She felt a bit like that time she had thrush when she was 13, or thought she had. When it stung and throbbed on one side, and she’d gone crying to her mum who shoved a Canesten into her hands and said, ‘here, put it up there if you know ‘ow to. You an’t been doin’ nothing with boys, av ya?’ And she’d felt indignation spark in her belly, right where a heavy arm now lay across, stretch-cricked its wrist and hooked her into a long deep exhale from prickly, biscuity man-lips:
‘Oh, it’s the girlfriend who’s no longer pretend. The cunt that is no longer off limits…’
‘Good morning too, lover.’
A groaning smirk as the sting subsides upon waking, into one low soft throb of remembrance that she’d lost her virginity last night not to a boy after all, but this man stretching his legs now in tandem with hers like four forked cats’ legs, from whom comes a thick claw sliding around her thigh and down her pubis.
‘How’s it feeling?’
‘Oh!… It’s ok… I think…’
He rolled her into him 45 degrees, as she rubbed and mmmed her mouth on the hairs of his arm.
‘Natalia,’ he groaned, ‘my morning glories have always been a menace, but you… the way you’re wriggling your bottom like that, is like the notes of the pungi in Marrakech making the snake charmer’s cobra levitate ten feet in the air… or an exotic Egyptian bellydancer, apeing a nonchalant Northerner waking up with an ‘ee ba gum, go slow Mr ‘Eadmaster I’ve only just popped me cherry—’
‘I do not say ee ba gum.’
He jolted his hips against hers, whispering:
‘Yer doin’ it right nah. Right on me whatchamacallit… revving him like Flamingo Land Resort’s Velocity ride.’
‘Flamingo Land,’ she giggled. ‘I went there when I was 8. Have you actually been?’
‘I saw it online. Not the usual long, pink thing I like to watch in my office on a lunch break but that’s Year 8’s next school trip booked in. And this size 8 girl’s long pink thing right here is ripe and ready for a…’
Hand between her legs, he pulled her up onto his stomach, shovelling the duvet down at their feet as she looked down to see her smooth flesh upon the plate of his hairy limbscape, pants vanquished; finally they are one flesh, illuminated by true daylight.
‘…Fuck. It’s past 8.’
‘Oh no? Shall we get up?’
‘Like I said.’
‘We’re gonna miss PE,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, but this is a very important meeting…’
‘I remember that line. That was a Thursday too, that we first talked, wasn’t it? And a Thursday I woke up like this, a week ago…’
‘I think so…’ as his fingers of one hand slid into her mouth, as though talking was no longer required, whilst the other manoeuvred her hip to shimmy himself inside her, and then gripping her in a tight backward hug like this, pushing more forcefully than last night, she gasped to feel that re-entry, along what feels like a sore wall dripping damp, like someone is blowing a hot breath onto it, and the hazy thrill of last night starts to circulate her body again, as his breaths, wicked in their onslaught now, bounce her with a moderate but determined rhythm.
His hand comes round to rub her clit, that feels too hurried for this tempo, like trying to put a piano solo amongst breakbeats, till he rolls her off, and within a flash was on top of her, locking her limbs down and winding the breath from her lungs, her clitoris pushed up against the sheets rather pleasurably, he inserting his knees between hers as if he is going to determinedly climb his whole self inside her. Recharged like he’d been plugged into the mains overnight, now 100%, superadded by the solar charge of morning, makes last night seem like a sweet, quick nightcap sip-trialling a virgin girl under the bedcovers. Now he was like one of those spiders with an unnervingly thick round middle pinning her down by the ribcage whilst her hair catches over her face like a thick trapping cobweb, and she delights in being the prey that Miss Barnes and Joan Grace Rawley and R Robinson and Han-Nah and Stockroom Stockings and whoever else once were, as the spider now grunts:
‘I have a confession to make.’
‘I’m not a priest,’ her smooshed lips retort, ‘although I can probably imagine being an altar boy—’
‘The first time I ever saw you, walking out in front of my Merc. Well of course what first flashed into my head was, what an absolute cretin of a deathwish schoolgirl—’
‘Oh you love her now,’ she choked.
‘…But a second flash that came was fucking that girl right over my bonnet to teach her a lesson. I’d never thought that about a schoolgirl, so I put it straight out of my head, disgusted with myself. When you came later into the office—’
‘Uhh god, continue…’
‘…I didn’t recognise you at first, but what made me remember, was this look in your eye, the same feeling of wanting to fuck you over the desk as a lesson for truanting. Again I had to purge the thought—’
‘I hope you flushed.’
‘I managed to vanquish the thoughts entirely but when you insisted on helping me with the grant forms and Microsoft Excel—’
‘Insisted!”
‘That’s when I deigned to look for legitimate women prey to take it out on, Yorkshire accents or not. But now… after denying and suppressing, now… oh God, I’m making up for every minute I wanted to penetrate you like Clarkey’s power drill in the tight screwholes of the wobbly canteen chair legs.’
‘Such a charmer! Two wives fell for this?’
‘Compared to you they couldn’t charm a threadworm from a toddler’s anus.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘In fact one of the reasons I fell out with my first wife was because I would roll over and fuck her first thing. She’d fight me off like a bulldog and the less I bothered to try. But you… don’t have much chance to fight back and something tells me you’re not going to mind…’
‘Consent isn’t amongst all those fancy words you know?’ she murmured, wondering when he was going to stop rambling and get fucking to a proper rhythm.
‘I don’t know it. Heaven cunt scent is all I know of you. You belong on my cock like a lid on a pen. And what happens if you don’t keep a lid on, hmm? The pen dries up and then where would humanity be?’
As she chortled in response, or tried to, his fingers plugged her mouth as his pace picked up, and she moans like a metronome as her pelvis swirls, and then tenses on guard that he might go faster, without her ability to dictate speed, but this pace he keeps, like the cruise control he once talked her ear off about in his car.
‘That’s it…’ he panted, like a man running a race on his stomach, ‘I can feel that. Your cunt, salivating on my cock… your body, moulding round my cock as you suck like that…’
His hair flopping into her nape, the sounds he makes enthral her… low growls of satisfaction that meant she was as good as the Embankment pub pie or the dinner party roulade; when he first tastes his red wine or takes his shoes off from work. The engine purr that fuelled his body to travel back and forth inside her like a time machine to the moment at the Merc bonnet or desk; his excavation of her unconquered space glows her inside-out with satisfaction for his satisfaction… happiness for his conquest of her. The way he would pause, recollect his limbs and grind himself further, and the excitement that the speed was increasing to pump his load inside her, but the desperate hope that he’d remember not to. A sudden flinching concern that he should be using a condom. A breath of relaxation that it must be ok because her Headmaster says it’s ok. Then a flash of, that’s ridiculous. And then a flash of, who cares. God I’m lucky. God… my pussy is wet. Prickling. Sore. God, stop thinking! …‘Oh, Neill…’ she moans, not sure what emotion is behind the moan. Duty to sound like she’s having fun? But she is. She feels her cunt whispering, shut up, brain. But she can’t shut her brain off. She’s too excited. The man of her dreams is fucking her. Too many thoughts of disbelief run through her. How does one shut their brain off?
‘I want to get you doggie style,’ as he withdrew and rapped her hips.
‘No way. You’ll never go slow. Next next next next next time…’
And now he is flipping her onto her back like a burger, and there is her dishevelled Headmaster crouched between her legs naked to his pink nipples and wispy pubes, holding her kneecaps open and eyes glinting down at his stiff skyward cock that has taken her virginity bareback for the third time, bobbing back for the fourth.
‘Neill, Neill, are you gonna…’ she shrugs.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot,’ as he gripped his cock as though it was a gun in his hand and she was a bank clerk stripped and laid bare, and the idea seemed to enter his head just as it did hers, as he grinned in a vibe of sexual drunkenness now:
‘I won’t shoot. Spread ‘em.’
She bit her lip as he insists: ‘You know how to spread, don’t you Natalia? Arms, legs. Let him raid you and he won’t shoot.’
She obliged, as his body weighted forward into her like shoving the gherkin in the burger and his body as the bap, thrusting as she moans in delight at what she knows by now to him is a sinfully tight pussy that brings him to smugness. And now his sweaty face is rummaging for hers and his tongue is mercilessly down her throat and he has her wrists in an iron grip either side of her, as though his pressing weight and squidging shoulder in her face weren’t enough to thoroughly imprison her as she, almost unable to breathe let alone move, feels a different part of her vagina touched by this position, almost at the place she leaked for him, as she softens and allows him to master her limp frame completely, as if his tongue and cock were meeting their ends inside her, a Human Banana Night. And after a good five minutes, just as fears of his ejaculation enter her mind, he pulls himself out both ends, and as she lays blinking in surprise at hot semen shooting over her chest, chin and cheeks - and another squirt hit her philtrum and dripped on her lips as a finishing touch.
‘God, there’s more than two loads there,’ as he landed on his back next to her, mopping his face on a pair of pants. ‘You’re the kitty who got the double cream. Water, water…’
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she looked over.
‘There’s only the remains of your whisky.’
‘That’ll do.’
She sipped it then passed it to him.
‘Now that’s Physical Education for you,’ as he drank straight through the semen-blobbed rim. ‘You go first for the shower if you’re washing your hair. You take an age drying it.’
Ten minutes later, relay-crossing from bathroom to bedroom - he yanking down her towel, she ding-donging his swinging limp cock - she spotted her knickers on the floor when she straightened the duvet. The gusset looked like a BMX track, as she scooped them up hurriedly. Neill might fawn over her wetness but she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t baulk at dried shelf crusts of the stuff.
He came back in, towel waist-wrapped, frowning at her hunched at the floor, hiding her fist.
‘Caught a mouse?’
‘Have you done my washing yet?’
‘Well well! Do you think you live here or something? Pop it all in there. Cleaner normally does it but I see there’s a backlog of your stuff I’ll put on now.’ He heaved up the laundry basket.
‘Oh, er, thanks.’
As he lifted it downstairs she shot into the bathroom to rinse off her knickers first. If today was going to be anything like yesterday’s lake between her legs, she needed something like Neill's forehead after sex needed a mop. She rummaged through her bag. Ah! A couple of spare pantyliners in the side pocket.
Down in the kitchen she chucked the rinsed knickers into the drum just as Neill was tucking a sleeve of her red dress into the door.
‘Goodness, they’re wet!’
‘As wet as they were in London, and right on the red dress.’
He turned and sighed at her crotch. ‘Oh! That reminds me—’
He swept out as fast as she’d come in; the front door opened and closed again as he returned with a breeze of cold, holding a boutique paper bag, from which tumbled a dark blue and cream dress.
‘Bought it in Ripon on Tuesday and forgot all about it. It’s been under the spare wheel since.’
‘Wow, thank you!’ as she held it up in the air, the tie belt dangling, wondering if it was a bit too mature for her. ‘More surreptitious retail action! Did another mannequin seduce you?’
‘Yes, looking like something akin to Audrey Hepburn, and I know it will look just as good on you.’
‘Me, as good as Audrey Hepburn? Well, I got spanked within hours of putting on the last dress you bought me, so…’
‘No, you are better than her. For Audrey Hepburn refused to be spanked.’
‘Really?’
‘Charade with Cary Grant,’ as they climbed into the car, all seatbelt chimes, phone tapping and the organ jangles of a Doors song resuming, as she shivered from the cold air blowing to de-mist the windscreen.
‘How unchivalrous would it be to drop you at the bus stop this morning? You get five-star quality fucking, laundering service, and now chauffeur.’
‘I’m honoured…’
‘I took you all the way now I should take you all the way. Besides, we’re late and we can turn up like two renegade truants. I need to buy fags so I’ll drop you before the shop.’
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*
Those words, loss of virginity. She felt like she’d lost her so-called innocence the first time she had a clitoral orgasm when she was nine. Or when Neill first hugged her in the bike shed, or when she first wanked thinking of him. Or even in the car when he busted her wanking, or when he first spanked, wanked or licked her… was the whole timeline, really, more relevant than the singular event of last night and its follow-up?
As she approached the gate she saw a late Year 10 boy being dropped off by his mum. She’d always been annoyed her mum didn’t own a car, and had an earnest longing to be in the warm seats of a private chugging little wagon insulated from the rain and wind and nosey pikey people at the bus stop. And now she laid back in Neill’s heated Merc seat each morning as though she’d been doing it all her life. But was this luxury forever? She wasn’t quite sure about Neill’s comments this morning. Five-star hotel service, do you think you live here? The thought of being back in Gipton, with her shambolic mum, and fragmentary references to her mythical dad spiralled malaise in the pit of her stomach.
Even A.S. Neill wrote in the 60s that it was ok to hate your parents. There was a verse she’d read in Summerhill that he said he recited to kids:
‘Tommy saw his house on fire
‘His mother in the flames expire
‘His father killed by falling brick…
…What was the last line?
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By the time she’d got to the building, Neill’s car was pulling in.
‘Well well! Natalia Molova!’
She tried not to grin as they converged paths toward the doors, almost in disbelief she’d seen him pull those royal blue trousers on this morning, let alone been bounced awake on what was inside them.
‘Late? Hard night?’
‘Something kept me in bed this morning,’ she smiled. ‘Wasn’t that your line?’
‘Shit. Everyone’s coming out for break. Oh, my god…’
‘Is that…?’
‘Kate’s back.’
They looked over to see Mrs Coleman, almost unrecognisable, surrounded by cooing pupils and staff. Her usual frumpy, shapeless knee-length skirt had been replaced by a cinched-waist, turquoise jacket suit. Her mousey brown hair was now a bob of sleek, highlighted platinum. Even her face looked younger - her forehead smoother, right where Mrs Clayton was now gesturing with high-pitched woman bleats - and what appeared to be an expert kohl job on her eyes and cheekbones set her blue eyes sparkling. She smiled with teeth whitened from their coffee dullness, a glow to her skin as though she’d been holidaying in Marbella.
Neill stepped over.
‘Well, well! Congratulations, Kate. You look wonderful—’ as he grasped her top arms and pecked her on both cheeks, and Natalia could’ve sworn Coleman blushed right to her chin. But of course, Neill had to shower a platitude or two at her, didn’t he, for he was the one who gave her the confidence to apply for the programme? Goodness, Natalia thought, 24 hours of having a ‘boyfriend,’ if you can call the Headmaster that, and she’s squinting her eyes like the stupid jealous women she’d always chastised in her mum’s soaps.
She shook it off. A frump’s a frump. She looked like a poor man’s Joan… and even Joan is dry beef, deplorable disgrace… but then, what if Coleman was a woman who’d found her cunt-a-leeny, or whatever Monica was going on about? Walking on to Reception to sign in, she faked a smile at Becky and opened the late book.
There, she stared at an entry from this morning.
‘Name: Patricia Luxton. Description: Visitor - and returning staff!’ - with a smiley face drawn next to it.
Her heart banged in her throat.
Her hips seemed to sail her straight up to his floor. Frittering the last five minutes of break inside the loos, she scanned down the corridor to his office, and just as she lifted her hand to knock, the door opened and Mrs Coleman came out, smiling from ear to ear.
‘Whoops, sorry!’
‘Looking good, miss,’ Natalia bit her lip, stepping back.
‘Why, thank you!’ Coleman enthused in a voice that sounded deeper. Had they surgically enhanced her voice box? Or had Neill just shot his load down there?
As she swished away, Neill’s face appeared at his desk behind the closing door, catching Natalia’s flared nostrils.
‘Nata—’
She pushed in, closed the door behind her, locked and pocketed the key.
‘Sweetheart, what is it?’
‘Luxton’s coming back,’ she trembled. ‘I knew it. You said she wasn’t!’
‘Come, come away from the door—’
‘You lied to me.’
‘Natalia, come over here,’ he waggled his hand.
‘No.’
‘Just come away from the door. Listen—’ He inhaled deep and wearily as she stepped forward, grey fur arms crossed. ‘I don’t have a fucking choice. Turns out Shaf wasn’t joking at the party. About bringing back Luxton—’
‘And you’re just going to?!’
‘Darling I’m bent over a barrel with this spick’s wallet grasping my gonads like a vice! Bastard threw it on me last minute! On the phone on Monday - Miss Barnes is leaving, he sing-songs like an Arabic Kermit the Frog - oh and take back Luxton! It’ll be great for Thornwood’s gracious image! I look forward to seeing the great news touted in the Yorkshire Post! Pecks my hand on Tuesday like a hungry budgerigar and says yes, yes, Habibi, it’s one of the terms I insist on!’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The Muslim wants a Muslim-basher back?’
He rubbed his hand over his face gloomily. ‘Turns out Shaziya’s community is a Shiite and he’s a Sunni and there’s a schism between them that goes back 14 centuries over who should succeed the Prophet Muhammad as leader of the faith.’
‘More like him succeeding as leader of our fucking school!’
‘Money talks, Natalia! As granter of the funds he comes part of our Board and stakeholders and turns out he can have a say on anything he likes, so I can’t just fob him off for the interim.’
‘So… Luxton’s gonna be back teaching me PE?’
‘Not for a couple of weeks at least.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she glared, her piercing whisper rising. ‘I don’t believe you’re rolling over and taking that absolute cunt back into the school! Talk about Mr Brown Nose! A lesbian too, welcomed back by a homophobic Head, what a joke!’
‘’Fagphobic? Just fadphobic. Darling that’s not fair. You know I would never—’
‘Now that we’ve… done it… am I a joke now?’ Her voice shook. ‘Was all the love talk a ruse just to get into… you know? Into my pants… and then all the hotel talk this morning…before you kick me out like my mum does to the cat so you can pork Mrs Coleman next?!’
He stared. Then his mouth curled into a wheeze of laughter.
She stormed back to the door.
‘Natalia!’ He was scrambling up from his desk.
‘Is the coast clear.’
He stopped and leaned to his computer.
‘Y-yes.’
She flung open the door.
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*
‘Fire Luxton?’ …She’d never forget those words, his mischievous face, the way it sprung that first small fountain of surprise inside her. That glorious meeting over tea last October, that Thursday morning when she’d given an excuse note for PE, then came up to bunk off Maths, and plotted to fire The Worst Teacher in the School with The Naughtiest Headmaster In The World.
Now, on this Thursday morning, she was on top of that world, bunking off PE together and having sex with the Headmaster who publicly said he loves her. And sitting back in Maths, after learning that the vile vole was returning to the school, she wondered if it meant she was on the way to the scrapheap of a self-professed love rat.
Part of her wanted to run back into the arms of that love rat and say sorry, I’m so sorry; whilst another part of her wanted to run out of the school, the country, the world entirely.
Was it really a big deal? Luxton had been put through the mill of a shameful firing, community service, months out of work, and had to grovel back. Natalia was still earnestly drinking in every drop of Neill’s explanation just now that showed how his hands were tied. Did she just hate having to see the Mafia God with his hands tied by anything? Was it Shaf she was really mad at? Joan? The pretentious world of money, deals, and brown nosers? She wished Neill could rise above them all like Jesus with his palms out, raising two middle fingers to say, fuck off, we’re not having Luxton back, for we fired Cowpat!
Going into Science, a breeze of jasmine and saffron came by.
‘Hey Natalia.’
‘Oh, hi, Alana…’
‘Listen, do you want to do town this Sat? My mum’s away on a job and there’s pre-Easter sales on. If I can’t find a coat as sick as yours by the time the cold weather ends I am dead.’
‘Oh, yes, maybe.’ Natalia thought about Neill being away on the golf. Then she wondered how much cash she’d be able to get from him, whether she’d need his permission and whether the necessary fat wad of cash for shopping in Alana’s ilk of shops would have to be pushed up her cunt first.
‘Er, can I get back to you on the time and place to meet?’
‘Ye-eah, sure,’ Alana smiled. ‘Well, you have my number.’
Ryan appeared behind her as they went to collect bunsen burners.
‘You friends with Alana now?’ he chuckled. ‘How did that ‘appen?’
‘And you’re with Sam, I saw. How did that happen?’
‘Nah, I’m not. She’s just got parent trouble like I ‘av.’
‘Haven’t we all.’
He paused. ‘Has Alana got a boyfriend?’
‘No idea,’ she began, blasé, then added, ‘why, do you want me to put a good word in? Tell her you think she’s fit?’
‘Maybe. But first you can tell your boyfriend that he’s two days late on the stash for me mam. Grass for no grass, remember.’
‘Uh? Oh—’ She tried to muster a retort but he’d slipped back to his desk.
As the lesson drew to a close, the door squealed open and she raised her head upon a familiar mutter at the door, talking to Mr Khan. One blue arm leaning against the wall, the other on his hip, as she heard her name said, and Khan turned and nodded right at her.
She walked over on legs of a doe, heart sinking at what Ryan might think watching from the back row.
‘I’ll catch you later Neill,’ finished Khan. ‘Amazing, truly amazing, hearing about everything you’re doing - you’re a dream Head for Thornwood,’ as he shook his hand, as Neill smiled wide, swivelled on his heels and gestured his head to Natalia to follow him, like a soldier being transferred to an army general as she followed out into the corridor where the end-of-lesson echo of scraping chairs in classrooms could be heard.
‘Neill,’ she cleared her throat, ‘Ryan just said—’
‘Third floor,’ he nodded to the stairs. ‘Do as the dream Head says.’
She went on in silence. Up on the third floor, doors were starting to open with the sound of teachers calling various commands.
He prompted behind her shoulder. ‘Go right ahead. Into Room 19. It’s unlocked.’
He followed a cautious metre behind her. Once they were inside, he locked the door.
He marched her to a table, pushed down her head, and before she had chance to react, her neck was stuffed under his arm, her skirt pulled up and tights down, and his fingers separating her buttocks, down her vulva, and at the opening to her vagina.
‘Ohh what… you’re going to fuck me?’
‘No, no—’ he said softly, whilst gripping her by the face - her nose between his fingers and his pinky caught in her lips - ‘how indelicate would that be after you’re upset with me, hm?’
She hears the crinkle of the pantyliner.
‘What’s this? Are you incontinent?’
‘Nuugh…’
‘Let’s get rid of that,’ he promptly peeled it out, as he rubbed at the dry friction of her vagina, then cued her whimpering wriggle upon a finger’s insertion. Then came the sound of his spit and the rub of tepid wet; a retry and a sigh, ‘We need to moisten this up. I have no lube. Girls usually carry Vaseline don’t they? What do you have?’
‘Ummmh—’
He reached to rifle into her bag, and she saw from where her chin planted on the table, his hand pulling out the Impulse can from the other day.
‘We’re going to have to be quick. Open wide—’
‘Uhhh, what—?’ He wasn’t going to spray her cunt wet? Or please say he wasn’t going to fuck her with Laura’s naff Impulse?
He set it upside down on the table then with a twist of her ponytail, pulling her hair taut from the nape, aimed her mouth over the coved silver bottom.
‘Neill what, whammgh—’
With a couple of goes, like hanging a picture on a hook, the bottle was engulfed to her palette.
‘Suck that like you suck my cock. Suck. Slurp,’ as he twist-tightened her ponytail, sending strands of sensation down her, including that of mortification that her sucking mouth was complying almost without her willing it, whilst two fingers mined her for oil.
‘Mmm, that’s working fast. We can make you wet even when you’re angry. That's good to know. Now deep breath, and big suck…’
‘Huhmmmgh?!’
‘Relax. I’m just giving you a present.’
As her rain began to trickle, then came a jangle, as though she’d creamed up Santa’s sleigh bells in the dark sky of her cunt - and then like she was the chimney, something was pushed up inside her; hard and round, just as he pulled up her stockings, launched her back up by her ponytail and patted her bum.
‘Oh my god. I can’t believe you…’
‘Here, grab your bag,’ as he waved her to the door. ‘You go first. Any of this spray left? Smells a bit cunty in here now—’
As though trying to vanquish the visitation of Bad Santa he was shaking the last drop inside the Impulse, sending a sad final splutter into the air before launching it into the bin.
Not knowing what else to say, she crept out ahead, glancing back to see him frowning down into his phone. She winced down the corridor. Something was dangling between her thighs. Better get straight to the toilet and find out what’s under her tree.
‘Hey, hey, Nat!’
It was Aisha and Alana. All she wanted to do is go take this thing out of her cunt.
‘Heyy,’ she said faintly.
‘I was telling Aisha about our plan to go shopping…’
‘Oh?’
‘Do you want to make it drinks too? You’re 16 now aren’t you?’
‘Erm, maybe…’ She stepped around them, to make them face away from where Neill might emerge in the corridor.
‘We actually have some mates of ours who are 18 and sometimes we er… use fake IDs,’ whispered Alana, giggling. ‘It’s actually dead easy to get into the bars down in Headingley, all the uni students go.’
‘Maybe. I have to play it safe—’
‘My boyfriend Ashton - he’s 22, you know - he can get us in anywhere,’ Aisha’s eyes widened. ‘He’s got his own apartment in Leeds Dock—’
‘…That she wishes to high heaven she could move into,’ Alana interjected, ‘and he’s like, you might have a fake ID, but you’re 16, nooooo way, José! Besides he only wants her for one thing and she’s already gave him it on the first date!’
Aisha squealed and arm-jabbed Alana. ‘For real?!’
‘Are you… ok?’ Alana glanced down Natalia’s crossed knees.
‘Yeah, just bursting for the loo.’
‘Oh, ok, don’t let us stop you!’ Alana hooted in laughter.
Natalia frowned as she went on. Did she really want to go fake-ID-drinking with these harpies?
In the loo she finally pulled down her pants. There was a shiny silver key hanging between her legs. As she pulled, white ears and a red bow appeared. She was giving birth to a miniature plastic head of Hello Kitty. Attached to it was a decorative band that said:
‘Home Sweet Home!’
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*
She squeezed that kitty so hard in her hand all through lunch and IT that when she finally took it to the cottage keyhole it was as hot and moist as when she’d pulled it from her cunt.
There by the handle was a small white sign sellotaped to the wood. A crudely drawn Hello Kitty face - that in itself set off her giggles - next to his handwriting, that said:
‘Open me slowly!!’
She put the tip of her shining key to the lock, dribbling just to watch the kitty head swinging from the key as it opened. Oh good god. They might as well put a sign up saying Pussy Cottage.
Stepping in, she squealed - as something furry, and squidgy - bolted out past her ankle.
‘Oh…oh! Rasputin!’
Her white-grey cat was standing a few tiles up the path, looking round at her, tail curling from side to side, as Natalia went as still as a statue, lowering to her knees.
‘Ras…pss, pss…’ She chafed her fingertips earnestly and smacked her lips. ‘Ras, come here! Come to Natalia… please, please don’t run off…’
To her relief he strolled back, rubbing against her knee, as she firmly cupped his belly.
She carried him in and plopped him on the rug. A makeshift litter tray was set up in a baking tray with torn school papers near the window. Then she looked up and smiled at the dark blue dress hanging on the bookshelves.
She whisked it upstairs and transformed herself in a flash from drab schoolgirl to something of illustrious feminine poetry. Audrey Hepburn indeed! Gazing in the bedroom’s full length mirror, she spun the navy blue fabric and the three inches of cream-white hem rang out around her knees like a flower. The blue set off the olive radiance of her skin; shoulders, neck and arms. The cream-white fabric belt, tied up flat, shrunk her waist from dainty to daintier; one side in a bow as though she were to be unwrapped by no-one but He, who would soon be home and pronounce himself astounded and mesmerised as she danced, dithered and denied him three times before his cock crowed and claimed her virginity all over again.
‘Do you like it, kitty?’ she laughed as Ras appeared at the top of the stairs, his back all hunched low as he crept like a burglar sniffing the carpet, and she giggled to imagine how on earth Neill got him here. Was his crazy, impertinent genius accidental? Puts a key up her pussy for her to open the door to her pussy!
In two days she’d lost her virginity, gained a boyfriend, been told he loves her and asked her to move in. Goodness! Sugar magazine told her these four milestones would take till her mid twenties! Alana and Aisha can get in anywhere with 22-year old Ashton, except his flat! But Natalia had the Head in her hands! She was the kitty with double cream! She flitted down to the lounge in flows and spins, grinning into every mirror, and then guffawed in laughter.
Ah! That was it.
‘Tommy saw his house on fire
‘His mother in the flames expire
‘His father killed by falling brick
‘And Tommy laughed - till he was sick.’
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*
Gazing out onto the garden where late afternoon sun was licking the shed window, wondering if the stage curtains were still stowed inside there, and whether it would be safe to go peer into it - or whether the neighbour would see her and really believe she was Neill’s daughter in this comely dress - a clunk of the front door and the words behind her confirmed:
‘Is this a schoolgirl I see before me?’
She turned to see him standing at the kitchen door, the blonde roots of his centre-parting upon his high forehead lit by a shard of sunshine.
‘You like the dress?’ she smiled coyly.
‘Yes, but more who’s in it. Turn around.’
With a sudden air of confidence to give the dress a full twirl of its skirts, it flared up dramatically around her, finishing just as the brief but perfectly timed spotlight of March sunshine faded behind a cloud and the kitchen grew dim again.
‘As good as Audrey Hepburn or… Kate Coleman?’ she laughed.
‘Coleman like Audrey Hepburn? She’s more like…’
‘Audrey Platt.’ She paused at his blank face. ‘Corrie, Neill. Thought you knew your soaps?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I guess I have good taste.’
‘In TV, dresses or schoolgirls?’
‘In gifts.’ He held the Hello Kitty keyring up in the air. ‘Do we have to go putting this one back in its giftbox to stop you leaving it swinging from the door?’
‘Oh!! I’m so sorry!’
‘Keep it safe please.’
‘I will, I will…’
‘Did you find your other present?’
‘Yes! Yes, oh my god, Neill! Thank you so, so—’
She stepped forward and threw her arms round his neck, one ankle raising like a housewife as he comically choked, then murmured as he took her face into his palms: ‘This place is turning into a rescue shelter of pussy,’ as he kissed her, hands squeezing down her breasts, sculpting round her hips, then diving right into the crack of her bottom as she muffled a laugh into his armpit and gazed up his collarbone.
‘Shall I pour your whisky?’
He blinked down at the cat rubbing against her ankle.
‘Whisky, Whiskas… I suspect I’ve whisked myself down to second priority.’
‘No no way—’ she laughed, ran to the cupboard to plant one hand on his glass, the other on the neck of Monkey Shoulder, and a few ice bangs later, straddled him on the couch with her dress flared over him like a chic parachute, feeding him the rim as he obliged his lips to it.
‘Mmm. You’ve turned into a girlfriend better than any pet.’
‘Sweetest pet in the world, Mick Shagger?’
‘But I haven’t got either of my pets any food in. Haven’t had chance to go shopping, let’s order a takeaway. Chinese?’ He whipped out his phone.
‘Oh! And what with my cat here, it’ll really be like at home!’
‘Well you are, aren’t you?’
He app-tapped whilst she held up the glass between his words like quenching water to a runner. ‘Best get in before the evening rush. But the only Chinese open at the moment is… one in Crossgates. Hmm, affordable though, I’ll give them that! Let’s see… Singapore rice noodles? Sweet and sour pork? Dumplings? Hoisin duck? Spring rolls?’ …Upon each she would murmur in assent, disproval or incognisance, prioritising the pressing of her lips upon his husky cheek and jaw, from which she’d catch every muscle glimmer till he finally put down his phone in a satisfied exhale of dinner sorted, took the whisky from her, squeezed and nuzzled into her in a reciprocal pace of adoration now:
‘Darling, I’m really sorry about Luxton…’
‘Mmmm…’
‘I lied because I was so pissed off, like you were…’
The whisky in his hand curled around her back, whilst she slow-blinked at his parted lips, then along each line in his skin, how his age seemed somehow so beautiful and alluring to her, everything about him, and now the cock that he’d talked her ear off about for so long, had been inside her, which she still softly ached from, in the way he’d pushed parts of her emotionally for so long - and today had pushed another new track.
‘You know I would never want her back, darling… you know that, don’t you? I’ll figure something out… I don’t know what yet…’
As though the little old PE teacher were some lover in their triangle, some fiend that threatened their undoing, he seemed to get it, he seemed to get how important was that first meeting of theirs; he must have caught the fire in her eye in his office, and in his eyes held now the embers.
‘It’s ok, it’s ok…’
She smiles, quietly overwhelmed by his sweetness, burrowing and chafing her groin into the sleeping lion of his lap, whose face now bore the sweet imploring innocence of a cub, one that didn’t even seem interested in her breasts and arse or cunt right in this moment, but devoutly searching into her eyes for forgiveness like she really was the priestess.
‘I love you,’ the words jump through her lips… ‘I love you I love you I love you I…’
She kissed his scarlet-mottled, pulsing neck in the places sore from shaving, whilst she writhes and rubs her own sore pulsing spot into his crotch, in the way she’d always wanted to do, and it feels good, as though seeping holy waters to heal the tribulation of today; the rollercoaster from good to bad to good again.
They both look down to Ras deliriously sniffing and itching his nose on Neill’s shoe.
‘Two pussies rubbing up against me, my God. I know which one I don’t mind being covered in hairs from.’
‘Well, you said you wanted to know why a man would want two?’ she giggled.
‘Actually you’re the lucky girl, having a threesome with two men.’
‘Two men… now that would be sore,’ as she backs up off his lap, and he flashes a comprehending glance down her body, and she turned round to perch on his end of his knees, leaning down to stroke Ras.
‘So how did you get him?’
‘Cunning and crafty wiles,’ he patted her to get up, set down the whisky glass and rose over to the cabinet. ‘Sarah’s dad called up your mum at last - right after you left my office.’
He took out what looked like a joint and clicked his lighter.
‘Wait, Sarah’s dad is…?’
He inhaled and puffed. ‘Looking right at yer, lass.’
She squealed in laughter. ‘Oh my god… you didn’t?! With your shite Yorkshire accent?’
‘I’ll ‘av u know I’ve had plenty o’practise hangin’ around wi’ you, Tom, Dick and Harry too!’ as he handed her the joint.
‘My god! You pretended to be… a daddy?’ She duly took the joint and dragged.
‘Am I so unbelievably not?’
‘Oh no no, you’re an absolutely great one,’ she laughed as she reached to tap into the - now gleaming clean - ashtray.
‘Really?’
‘But shouldn’t Sarah’s dad have a posh accent like you?’ She puffed and handed him back the joint.
‘No, no! Wun’t be as fun, would it? I just told ‘er I’m keeping ‘er lass out of harm’s way! Threw in some jokes about Jeremy Beadle to break the ice, but she was the one to first mention the cat - right at her feet she said, stuffing his face with Posh Cat Biscuits. And I said ooh, the little tyke, we eat those too! Keep him indoors, I said, we’ll order a pet courier, and he can join us and the girls, how’s about that then?’
‘Er, Yorkshire people don’t all use Jimmy Savile’s catchphrases Neill. In fact, since 2012 they actively avoid it…’
‘Well as it ‘appens, I did too much of a good bloody job. She swooned down’t phone like a tipsy drunk at me! Natalia, I have inadvertently seduced yer mother!’
He handed the final stump of the joint to her with a nod for her to finish.
‘Bloody ‘ell!’ she laughed. ‘Then what? Surely you didn’t send the courier straight here from my mum’s?’
‘Naw! I’m not as dumb as your mum. Had them deliver Ras to school reception and took him home at lunchtime.’
‘Ah. Well, he tried to get out when I came in. But I caught him.’
‘Renegade just like his owner,’ he sat down opposite and unlaced his shoes. ‘And just as bad at it. You got caught, what, three times? All from dodging Games?’
‘Oh, I don’t truant anymore since we got a wonderful new Head who set fire to my report card one fine Thursday morning,’ she smiled, reclining on the cushions as her bloodstream starting to swirl.
‘But this morning you truanted again. I’ve a good mind to pull up your dress and teach you a lesson like a good pupil.’
‘Not if you can’t catch me.’
They held a gaze for a moment, and then she scrambled up from the couch, bolting to the foot of the stairs, raising her skirts to fast-pace the carpeted stairs in a squealing frisson as his step pounded behind her.
Her ankle was grabbed, crashing her pell-mell on the top landing; his hand latching onto the tie-belt on her dress, as she wriggled her limbs forward futilely like a rabid dog held back by a lead.
‘That was too short a chase!’ she exclaimed.
‘With me it always is.’
He was upon the back of her legs, plucking and pinning her arms behind her back, her nose pushed into the plush carpet, excited and intimidated all at once, as she choked:
‘You’re creasing the dress you so lovingly picked out, personal shopper!’
‘But see, you’re awful at this truancy lark…’
He hauled her a few inches further up onto the landing by her arms, straddled his knees either side of her, and pushed her pinned-together arms up toward her shoulder blades - as she felt a painful pinch from her own struggle back, that hastened her to relent - with little choice but to trust embarking the crazy rollercoaster of Neill as his other hand began untying her dress belt.
‘You see I didn’t realise at the time I bought this dress, or maybe I did,’ now sounding thoroughly O’Neill, ‘what a wide variety of use this belt is. You’re literally carrying something for me whenever I need it.’ He drew out the girdle from her waist with a flourish into the the air. ‘Pretty long this one too, so what I’ve got in mind should work…’
He let go of her arms, yanked her shoulders and neck up from the floor, as the girdle flashed into her face, and was fed into her mouth. Her hands came up to resist, squealing and laughing and shaking her head away, as his firm, gripping shush of persistence softened her into a sigh at how little use it was to resist Neill when he was ‘on one,’ her protesting mouth garbling as he drew the wide, linen fabric of the belt to yawn her mouth deep at her jaw, tied with such tautness like a stiff scarf consuming her face that her hands rose again out of indignation to fumble at, as he was now looping it down her back, pulling the ends like reins around each of her forearms that he strung up together at her shoulder blades in a triangular formation, wrist over wrist.
Now unable to speak or get up, her blood pulsed viciously with the familiar cocktail of outraged exhilaration, like when he’d tied her hands in the bed, or gagged her with her wet knickers, but this combination made for a tenfold vaginal stab of incredulousness like a hormonal teenager’s feet pounding the stairs to their bedroom.
For a moment he admired his handiwork.
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‘Well, that works very well. Gag and cuffs in one, one beautiful young lady, trussed up by her own pretty dress.’
After looking like some free and flighty Renoir painting, she lay there straitjacketed like a drooling madwoman, a Sunday chicken about to be - what? Poked and prodded, smacked and slapped like a 1960s newborn? Trying to moan ‘Neill, what are you doing,’ and coming out in impotent mmghs and rrrrs, she strained to see round, and began to discover that the weight of her hanging back-bound arms was tightening the gag, and that if she wanted to release pressure on the gag she had to keep her own arms raised up her back. She knew Neill had done something craftily and humiliatingly genius.
‘You want to play Kiss Chase? Then we’ll play.’
He lifted her tied arms away from her back to draw down the dress zip behind them, loosening the dress, and despite not being able to come off completely because of the tied arms, was dislodged enough from away from her body for a helpless molestation to begin. He groped through onto each breast, squeezing them up like bag handles to prop her upright as he foisted upon her like an unwitting doll; kissed, bit and gnawed her neck, as she helplessly panted and moaned to the same predatory adoration applied across the exposed flesh of her shoulders.
Now he turned and laid her onto her back, with her impotent groan of reluctance to be turned gag-up to the ceiling, face growing hot from both its bonds and now self-consciousness of facing him, as his lechery proceeded from above, pulling down her dress to catch her breast into single hard mauling bites like a lion on a deer, and then, billowing her dress half over her face to gorge on her stomach, inner thighs, down her knees and lower legs, pulling down her knickers as she started to smile now - well, inside at least - at the tickling sensation of this lower body worship, which felt warm and luscious and naughty and ohh, he can do what he likes because he’s a fucking awesome, cocky bastard. Then he turned her back over, as she gasped hot breath through a now warm wet gag, her skirt falling all the way over her head, as he pulled her bottom right into the air, followed by her muffled yelp of anticipation to what his display of savage adoration would deliver next.
To an onlooker, she was one big circle of dress, head and arms crumpled and semi-shrouded - only her legs and bottom exposed and looked all the world like a flower; the skirt as the petals, her genitals the stamen, into which Neill plunged his tongue like a stinger. Long licks at her clit and labia, then back into her cunt again as she groans in a double bind of discomfort and pleasure, his tongue draws up her perineum in a wet slobber to her anus, and as though he wanted to be Ras himself, licks it like a wound, pushes inside, as her sphincter resists in surprise, then relents to its next push of his mouth scoffing at her bottom as he would a Waitrose wrap whilst she can barely gasp at his gall.
Then ushering her knees forward along the carpet through the bedroom door, mouth still dipping at her crack like a fox who’d ferreted a big enough morsel from a bin to retreat to an alleyway with, she gets pushed up the side of bed so that her bound face falls against the duvet, giving him a stronghold against which to push two fingers now into her cunt, decidedly but with a modicum of reverence as they reach the silky folds inside her, before a more impudent thumb - after circling her paint palette pushes into her anus to the knuckle - pauses at her train hoot of protest, then pulses and pushes deeper.
Probed now at clit, cunt and a curious reverberation at her colon, she is flooded with sensations new and not, without being able to express or communicate her feelings other than through soft moans and indignant grunts, which seem to turn herself on further. Her arms cordoned off from this digital trio playing her like a wind instrument, which push her familiar tuneless moan of clitoral orgasm through a blocked mouthpiece, the notes crash into the fabric where her jaw is cranked open in joint delirium and disbelief to find herself trembling.
Was it fear? It feels weird, like something in her anus was radiating through her entire groin region, and hips, and she feels herself spinning out slightly… weed taking her hand like a dancer to spin her out further, and she wants to verbalise to Neill to touch her clit, keep the clit going, but the other two orifices are his focus and seem to contribute, slowly but surely, to what the clit cannot, and then she is exploding slowly - or imploding?
She longs to scream out and move, as a deeper orgasm bursts into her gag like a rare exotic bird flying into the sky but which splats into a tree in the way. His fingers retreat and now, he is shifting the head of his penis into the place that feels buffered by her high, only a fragment of ache hanging, as he starts to fuck her, to a rhythm she hopes will remain at a low continuum, till he says:
‘Oh, that’s good, I can’t hear you telling me to slow down.’
Her whole body now - whether the top half cramping from the bonds or the lower half now freely seized and penetrated - is a whirl of buffered soreness, like a paraplegic lifted by sylphs, in what was not doggie but more a version of this morning’s on-top grind, as he holds her hips fixed and seems to derive great satisfaction poking his penis slowly and thoroughly in and out without movement of his whole body, like a pencil into a sharpener or a dagger in a sheath, whilst he pinch-squeezes the skin of her buttocks, pauses on a deep draw and grunts:
‘Ye-es, I think that’s your virginity all gone.’
His hands come round to pull down her gag, the few inches of drop-down giving her a moment of relief before the tight pressure transfers to her neck, then she is swivelled like a potter’s lump of clay to find his cunt-sweetened shaft thrusted straight into her mouth. Startled, she hangs there for a moment, having to painstakingly maintain a posture that would keep her arms up and her throat from being strangled, which meant leaning deeper onto Neill’s cock, who holding her head tight in his hands, had her even more at his mercy then yesterday morning. Gazing into the eyes of the man who gave her his key and the coat and her cat, there is an approving glimmer that she was colluding in her own exhilarating violation, now sucking hard and fast without being prompted, and amidst her chorus of snuffles and sniffles and moans and a couple of stifled retches she is heartily swallowing down his warm flow like a pumping milk bottle.
There was a knock on the front door.
She flopped forward - he gave one futile tug at her bonds and then arose.
‘Sorry - must dash! Food’s here—’
She laid through three minutes of cacophonous small talk with the delivery man.
‘Get this off me’ - as he returned, to eventually remove her dress now crumpled in three places, the belt wrinkled with rings of drying saliva; a dribble of come down the front.
‘Let’s get that into the wash, lady of the house.’
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*
‘So we literally have nothing in for dessert?’
In their pyjamas, TV on, washing machine whirring, a teapot of Earl Grey was brewing on the table. She was laying on her back with her head in his lap, his hand feeding a cigarette into her upturned mouth, his resting fingers parked on her chin between his-and-her-puffs, and the ashtray placed a couple inches away upon her ribs.
‘Not even lollies. I’ll do a big shop tomorrow.’
‘Thought all the middle class people ordered online?’
‘I rather like to browse the shelves. But I’d also rather spend more time inside you than Sparksies. I’ll take a look tomorrow.’
‘We should buy Chinese ingredients and make our own,’ she nodded at the demolished takeaway boxes stacked on the table. ‘I liked the squid. And the chicken balls.’
‘So did your cat,’ he nodded. ‘Talk about Tung Fung.’
They both glanced to where Rasputin had one forked leg erect to the ceiling, deliriously licking down between his legs.
‘Blimey,’ he sighed. ‘I wish I could do that.’
‘You could if you did Yoga like me.’
‘Downward Dog? Isn’t that our intestines after eating from a Crossgates takeaway?’
‘Well speaking of licking arseholes, you seem to have a great interest in mine.’
‘All real men should. Besides, Rasputin isn’t licking his arse but his balls. Didn’t you say he got the chop?’
‘I didn’t want them to do it, after what you said.’
‘About being Gipton’s greatest love machine?’ he tapped his fag. ‘Well, that’s one less emasculated specimen I have to dodge-step through my day. But they’re more likely to get run over if they’re horny, you know darling.’
She shrugged. ‘You said sex is the most important thing in life, so…’
‘And do you follow everything your Headmaster says?’ His smoking hand dipped casually into her mouth.
‘No. Everything my boyfriend says.’
‘Ha. Told you it would come to that.’
‘So, what…’ she sighed wistfully, ‘…I’m really really your girlfriend? Moved in? With you? With my cat?’
‘More than really really. You’re the sweetest, sexiest, and by far the cleverest of course - girlfriend I’ve ever had. Your mum’s not having you back.’ He jostled her laughing jaw. ‘Ahhh—’ He nodded at Ras as they watched him miaowing up at the French windows, then skulking back to dip a paw into the litter tray. ‘Another one who’s not going anywhere.’
‘What is this you’re feeding me anyway? It reeks. I didn’t want to say earlier because I thought it was cat piss.’
‘It is Cat Piss. Name of the strain, how apt,’ as he rapped her chin out of her bossed-eyed, close-up stare. ‘High CBD, good for pain.’
‘So that’s why Dr Fondle drugraped - I mean, prescribed me it.’
‘Catpiss and arsehole, at this rate we won’t be able to tell what’s what. The deal is, you clean up kitty’s shit till he’s settled and we start letting him out. Meanwhile, do concentrate on this Channel 5 drivel. What is it?’ He pressed the remote info button. ‘Violent Child, Desperate Parents. Pioneering child psychologist Laverne Antrobus takes on some of the UK’s most violent and difficult children. Goodness, what happened to feel-good telly?’
They watched a man close to tears over the lack of connection with his son.
‘Oh, that reminds me. You were telling me about some bloke on LinkedIn you thought is your dad. Did y—’
‘Oh no, I don’t think it’s him. Besides, I’ve been busy enough with Sarah’s.’
‘You don’t say.’
Their chests shook in laughter, then stopped soberly as a teenage boy had a screaming fit at his father.
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ as she blew smoke over their feet. ‘Ryan said you’re late getting his mum’s next stash.’
‘I have to pace them out, or she’ll be well too swiftly, and he, swiftly complacent.’
‘What? It’s really working?’
‘Oh aye lass. The sparkle in the farkle’s eyes says it all.’
‘Wow. I thought that sparkle was just the hope of shagging Alana,’ Natalia remarked as she sat up to pour the tea.
‘Wow. Do you think he has a chance?’
She turned. ‘Are you jealous? Did you want to get hold of her supermodel jacksy and horsey gob?’
‘Well you’ve totally con-per-verted me on putrid pubes schoolgirls—’
She whacked his thigh. ‘On a serious note, Ryan keeps having digs at me. Calling you my boyfriend,’ as she handed him his tea and he tucked it beneath him.
‘Really? I’ll see to that. Longer wait for Rubbin’ Redbreast then.’
‘Be careful though Neill. We don’t want to piss him off.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ as he blindly tapped his fag ash into his tea.
They glanced down, and laughed.
‘Well it will taste as good as the one you made Ryan,’ he remarked.
‘Ha! You saw that?’
‘When I was tossing the teas out of the window after the bribe. Made me chuckle.’
‘Oh also Neill,’ coyly blowing her tea, ‘I might be going out with Alana this weekend.’
‘Thought you didn’t like those lushes? I’m not sure I’m going to let you. What if her mother turns up?’
‘She won’t. She’s away. I won’t go to her house. Please, please?’
‘Hmm. I’ll think about it. First decide what we’re doing for the rest of the evening, mademoiselle,’ as he stubbed out. ‘Enjoy this poor televised teenager finally murdering his parents and the entire camera crew, or watch a movie?’
‘The rest of Rita, Sue and Bob Too?’
‘Best not. Rita gets pregnant.’
‘Oh…’
‘But she loses it.’
‘Ohh.’
‘All’s well in the end though. Bob and the two girls live together.’
‘Oh!’ she laughed. ‘Well shall we play a game instead? One you haven’t incinerated?’
She swung open the cupboard under the shelves. ‘I didn’t have room for Scrabble in my bag from home. Do you have any?’
‘Wasn’t the most sexually violent game of Kiss Chase in history enough?’
She hauled out a box. ‘1000-piece Brontë puzzle! From Haworth?’
‘Yes, bought it on the school trip whilst you were staring at the comic book,’ as he watched her spill out an avalanche of pieces. ‘Haven’t had chance to even remotely try it.’
She hovered like a hawk over the pieces and in a minute she had fit together six of them, showing Bertha’s face over the flames of Thornfield House.
He leaned over, watching her slender fingers hovering over the pieces to fit four more.
‘How are you so damned good at this?’
‘The jigsaw or being jigged sore?’
‘I guess the fire bit in the middle is the easiest.’
‘As well as the most attractive part to you, pyro man.’
‘No, this hot thing is—’ He pulled her jutting bottom into his lap, and she toppled back laughing. ‘10 of 1000 pieces. Bit like what’s left of your hymen. Come and squirm it away in my lap like an earthworm in Mr Twit’s pie—’
He rummaged at her hips as she buckled even more. ‘That tickles, Twit!—’ she squealed and laughed as she felt now like she was melting into a pool of Neill, her body pouring into his like a river into the sea, as he traced her earlobes with fingertips and hairline with lingering lips, professing, whispering as though confessing, about how much he adores her; how much he has wanted her all to himself for so long, and that he has got her, got her now; and she felt like she was floating away somewhere else entirely, her fistful of amber jigsaw pieces slowly dropping to the couch and to the floor... she felt like molten lava itself, the weight of the weed in her tired limbs growing like lead, as he carried his ‘sleepy little baby’ to bed.
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*
She was awake before him, now with the chance to survey his body completely naked for the first time, after all this time.
The rose milk-wash of his belly, peppered in golden frizz, led seamlessly down to paler hips where the hair waned and continued again from his thigh down, heaviest at his shins as though a well-worked pencil nib had meticulously sketched for hours.
And centred at it all, his sleeping crown jewels, that now displayed clearly the pillows upon which Twitch slept, that part of men she’d always cringed at, that Biology words like ‘testicles’ and ‘sac’ had done little to endear her to the thought of, and which even after having sex with Neill three times now - and all those intimate episodes prior - she had barely more than a glimpse, obscured by pant hems and trouser flies. They now lay open for her to spectate and peruse all her life’s thoughts about men’s ‘balls’ in the sight of their wrinkled bag tucked neatly like there was nothing so grotesque about men’s balls after all. Mrs Tiggy Winkle and Pricklepin as he once called them were hibernating in their hedgehog love nest, and now as his thigh jerked mid-sleep, were beckoning her over to join them in a soiré.
She climbed in between his thighs and aligned her face with them, her nostrils right at the hair follicles of his sac, and a minute later of laying here like the third hedgehog in the love nest, she smiled to think that if he woke now he would catch her sniffing his balls like a tester bottle of perfume, upon which the sniffer had passed out like a poisoned pig’s snout collapsed in its trough.
Her cynical thoughts go on, whilst her body drove her to continue: pushing her nostrils and mouth up against them, soft and sagging, like warm well-worn velvet, but as she continued to rub, the more the scrotum began to tauten, in increments, as his hips shifted now under his first groan of waking.
His hand moved out confused, knocking against the side of her head, as his eyes fluttered open to the ceiling, then down at her.
‘Oh my Jesus God.’
‘Bonjour, petit ami.’
‘Natalia… what the fuck are you doing, you horny little fuck.’
His shoulders rose.
‘S’allonger, monsieur—’
He smiled faintly and laid back. ‘D’accord.’
His cock, she’d only just noticed, had grown as stiff as a post, tossing from side to side like a fussy child as though left ignored, whilst Natalia went on feverishly rubbing her lips from one side of his balls to the other like catnip.
‘What… what are you doing,’ he utters, bemused.
‘Silence!’ she frowned momentarily in French accent, as he gave a mystified sigh, his hand coming to squeeze his cock as Natalia murmurs:
‘What are these?’
‘They’re my balls.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Qu’est-ce qui c’est?’
‘Couilles. Mes couilles.’
‘I don’t know how to put it in French but… they smell… so, so lovely,’ she found herself saying.
‘Well, er, merci.’ He cleared his throat softly. ‘You, ah… must definitely not have had balls before and they’ve never had that chat-up line—’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ Mildly indignant, slow-blinking eyes look up from her puckering mouth.
‘Well, you’re right. I mean… tu as raison. Poursuivre.’
‘You what?’
‘Go ahead,’ he chuckled.
‘Mm, it’s making me feel… mmm, just so, tingling inside…’ She swirled her hips like a burrowing mole pushing into his groin, her whole body like a mini rocket shunting up between his legs this time, her cheeks tag-teaming to lay in the pillow of his testicles, pushing her lips on and off his balls, excited by how they pulse back at her. Like two round sacks of cock. Like two full shopping bags of her favourite man in the world.
She can feel the stare of her audience, that she too is part of, as something seemed to take over her; something was so delicious in there, something was so alluring, something that smelt or felt so good.
‘Just so… ahhh,’ as she inhaled him like bath salts, and her tongue begins to creep out now, as though she’d been saving it for the joy she felt building, to make contact with area she’d meticulously pre-chafed, suddenly feeling like the luckiest girl in the world to be able to not just rub, but now lick,oh, lick!
‘Oh my… je veux… te lécher… tes couilles? Lentement, très lentement.’ She wants to lick his balls, slowly, very slowly.
‘Comme tu veux, jeune femme. Oh, fuck—’
He slurs from one French to another as Natalia dives in with the look of a child about to blow the candles of a birthday cake, landing right in the sponge, and at first coy and squirrel like, but within seconds lapping like an Alsatian… faster, harder, hungrier, on all sides, into the alleys where his balls met his body, and Neill is just wordless, suspended in quizzical bliss of watching and feeling this devout worship than if he’d directed her to deliver his idea of a blow job.
‘God,’ she whispers, ‘why was ‘sucks balls’ ever an insult?’
She hears a small breath of laughter, but it is as though she isn’t talking to him, as she now quivers a smile to his cock bobbing madly for attention. ‘Wow, oh wow,’ as her lips dance their way up the shaft, down again to the contrasting softness of his balls, and seemingly torn where to put her tongue now, she rests her face on one side to watch the whole package like a fireworks show, her fingers playing softly over his balls like the head of a kitten, and Neill’s hand comes onto her head to stroke her.
‘Natalia?’ He whispers as though he’d cornered her collapsed in a church pew. ‘Do you want t—’
‘Shhh,’ she gives back gently, as though Mass were still underway; eyes closed as though she was praying to cock and balls, and her whole body pulsing in this Cockmunion, like some precambrian creature from the depths of the ocean that she herself cannot understand, nor has one scrap of self-consciousness about, yet is grateful he is entertaining it - suspects he is probably still semi-stunned by sleep to gatecrash it - she now whispers like the snake in the Jungle Book:
‘Mmmm, thisss.’
As though the telepathy with his gonads was small talk falling into a kiss, she lunges a hungry tongue deep into his sac, as he gasps, and then she slides it down to explore the flat smooth plains of his prostate, where her lips touch briefly, curiously, but then shirk at the thought of his anus somewhere an inch down in the folds, she draws her tongue back up and reciprocates the flat, slurping flapping tongue he liked to give her - over what is now two balls drawn up like tits in a corset, one big tight hedgehog.
His cock, almost too engorged to spasm - sits atop where Natalia’s lips are playing like kids refusing to leave the playpark, but are summoned for the threat of rain looming overhead like a darkening purple sky, as her attention moves up to that bulging eye of the hurricane.
Marinating her mouth upon the helmet as though it were a lolly out of the freezer, machinating her tongue to baptise it in saliva, Neill’s fist gathers her hair. ‘Oh, fucking hell, fucking, fucking hell…’ whilst Natalia’s eyes roll in delight of the feel of it - that she can now really, slowly, feel! - so warm, hard, wiry, thick, fleshy! …the new sincerity of her pleasure must be as clear to Neill as motorway signs at night. One hand grasping his shaft, the head encased in her mouth, her other hand on his balls - he was pinned down by the softest predator, helpless to the feelings surfacing at his pelvis - feelings that he would normally fuck away quick, and he can only close his eyes, and open them again to remind himself it is Natalia, only Natalia, and yet ‘oh my word,’ it is Natalia.
She knows that flush of delirium in his face, she knows that groan and jerk, and she waits for the warm liquid over her tongue - but this time from where she’d spent thirty minutes caressing like it was the eighth wonder of the world, and she takes it like soup cooked from her own grown vegetables.
‘Sacre fucking bleu.’
He is dazed like an amnesiac, blinking bewildered now to be kissed with lips of his own salty tears, mermaid-fed his own ocean nectar as he finds himself kissing back, forced to kiss himself in this slow dance where everything was felt and he must feel too; dance on a multi-mirrored dance floor, where there is no getting away from the girl who’s ‘not going anywhere,’ and in turn, no running from every cell and every drop of himself.
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