Neill appeared in front of her blurred eyes as smartly shaven and dressed as an Oulton Hall butler, in a pewter-grey flannel suit and ruby red silk tie.
‘Uhh… you’re up?’
‘I was. Mightily. But you, young lady, were so triple-Rohypnol comatose that you didn’t even feel him pressing right up against your buttock like Romeo howling for conked-out Juliet before he broke off to the loo.’
‘Good morning to you too.’
‘Kettle’s boiling. Forgot to say I’d bought you a new toothbrush yesterday. It was still in the carrier bag! I’ve put it in the bathroom.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ She sat up, pulling the duvet over her chest.
‘Natalia, why are you so modestly intent on hiding your pinkie and perky, perfectly postpubertal breasts that I’ve been having a staring match with for the past 36 hours?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ She dropped the cover.
‘Better. Your clothes from yesterday are in the washer dryer, although I couldn’t find those knickers of yours, and I saw that you’re back wearing them. Thought it was a bit early in our co-habitation for you to wake up with me pulling them off you.’
‘I thought it might be my only layer of protection from Houdini,’ she nodded one eye to his crotch.
‘So he likes to take a morning wander, would you deny letting your mutt out into the garden when he’s been cooped up all night?’
‘To take a piss up a tree, in your words…’
‘Not when he’s going deep diving later. It’s a quarter to eight, I’ll have to be off soon. I’m marking you into school today, to placate your Evil One. As you know, I’m with mine at the party and I won’t be back tonight, so let me look at you.’
He sat down on the mattress, as she dived her stomach across his lap, her smiling face sinking with moans of ticklishness as his hand ran over her shoulders and bottom.
‘It’s all cleared up nicely.’ He circled her back affectionately, plucked her knicker hem and patted her bum.
‘Wish I could truant to look after kitty, like you looked after me. But Dinkey’s sick and I’m certainly not going to nurse him to ‘alright pet.’ Are you going to be ok here all evening and night on your lonesome?’
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. But—’ Her body swivelled to pop her face up at him. ‘Is it ok me being here? It isn’t… you know, a huge risk, and all that?’
‘Natalia,’ he enthused, fingers stroking her nape, ‘of all the things I wish to solve, fix, placate; you top the list. What would be the point of gentrifying Thornwood High whilst the top pupil is nearly killed on my watch? Giving you food and shelter is what any gentleman would do.’
‘I can still taste on my tongue what this gentleman did to me last night.’
‘And what did we do? Tell me, in your lovely, dirty words with your face going all pink.’
She laughed, twisting her body.
‘I’ll tell you what we did last night,’ he continued, hand tugging her hip round to bring both her nipples into view, ‘we’re sticking a permanent smile to your face. I can see it. We are turning your life into one great big thumbs up. Lire du pouce, the French say; to do more work with the thumb than the brain.’
‘I don’t think dipping your thumb in my genitals and having me suck it is quite what the French meant.’
‘It should be. Do you still need pills, stray kitty? Or puff, my green lady? Does anything hurt?’
‘No no. Very faint now.’
‘Good.’ He rubbed her arm then shifted to rise. ‘I’ll go make you tea then I’m going.’
‘Wait…’ Her hand halted his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Don’t… stop.’
‘Don’t, stop, what? …Fondling you?’
‘Haa…’ She moaned softly.
‘Do you want to tell Doctor how you feel?’ he murmured, as she pressed her face into his shoulder. ‘Or do you want me to tell you how you feel?’
‘Ah… haaa…’
He stroked the back of his finger under the curve of her breast.
‘I already told you what most doctors would think of these, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah…’
‘And I said, no doctor would ever say what he thinks, but I did, didn’t I?’ continuing stroking lightly. ‘All doctors would think how lovely these are. Most wouldn’t say how lovely they are. And no doctor would ever dare—’ he cupped his palm on her breast - ‘feel…’ as he squeezed it upwards so her nipple bulged and she let out an intoxicated exhale, ‘…just how lovely you feel,’ as he dropped and cupped the whole squeeze again, gathering more flesh from her ribcage and continuing rhythmically and pressing his lips to her head. ‘Most doctors would only dream about doing that, hm?’
‘Y-yeeah,’ her insides quietly strobing like crosette fireworks.
He looked at his watch and sighed. ‘I would sit you in my lap and fondle you all day if I didn’t have a school to run. Completely inappropriate fondling, anywhere you want Doctor to, till the bruises have completely vanished and you’re trickling down to your ankles. I bet that would stick the smile to your face, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, god, yeah…’
‘Yes?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Is that how you want to spend all weekend, mm?’
‘Yes, yes…’
‘We’ll go to your mum’s tomorrow. So tell her you’ll drop by.’
‘Hmph. Passion killer.’
‘Not when you’re picking up your things to stay with Dr Fondle a few more days till I figure out something for my precocious patient.’
‘Call or text her?’
‘Text is good enough for her right now. Doctor’s still diagnosing. And now Doc’s gotta run. I’ve got to do Assembly.’
A big smile flashed on her face as she reclined on the pillows. ‘Do you know how good you look doing Assembly?’
He looked bemused as he flapped the duvet corner back.
‘You always look so, so fucking good doing Assembly,’ she pouted, hands crocked behind her head, arching her breasts like a petite Pin-Up, feet twirling - legs crossed to hold in her morning wee - ‘I think the first time I saw it I just wanted to go home and…’
‘And do what?’
‘Things.’
‘Hm. You’d better show me. You still owe Virginia and I three. We never got to do them up here in the bed, remember, and with you being Dame Quick Fingers, five minutes is more tha—’
‘But the last Assembly you did was really boring.’ A grin cooked on her face.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, because you seemed so… well behaved. Almost grovelling. Tongue-tied…’
Her giggling head indented the pillows whilst his brow furrowed. ‘Like you would go down on Mrs Williams there and then, just for her making you a cup of tea!’
She squealed in laughter for that miserable day was now history, laying triumphantly here in his bed.
‘Is that right. Grovelling with tea, hm?’
His hand went to his collar as his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and as she gazed back, he began to pull off his tie.
Her eyes fell to where he lowered it to his side like a red dog leash, before he reached for her calves and pulled her down the bed.
‘Hey—!’ she exclaimed softly, as he flipped her onto her stomach - and she, trying to look back, found herself in a laughing gasp - to feel him take hold of both of her wrists.
‘Oh my god, what are you—’
He pulled her arms behind her back as she felt the swipe of the silk looping around them and two decidedly tight knots fastening them together.
‘Neill. Nei—’
The duvet muffled her words as her face fell into it, and then craning - trying to see round, wriggling her hands and kicking her legs - she hears:
‘I’ll go make that sweet tea. Meanwhile I’ll expect you’ll do the same.’
‘What! What are you… Neill!’
She thought this might not be the time to say she needs the toilet. He disappeared downstairs.
‘Ohh, jeez… he’s crazy,’ she writhed and muttered as if talking to the bed, with intermittent gusts of disbelief as her fingers explored the bond around her wrists. Her vagina was pulsing, her knickers becoming hot and wet, and she realised what he meant about sweet tea - but it didn’t help her understand what he was planning to do. Another round of Thumb Wars? Or was he going to leave her like this all day and night?
She heard him return behind her and set down a mug on the bedside. A big tug on her bound arms, as he hoists her onto her back again, her trussed arms jutting her breasts up to the ceiling, her face reddening like his tie, her clitoris and vagina beating like a drum, as he stuffs a pillow right under her rump.
‘Neill—’
Now her stomach sticks up, chin lolling to her neck, her breasts inclined toward her face, and unable to see him in front of her, she suddenly wonders if he’s about to fuck her.
‘So let’s see how good this is, shall we?’
He starts to pull down her knickers. Oh god, he’s really going to fuck her. Oh god, oh, mum, help…
Knickers unlooped from her ankles, she panted and stared, her traitor of a vagina throbbing like it’s Christmas. First she can hear him slurping the hot tea. Is that what middle-class rapists do before the act?
‘We’ll give them a wash this way, then…’
She hears a gentle flap of liquid. She can’t see. He’s putting her knickers… in the tea? Surely not? Quirky as well as classy, and thought he said he only has five minutes before he’s got to leave?
Then he separates her shins, and she has this awesome but overwhelming feeling of helplessness, her raw intimate parts splayed right in her face, as though she is without arms, like a magician’s act. But then he does the disappearing - knees clunking to the floor as she feels his cottoned shoulders shoehorn her legs apart - his hair and ears brushing against the inside of her thighs, and then his breath right on her privates, and she feels with delicious delight for the first time in her life, a man’s warm, wet tongue on her vulva.
Hot warm from tea, she croak-yelps in surprise, craning her head up but unable to see him, then flopping back, disabled in moaning bewilderment as his tongue licked her privates like a dog licking its master’s face - long, slow, wholesome licks over the entire area of her vulva, whilst clenching her full bladder, as she flinched with disbelief and joy at the taboo sensation, whilst going round in her head was him saying he doesn’t go down on women! That he only did it with his wives! Too intimate thing, is that what he said?
‘Oh, shit. Shit, shit… oh my god. Neill—’
She keeps trying to look up, and flumping back down; he’s stuck on his face like a bidet, that breaks momentarily to take another sip of tea and say:
‘Well this sweet tea is really not as sweet as you…’
She melts onto his hot tongue again, his hands cupping her knees apart to the point of strain. Thank God for Miss Barnes’ Yoga making her so supple. Or maybe her suppleness was why he was doing this. Wonder if he ever did this to Miss Barnes? Fuck her, she’s gone, in his words - now he’s ravishing her student protégée… drinking her like broth, in a big dirty downstairs kiss where she’d only ever felt probing fingertips and pokey man thumbs.
‘Uhh, god. I can’t believe you’re… I can’t belie— ah, ah…’
Her bladder twinges like it’s about to spurt. She tenses, worrying she might urinate on his face. Then she squeals as his tongue hit directly on the sensitive bean of her clitoris. He caught hold by his entire mouth again, attaching onto her like a jellyfish, sucking like a hoover end, now beginning a consistent nibbling that builds her orgasm with a machine-like promise.
She is moaning like a tedious marimba now, with his underscore of snuffling and grunting, and the occasional slurp that tells her his shame is non-existent, true to his word, he would eat her up like that chicken, and she imagines being his fag, his pint of beer, held to his lips like his whisky; she imagines being Mrs Salisbury… oh, outstanding! And she knew it wouldn’t be long, couldn’t be long before…
‘Oh my fucking god. I think I’m gonna… I’m gonna… oh, shit…’
She surely can’t start apologising like Miss Doris, but it felt like an almighty sneeze of come and urine would blow him through the cottage wall or suffocate him to death… but at least, before his demise, she can squeeze her face into whatever expression she likes, that he can’t see ensconced down there in her flange, whilst she rides this sea wave of saliva.
‘Ffff-uck… oh my GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOH-HOH-HHH…’
Some part of her thinks she must sound ridiculous. She doesn’t give a shit at this point - nor that she can no longer feel her hands - she might as well be travelling inside the eye of a hurricane somewhere over the rainbow along the yellow brick road of Richard Neill’s gorgeous evenly spaced, fag-tainted teeth.
Her moans taper off as she pants at the ceiling - oh, thank God the Wizard’s still alive - unless only the tip of his tongue remains, now peeping back in an approving prod at her clit, shuddering her like she’s being electrocuted.
‘Ah - ha! Stop, stop, oh—’
He pushes back her thighs and lunges to snog her into a second orgasm, which comes in a mere five seconds, piggybacked off the last, slipping through like a second person through the door - or, legs - held open… and as she quivers in post-rush, he is intimating going for the third, but her bladder sparks a hot drop of wee that makes her knees fold closed like a Venus fly trap, easily now that only one of his hands remains on her thighs.
She hears the scrape of the mug lifted off the side, he’s shifting position; she spies the flash of his hand running through his crown and she wonders again if he’s going to fuck her, all wet, helpless and desperate for a piss… would that still be rape after two orgasms?
Then she hears a fast rubbing of skin, groaning, breath on her vulva as though he’s looking right at it. She can feel a hand, a finger, brush gently against her labia as though he is parting it gently, watching it.
She must be dribbling like a burst pipe, and he’s staring at it like a plumber with pound signs in his eyes, laughing all the way to the wank.
A minute of this, he’s still pumping unseen down there whilst she’s laid up like his Sunday chicken. The Deputy might be sick but the Head’s definitely sicker, with an Assembly of a different kind right on his bed.
His groans culminate into an almighty one, then ebb out as the tea mug gets replaced, the sound of his fly zips up and he rises wiping his face on a hankie. His eyes meets hers, both with post-orgasmic pink smirks, before he bowls her over like airport luggage, unties her, blood rushing painfully into her hands, as she turns and lays back up onto the pillow rubbing her pins and needles, watching him put his tie back on like a leisurely 1950s husband readying for the office.
And in just as gentlemanly a fashion, he picks up the tea, which is marinating her knickers into beige, with what looks like salad dressing swirled into the folds.
‘There you go. I cunningly spun you a Hand-Tied Flowering Tea. Is that grovelling enough?’
She stared at it, and then at him.
‘Drink up. Don’t wait up.’
34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4nBtRpv0pX
*
A shaft of sun illuminated the bobbing head of the mostly blind, mostly deaf old bastard neighbour over the wall separating the cottages. If she stood up on the kitchen chair, she could make out his shaggy eyebrows and found herself wondering, perversely, how much they would tickle.
Not as perverse as the last half hour she’d spent staring at the Flowering Tea she’d brought down from the bedroom, to eat her Cheerios whilst peering at its surface to see if she can spot his sperm swimming. Then she jumped up realising she’d better fish out her knickers and get them rinsed and dry, if she’s not getting any more pairs till tomorrow.
The hours were already sailing by pleasantly as they always did within the walls of Neill’s abode, where his energy quietly permeated the rooms even in his absence, like being inside the grin of the Cheshire Cat without the Cat… oh, quite literally this morning. She liked the time she had alone today to process what had happened. The Headmaster indeed! She thinks of him delivering Assembly right now, with a tongue exercised that morning on her, trussed up with the tie that two hundred pairs of eyes now catch on, oblivious to how lowdown he got for her.
Rummaging through his food cupboards at midday, she put some fusilli pasta on the boil, then sat down to text her mum to say she’ll be over tomorrow.
It buzzed back with an attempted call. And then:
‘Can u call plz’
-‘I’m calling over literally, tomorrow. I’m fine.’
There’s Neill imagining her sadistic mum shaking in guilt. When really she’s probably feeling her first pang of concern for her daughter after falling down the stairs and hobbling off to her mate’s with only the clothes on her back.
What would convince Neill she’s safe enough to go home to her mum, when the time inevitably comes? She hadn’t thought all this through properly of course, but didn’t care. She’d lost her cunnilingus virginity that morning to Neill’s tongue, the sexy tongue he moves mid-speech, oh god, let’s go upstairs and recreate it - holding one arm behind her back as she did - who cares that he’s out shagging Joan when she can lay here and blob all over his Brontë cottage!
Wiping her hand down the side of the mattress, she smelt smoke. Burning smoke. She’d forgotten the pasta on the boil.
She rushed down, heart sinking to find the pan boiled dry and stinking; flipping off the gas, opening the windows and inspecting the hob.
The stove was ok. But the pan wasn’t. Black and mottled, best chuck it, outside in the green recycling bin would be best. She’d seen it just to the side of the front door.
As she flipped up the lid and stuffed the pan down, she caught a glimpse of a torn Goldilocks page. She laughed - so much for him deigning to go to the charity shop. Surprised he didn’t fling it into the fire like Truth or Dare.
Over the oval gate, she saw the top of the red Royal Mail van pulling up, and hurried back inside, made herself a safe sandwich, plucked Summerhill from the shelf and had tea out on the patio reading the radical views of Neill’s ancient ‘old pervy bastard’ uncle, Alexander Sutherland Neill in the 1940s.
She flicked straight to the chapters on sex and masturbation like a moth to the light.
‘Every child who is suffering from sex suppression has a stomach like a board. Watch a repressed child breathe and then look at the beautiful grace with which a kitten breathes. No animal has a stiff stomach, nor is self-conscious about sex or defecation…’
34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUNHm1EZyIH
Neill rang at five.
‘Kitty! What’s your dress size!’ She could hear bustling noise and checkouts in the background.
‘What are you up to! I’m size eight, sometimes six better…’
‘Thought so. Ok, see you tomorrow! Find The Last Tango in Paris on the movie player and think of me.’
Scrolling the movie stills on Google she figured something sexually aggressive was happening to a woman on the floor. Famous anal sex scene, it said. She had almost forgotten about that seedy deal she’d goaded out of him yesterday, to ‘take Joan by surprise,’ since being busy getting taken by surprise twice herself. But was he really going to fuck Joan up the arse tonight against her will? Of course, the law had never been their compass, but had their deals taken too dark a turn? Or did she care? Nothing made moral sense anymore. She sat and watched Corrie, with one hand bringing up the search of Anton Tretchikoffs on her phone, narrowing it down to two, neither of which she could imagine as her dad, if she could even remember at all having a dad.
34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqP5EQ0Uonq
*
She stirred to find her neck braced in two forearms, a vaguely maternal lavender infused with a note of vanilla, and three kisses down her ear. Her eyes opened to a faint infiltration of light from the curtains, the clunk of the radiator pipes and an ‘arrr!’ of a crow outside.
‘What… what time is it?’ she slurred.
‘Twenty to six,’ the floral-Marlboro mouth replied. ‘Showered, and left - and according to Joan of Arse I’m driving, in that thick frost out there… to London, to see mum…’
He pulled her tighter to his nostrils, as now a whiff of Colgate dovetailed into deeper debauched scents of alcohol coming from his breath, underlined with the familiar Neill body-aroma falling into her like a spell.
‘Have you missed me? Because I missed you, my pet…’
‘Now you sound like Dinkey…’
‘Don’t you Dinkey Donkey dare. And why are you wearing this wonky wanky t-shirt? I thought I said no more tops in bed?’
‘Oh, I just got in all cold,’ she chuckled.
‘I’ll make it blush more than you. Off.’
She sat up, as his hand aided in pulling and flinging it at the curtains, before being restored under the bar of his hairy arm and his other one fingered at her knickers.
‘Oh, where did you get this lovely oatmeal lingerie?’
‘Ann Cummers. So did you get the arsehole with Joan?’
‘Oh, I did alright,’ his mouth tickling her ear.
‘Did you…?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘What happened?’ Her face half turned to him, as his mouth parked upwards to mutter-rant at the ceiling.
‘The shindig was a whole bunch of staff from our school. But Joan treated it like it was some kind of private date of ours. I confess I was a bit naughty though, kitty. I told her I’ve got a surprise for her. With a most earnest, gentlemanly face. Men who are going to propose won’t usually say that, of course - I know that twice myself. But she doctored it happily into her delusion, as she is expert at doing.’
‘What, she thought you were going to propose? And did you?’
‘Oh yes, I’m marrying Joan. I’d sooner marry you.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Well, in the taxi she deemed it necessary to query me about it. ‘Ooh when’s it comin’, Richard! My surpriiise!’ he high-pitched in a Lancashire accent.
‘Oh, perfect impression!’
‘Don’t interrupt’ - he smouldered back into her neck, flinching his hips pejoratively at hers, now squeezing her breasts like tight lumps of clay in his hands to trigger her giddy squirms that would then trigger the hardness in his pants.
‘I said, wait till you get home. And then we do the usual - I watch her giggle over a bottle of wine, and then cackle over another - I sip whisky trying to keep mostly dry so I could find my way home after I’d got her over the kitchen table and hitched up her Gobi Mongolian dress she’d been gobbing about all evening…’
‘Neill… your erect penis is, er… right up against my bum crack.’
‘Erect penis. So textbook.’
‘It’s rock hard like it’s going to practically perforate my coccyx.’
‘I’d make your bum crack purr for eight, kitty, and make my cock sick…’
‘Look, are you going to do something to me because I literally can’t move,’ she laughed.
‘Of course not. I’m just telling you a story,’ he now whispering as he sucked, bit and kissed her earlobe: ‘Ignore him. He’s just excited to come home to you. Keep hush and listen to my story and he’ll get the message and go away.’
She sighed.
‘So, I start fucking her from behind as I normally do—’
‘Oh, I know how she feels.’
‘No-oh’ - he intoned in correction - ‘I am only next to your bum, or your cock sick. Penetrative vaginal intercourse is like this, young lady—’
He shifted her up within his arms, so she was on top of him like the other night, but with his hard protrusion positioned right into the back nook of her groin at her knickered vagina - as though he were hooking, saddling her petite cat-like body upon a bulging mound of a huntsman.
‘You see the difference?’
‘Oh, god,’ she rolled her eyes as her vagina stabbed in the fullness of this audacious seat, and Twitch-turned-Bratwurst screamed like an arrow pointing ‘in here,’ in what felt delicious and delightful and yet somehow still daunting, like a kid trying the passenger seat inside in a showroom-marooned Ferrari with a watchman tension in her abdomen. No animal has a stiff stomach, nor is self-conscious about sex or defecation…
‘So… do I get raped next?’
‘Natalia, wash your mouth out! I am merely guarding your virginity. Preserving it—’
‘Reserving it.’
‘Same thing. I am first in the queue…’
‘There’s a queue?’
‘There was. I killed everybody else in it. Do you want to hear the rest of the story like this? Or do you want me to lay off, literally?’
‘Mmm… stay like this.’
Pleased arms swam round her in response, as her stomach muscles soften onto him now like slush.
‘So, I had Joan going like I usually do, but with one eye on the lube, I knew I had to get some on - there - in advance. My plan was to time the rhythm so I could stick my cock straight up there without pause. It’s called a high dive—’
Her stomach tautened again.
‘So I counted down and, to be honest Natalia, and this is the bit you’ll probably scold me for saying - but I was doing this for you after all - I thought of you Natalia—’
‘Oh, my bottom again?’
‘Well, just any part of you, and that’s what made it get, well, really quite hard - pavement hard, as you know of course - and it went right up there no problem, so far in I got to feel the boiled eggs she had for breakfast.’
Her throat grated. ‘God. I er, honestly, really don’t know what to say. Apart from, thank you of course, even though it sounds… urgh.’
‘Wouldn’t you want to do anal?’
‘Your uncle Neill said it’s a fantasy of a child with furtively hostile parents.’
‘Should be right up your street then.’
‘Boy child…’
‘Well, Dad has his moments when the rugby’s on. Natalia, you’re squirming like you have fleas.’
‘I’m just feeling for Joan…’
‘Bugger her.’
‘Well you did.’
‘Oh I did. Sandwoman squawked loud enough to be heard from Ripley Tea Rooms, begged for more lube and then settled down. Afterwards she was all flush-faced looking like she wanted to propose to me, but by that point I was too busy pulling off a shit-stained condom to kiss her dignity better.’
‘Sounds like a lovely evening…’
‘You should have been there.’
‘I feel like I am.’
‘Oh yes, I filmed it for you.’ He half-rolled off her to reach his phone and hold it above them.
‘God that’s bright—’
‘Let me turn the screen down.’
‘Neill, are you being serious. I don’t want to see a film of it.’
‘Come on, just a bit…’
‘Now you sound like Claire in Truth or Dare. Seriously—’
It was playing already, a loud sound breaking out of a woman gasping and moaning, waggling blonde hair from behind, vaguely male grunting sounds, as Natalia took one glimpse and now feeling sticky and nauseous and wanting to peel away from Neill completely, strained to sit up.
‘Please put it away. You shouldn’t have done that film and shouldn’t be showing me.’
‘It’s just a joke…’ He pulled her back toward him.
‘Let me get up. I need the toilet.’
‘It isn’t really Joan! It’s just some porn—’
‘How the fuck do I know, I don’t watch porn,’ she wrenched away again. ‘Well, except one time—’
‘Yes, just now.’
‘The night before I first ever met you. Funny that.’
‘How serendipitous.’
‘I don’t like it, just stop—’
‘Ok, ok… come on! You wanted me to wipe the smile off her face didn’t you? And I did, as I promised you.’
‘Yeah, but…’
He tossed the phone away and pulled her back into his swimming tentacles, murmuring, ‘I’m sorry if Mr Neill has been too much of a bad boy tonight. I did it for you… you’re my real Headmistress,’ in such a mock-simpering tone with a tickling kiss that it set her squirming into a grin.
‘And what about Mr Shit Stirrer? He’s not really gone away, as you said?’
‘No,’ he frowned down, as though examining a misprint in the duvet design. ‘I’m surprised. Or maybe not. Well, say goodbye, I’m taking him to the bathroom.’
He untangled himself from the bed, coolness falling around her as she lay there filled with his words. All of them - the repulsive ones, the sweet ones, fed into her ear, seemed to ripple her vagina with sweet repulsion, that it felt like something was pushing out of it, bulging a liquid, like a buzzing bee pushing out a sting as it laid to die and go to heaven. She wondered if she should run into the bathroom now and say, stop! Save it for me, I’ll be your toilet! Take me, take my virginity now, it’s yours, to lengthen your list of wrongs, or thicken its girth, or whatever metaphorical mirth you wish to insert here, you can insert yourself here - in me - let me take the place of Joan, I can carry her load, or can I? Or I could part-share; co-carry the cock cross, be your mini mistress alongside the Queen of Arse, your penetrated pet, your Sunday chicken all sage stuffed?
He creaked back in. ‘Bathroom’s free.’
She shuffled out to what she calls the baff-rooom. But oh Neill and your Barth-rum, where she will watch her piddling stream like Bernadette at Lourdes, and like the Virgin herself cry to the toilet pipes that now carry away to the sewers your sacred spunk.
She padded back in, and curled with a shiver back into bed, facing away from him, as he yawned long and loud.
‘It’s not even seven. Cuddle for a bit, then we’ll have morning tea and I’ll show you the present I got you, mm?’
He tugged her over, right into him - her heart gladdened - as his mouth sleepily nuzzled into her hair.
Ten minutes passed like this, her eyes flipped open at his hardness pulsing into her buttock again.
‘Is that the present?’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t you… go in the barth-rum?’
‘Yes, mum. So why am I hard again?’
‘I don’t know Neill,’ she sighed.
‘Oh good God. He’s not finished. It’s because he knows you’re there.’
‘Oh.’
‘Back to the bathroom we go, I guess…’
‘No! Stay—’ her hand flew to his arm.
‘Stay? Like yesterday?’
‘Yee… er…’
‘We have no tea. Hair? Shoulder blades? Palm of your hand?’
She was supposed to be thinking of how to have a mind worse than his. But right now she felt like the schoolgirl in earphones frozen in front of his Merc.
‘Lay down on your stomach.’
He rose up and straddled her from behind, his inner thighs brushing against her hips.
Her woeful worship in the toilet was in vain. The splurging sacred waters had a second wind, coming right over her arsecrack.
Right behind and above her, the noises began of moistened chafed flesh, shuddering and mounting breaths as her body jelly-wriggled along with it, with a perturbing epileptic quality as though his romantic loving desire for her expressed for the past hour or so, was just to place her at the end of this jiggling frenetic shudder, as one might place a sex toy - or a toilet - to receive it upon her back like a watergun, have sprayed into her hair like bird poo or a comical bathos squirt from an almost empty conditioner bottle.
‘Just stay right there,’ he panted, ‘and don’t move…’
But Neill had no shame, and she liked it. She liked that he had no shame, for it beckoned to drop hers too and follow, so as she heard his gasps ascend, she turned her smiling profile, held her hair aloft to expose her nape like a figure in a Wankerhouse painting as she she felt him come forward, and forward he came, right into that indicated space between her shoulder blades. ‘Oh, fuck—’ in a escalation of breaths, thick knuckles squeezing her delicate shoulder, with a big fat sexual, Neillian groan thundering over her like a storm cloud, with wind wafts of his cool exhales interspersing the warm drops of a man’s semen falling onto her flesh, in which he was now inscribing his finger.
‘I hope you’re not drawing a cock?’
‘N 4 N. That’s what they do in the toilets isn’t it?’
She giggled. ‘Very sweet.’
‘As sweet as the cream tea I made you yesterday?’
‘Oh, haaa.’
‘Did you drink it all up?’
‘Mmm…’ she smirked ambiguously. ‘Uh-mm.’
‘Oh, kitty. What a shame.’
His fore and middle fingers appeared at her face, laced with a slightly soapy smelling, oozing bead of white.
‘Here you go. Suck.’
She stared at it coming straight at her lips, as she parted them tentatively, thick and saltier than her come, not quite unpleasant - as he pushed the finger completely inside, giving her no choice to but to clean the lot with a gulp of surprise.
‘Wait, wait’ - as he stroked her back again - ‘it might have been a gerbil’s tear but waste not, want not. One more, kitty, and you get the shower first…’
‘You’re unbelieva—ulp.’
‘You’ve just had breakfast in bed, lucky bugger.’
‘Get off,’ she laughed, flinching back her bum.
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*
She was exiting the bathroom all deftly Sultan-hair-wrapped and towelled at the waist, when she found herself ambushed from the attic stairs, flung up over Neill’s shoulder as both towels sailed to the floor and her wet hair spun driplets on the wall.
‘Hold ON!’ he hollered as she peeled with laughter to be sailed buttock-aloft down the stairs, and set down lamb-legged on the living room rug, where the curtains are still drawn and he is grinning at her, and not looking like some cruel anal rapist or cum-finger-forcer but as amiable as the Badger from the Wind in the Willows, all dressed in a tweedy jumper and reaching for a bag from the sofa, to draw out a long, ivory shimmering shirt dress with cinched waist drawstring.
‘Oh, wow!’
‘Put it on, put it on! Oh, I’ll do it…’
He bulldozed it onto her then stood back as she did up the buttons.
‘God you look better than the mannequin.’
‘Despite the dripping bird’s nest hair, of course,’ she laughed.
‘You look really quite chic. Gamine, gorgeous. Well, obviously. Right, it’s cold, let’s get the fire on and make tea shall we?’
‘I’ll build it, I’ve seen you do it enough times.’
‘Good! Bacon and eggs?’
‘Cereal!’
He screwed up his nose from the kitchen. ‘When will you eat a proper breakfast with your sir?’
‘I would say it’s a bit rich for me in the morning but I guess something overshot that claim.’
Shortly they were having tea, cereal, bacon and eggs over the coffee table with mms and ahhs at each other in a renewed formality.
‘Be sure to prop up the wood, they need air between them,’ as he leaned over to prod the fire. ‘Definitely a nest up there and we’re not talking about your hair. Still can’t get hold of the blasted chimney sweep.’
He sat back again with his coffee.
‘So, how did you buy this dress?’
‘We stopped briefly by M&S. Saw it as we passed through to the Food Hall but she said it wasn’t her style. She wandered off for some flowers and champagne for Phil whilst I kept going back to the mannequin like a weirdo. Couldn’t stop seeing you in it. That’s when I rang.’
He sipped his tea sheepishly. ‘Hustled it off to the counter and bunged it deep into my boot in a plain bag, arriving back at Joan’s side to tell her, no, I couldn’t find the thermal pants I wanted.’
‘Haa! Thank you. So did all the Thornwood staff behave themselves at the party?’
‘Most fawningly. Happily Miss Doris has recovered and even drank a shandy, whilst Miss Francis got so drunk she almost began a striptease. That was a debacle I was willing to endure till Williams ordered her a taxi. Oh! And Butch Bailey came with her new partner - Luxton!’
‘Luxton was there?!’ she gaped over her tea. ‘And she’s a lesbian?’
‘Not just any lesbian. A non binary, two-spirited, bi-cycling, intersexual extra-terrestrial or something I was too pissed on Casillero del Diablo to understand.’
‘So at least Keith got your wine right in the end.’
‘Yes, after a wank from each of us down the phone to wake him up.’
‘Did… Lezton, cause any problems at the party?’
‘She was fine. Must have been licked by Bailey better than I did you yesterday morning because she was smiling like a twat all night, but she’s still jobless, so she’d probably lick anyone’s cunt - even Barnes’ - just to get back into Thornwood. I fear Barnes - who wasn’t there last night - is being headhunted by another school and we’ll have a gap to fill… so to speak. God, these cunt jokes go on and on.’
‘Do not bring back that cunt.’
‘Never darling. Even Phil joked about reinstating her, when he’s Muslim himself! Oh, but with the staff rubbing up against my staff all night, like a bukkar-crash of badly dressed oiks, I was cringing all night remembering you calling me well-behaved. So in reply to every compliment, instead of thank you, I discreetly said wank you.’
‘Excellent. You are reinstated.’
‘As what, darling?’
‘The world’s headiest, hedonistic Head-giving Head.’
They grinned and chinked mugs.
His phone buzzed. He leaned to pick it up and briskly swipe something on the screen as she sipped her tea, eyes wandering.
‘When are you taking me to my mum’s?’
He glanced up. ‘When’s best?’
‘Around midday?’
‘Right. I’ve got a few calls to make. As I’ve been missing my cleaner I’ll have to sort the kitchen out and change the bed linen. Relax and watch TV for a bit, or… I guess you can’t do schoolwork till you get your books? Unless you want to bring up GCSE Bitesize on my computer or something.’
‘No way for a Saturday. I’m watching a film.’
‘Last Tango?’
‘Haven’t braved that yet.’
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*
‘Let’s play it safe as can be. Slump right down in the back.’
‘My back is so sticky. And my chin still, a bit,’ as she wriggled along the back seat, hugging her knees.
‘Thought you took a shower?’
‘Seems like hot water isn’t enough. But I couldn’t push the soapy sponge down my back.’
‘Well, your soap-loving sponger of a mum managed it.’
He smoked a fag out of the window as they drove along the country road into the city. To be back in the back of Neill’s car brought back memories of their cheeky school getaway, and Stones’ Undercover was playing which triggered smiles of London.
His bemused face caught her purring the lyrics in the rear view mirror.
‘Jagger fan now, are we! Speaking of rolling stones, did you find any leads on your dad?’
‘There’s two that could be him,’ she mused. ‘But one’s surname’s Tretikoff, and the other is Tretchikov. Mum didn’t spell the whole name, so who knows.Mr Koff’s on Facebook, bald with piercing blue eyes…’
‘So your brown eyes would have come from your mum.’
‘And Mr Tretch meanwhile is hairier than a Yeti. But I need to pay for a LinkedIn account to send a message to him.’
‘We can take a look when we get back. Meanwhile, you need to gauge the matriarch. How dangerous she is and the reason for what she did to you.’
‘Right.’
He caught her hesitant face in the mirror. ‘Are you really scared to see her?’
‘No… I’m worried about what she thinks of me staying away.’
‘Hmm. Do you want to try staying back there tonight for a good impression? You could barricade the door and tear up your knickers as a rope ladder if needed.’
‘Erm, well…’ She fell silent.
‘Erm well, what? What’s happened to all that Brontë-quoting gall when I first met you? Do you want to go back with your mum, Natalia?’
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘Fine, because in my opinion she’s a marked beast.’
They pulled up outside the park as Neill glanced around in disdain.
‘Why is there a sofa in their front yard? Do the people of Gipton sit watching the sunset over the chippie as it rains for the umpteenth time upon their mould-ridden upholstery?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Ok. Be back here in an hour. Get all your school stuff - your uniform, your books,’ rapped the mafia man. ‘A handful of your own clothes, knickers, anything else you need. I’m going shopping up at M&S in Moortown. Don’t let anyone see or follow you when you return here. Wait for this cyclist to pass—’
A teenage boy wearing large headphones was jerking past wildly on a bike too small for him.
‘Not sure he qualifies as highway code,’ she remarked. ‘Ok sir, see you soon.’
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She tried her own key but her mum’s was already in the lock. She knocked and counted a whole two minutes, her feet grinding the wobbly front paving slab like a surfboard, before the door was opened by Mary in her jeans and crop top, wiping her hands on a teatowel.
‘Oh! You’re back are ya? Lucky I din’t call the police.’
‘What do you mean? I’ve been texting you every day.’ Natalia stepped inside, Ras running up to her ankle.
‘Go on, get out, Putin—’ Mary kicked her foot as he slithered through the front door.
‘Don’t kick him!’
‘I’ll do what I like. I’m the one ‘ere feeding him. What dress is that?’ She closed the door onto the dank hallway where there hung a smell of cooking oil.
‘One of Sarah’s.’
‘You’ve been ignoring me calls,’ as they went through to the lounge. ‘Sending those arsey messages back.’
‘I just needed some space, that’s all. For my own issues too.’ Natalia perched on the couch and reached for the remote to turn down the blaring voiceover of Come Dine With Me.
‘So you’re alright? After the fall and all? Did you tell Sarah and her folk what happened?’
‘Not really. I just said I hurt myself in Yoga.’
‘Oh aye. Is that cos you think they’ll be suspicious? If they know you were with me, ere on’t stairs?’
‘I just want a calm easy life. None of this drama that seems to happen here. That’s why I like being at Sarah’s. Her… folk, are easy.’
‘Oh? Do they have steak with jus, like those poncey lot?’ Mary nodded.
Natalia laughed nervously. ‘Well not quite.’
Silence fell as they watched the garrulous dinner party on the TV clinking wine glasses. One wine splashed over another guest as Mary chuckled softly.
‘Funny enough, I’ve been getting a bit loney.’
‘Lonely?’ Natalia wasn’t sure if her reply was in sympathy or correction.
‘Darren’s not round too much, busy on this new job, even at weekends. Have you been going to school?’
‘I had to have a couple days off but then went back Friday, yeah.’
‘You had your uniform with ya?’
‘Not all of it, I borrowed my friend’s. Anyway, why not get a job? Even a little one would keep you busy.’
‘Be like Judy’s mates and be constantly ranting about whose stuck-up bugger’s house they had to break their back cleaning? No ta. Anyway, have some lunch with me. Roast chicken’ll be ready in twenty minutes—’
‘Roast chicken? It’s not a Sunday?’
‘So?’
‘I wasn’t planning to stay long, I was just dropping by to see you.’
Mary frowned. ‘Why are you off again so quick?’
‘Sarah’s mum’s picking me up at 1.15—’ began Natalia, then wished she hadn’t blurted the time. What if her mum decided to walk down the road to check her out?
She was quickly devising a get-out line when Mary arose with a weary stretch.
‘Alright well, I’m probably gonna have a doze again in a bit. All this effort making a roast meal tires me out.’
She clanked in the kitchen whilst Natalia ran upstairs to gather her things, squashing as much as she could into a holdall - and that was just school things. She looked round for another bag. Face wash! Jamrags! An armful of rolled socks! All six of her decent dresses! Shame she couldn’t fit Scrabble in there too.
Soon they were sitting with chicken breast and mashed potato in the living room.
‘Well this is unexpected. Thanks mum.’
‘Gravy in’t jug,’ as Mary mouthed a large dripping piece of breast. ‘Why’d you keep wriggling your hand down yer back? Sarah’s house got fleas?’
‘Likelier it’s this one. Don’t you have greens?’
‘There’s an iceberg lettuce Darren got last week. Peel the brown layer off and it’ll be fine.’
‘I’m not having lettuce with a roast,’ Natalia scoffed, quickly checking the time on her phone. 12.35.
‘Uncle Andy called. Said you were trying to get in touch?’
‘Huh? Oh yeah, I wanted to ask about… something that doesn’t matter anymore.’
‘So have you tried to contact him?’
‘Not since he rang me.’
‘Not Andy. Your dad.’
‘Oh. I’ve… looked him up.’
‘Mm.’ Her mum’s lip pursed, eyes seemed to shine. ‘How far ‘av you got?’
‘I… well.’ She drew a sharp nasal inhale and continued eating. She didn’t want to keep her updated on what felt like her private special quest.
They clinked their forks in silence again.
‘I saw your massive bags out there. Leavin’ home?’
‘No. Although I am sixteen, which is when you left, isn’t it?’
‘And I were back again once I were skint! And unlike me it’s best you finish school and get some qualifications!’
‘You care about my education when it suits you’ was the answer Natalia wanted to give, but knowing an amicable departure was needed, she simply smiled.
‘You don’t have to worry about that. I’m on it.’
1.08! No time to change her knickers, she’ll do it at Neill’s.
‘I’ll, um, drop by and see you again soon,’ Natalia heaved up the bags. ‘Well, thanks for the food. Enjoy your nap—’
‘About this Sarah,’ her mum followed closely behind, ‘like I said, I should talk to her mam or dad. You say her mum’s in her car right now?’
‘Er, it’s her uncle - and he’s in a rush. I think you’ve left the hob on—’ Natalia nodded.
‘Eh?’
Mary turned to see the stove flaring blue and orange, whilst Natalia was halfway down the pavement like one of Santa’s elves.
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‘Thanks for opening the boot!’ Natalia clambered into the back. ‘Oh—’
Neill was talking on the phone, as he motioned at Natalia and started driving.
‘Yep, yep. I’m not sure about that. Well the board would say—’
She tuned out, watching out of the window, glancing to Neill’s silver watch glinting on his sinewy wrist as he drove, with a tinge of guilt for every road that took them back up the leafy suburbs. As his call ended, he glanced back to Natalia.
‘So how did it go?’
‘Oh! Surprisingly, ok,’ she began in instinctive honesty.
‘Really?’
She checked herself. ‘Well, she was moaning about the cat, which was unsurprising. But cooking a meal, definitely surprising.’
‘Trying to woo you. Guilt. She is your mum after all. Just a pity she had to nearly kill you last week.’
‘Well, we chatted a bit, Darren’s got a job and she… says she’s sorry about last week.’
‘She’s mainly glad she has someone to freeload from. But carry on.’
‘I ate some food and… reaffirmed that I’m staying at the mysterious Sarah’s, who is not a bloke, and I’ll get her more info on her parents.’
‘To think you’ve eaten, at your mum’s of all places! You’re not going to want food at Neill’s now? Your mum’s stealing you off me, I’ll show her!’
She laughed. ‘You’re too sweet.’
‘You might be right.’
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*
Back on cottage turf, Neill was putting away an M&S trifle, milk and sausages whilst continuing a monologue he’d started in the last five minutes of the drive, detailing a lecture he’d once heard by a Holocaust historian on the Nazi regime, comparing Natalia’s mum to the women of the ‘Wild East’ territories of Russia in World War II.
‘Hitler’s Furies, they were called. Tens of thousands of German women enabling the sort of mass, monstrous, murderous activities that we’d like to think the so-called gentler sex were incapable of. Even secretaries were at it, typing orders to kill. Can you imagine?’
‘Yeah.’ Natalia coughed, stifling a grin, imagining her Carlsberg-swigging mum as one of Hitler’s Furies.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘No, no, nothing. Well,’ her brewing smile released into a snort, ‘just imagining my mum shooting Jewish children in cold blood or administering lethal injections in death camps.’
‘I’m glad you find this hilarious. I’m close to getting a welfare officer - well, a fake one, or bribe that slutty little Miss Morgan - right over into Gipton to put the heebie jeebies up that villainous viper. That might be the only way,’ he sighed sorrowfully, as Natalia chewed her lip at the sight of Neill’s stout body perched on the floral couch arm in his Beatrix Potter cottage, turning over the Rubix Cube of her fictionally murderous mum in his mind.
‘What?’ he frowned back at her glazed face. ‘Natalia, this could be the greatest conundrum of my life and I’m not close to exaggerating. The thought of a parent pushing their child down the stairs - my own, precious kitty - makes me want to take hold of that rancorous bint by the ears and chuck her in the Cock Beck myself whilst I ink an official adoption certificate for you in my own semen.’
‘I just…’ she began, ‘I hate to see you so pained, I… I…’
‘What?’
‘I want to be honest with you. I have to tell you something.’
He paused. ‘What, Natalia?’
‘My mum… well. My mum didn’t exactly… push me. I, more like, fell down the stairs—’
Neill’s face dropped.
‘She just got in the way,’ she blinked earnestly. ‘It was an accident, really. Of course she’s still an absolute cunt—’ she hurriedly added, ‘and I was still very hurt, as you know, and…’
His raised eyebrows fixed a five-line musical sheet into his forehead.
‘So, you lied to me? And these past days I’ve been thinking what a monster she is?’
‘Y-yeah.’
‘Oh.’
He fell silent, his eyebrows dropped and she felt even sorrier for him.
‘I, I’m so sorry…’
‘No, no. It’s… well, you were hurt, I would have still helped you.’
‘Yes. I know. Thank you. I was just so angry with her, and I always have been.’
‘So you could go back now you’re better, really - and be as safe as you always were?’
‘Er… yeah, yeah, I could.’
‘And would you prefer to?’
‘I… well. Not really. I guess, just stay for a couple more days, well - if you’re happy for me to… what do you…?’
She waited in earnest for him to interrupt or rejoin in his usual way.
He shifted on the couch arm and tossed two of the flowery couch cushions beside him.
‘Ok,’ he muttered. ‘It’s time. Come here.’
His head beckoned with a twitch on his face that she couldn’t quite make out. Was he about to get… angry? For the first time, at her? Or was he just pondering something, or about to laugh it all off?
‘Wha—’
‘Come here.’
She felt a curious sickly weakness in the muscles in the back of her neck.
‘No,’ she half laughed. ‘You’re gonna do somethi—’
Her words tapered as she looked at the kindly warm hand of Neill now extending to her, maybe he wasn’t going to do anything but embrace her? With his unwavering gaze right now, he could well be a waxwork, have a ray of light behind him like the Jesus calendar, waiting, and now with a flicker of impatience, a final demand summoned her like pulling a string from inside her.
‘Come here, right now.’
She stepped up as though under a spell.
The next few seconds she would always remember in a blur. As soon as her palm met his, he tugged her swiftly over the cushions next to him, falling face-down into the sofa, as he rose up onto his feet behind her.
Before she could even think, he tossed up the skirt of her dress as she gasped in surprise - to a brisk strike across her right buttock - then her left, then her right again - with a break of all but one second in between.
‘Oh! Ow! OH… fuck!’
Each raining smack stunned her brain from even thinking, hearing only her reflex ‘Oh!s’ as if it were someone else making them, or a wind-up doll at the mercy of an unruly child, as each blow hit diagonally from low to upper thigh, into the unnameable muscles in her pelvis that twinged with controversial delight, strumming those parts that long ached for him. And whilst her face blazed with indignation down into the upholstery, her groin was alive with sirens; drip-drop, body flip-flop, her hands squashed beneath her in her chest somewhere as shrivelled and powerless as a T-Rex’s, whilst Neill had grown to the size of one.
She was being hit by Neill. Hit by her loving Neill. She could cry. Should she cry? Her dress was flapping one way and another, breezing air around her smarting knickered buttocks till he caught it and pinned it high up her back.
After ten hits he stopped.
A physical daze in her thighs kept them soldered to her sweatbed of cushions as strands of sickly sensation scurried around her body.
Wide-eyed, panting a little, wondering whether to turn around now, see the face of this new silent Neill speaking in spank, the language he always promised - the same Neill? What Neill was it? …Mum! Mum, with your roast chicken and brown lettuce on a Saturday, I should be home with you, where in heavenly hell am I! Here in some stuck-up village, my dress stuck up by some Southern stranger!
Her flushed cheek lay sideways to catch her breath. He caught her flickering smile as if he was looking out for it.
‘Do you find this funny?’
‘Yee… no no,’ she fought her smile from growing - gasped out loud to another whack, then squealed to another - and she felt the drippage that had begun a few moments ago, tumble out as though knocked into her knickers, just as he spoke again.
‘If you were older, if you were nineteen - and not this shy little virgin you still are - right now I’d fuck your face into that fire pit till you looked like a golliwog from those girly little Enid Blyton books you love so much.’
She moaned and squirmed her legs like an insect, her ankles hovering off the floor, as she feels that part of her, a few weeks back when she had that vaginal wet dream - the part that knock-knocked the first time she came to his house - tap-tapping now, deep inside her, like he could be holding his lighter to it, slowly burning as it screamed, screamed for something… and now she felt his trousered legs brush between her shins as he pulled back the elastic of her knickers like a cash drawer.
‘Keep still. Tell me, you’ve just been to your mum’s for fresh clothes and you’re still wearing the curse of these four-day-old knickers?’
‘Oh, oh! Sorry, I… I was about to, to…!’
He stretched them further till her belly pinched and her bottom pulled toward him. ‘Oh, and they look just like how you wallpaper-pasted my bedsheets that I had to practically peel from the mattress today! Is that how much you like being here?’
‘Yee…’
‘Here’s more—’ he continued as she shuddered at the tickle, so very lightly, of his finger swiping at what must be a piddling strand of discharge.
‘You must have really liked that then, after making out all this time how cross you’d be if I spanked you.’
He yanked her knickers to her ankles, and with a tussle of her hips, jostled her arms out of her dress, sweeping it off completely.
She now stood stooped, butt naked, turning her head cautiously round to hear him grunting with sounds of pulling, tearing elastic.
He presented to her enquiring face, her knickers in one hanging limp trail.
‘Can these get any wetter and sorrier?’
‘Uh…’
‘We can make it a competition between the two of you.’
Before she knew it, or could physically do anything about it, he brought the streaked gusset to her face, shoved it straight into her mouth and pulled the knickers tight around her head.
She squealed in disbelief, fingertips flying to her face as he tied it up at the back, her lips smacking and spitting in futile protest.
‘Although they get a head start.’
Her ribs thumped in consternation as he pushed her face forward and her bottom back up, so she was at a right angle with arms outstretched to the couch; the soiled hammock of her knickers upon her tongue, the elastic indenting her cheeks as she took in his next words with eye like marbles.
‘Let’s get back to yoga shall we, before that deadbeat Ryan disturbed us? But this time I’ll teach you the position,’ he clicked his fingers. ‘Head down more. Knees straight. Stick your bum right up in the air. Downward Doghouse, was it?’
‘Mmmph—’
‘Let’s see if you can hold that for the time it takes me to have a fag.’
Trying to steady her body and process what he just said, she suddenly felt a cold object placed on her rump, heard the click of his lighter like the casual ignition of a hob he was placing a pan on top of, then the inhale of his first drag.
‘Don’t move or you’ll get hot ash all over poor old Sarah.’
Did she really feel sorry for him ten minutes ago, sitting forlornly like the Willows’ Badger? Now he was more like Mr Toad presiding over the bare arse of Ratty, bent with a crystal ashtray on her back and an imminent tail hanging between her legs.
She stared down into the couch crack, idly wondering if she could see the glint of a pound coin, before wondering what would be glinting at her crack. He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table right behind her, puffing smoke as if admiring the view of the Alps through the mist that he blows like a Wind God through her legs, drifting up into her gagged face that is too stunned by humiliation to even register the cough building in her throat.
She wonders why she consents to holding this picture postcard view for him, and then realises that every slow second that passes as his cigarette grows smaller, her drool would grow longer; as his lips puffed fire, hers oozed the sea, as though he was liquidising the crystal right out of her. And this he craved more than his nicotine, whilst she craved to be of more interest than anything else in the world to him, and in this moment, he had her under a microscope.
His intermittent fag-taps nudged down her spine like footsteps moving closer, as her saliva marinates on her gagged mouth, pooling at the cloth, she reluctant to swallow, and just as the cold ashtray was growing warm on her back, as though it was cooked and ready, he removes it.
Without any prompt:
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Delivered in fast succession, by the time another three had been delivered, one leg had collapsed in a blur of quivering exhilaration, her sounds had melted into a wibbling cry, and she wasn’t sure whether it was from her stinging bottom, the shock of Nazi Neill or his hand now softly, tantalisingly, pushing into her lopsided thighs as his finger seeks her vulva like a thirsting man awaiting drops of water from a tap. And she finds she desperately wants him to touch harder, but he’s stepping back as though he merely wanted to check the tap worked, to be convinced now, as he tugs her down into a kneeling pose, that:
‘We got to the bottom of everything today, didn’t we? Who’s got the worse mind now, hm?’
‘Mmph-oo…yuh-ooo.’ She thinks she must sound like a monkey.
His hands fumble round her face to wrench the knickers up her nose and off her head, her armpits landing in the forearms of the Fire Man as she, like a shored mermaid, gets scooped up and sailor-dipped upon his lap as he plasters his mouth onto hers, raiding what she had sucked. And this sweetness combined with all that sourness made for a meal that spun her head now, after the bum-whacking this was now pure pleasure, like holding the baby after giving birth, his hand squeezing one breast whilst she realises her hand is at his hard lump, her head now brokenly bowing down to it as he detaches from the kiss and leans to pull over the ashtray.
He holds up the broken, bedraggled knickers, then dangles and coils them down into the ash.
‘There we go, their graveyard.’
She looks at it, then reaches for it, with one hand still caressing his erection.
‘Gravy-hard,’ she murmurs.
She raises the ashtray to his face like a begging bowl and with a sudden flicker of wit:
‘Please sir, can I have some more?’
She leads his gaze now, as she lays back on the cushions, somewhere between faintness and serving him a creative addendum. Raising the ashtray between her breasts, he begins to undo his fly, his eye now on the round crystal sitting between her breasts like the central of three targets, she now volunteering to lay under the receptacle with her breasts all perfect-pubertal or whatever he said this morning, proudly bared to him; mind as bad as his, she hopes at least, taking a deep breath as he rises onto his knees and the gun itself bounces out like a puppy.
Now front-seat spectator to his hand grasping and frenetically whisking this piece of stiff man flesh, still so new to her eye, all red and purple and pale at once, to the last throe of bulging enormity inches from her face, that with his perverted groan signals is about to erupt; and she is its target, as the helmet points at her chest, she tilting back in readiness for the warm drops that politely blessed her shoulder blades this morning, now erupting with fury over the knickers’ final resting place in the ashes.
She takes in a vivid macro glimpse of the spurting liquid from its exit hole on this mini-flesh-coloured volcano, its surplus drops crying down her breasts and rib indent - and she suddenly thinks, a smirk flowering on her face - that this is quite the Biology lesson.
He fell back in exhaustion, his trousers at his knees and pants at his thighs, as his cum-stunned cock hangs long and limp, he takes the ashtray from her and reaches for his cigarettes.
‘Join me in a bukkake?’
She sat up, rubbing a sticky wrist over her chest, holding out her fag to be lit as casually as though they were in the car talking Ofsted, perching her still-stinging buttocks as gingerly as her mum’s couch but not because the couch is vile, but he is, and with whom she’s now tandem-tapping ash over the slimy defiled ashtray of what he dubs her ‘sore loser knickers.’
‘I don’t care whether your mum is a massive cunt or a bit of a cunt,’ he muttered, head lolling back as he shot smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘She’s a cunt, and she’s blown it.’ He raised the remote and flicked on the TV.
The voiceover bursts on of Come Dine With Me on Channel 4+1. He turns down the volume and nods.
‘Ah, beef with mushroom jus. But I guess you’ve had quite enough jus for today, hm?’
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*
She drew the bolt on the bathroom door in a whirl of emotions that she needed an hour to detangle. A sensation hung inescapably in her body now, a serene violation, a scorching pang like hot liquid somewhere deep in her womb somewhere, loss of another virginity, that slapped something inside of her; pleasure, mingled with something else? Shame? Fear? And yet wasn’t she thinking just two days ago - even just an hour ago, watching her mum’s hard line of a mouth denouncing jobs and ponces - how fucking dull she was, life was, before the descendent of a philosopher who believed ‘sex affords the supreme form of ecstasy’ came to reign over her school and her bottom?
After her body being a stagnant pond for two weeks, the past three days had fizzed it like a glass of lemonade, bubbles rising to the surface from the laughing gas of the Cheshire Cat himself. She couldn’t imagine going downstairs now and discussing buying a LinkedIn Account to help bring her other parent on the scene, to find out he made the Whorey Trinity today on their daughter’s lips, tits and shoulder blades.
She slipped from the toilet seat down to the floor, and slipped just as effortlessly into another trinity; dirtied, filthy, irresistible… till a knock on the door made her yelp as though she’d been spanked.
‘Natalia! Are you in the shower? Dinner’s ready!’
She scrambled up. God, if he caught her, she might be bent over and walloped all over again.
‘No! I’m just coming! …Out! Coming out!’
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He led her to the table with a hand all soft, lovey and fleshy after having shot sparks with it, and now ladled out pasta with it, mixed with green pesto and pine nuts.
‘It’s a mediocre meal. But it hits the spot.’
Showered and wearing her pyjamas from home, they ate in silence filled with half-smirks, throat-clears and eyebrow ping-pong. As they cleared the table, his phone rang, he disappeared into the garden with his fag packet, and twenty minutes of garrulous laughter later was back in the lounge with a basket of fresh laundry as Natalia flicked through the channels, slowly spooning a bowl of trifle.
‘Landline rang twice.’
‘Ok.’ He sat down, crocking his leg over the other, motioning a hand to her. ‘Come here.’
She clambered over, seemingly to his approval.
‘Good girl. I didn’t have to ask you to come three times.’
She nuzzled into his warm cockiness like a radiator, as they both stared vaguely toward the TV, and he pumped her softly into his side, enquiring: ‘How’s your bottom?’ and casually pulled down her pyjama hem right to her thigh, rubs and pats it: ‘Ah, all better; not red at all,’ as he pulls them back up, then strokes her face, and she sleepily blinks to his fingertips that fall between her smiling lips, uttering back:
‘I didn’t come three times this morning either.’
‘Aw, I owe you one. Do you want me to take you to bed and lick you to sleep?’
‘Yes, yes….’
‘You liked that a lot, didn’t you?’
Her coy, dreamy smile has him haul her up with a paternal grunt up the stairs, into the dark where his mattress-dipping body presses his face down there - her bladder all pre-emptied - now able to fully relax, like it belonged here on his soft, firm flat tongue, deluging her in sleepy, horny chemicals of pleasure, finer and wetter a hands-free bedtime climax she could ever give herself, before he gently pulls the duvet to her neck and disappears back downstairs for a ‘Glenfiddich nightcap, and to ring the sweep back,’ and she is already falling into the most dead weight sleep she can recall.
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