossed his phone next to his wallet. ‘I’ve wangled them both on a steakhouse lunch tomorrow. Thank goodness headteachers have deputies so they can bunk off school when they like. Although Kate Coleman’s off to London for her TV makeover so Dinkey will have double donkey workload.’
‘That’s all good isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He frowned at the TV. ‘Don’t tell me you watch this working class tripe?
She switched off Corrie. ‘Not really.’
‘You’ve got PE tomorrow, haven’t you? Have you got your kit ready?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right. Off you go to bed.’
She padded upstairs yawning as he reached frowning for his whisky.
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeAOYNlr5zi
*
She woke to the dark curtains - couldn’t even be dawn yet, a glance to the clock confirms: 3.55am, his face as peaceful as death, if it weren’t for his reassuring complexion, red-tinged temples that made her wonder how much he drank last night after something seemed to irk him on the phone to Joan.
She wondered if his dreamscape was as peaceful, if he ever dreamt as dramatically as she could. She, now wide awake - after that evening nap she’d had - lay watching his fingers faintly pulse, like sons of Mr Twitches playing the piano, or the flower of his little lamb, and then, satisfied to see all five move, she moved the covers to see if the big daddy was in morning construction.
His belly, milky pale, generous-sized but not enough to call a paunch, leading down to the tufts of brown-blonde hair swallowed by the hem of his pants he was still decent enough to wear. The landscape there was dormant, as her thoughts went to how big and wieldy he felt in her mouth yesterday during that perverted office visit. What he did to her was something to cover the front page of every national tabloid and yet how lovely it felt, a warm stiff lolly, and was now her chance to be a lone explorer?
She pushed the duvet down his knees. She, topless in her knickers, sat up and leant forward in the dim light to the fabric slit of his pants, where once she’d slid her fingers to his Bratwurst, but this time, his limbs all at rest as though blindfolded in Truth or Dare, her fingers flicked out his shrivelled, sleeping Baby Bear.
Why was the hole at the end so huge now? Oh, it was his foreskin, covering his helmet like a comically conical winter blanket. Pointing lazily 7 o’clock, one tap of her finger and it flopped to eleven upon the warm cotton. She glanced to his face. Mouth hanging open now, it was like he was even deeper gone. Maybe she’d plunged him into some strange dream of being dissected like a fly-catching frog in the Science block.
Smiling, she climbed in carefully between his thighs, pushing them apart like two boulders, slowly, softly… and looking up to see him barely respond, all but a judder of his eyebrows and pursing of his lips. She aligned her face with his crotch like a cat about to pounce, and slowly, slowly, bent her lips to it… come here, Mr Twitch, come to me - trying not to giggle - you’re mine right now, all to myself… as she scoops her mouth onto it. Socky-odoured and soft, not like his hot pumping erection; tangy flesh, a bit uriney. She nuzzles further up him, cotton at her nostrils as she marinates her saliva on what feels only like toilet equipment in this moment, softly, so very softly… till she feels a tiny throb in it.
Ahh. I’ve got you now.
It would be funny if he woke up. But funnier if he didn’t. What if she could suck it into a morning glory?
A steady stream of saliva moulds her mouth to it, her glands pumping Twitch’s own to collaborate in flexing along her tongue in fairy-size increments, gathering strength, shape, as she notices that the sheath of his foreskin is dropping back to emerge the helmet on her palette like a fixed tonsilward arrow.
He stirred now. She dropped it completely, poising to jump away. But his snores resume, and she looks down to admire her handiwork almost pointing 12. She’d achieved a semi as good as Justin’s on Hampstead Heath; she was flashing the flasher. Like a long sock filling with beans, she has to pull it up like a lever now, to saddle her mouth back - less able to keep her eye on his face at the same time - ah, but it’s starting to feel delicious, like a bone in Conscious Pilot’s mouth, and it can’t be long till he rises from the tomb of slumber.
Finally he drew a big breath, his muscles stir with the chemical of waking, as she hurriedly plonks herself back beside him, feigning sleep.
Behind her, he’s shifting around with waking groans, as she senses his head craning up and palms handling his semi-erect cock with - confusion? Or familiarity? Did he see, know anything?
‘Oh my good God.’
She pressed her lips together in mirth.
Now his arm came weighing down over her side with a long lazy moan.
She pretended to stir. ‘Morning… are you ok…?’
‘God, talk about a wet dream.’
‘Oh? Was it your cup of tea?’ she giggled.
He grunted and then, rolling toward her, he bulldozed right on top of her back, so she was on her stomach, his chest winding her ribcage as his hands sought out hers, pulling her arms out to the sides and interweaving his fingers into hers.
‘Neill,’ she gasped laughing, jaw jammed into the pillow, ‘what are you doing?’
He splayed her legs apart with both of his, his mouth exhaling what smelled - or rather tasted, like fermented whisky falling into her face - as she, exhilarated by him packed so tight on top of her, his swollen manhood tucked under the target of own throbbing tailbone.
‘Oh, Natalia…’ he murmured, ‘all I want to do is make love to you.’
‘Haaa… I thought the word is fuck…’
‘Hm? Oh… whichever, whatever, I want you… he wants you, so badly now. How you looked bent over yesterday, and the time before that, good Lord, I don’t know how I haven’t fucked you…’
He was pulsing now, which after all his quick-fuck stories - in fact especially after those stories - felt controversially delightful, a super-soft-slow-fucking-simulation as though he were unveiling the rutting rhythm of that taboo, indecent desire to fuck her; the Headmaster is almost, almost fucking me, admitting he wants to fuck me, showing how he will fuck me…
‘Most men would have by now, you know that? Most men would have had you right in London…’
This spurt of truthbombs whispered down her hair in that whispering reverence again, made her chime with sighs that would sound the same from either flattery or offence, whilst the baton of his naked cock that she herself had pulled from his pants, was tickle-weaving back and forth through her groin like a feather duster, as she laughed and then gasped as the firm head stabbed into her groin muscles like a misaimed arrow - or rather, purposefully off target.
‘Do you feel that…? Do you feel how he wants to get right up inside you?’
‘Yeah - ahhh, well, yes…’
She was prickling like rolled cash was still up there. If £25 had that effect, she wondered what Neill’s butting goat of a cock ‘getting right up inside her’ was going to feel like.
‘Oh, man, oh… fuck—’
‘Yes, lets—’ A hairy forearm of iron coiled around her throat.
‘Haaa… er, best dump Joan first like you said then,’ clamping her buttocks.
‘I can’t. Not till we’ve toasted that fucking grant…’
‘Are you going to… make love to her again, Richarrrrd?’ she laugh-choked.
‘I’ll have to show good grace today, yes.’
‘Disgrace?’
He grunted and rolled off. ‘You’re funny. So very funny. Continue being as amusing and cynical as you enjoy life B.C.’
‘B.C.?’
‘Before Cock. Come on. Go get showered and we might have time for pancakes!’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0IZsmvIFdQ
*
Fighting over the hairdryer and scrambling downstairs in a race, they arrived laughing in the kitchen where Neill bustled around pulling out a pan, eggs, jug and a mixer.
‘So! Do you know how to make pancakes?’
‘Spank-cakes?’ she eyed the wooden spoon.
‘They will be if you don’t get cracking. Those eggs, into that jug.’
‘I’ve only ever seen my mum use the shop mix. Once.’
‘Sacrilege! Thought Mrs Clayton had turned you into baking masterchef?’ he frowned as he fingered rogue shell from the mix.
‘Oh, shit that reminds me!’ as she frantically rummaged through his cupboard. ‘We’re baking in Food Tech today and I forgot to ask you to buy ingredients. Flour, sugar… unless you have some?’
‘Well, we’re out of flour now and you’ve used all my brown sugar in your tea,’ with the noise of the mixer cranking high as he raised his voice: ‘I would go to the shop but I’m headed straight to Harrogate to go up to Ripon in Joan’s car and I won’t have time to drop by the school, darling. I’ve a lot on.’
‘Oh! A lot on!’
‘Why are you laughing?’ He’d turned off the whisk and was pouring the thick yellow mix into the pan.
‘You spunked over the Pilot Pen till it said LOT.Then grabbed me till I dropped the Coney Island mug and CON turned to ON…’
‘Silly bottom.’ He shook the pan vigorously as the sizzling circle solidified. ‘Just tell Mrs Clayton you’ve been ill the past week and if you get any bother, I’ll have a word with her.’
He stepped back, spread his feet wide apart and flung the pancake into the air like a wayward pair of pale pantaloons.
‘Bingo!’ as it fell perfectly back on its other side.
‘Wow well done!’
‘Fetch a plate!’ He peered inside the fridge. ‘Oh - I have no lemons. There should be bottled juice in that cupboard.’
‘Sacrilege!’ she laughed.
‘But I did put these browning bananas into the fridge yesterday to slow them up,’ as he drew them out on the table. ‘Do you want a banana in your pancake?’
‘Sounds rude.’
‘Two pancakes each, two bananas each. Roll them up and dribble honey on top, it’s delicious.’
‘The bananas are too speckly for me, two pancakes will be filling enough.’
They sat sprinkling lemon juice and spooning honey, smacking their lips in wordless gluttony as Neill jumped up to cook up two more. She glanced meanwhile at the electric mixer laying on its side, its spindles dripping in the same spot she was yesterday.
‘Goodness. You made up for the bananas with half the honeypot, honey. Well, eat up because I have to drop you at the bus stop from today, remember.’
‘School will be so boring without you,’ as she plate-rubbed and licked a sticky finger, ‘the building just feels different without you inside it. Are you going to be back late?’
‘Once that contract is toasted I’ll be dropping back down by hers to go out with a bang. I’ll stay for as long as the ink’s wet but she knows it’s a school night. No cooking anything till Daddy is home! You’re a bigger pyromaniac than I am.’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Ay41i5qQu
*
Standing at the bus stop was the most peaceful ten minutes she’d known in months. Her feet rooted to the spot as though time had frozen all alone on this rural road, no gregarious Neill - the only noise was his Merc that had whizzed off ten minutes ago - no cackling mum, no leering Thornwood pupils.
She was the last girl on Earth, until a tall figure ambled up, with backpack high on his shoulders; bronzed forehead as though he’d been backpacking down the road for months.
He threw Natalia a placid smile.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi.’
Looked too old to be a school pupil, but too young to be anything of significant authority.
‘Do you know if the 38 is definitely on its way?’ her teeth chattered.
‘Yes. There it is,’ he nodded.
The top of a single decker loomed on the road bend ahead as she smiled back politely.
She sat as far back as she could from him. Best not imprint her image too much onto the sight of local folk.
The new ride brought her to the school building by another angle that rejuvenated the dead routine of the past five years, as though the better calibre of the school came from that way. More tranquil, more birds cheeping, as though you weren’t in danger of getting the straps of your bag yanked by a passing troll. The peace seemed to flow into the day, freeing it from fear and paranoia, all through English and RE til she arrived at the pegs for PE.
‘I am! I am moving on’ - came Miss Barnes’ laugh from round the corner at her desk. ‘Oh, no no’ - some low muttering and then - ‘Patricia will be taking care of that. Yes, it’s an academy, and I’m…’
Her voice tapered into low volume as Natalia slipped into her kit, wondering whether Miss Barnes leaving was a good or bad thing. Who was Patricia? Taking care of what?
As the changing rooms filled with the laughs of the other girls, she passed on through to the toilets where Sam and Ryan were standing outside in conversation. They both turned to look at Natalia.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Sam.
‘How’s your mum?’ Natalia nodded to Ryan.
‘She’s doing alright.’
‘Oh-k.’
As terse as always. Natalia came alongside Sam as they entered the gym.
‘Do you fancy Ryan now?’ she asked Sam.
‘No! Why?’
‘You don’t usually talk to him.’
‘You’re so nosey.’
‘Huh? About as nosey as you are with me.’
‘God! You’re a cheeky mare.’
‘Am I?’ Natalia stopped her by the benches. ‘You ask about everything from my sketchbook to my bus route. Jeez, this is why I wouldn’t be able to stand you as a friend. Complete double standards and you don’t even bloody see it.’
Sam’s mouth had dropped open as Laura appeared.
‘Are you two actually arguing?’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Miss Barnes jogged in. ‘We’re going outside today girls!’
Lisa gurned. ‘Aw, miss, it’s freezing—’
‘Cross country round the field. You’ll soon be warm! Leg stretches first!’
Natalia could feel Sam and Laura’s gaze on her on every lap of the field. Her paranoia was creeping back like ivy. To top it off, Mrs Clayton was not in a good mood in Food Tech after lunch. Whilst other pupils busied around with their ingredients in a very serious manner - most serious she’d ever seen, in fact - Natalia had to step up for the first time to admit her mum had forgotten to shop for hers.
Clayton’s face seemed to take on a shade of thunder.
‘Natalia. This is not a matter of mummy not doing things for you. We’re doing coursework and you have simply forgotten your ingredients?’
‘I was ill last week, miss. I’ve had a tough time. You can even ask the Head.’
‘He’s not in today. Go borrow what you can.’
It felt good to message the Head in the toilet.
‘Clayton’s been a cunt to me :(‘
A reply didn’t come till an hour later on the bus.
‘I’ll sort her tomorrow. On my way home. X’
She’s like a beautiful flower, that most men would have had in London. She thought about Neill’s whippet race to hurry his lunch date to a Tuesday so he could dump Joan and fuck a schoolgirl - what, tonight? Was she ready? It may have been months of her deluged vagina throbbing for him like a disco pool party, but will thrusting his member up there be like a fire squad shutting the party down? Excited dancers running off in every direction; slow, sublime raindrops blown upwards by a crude wind, scattered, just like her oozing sexy energy might become, frigid and rigid on the end of a bucking bronco?
Part of her was perturbed by the idea of a man’s bobbing, pavement-hard protrusion being let loose at her soft, delicate underworld she still kept her own slender fingers warded from like satin drapes in a precious locked wardrobe. And part of her wanted his hot thick cock inside her cock-starved cunt like a long-lost conjoined twin. Though she feared being rammed painfully, him ‘going hard at it’ like with Joan, with Natalia he was like a horse that bolted wild-eyed at her and stopped right at her eyes before licking her cheek and leaving her adrenalin sloshing like a washing drum.
He was playing the game of Patience perfectly. But was this patience, or just a game? Foreplay or a guffawing play; a novel mission to tick schoolgirl off his conquests and go on to his next red-lipsticked ware? Would giving him her virginity be like tossing a burger to a snuffling pig barely noticing before it catches another?
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg1hru6DbYa
*
The sound of Neill’s key in the door, as she sat at the kitchen table, felt like it plunged the caffeine from the tea she was drinking straight into her bloodstream in one dump.
‘Hi, Neill—’ she swivelled round as he came up behind her and planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘How was it?’
He moved to empty his pockets onto the kitchen top, and put down a box from under his arm.
‘Look at this. I brought some meat home for my precocious pet. Beef, too well done for me, but how you like it.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
He opened the top door hatch, drew out and lit up a fag.
‘Well?’ she blinked. ‘Success?’
‘Needed lube again. So hit and miss with these pre-menopausal women.’
‘Oh. I meant—’
‘Actually, that’s a thought,’ as he blew his smoke out of the door. ‘Can you do something for me quickly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well you see I was with Joan for approximately three hours before I yanked down her John Lewis spandex and nearly made her vomit Béarnaise over her own dining room doilies. That was her fault with so much blasted skin friction pushing up between two, dry-as-a-bone beef curtains - as dry as that beef - medium rare they said! About as rare as the imbecilic accents of those Northern monkeys who overdid the thing, damn this county that can’t cook!’ His eyes flashed.
She giggled.
‘So, three hours. Three hours with the man she supposedly has the hots for. Can’t get me out of her head, in her words - and I’m not talking about the time I jammed my dick into her mouth against the wall when she was crawling to plug in a lavender Air Wick, you know I can’t stand the things, had to stop her somehow - anyway, three hours, and I find she’s about as moist as the Atacama.’
‘Atacama?’
‘Driest place on earth. Receives less than 1mm of precipitation each year, some of it hasn’t seen a drop of rain in 500 years. Don’t you concentrate in Geography?’
‘Er, I don’t think it’s come up.’
‘No, but I do, every single time for that vaginally ungrateful bint—’
‘What about Phil. Did you nail Phil and his grant?’
He puffed. ‘I didn’t try shagging the Mitchell brothers.’
‘Phil and Gr… oh! The guys from Eastenders,’ she cawed in laughter. ‘I didn’t know you knew your soaps Neill!’
He tapped his ash and muttered, low enough to make her incline her ear to hear:
‘The contract isn’t ready. After roaring off to Ripon for rip-off beef in both senses. Now I have to wait till Saturday…’ he glanced to her, ‘to get it signed over golf with Phil and the web-whizz brothers.So I can’t even ditch her.’
He looked as mournful as a pallbearer.
‘Well that’s ok isn’t it?’ she shrugged. ‘It’s only Saturday.’
‘Anyway.’ He stubbed out. ‘Back to the favour I asked.’
He turned to her and motioned at the floor in front of him.
‘Pull down your knickers and touch your toes. Right there.’
Seeing his serious face in waiting, she stepped up, turned and bent over face to knees, and pulled down her leggings and knickers.
Without a word he slid his hand down her arsecrack and rummaged a finger into her vulva, then mid-probed into her vagina a couple of times back and forth.
‘See? You are literally dripping. If I had my eyes closed here in the kitchen right now I could mistake you for the tap.’
He probed a bit more, as she wobbled and drew her breath, then he stopped with a frown as if his finger was reporting to him with observations.
‘Wait, have you been wanking?’
‘No,’ she lied.
He sighed. ‘Would help if Joan would. Case in point. Knickers up, thank you.’
‘Erm, you’re very welcome,’ as she went back to her chair.
She heard a little cough. She turned to see his fingers outstretched.
‘Oh!—’ She jumped back toward his hand, hesitated at his fingers, as he brought the middle one to her mouth, she licked it clean, dabbed it dubiously with her sleeve, all without a word, and sat back down.
He leant back against the counter glumly with hands in pockets.
‘I don’t know, we’re two different females,’ she blinked, ‘with different minds, bodies…’
‘Two different women alright.’
‘Would you… like a cup of tea?’
‘No thank you. I’m tea’d out. What I want you to do is listen.’
‘I am. So, what, are you more annoyed the grant wasn’t signed, or Joan’s vagina was dry?’
‘I’m let down on both. I’m let down on life. The shiny illusion of promise. The smell of bullshit. I thought women my age were supposed to be letting loose and finding their kundalini or whatever Monica was once rabbiting on about—’
‘Cunt-a-what?’
‘Cunt-a-meany. I drew a sapless short straw.’
‘It sounds like Joan needs… training?’
‘No. Leopards, spots, old dog; mutton, lamb and whatever proverbially expresses the fact I’m done - once her brothers get the school’s website finally coded, cashed, debugged up their backend or whatever they were garbling on about - no, it’s you who’s being trained.’
‘What position did you shag her in?’
He paused. ‘You always like to know positions don’t you?’
‘Says the megastar of… maliciously, malapert… memoirs.’
He stared. ‘And what position do you think, Natalia?’
‘Well, prob—’
‘Don’t tell me. Show me.’
She smirked, head on her elbow-raised hands, and without moving her hands she raised her bottom off the chair and slid forward on the table, zig-zagging out her feet, watching his eyes linger at her bottom as she began to pulse it for him.
‘Far faster than that.’
He stepped over and came behind her.
‘Like this—’ He took hold of her hips, then with one of those low manly breaths she found so irresistible, he saddled his crotch into hers and gave her a sudden, turbo rhythmic thrusting till her hair was flapping like a flag in a 60mph wind, her stomach indented by the table like a truck slammed into a deer, as she squealed in a frotting frisson, crawling her hands helplessly over the table.
‘Stop it!’ she laughed.
‘Oh you want it to stop?’
‘No,’ she smiled quietly.
‘No?’ He gave her a single thrust that collapsed her mid-crawl. ‘Tell me. How did you think of that on the spot? The alliteration.’
‘What… you, the king of cack, cock-centric, crosstalk.’
‘Another. Bloody hell,’ he gripped her hips tighter, ‘not only do you feel really rather rumptious right here,’ thrusting on the stressed six syllables, ‘but you talk like some fucking sesquipedalian.’
‘What the fuck is that?’ she giggled.
‘Someone who overuses big words to sound clever.’
‘Precisely the twat who knows that word.’
‘You know it now, so we’re both twats.’
‘Joan’s type of twat?’
He smoothed his palms over her bottom like a parcel of dearly craved contents and sighed: ‘Go teach a woman Joan’s age to be as sincere and, soggy as you, and I will be a happy man. What I want is rare. Moist, succulent, dripping—’ squeezing both hands inside her bottom crack, ‘and I would give her more than one minute on each side, so to speak.’
‘So get Joan to room temperature before you bare your sir-loins?’
‘I’m not going round teaching a woman how to be a woman,’ he retracted himself, as Natalia slid back into her chair, straightening her hair whilst he went to pour a glass of water. ‘A woman who is as deplorable as she is shallow, because that’s not all. Joan was on the phone three times and when I crept up the third time to momentarily wrench it from her ear and plant a lovebite that she’ll need half a bottle of foundation to cover tomorrow morning, I took a peek at the number and saw the last four digits are Allsebrook’s.’
‘Huh! She’s really cheating, with the ugliest man in our school?! When she has the greatest man in the world?’
He finished his sip with an exhale as he studied her for a moment. ‘I don’t know any other reason she’d give me the look of a buggered tawny owl whenever I came within ten yards on the first two calls.’
‘Pfft. Get your million quid and quit her.’
‘I most agree. Thank you. I appreciate your attention to my Joan moan. Have some of this—’ He handed her the water. ‘So dutiful. So beautiful,’ as he watched her drink. ‘I take it you were reading Summerhill off my shelf last week?’
‘Yes, some…’
‘So you know what a P.L is.’
‘Private Lesson. Kind of like what we’ve always had in your office…’
‘Quite. So would you mind, young lady, going upstairs, taking off all your clothes - completely naked please - and laying on the bed so we can continue.’
‘Ye-es…’
He lit up another fag. ‘I’ll be up presently.’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMyBHB9GS0q
*
Her nerves whirred as she went upstairs, stripping off her leggings and dithering for a few minutes till she heard him coming up, quickly pulled off her knickers, got on the bed and laid on her side ready to receive him in a pose like a Egon Schiele sketch.
He came in to promptly disrupt it.
‘Lay on your back. Spread your legs and arms.’
She didn’t feel there was time to compute what his intentions were. She found herself doing as he asked, baring her naked groin and nipples to the cool air and linen of his bedroom as he came hovering over them like a buffet platter.
His one hand went to her head and the other to her breast, stroking them in tandem, squeezing and staring as her eyes fluttered this way and that.
His fingers brushed down to her wet groin as she flinched as though he’d hit a spring catch on her thighs.
‘Keep these spread,’ he rapped her knee. ‘Always keep these spread when I’m touching you here.’ His impertinence swam into her femurs like Malibu and Coke.
He probed a fingertip inside her wet lips there, then brought it up to her parted lips above. He pushed it inside and she sucked it, heart racing.
‘Good. I’m going to teach you something, ok? Spread your legs’ - he took her ankles further apart till her groin muscles pulled - ‘and your arms like this, outstretched, palms up. Perfect. Now, whenever I say spread, you take off all your clothes and lay in this position, exactly like this. Do you understand?’
He looked at her as earnestly as when he convinced her she was the only one who could advise on the school uniform changes.
‘Ye-es…’ Being commanded to voluntarily starfish her body and present her cunt like rare steak on a plate invoked her ardent scepticism, but it seemed her cunt keenly clung to his ideas like a suction cup.
‘Good. Now, get up off the bed.’
She climbed off and stood blinking up at him.
There was a pause.
‘Spread.’
She slowly looked back to the bed, laid down and spread her limbs.
He tweaked her legs wider.
‘Like that. Try again. And quicker. Up—’
She stood again, trying to keep her face as composed as his.
‘Wait.’
Her breath hung in both suspense and disbelief.
‘Spread.’
With a bemused breath she lay and spread wide, her groin thumping more ablaze than her face used to do on a report card.
‘Good.’ His hand came to dip a finger as her breaths mounted; he pushed in two, then three, sighing:
‘You’re just naturally sodden. Compared to dry beef you’re veal tenders.’
Her mouth, hanging open with hoffs of breath, found itself closing around the wet fingers he now inserted.
‘What a good girl.’
His approval clicked somewhere both approving and incredulous in her.
‘Put your clothes on and come back downstairs.’
Arising awkwardly after the ‘lesson’ of how to be cunt groped, she followed relatively unfazed by Neill’s bluntness so peppered with tenderness and infatuation, down to the lounge where he lit up the fire, casually motioned her to keep eye on it whilst he went and smoked in the garden.
She half-idly leafed through her schoolbooks, then wandered into the kitchen about to reach for one of the speckled bananas when Neill came back in.
‘Natalia?’
‘Yes?’
‘Go drink a glass of water.’
She filled and sipped a glass, looking to him.
‘Go sit down in the lounge.’
Appearing on the couch next to her, he was now commenting on some film starting, which looked to be drearily war-related, something she wouldn’t mind going upstairs and taking her clothes off again rather than endure.
‘Natalia?’
‘Y-yeah? Yes?’
‘Did you text your mum today?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She scrambled up for it and presented the screen as he vaguely glanced down.
‘She’s happy, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you happy here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Show me how happy.’
‘Huh?’
He nodded toward the fireplace. ‘Rug, Natalia. Spread.’
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtoKQTIyp6E
*
With a Pavlovian pang of both scepticism and thrill, she considered that the fireside rug was going to offer a delicious backdrop to whatever Hangry Game that O’Neill wanted to play now. Stomach gurgling, she uncurled her spine and stretched out her legs and arms like an undulating, sighing sea creature.
He sat where he was, not in any rush to get up. She turned her head toward the fire, feigning relaxation as though sunbathing in its flickering flames, whilst the low sound of the film’s gunshots behind her made her feel like she was strapped to an invisible wagon wheel, or rather had strapped herself, succumbed to some war villain, who was now rising and taking the single couch right in front of her - and ahh, he looks happy with her, he is her hero again.
He stared for a few moments.
‘Do you know how gorgeous you are?’
Definitely more than her hero again.
‘You’re the most beautiful girl, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
Against the soft shag of the rug she pulsed like a dog’s tail root, which in moments would be shedding thick hot opalescent tears from that place of silent unspoken happiness inside her. Was she supposed to talk back now? Was this Neill or O’Neill? His face, now occupied in gazing up and down her body, didn’t look like it warranted any words. Now the fifteenth long wistful sigh and besotted gaze of the afternoon, as if counting through a checklist of what in twisted morality he is allowed or not allowed to do to a 16-year old.
Spread-eagled for another few minutes she squirmed, not quite daring to bring her arms and legs back closer to her body lest she elicit a stern correction to thwart the poetic moment that had landed between them like an ember.
Ten minutes passed, she exhaled more and more audibly. Her eyes wandering the ceiling and the bookshelves, and then back to him; his eyes still glued to the film.
‘So what are you gonna… do to me, mmhh… sir?’
He just glanced softly, not answering, which relieved her that it did not irk him, but left her with nothing to go on, which a minute more of, started to make her self-conscious. At least being spanked would move things on. What was he waiting for, a bus? She wanted to close her legs, she could then writhe sexily in front of the fireplace and maybe pretend-watch the muttering soldiers on the film whilst he could stare at her bumcrack for as long as he wanted.
‘Can I… move? My legs?’
She began to slowly close them.
His eyebrows twisted to her.
‘No. Put them back as they were.’
The re-address, even though it wasn’t her desired answer, at least was an answer, at least reinstated there was something going on, on order of O’Neill, that she didn’t understand, or maybe he didn’t even either, that maybe he just fancied watching a war film and her cunt at the same time - which set off a new leak of erotic flow just from the anticipation of something happening - something that didn’t seem likely to be aggressive, spank-based or even wank-based, judging by his mellow demeanour.
After another fifteen minutes of laying like a shored starfish on shagpile, she felt like there was something almost stinging in her vagina, a pressing anticipation like a second urine, and then she realised she really needs a wee.
Ah! Now that’s a reason to move!
‘Neill… I need the toilet. After all the water, you know…’
‘There’s a glass behind you.’ He began to arise for it.
Was he expecting her to urinate into a glass right there in front of him?
More than that. He was sitting back down on the couch, holding the glass with a vaguely beckoning expression.
‘Come up.’
She sat up, with relief to close her legs and bend her knees, but a new awkwardness to address.
‘You want me to—’ with a despondent laugh - ‘go in there?’
‘Yes.’ He lowered it.
Oh well, why not? As long as he doesn’t make her drink it. Or maybe he would sit and drink it?
He kept hold of it as she arose, thoroughly implicit that she was going to wee, naked, into a glass held by her Headmaster. Oh Jesus, this was turning weird. Turning? Really could it get any weirder than what they’d already done?
She guided the rim of the glass to her vulva with a resigned sigh at him; he steadying it with a nonchalant look back, as she tested the first spurt’s aim… and then let out the full lot, steaming warm - oh thank God not too yellow - and, she hoped, would stop before the top, and wouldn’t spill on him, and now strands of fluid from her vagina were joining the urine… and oh god, this was weird.
She wiped the rim across for the last drop, tried to inconspicuously withdraw from a translucent string of fluid stretching from it as she looked askance at the almost hot glass of what looked quite golden now in the light of the fire.
‘Er… are you going to be alright with that, sir?’
‘Lay back down,’ as if talking to a dog that was pledging a tailwag for attention from its tired master.
She didn’t even get to wipe, and didn’t want to ask.
‘Back the way—? ’
‘Yes. Spread,’ he clicked his fingers, put down the glass and pointed down to what may as well be her hit-and-run outline in the rug pile. The patronising cunt now gets a view of her cunt avec piss dribble.
He stepped out for a moment to pour away the urine, then returned to stoke the fire, as she spread eagle again, trying to scrape together dignity with a series of staccato sighs, wafting a casual hurry-up with her eyes, and breath-held, lip-bites that said: ok, I’m doing as I’m told, now what?
‘When this film finishes in half an hour I’m going to deal with you.’
Another half an hour? Laying there for an hour she suspected Neill had forgotten that she hadn’t eaten, and her energy was spent just to lay there with adrenalin pumping like the central heating pipes. Was it past acceptability to voice her concern?
‘Neill… I’m hungry. Can I have just… some fruit?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling,’ as if they were an old couple sitting down for dinner and he’d forgotten the salt. ‘There isn’t much left at all, but let me check.’
He arose again to kitchen, where he raised the remaining two speckled bananas aloft.
‘Will these do you? I’ll give them a wash first—’
Who washes bananas?
He brought them in on a small white plate, and as he loomed over her, looking at the bananas and back down at her body, she face-palmed, or would have, if she weren’t playing along with a lewd Stations of the Cross, which she guessed now - from the way he was looking thoughtfully between her legs - that at least one of these bananas was going to become Stationed at her Crotch.
He crouched next to her.
‘Heads or tails?’
‘W-what?’
‘Which do you want filled first. Your mouth, or your cunt?’
All her hearts beat at once, her limbs curling inward, her pulsing tail root arousing a spire of excited nausea in her stomach at his typically rhetorical question she knew not how to answer.
‘Natalia. I’ve been watching your beautiful pussy for the past hour and it’s wetter than the bottom of my garden in December. And just like the compost heap there, I’ve had my fingers in and out of it and I can tell you Old Speckled Hen will slide right in, don’t you worry.’
‘Oh, you’re such a turn on,’ she laughed, one shoulder rising - as he swiftly brought the brown bottom end of one banana to her lips, pushing her head back down on the rug.
‘Open—’
He swept both her hands away as the banana arrested her giggling, her eyes widening at him as he pushed.
‘In, further…’
‘I, wai— mmmfff—’
‘There we go.’
The thick yellow insertion prickled goosebumps from her palette to cervix - her eyes wide, her cheeks starting to redden - the ghost of a banana already down there in the other ‘mouth’ she damned for gaping in anticipation like a hungry chick.
‘Now, Natalia,’ making those eyes at her that somehow convinced her of anything, ‘relax, put your tongue onto it, lick it, suck it. Just like you do so well to this—’ he brushed his thumb around her lips, ‘just bigger. Nicer. A lot more like a man’s cock. You want to learn, don’t you?’
She wondered if now was the time to tell him she sucked him to erection yesterday morning whilst he was asleep. She would, if she wasn’t gagged with the biggest banana she’d ever seen.
He shimmied one hand between her half-closed thighs, and other to swat away her fingers at her mouth. ‘Spread, back like you were. Arms and legs.’
He took the other banana between her legs as she strained up to see with an ‘Ooomph?—’ as his hand shot to the banana in her mouth as though it were a joystick to drive her head back to the floor.
‘Stay back. I’ll take care of this.’
He circled the banana at her wet vulva then started to slowly push it inside her, as she moaned and wriggled, and she thought how pervertedly impertinent that her gagged moans could be protest or arousal and he couldn’t know - could he? Or maybe, she didn’t know either, because upon a big ‘MMMF!’ when the roughness of the banana brushed her outer labia, her mews of submission once it accessed the wet soft inner passage seemed to reassure them both that this fruity phallus play was something as legit as schoolwork.
‘Spread your legs—’ he shoved one curling thigh away, ‘I don’t want to have to tie them to the table legs.’
His curt tone had her duly re-spread, to be checked on both ends like an inspector satisfied both sets of lips were tightly encasing their afternoon snack.
‘All done, Mowgli,’ as he went to sit back down. ‘Now keep absolutely still and quiet till the end of the film if you want any chance of eating them.’
He unpaused the film.
She stared over the banana as her heart raced, oh god, all she’s done is ask for some food, some fruit, and now she looked like the fruitcake, two bananas shoved inside her - like he said, Mowgli from the Jungle Book, gone obscenely wrong - she’d spelled her own fortune on this one! Refusing the bananas this morning had her now impaled like Joan, or any other of his pursuits, was she was just another of Neill’s women? And why was she enjoying being one? Stop fucking thumping, vagina, or maybe not… thumping like muffled music in the backstage of her clitoris, where a conspicuous yellow intruder had all-access pass like a gun held to the private space there.
‘Are you ok?’ he asked a few minutes later, noticing the banana bobbing on her face like a ball on a seal’s nose.
Film still playing, he crouched back down next to her to place his hand on it as she nodded.
‘What a lucky pair of bananas, hmm? They’re being such perfect gentlemen to you. Do you think when they fell off the tree they knew where they were headed?’
‘Mmmngh.’ Sparks of indignation seemed to lubricate these gentlemen even more, as his eyes caught on the flinches in her pelvis.
‘Do you prefer to keep Mr South still, or move him around? Nod for me. …Still?’
No nod.
‘Moving?’
She nodded.
Intrigue lit in his eyes, he obviously liked that choice. ‘Of course, this one is far luckier,’ as he nudged it back and forth. ‘Mr North is so jealous,’ as he took his hand to the banana in her mouth and raised his eyebrows expectantly as her lips duly suctioned up and down the skin. ‘Mm. Good. …Do you thick they should swap places?’
‘Mmmgh…’
He pulled out both bananas as she gasped with surprise, and then in a flash, the cunt-warm Mr South was lodged in her mouth, and her saliva-warmed North, without pause, up in the other.
‘Ohm—mmmghh!’
‘There there. All good,’ he whispered, as her face flushed anew, rotating both bananas like screws into her teeth and tongue and walls and flesh that all felt like one confused, abused, amused orifice now. ‘You might not like speckled bananas but they like you.’
She almost laughs out both bananas, as his hand comes to straighten Mr North and subdue her mirth, looking to the climactic action on the film behind her whilst she is lulled into suckling submission again, for somehow, Neill’s conviction of their games - however ridiculous, and this one topped the lot - drove the proceedings, however humiliating, into a firm direction that stamped out room for embarrassment, like right now, watching a war film like passing traffic, whilst he held a banana up inside his 16-year old pet like a petrol pump into his car, reassuring her it’s ok by gagging her with another - it was the nonchalance with which he did it, as she fawn-eyed him over her jungle lolly - that made him, in turn, as he said of her, ‘mesmerise and astound’ her, enough to keep that banana in her mouth as though it could be fixed there by Pritt Stick.
He drew a breath and pulled Mr South halfway out, back in, and out again.
‘Oh, look at that. You’re creaming all over him. He’s loving his turn.’
She moaned rapidly now, her knees raising, pelvis nudging up from the floor - as he reached for the remote.
‘Film’s over.’ He plucked out the drooping banana from her mouth. ‘Sit up. The other one’s staying where he is.’
Sitting up like coming round from an operation, looking askance at the banana sticking out from her vagina like a medical probe, she watched him sit down in front of her and begin to peel the other banana as slowly and thoughtfully as he once did in his office.
‘Remember this?’ He presented it between his knees. ‘Come finish your lunch, Natalia.’
She scrambled up. Post-operation meal time.
‘Listen,’ he held it back an inch, ‘eat it by sucking it. All the way through, no biting at any time. If you do, I’ll turn you round, take that banana out of your cunt and stick it somewhere else, do you understand?’
She nodded, half out of hunger just to eat the damn banana.
Sucking one was a novel experience, as it warmed into a cream, an almost fizzing sensation… and as above, and so below… and almost unconsciously, she rocked back and forth, in tandem with both bananas, seemingly in a match now - of which would disintegrate first.
‘Oh fuck, just look at that. You’re a virgin having a threesome. That’s got to be the horniest thing I’ve ever seen.’
Enjoying feeling like an x-rated banana porn star, partly because the banana tasted so good, and her mouth felt like the warm wet cunt that was prolapsing its mushed banana like rainfall to gravity.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘I think I’m going to come in my pants just watching you…’
An urgency in her vagina and vulva was building like a rocket fuel as she lapsed into sideways jolts with moans of urgency.
‘Please make me come,’ she begged now. ‘Please touch my clit…’
The banana she was sucking collapsed in half. He caught it and tossed it onto the plate on the floor.
‘Turn your bottom to me, and suck and lick off the rest of it from there.’
Like a dog sniffing into the cold remains of a family dinner, he took hold of the banana between her legs like the lever in a ship deck and drove it inside her now as she gasped and stalled.
‘Lick that up as fast as you want your clit wanked.’
She began to lap it up, breaking only to release a loud moan as his fingers finally latched upon her clit, but at the same time, he moved the banana faster, and to her surprise the combination of actions accelerated a tremendous rising now: of all the waiting, all the perversity, all her warped love for Neill, wanted a release, right now, and she shook, shuddered, and gasped, into a tumbling, distinctly clitoral orgasm with a set of new background singers of vagina and banana and fingers all exploding together, tooth and Neill, into a full-body firework display that popped and fizzled.
‘Ahhh, my god. Ah, ah— Oh my god, Neill, yes yes… yes...’
Yesses on repeat like a stuck record till it died out and a piece of banana fell to the plate like the vacuum had been unplugged, and her body collapsed forward, and in that sublime bliss, the whole absurdity of bananas and cunts and spread eagles and war films was all good, all good, everything was ok; it all made absolute perfect sense.
‘Banana split,’ his fingers scooped a splatted Mr South. ‘You made him come too.’
‘Do you want to eat him?’ she panted.
‘Your cunt already did. But now I’ll eat you both—’
He lifted her onto the table, spread her legs wide, squidged the entire lot onto her vulva, and proceeded to devour banana, clitoris, cunt and all, gripping her thighs till she emitted sighs and cries of orgasm and then flopped in exhaustion. He tossed up all the chucks of come-mixed banana into his mouth, the room filling with a scent of mutual banana breath, sweat and cunt as he pulled her back onto her knees, arranging her bottom in front of him like a t-shirt he was about to put on.
He was going to fuck her now, he must be. Wasn’t he going to ask? Pre-arrange this deal? Get a condom?
‘Ankles together.’
She felt the other skin plop on the back of her shins then the sounds of him masturbating, as familiar now as the fire embers she gazed at whilst she stuck her bum out as sexily as he wanted, and she felt a hand squeeze her bottom, stretching her holes as he came with a groan and moan, that made her own pelvis - still flickering with post-orgasm - swirl anew in surprise. Then, pushed between her legs like dinner through a serving window, was the banana skin split open like a yellow boat holding a gloopy gift.
‘Dessert. Made it just for you.’
She dipped her tongue in it and withdrew. ‘That’s as much dessert as I want right now. I’m starving for main course. Make me dinner, filthy father.’
He stood up, pulling up his trousers. ‘Of course darling daughter. Christ, this incestuous talk is fantastically fucked up. Up, up—’
He grabbed her and kissed her. ‘Do you want me to make you a beef sandwich? I’m not really hungry.’
‘After all that beef curtain talk earlier? Sure.’
He laughed to the kitchen.
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6RtpTevb9d
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVk2kNX3Zkv
*
‘You want a de-bananaring shower with me?’
They stand in the bathtub alternating under the water, she watching his blonde hair fall dark and flat whilst he watches her dark hair get darker and rubs shower gel over her breasts from behind and gets her to put up her arms to scrub her pits and runs his hand through her crotch - ‘we’ll never make that not slippery’ - and her eyes fall by default to his cock where the water wets all the hair on his thighs and pubic hair and suddenly she feels this deeper love for him, the whole of Neill drenched there with her, soft and post-O’Neill-action, out of his stern performance and now pre-beddie-byes, hair-towel-rubbing lovable non-rogue mode, and she can’t wait to get into bed with him and feel the cool showered skin of the cuddly version of him warm against hers.
‘Neill, what was Luxton’s first name?’
‘Huh?’
‘Luxton’s first name.’
‘Oh…. Pat.’
‘Patricia. Right. She’s not… coming back to Thornwood?’
‘What? Don’t be silly. I would never want her back.’
‘That’s what I thought…’
‘Why, what have you heard?’
‘I heard Miss Barnes mention she’s taking care of something.’
‘I don’t know. The only thing being taken care of is you. No more talk about Cowpat in bed please. Christ, that could kill every morning glory known to man.’
‘Handy to know…’ as she set off into a volley of giggles and remarks, and he, gripping her tighter, brought his hand round her face, pushed his thumb into her mouth to the knuckle, prising her laughing jaw open in a protesting gasp, till she closed her tongue around it and eventually sucked.
‘There we go. Now sleep.’
Follow The Headmaster's Flame on Instagram at @headmastersflame
ns 18.68.41.179da2
