The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  “Housekeeping, dear boy, housekeeping…tut tut…” she smiled…that’s the last time he’ll forget to clean the bloody thing.

  She swaggered back to the piano and stood a few feet away from him. His beady black eyes stared out through small eyelets, hawk-like, scrutinising her in the mirror. Watching as she made a show of expertly greasing the dildo with the glistening lubricant. With a flamboyant final flick of her wrist, she was ready.

  Holding her bulging cock in one hand, she manoeuvred up behind him and punched him hard in the back so that he fell forward. Piano keys tinkled discord as he fell. She bent over his back to whisper insults into his ear. Chanting, bragging how big she was, how she was going to hurt him, all the while slapping his buttocks and circling, teasing the rim of his anus with her newly acquired appendage.

  Kicking at his ankles, she spread his legs further apart.

  Click, click… she didn’t hear it.

  It was time. Slowly, luxuriously, she stroked her proud cock. He could hear the sticky slurp sound of the lubricant. Shit, he was scared, but he loved it.

  How hard would she ram into him, how long would she make him wait, torment him? He could see the cock waving at him in the mirror. She was good at playing with it, like it belonged to her. He was hard with excitement; she hadn’t even entered him yet.

  Suddenly, as if reading his mind, she punched hard between his shoulder blades, forcing his head to smash down on the piano lid, his torso and arms spread flat out as if on a cross. His hands gripped the sides for dear life. He was back in the Headmasters study.

  Click, click.

  Grabbing the silver buckle on top of his mask, she yanked back his head, so that he could still watch himself in the mirror. She locked eyes with his.

  “You want this, little boy?” she snarled, nudging the dildo between his legs.

  Lining up his hips, she dragged in a noisy breath, “well, you’re gonna get it.”

  She slid into him, slow and long, as deep as he could take, all the while chanting abuse through gritted teeth into his ear.

  Click, click.

  She had the rhythm and pressure just right. She had done this before, but that was what he was paying for, a professional. Boy, she was good. The licentious words that were coming out of her mouth were perfect, she knew her stuff.

  Click, click… he wondered how she couldn’t hear it.

  She bore down on him over and over. The bittersweet pain intensified, he had trouble keeping upright; his legs began to shake. When they finally buckled he fell against the piano’s keys; their clanking cacophony followed her rhythm with a tuneless beat. The sweat in his hands made it difficult to keep his grip, the heat in his mask burned his face, but it all added to the delicious pain he sought. He wanted to shout at her, “harder bitch, harder,” but he was not allowed to speak.

  He closed his eyes; he was back at school, he could hear the Headmaster’s voice and smell his putrid old-man sweat.

  Click, click.

  The soft click of the camera did it for him. It reminded him that he could pleasure himself over these images, over and over again after she’d gone. The thought sent him tumbling over the blissful edge. He cried out like a pig as he splattered onto the ivory keyboard.

  He collapsed, exhausted and sweating, a final discord of notes tinkled as he slid down to the floor. She pulled out of him as he fell.

  Click, click.

  … what is that noise? She wondered.

  Time to go, leave him to his fantasy. Unstrapping the toy, she threw it to the floor, grabbed her dress off the sofa, and pulled it smartly over her head, careful not to mess her makeup. She picked up her purse and walked to the front door.

  Click, click.

  “I’ll see myself out, shall I?” she said sarcastically, without looking back.

  Payment was always in advance by credit card to the agency, so she didn’t have to hang around for the money. Much nicer to leave him alone with his ‘moment’. He had some tidying up to do. She’d noticed blood on the dildo, he ought to be more careful; maybe a smaller one next time.

  Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was 9:20 pm, not bad for a night’s work. In and out, nice and quick, just the way she liked it. Time to get home and have a shower, get back to good old Josie.

  She had some leftover pizza in the fridge…hmmmm, with a nice glass of red and a chunk of chocolate. Her period must be due.

  Click, click.

  She slammed the door noisily behind her.

  “BITCH!” he shouted after her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tara rummaged frantically through her ridiculously large handbag. It was a tardis (bigger on the inside) she could house a small pygmy family in it. How did she ever survive with a smaller one? Although ‘small’ was back in fashion, she refused to obey the rules and steadfastly hung on to the shoulder crunching colossus. It held the workings of her life, if she ever got mugged, her world would come to a standstill, and her chiropractor would be out of business.

  The cell phone shrilled out its annoying ringtone, she vowed for the umpteenth time to change it; the ‘laughing frog’ had had its day. Where the hell was it? She put her ear to her bag and listened, she could hear the bloody thing, seeing it would be good.

  Finally, after emptying the workings of her life onto the floor, she found it in her jacket pocket. Damn phones, her next upgrade would be an enormous eighties in-your-face piece of kit; to hell with keeping them small and light.

  “Tara Warr,” she said, out of breath, hoping to catch the caller before it went to voicemail.

  “Tara, me darlin’, it’s Seb, how the hell are ya?”

  It was four days since the photo shoot with Franco. Four days of hell; she couldn’t get the bloody Italian out of her mind. What kind of planet was he on, how dare he be so cold after she’d saved his balls on the shoot, the little shit. He could at least have tried to contact her via the agency or something, probably off in some hotel room with the rest of his teammates, spit-roasting some bimbo WAG wannabe, half her age… and dress size.

  It didn’t help that she started to see him everywhere, in the papers, on the news, in chat shows, at red carpet events. He was also working on a children’s charity with a member of the royal family. She couldn’t understand why he was so high profile; he only kicked a ball for heaven’s sake! What was it with football that it had become a religion, players worshipped like gods? Surely the guys that defended their country or doctors that saved lives were the real heroes? The public were easily led sheep, and she was fast becoming one.

  She found herself listening in to men’s footy conversations, reading the back pages of newspapers, waiting until the end of TV news reports for the sports roundup; he featured 90% of the time.

  There was an unhealthy amount of interest in the day-to-day trivia of his life: what he wore, what he ate, what he said, where he went, with whom and why. Who he was dating, how long would it last, what his ex’s thought (themselves milking the giddy heights of mini-stardom for simply having shared his bed for nanoseconds). What was he like in the sack, did he snore, take drugs, have a big dick? Who was his agent spotted shaking hands with in a clandestine hotel foyer? Was he on the move, up another rung of the football ladder: AC Milan, Barcelona, Juventus? Had he put on weight, was he losing his hair, how did he like his eggs? My God, the world would fall apart if he farted.

  It was pathetic how people lived their lives through B celebrities, and now she was falling into that category, obsessively soaking up every snippet of info about him – a form of stalking, how sad was she?

  While waiting at the dentist, she idly flicked through the pictures of a well-thumbed celebrity gossip magazine, and there he was again, with some bone-crunchingly-skinny brunette (predictably, a model, just about his intellect) on one of his numerous beach holidays – how much holiday time did footy boys get exactly? They were forever on holiday; falling out of nightclubs, playing golf, sunning on beaches.

  These particu
lar pictures were a collection of grainy amateur shots, seemingly taken without his knowledge - although the brunette looked suspiciously posed in every shot. The beautiful couple were snapped walking along the beach, frolicking in the sea, rubbing oil into each other (her skeletal back, SO not a good look), lounging on a sun bed (what a great body he had… she remembered how good it felt), sitting together at a restaurant table, heads together in deep discussion over the remains of lunch; a boring lunch, bottles of water, fruit and salad…. no alcohol, steak and chips!

  Urrgh… his arrogant, handsome face was everywhere, he was sex on legs, probably had a bird in every port (stadium), damn him! She wanted to see him again, just so that she could snub him. Wanted him to phone, so that she could ignore his call, to adjust the ‘cold-shoulder’ balance in her favour.

  “Hello, T… you there darlin?”

  “Sorry, yes… hey, how are you angel?” she answered as gaily as she could muster, not being a morning person, it was a little early for her to cope with polite conversation.

  She was queuing in her local coffee shop on her way into the office, waiting for her extra-large skinny latte and muesli biscuit - breakfast. From the hide-and-seek game with her cell phone, her bag’s contents were scattered over the floor. A tube of cold sore cream and a bright pink tampon made a run for it, rolling between the feet of the city gent queuing behind her. Typically English, he pretended not to notice, staring diligently overhead at the menu board. She muttered an apology and stretched down between his legs to retrieve the fugitives.

  Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder she knelt to the floor and collected up the rest of her ‘life’ - actually, she could probably dump the screwdriver, stapler, two pin plug adapter and eggcup; god knows why she’d lugged them around for months? The hair straighteners, corkscrew, headache tablets, baby wipes and lipsticks (who needed five lipsticks?) could stay, also the out of date condoms (ever in hope), although in her experience being prepared was the kiss of death to any action.

  She ignored the tutting from the city gent behind her and the smirk from the cute tourist in front of her as he handed her another escapee, a battered panty liner. Urgh! It was too early in the morning to care.

  Luckily, she’d on her mandatory sun glasses that hid a multitude of sins, including the ‘overslept, no time for makeup yet’ look, the ‘am a slut, got trashed, still wearing last night’s makeup’ look or the ‘sleep induced eye-bags’ that as she got older, seemed to take longer and longer to drain away in the mornings. The city gent tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Great, listen, I emailed the pictures to your bosses in New York, they loved the shoot, they’ll be calling you today. Apparently the client wants more.”

  “What do you mean they want more?” she panicked.

  “They want to make a larger campaign of it. They also want to know who the mystery girl is. They love the idea of not seeing her face.”

  “No, they can’t…”

  He wasn’t listening, he was on a high. She was happy for him, he was one of the best in the business, humble and insecure about his talent, which was part of his charm. It was lovely to hear him so inspired, but she couldn’t afford for the campaign to be extended, her boss would find out what she’d done.

  She couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He babbled on.

  “You should see the feckin’ pictures, baby; they are fantastic, even if I say so meself. One of my better days, and there I was thinking business was drying up. I’ll be flavour of the month for another year at this rate. I owe you one, me little darlin’.”

  The city gent tapped her on the shoulder again, feeling the world against her, she spun around.

  “Urghh!… what is your problem mate?”

  With a raised eyebrow and bored condescending sigh, he opened his extended hand to reveal yet another escapee tampon.

  “Keep it, you may bloody need it,” she spat, spinning back to the counter, her coffee and bagged biscuit had arrived.

  Huffing, she chucked the biscuit into her bag, praying it would survive the journey to the office, and mouthed a thank you to the harassed girl behind the counter. Surprisingly the city gent obediently popped the item in his pocket and started shouting out his coffee order overhead.

  Trying to hear Seb, keeping the phone pressed tight against her ear with one shoulder, she hooked the heavy bag over the other. Grabbed a straw, tore off the paper cover with her teeth, and popped it into the awkward little hole in the lid of piping-hot coffee.

  Squeezing past the bellowing city gent, zigzagging through the rest of the queue, head down, pushing her way to the door, it occurred to her that life was just one big rushed balancing act.

  “Seb, wait a minute, what do they want? This job is complete. The New York boys have another campaign backed up to follow it; different story line, different sports star, different city.”

  Outside the noise of the early morning Piccadilly Circus traffic hit her. She struggled to hear his answer.

  “They want more shots, the campaign has been changed, they are waiting for final approval from the client. If agreed, they will increase the level to involve TV and film commercials as well as print. They want to make a whole big thing of it. Jeez, the agency boys are wetting themselves. Talk to them darlin’, they’ll tell you… were you not in the office yesterday?”

  “I had the day off… but what about Mr Football, has he agreed anything? He’s a bit private; maybe he doesn’t want to do any more,” she hoped.

  “That’s not a problem. They spoke to his agent first, tracked him down in Italy or somewhere. Oh, I don’t know, Tara, speak to your office… look… I’ve got to go. Well done, you made magic that day. Let’s hope we can re-create it. Speak to you later, darlin’.”

  With that he was gone.

  “Seb, Seb…” no answer. “Fuck!”

  A hot rush of panic ran through her. What did he mean, we re-create it? She’d done her bit. She’d put her job on the line enough already; she shouldn’t have stepped in and been in the shot without the proper say-so. Any changes to the script needed to be sanctioned by her bosses, who were in turn nervous under the cosh of their bosses in New York. The credit crunch had made everyone jittery, accounts could not afford to be lost, every minute detail had been painstakingly agreed over months of preparation. She’d naively hoped that no notice would be taken of the back of a head in a shot, that she could get away with it, that all the focus would be on the star… whatever, no way was she working with that arrogant pig again.

  Deep in thought, she power-walked the last few blocks to her office. She’d journeyed on the bus that morning, leaving the car behind. All the spaces in the basement office car park had been booked out for visiting clients, due in for a presentation pitch. She was low in the management pecking order, therefore, had been chucked off the rota for the day. It was too expensive to park elsewhere in London.

  She wore flat shoes (flatties) for walking and carried high heeled shoes in her bag. She sucked thirstily on the straw, awaiting the much-needed caffeine hit. She always used a straw; it kept her lipstick intact, and shunting the brown coffee to the back of her throat prevented teeth staining.

  As she walked, she thought through how to handle her boss, how to get out of working with ‘him’ again. She would say that she’d love to continue work on the job, but sadly was off on holiday, the photographer was more than capable of handling it, she could prep everything with him before she left and put another producer on to oversee it. She would stand her ground, say NO…. urrgh, she was pathetic at standing up for herself; anyone else yes, herself, no.

  She needed a holiday, now was a good time to take it, just before the summer rush. Who could she go with, the girls? Helen was always around and Josie seemed to have no trouble taking time-out when she wanted. She played with holiday ideas until she got to the prestigious offices of ‘Harvinger Larvsen Advertising’.

  Waving a cheerful hello to the gossiping receptionists, Mrs B and Tracey, she scu
rried through reception and took the lift to the fifth floor, changing into heels on the way up. Grateful to be alone in the lift. Typically her big toe had poked through an unsightly hole in her tights, again… SO not a good look!

  A package was waiting for her as she got to her desk. She said the usual good mornings to her colleagues as she walked through the light, cheery office and slumped into her comfy swivel chair with a sigh, thank God for air-conditioning, she was flushed hot from the journey. Delving into her bag, she saved the biscuit from beneath the flatties, took a ravenous bite, and flicked on her computer. Slurping on the dregs of her coffee, she waited for it to come to life.

  As always, she scrolled through her emails first. More slurping of coffee. Nothing of interest, a few jokes from friends and spam mail offering a larger manhood, longer erection pills, and someone called ‘hotpusibabe’ wanting to be her friend from Thailand, she deleted them.

  Spam got on her nerves; didn’t they know she was a bird when they did these blanket mailings? What a waste of everyone’s time. She didn’t have a manhood and the last thing she needed was a hotpusi, thank you. She shuddered and scrunched up her nose, minge munching was definitely not her thing, ever since a ‘smelly’ incident at boarding school, the thought of going down on a woman gave her the shivers. She shook the thought out of her head.

  Next to deal with were her telephone messages. The little red light on her desk phone flashed furiously, demanding attention. She picked up the handset and punched in her voicemail code, while tearing open the package.

  A collection of glossy ten-by-fifteen prints fell onto her desk, spreading fanlike across her papers. Their vibrancy hit her with a force that took her breath away. Franco’s handsome face, cheeky, smiling, laughing. He was cuddling a blonde; you could only see the back of her head. She didn’t recognize it as her own at first; well, who knew their own back view?

  “Shit!”

  She went through them, closely inspecting each one.

  He looked sensational. His eyes teased and laughed adoringly at the girl. The colours were great, the clothing showed well, the logo nice and clear. The look was sexy, healthy, relaxed and fun. He would probably go to serious babe status after this. Bet his agent was happy, their Sporjakk client would certainly be.