The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  Reaching down between her legs, she stroked the base of his cock and tickled his hard balls, gently catching them as they smacked up against her. She pushed out her ass, forcing him deeper inside and squeezed her inner muscles on the length of him, building the speed, not letting him slow up.

  “Stop that or I will come,” he cursed into her wet back, “stop, stop…I can’t keep it… I can’t keep it…”

  That was exactly what she wanted, to feel his explosion, to feel him out of control, she squeezed some more.

  Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak—Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak

  The bloody annoying croaking frog ringtone rang out from her cell phone; she SO had to change it. Why the hell hadn’t she turned it off? She looked at her watch, 1.55 p.m. still on her lunch break. If it was her boss, tough, leave a message, she was in a meeting.

  “Ignore it baby, don’t stop,” she whispered.

  Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak—Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak

  She needn’t have worried, Franco had not even noticed the ringing; he was in a world of his own, on the edge. He’d reached the point of no return; an earthquake couldn’t put him off now. He cried out as if in pain, over and over. She felt the hot rush of liquid fill her. His body jerked to a stop, mid-sway. He clung on to her as his heart calmed; they fell against the wall, panting, giggling, high on each other.

  Bleep Bleep, Croak Croak…

  The caller went onto voicemail.

  She turned awkwardly in his wet embrace to face him. Wrapping her tired arms around his neck, bestowing gentle butterfly kisses over his sweat-soaked face, tasting the salt on his skin. Their loving just got better and better, he smiled, chuckling through her barrage of kisses, thanking God that they had met.

  “Love you… a bit… Mister Rossellini,” teased Tara, in between kisses.

  “Love you… a bit… back, Miss Warr,” Franco replied, taking her face in his hands and stroking the wet fringe from her eyes.

  They stood staring at each other, oblivious to the camera in the centre of the room and to the tearful eyes watching. He put his hands over his ears to block out the intimate whisperings of two people falling in love. An electronic voice from his telephone echoed across the room, telling him to leave a message after the tone, the subscriber he’d called was not available.

  “BITCH!” he hissed, spitting the tears that trickled to his lips.

  Chapter Eighteen

  2:15 pm, Tara ran out of her flat door, down the wide communal staircase that circled the rickety old lift, to the main front door. Franco would leave a little later; they did not want to be seen together.

  She lived in a thirties-style block of apartments off the Brompton Court Road, a colourful, lively, arty area of London with a mix of struggling musicians, artists, backpackers, gays, and a glut of estate agents, it bordered on the wealthier areas of Chelsea and Kensington. If you had to live in a metropolis, it was a great location; managing to keep the small-village feel, with the convenience of the big city. Every amenity she needed was within a walk from her doorstep. Parking was the only problem, never enough spaces and jackal traffic wardens.

  A large ornate mirror covered one wall of the block’s entrance; it was convenient for last minute dress checks before setting out through the front door. She stood in front of it, pulling her clothes together, smartening herself up for the office. She giggled; she loved leaving him in that state, dozing happily on the bed, completely knackered. She was invigorated after sex, but he would collapse in a heap, losing feeling in his legs. Was it a man thing, or all that training he did in the mornings?

  She thanked God (or whoever was up there) for sex; what bloody amazing, clever pieces of kit he’d invented for men and women to play with, and to think she’d grown up wanting to be a nun – as a girl, she’d loved their outfits, particularly the long blue dresses with the white veils. She could do the ‘doing good’ bit easily enough; it was the ‘being good’ bit where she failed.

  She felt the urge to turn around and go back up the stairs, to snuggle and laze around with the dozing Franco, have seconds, but she would be late for work. She loved their ‘nooners’ but had to be careful, a few jealous types in the office may get suspicious and cause her problems if they found out she was shagging a work contact. She and Franco kept their relationship under the radar. Which was perfect, they preferred to be alone, snuggled up under the covers and Tara had a lot of catching up to do on the bonking front.

  Satisfied with her appearance, she pulled the heavy wooden door open and skipped happily down the steps, into the afternoon sun, letting the traffic heat and noise engulf her. She stopped on the step to check her cell phone, wondering who had called, coitus-interruptus, but it was a private number, no message, can’t have been important.

  Now, where had she left the car? She’d only parked it an hour ago, how could she forget? … sex affects brain cells; blondes are dizzy from all that fun. Hurtling off in the direction she normally found a coveted parking place; she smiled with relief as she saw a familiar rusty fender peek out from the end of a row of cars. She’d owned her scruffy, dirty, old car for a decade, no one would ever bother stealing it, she kept it that way.

  Picking up speed, she slow-jogged down the street, rummaging through her vast handbag for the keys, enjoying the breeze in her hair as it cooled her down.

  As she neared the car, something felt wrong; the sunlight reflected off the hood in awkward shapes. She got closer and stared down in horror; someone had etched ‘BITCH’ in large childlike letters across the hood. Foot-long gashes radiated out around the word, like spidery rays of sunshine.

  “Fuck, shit, bollocks…!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sixteen years earlier, Heddington Hall Boarding School.

  Conscience and guilt were lost, right and wrong, good and evil; the rules did not apply to him. He was not that nice little choir boy anymore, not the sweet little mummy’s boy. He’d grown up, woken up to the power of evil; he could do whatever he wanted. After it was all over, Tara’s love would absolve him, lift him out of depravity, he would be forgiven by God, say a few Hail Mary’s, and live a normal life with his angel. The Devil had given him a way to get through the abuse years.

  Pain had become so much a part of his life that he now started to enjoy giving it. The science lab had become his private domain of torture. After a session with the Headmaster, he would take out his resentment on the creatures he kept hidden away in the lab’s cellar, to which, thanks to his doting science professor, only he had the key.

  Watching the pained eyes of wretched creatures as he cut into them and dripped burning chemicals onto their sizzling flesh soothed his anger. He imagined that he would one day hear the same screeches of agony from his own tormentor. He took pictures of the animals as he worked, capturing their suffering, his collection empowered him.

  Click, click.

  A few teachers began to suspect his sanity and started to pry. David soon dealt with them; he’d learned to manipulate the Headmaster, asking for ‘little favours’ during their special moments. The interfering teachers would soon find themselves given the choice of ‘no job, no references’, or ‘turning a blind eye’. Gossip was rife in the staff room; the Head’s rent-boy was becoming too powerful.

  Over the years he began to enjoy his sessions with the Head. The heady power he accumulated, coupled with his Tara fantasy turned the sessions into a pleasure. When he was in that study, bent over the desk, being sodomized, he felt close to Tara, she was there with him, smiling, holding out her hand, protecting him. She bathed him in a warm glow, a feeling of worth, of being loved, of supremacy. They shared a secret bond facilitated by the Headmaster.

  The sessions were evolving; they were no longer rape but mutual satisfaction. David was maturing; his body strong, the size and brute force of his tormentor had become easier to bear. When he’d had enough pummelling, he knew precisely which coquettish words to whisper, which perverted buttons to press to bring the pitiful o
ld man to his knees with orgasm. He had to be careful; he knew that the Head would bore of him quickly if he suspected that David was a consenting partner, so he kept up the pretence of fear and pain. In truth he longed for it, longed for the time with Tara.

  He’d also started to have sex with the other students and a few of the braver teachers (Headmaster did not like to share), including his long-suffering science professor, his biggest fan, who had waited for years to taste David. Illicit meetings in the school grounds, showers, teacher’s cars, dormitories, anywhere that provided privacy for a snatched moment of pleasure.

  He’d become the school whore and loved it; his beauty and hypnotic control gave him power over all who tasted him, he could have any of them, male or female.

  The only one he wanted was Tara. Time was fast approaching for them to consummate their love. He needed to be with her as man and woman, she was a virgin, he would be her first and only love, they would marry, his mother would be so happy. He prayed to the Devil for guidance in how to orchestrate their union, how to start a new life.

  He gave no heed to the fact that the Devil may not let him go.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tara crashed into the flat, kicked off her toe-scrunching shoes, dropped her keys onto the hall shelf, and dumped her briefcase on the floor… home sweet home! Flicking the lights on, she scanned and ignored the junk mail scattered on the floor… no bills for a change, phew!

  Franco had an away game, so he was staying overnight at a hotel with the rest of the team. She had a night to herself.

  “Shit, I’m tired,” she announced to the living room as she flung herself on the sofa and swung her tired legs up onto the soothing cushions.

  “What a day,” she needed a glass of wine, a hot bath and some mind-numbing telly, to catch up on all the soaps. Bliss…

  SNAP…

  A short sharp snap came from the kitchen. She jumped up listening hard; not quiet believing it could finally be over. Was that psycho-mouse? She recognized the sound; she’d nearly lost her fingers to it a few times, whilst setting those damn Henry VIII-like traps. They had been playing cat and mouse for weeks now; every time she came home from work she would find more droppings and more bait missing. It had become a personal challenge, a war.

  He’d managed to avoid all her traps. He would cheekily kick shut the traps and sneak off with the cheese, walk around the glue traps, munch through the poison pellets, and ignored the high-pitch ultra-sonics plugged all over the flat. He’d munched through a whole bar of chocolate (dragged it behind the TV), a bag of fruit and nuts and a bumper pack of nachos. He ran at speed across the tops of curtains and paintings, with dare-devil leaps and bounds (probably the sugar rush from the chocolate). He was psycho-mouse.

  Her heart sunk; how sad, he was finally dead. She’d come to respect her worthy opponent, she would miss him… god, I’m pathetic, it’s a mouse, get over it! She took tentative steps across the living room, dreading the scene she was about to see.

  Tap, tap, tap… a noise emanated from the kitchen.

  “Oh my God, he’s still alive…fuck!”

  Tap, tap, tap…

  She imagined him dragging the trap by his neck around her kitchen floor, blood spurting everywhere, a terrible crime scene… get the luminol officer! She backed off and waited anxiously on the edge of the sofa for the noise to stop, cringing at every ‘tap’ of his struggle.

  She felt sick, where was a man when you needed one. This was definitely an occasion for a male to be in situ, along with opening tight jam jars, emptying bins, and sussing out night-time prowler noises. God, she felt so cruel, she hadn’t thought about what she would do when the little thing was actually caught.

  Silence.

  He must be dead. Peering into the kitchen, expecting a blood bath, she saw him. His pathetic tiny brown frame pinned to the trap. No blood, just a small stain on the wood beneath his head. He looked so small, not at all the gladiator she’d come to imagine. He’d bravely dragged the trap to the middle of the room; he’d tried… bless him.

  Now for the clean-up… urrgh! Well, she just had to get on with it… come on girl. Jumping over him to get to the cupboard, she pulled out a bin liner, rubber gloves, and a BBQ prong. She took a deep breath, crouched down and stretched out her arm as if dealing with a huge beast, the prong touched the trap, his tiny body wobbled… shit…. urrgh!

  She jumped, squealed, dropped the prong and retched… fuck, fuck, fuck …… he’s only two inches long, what harm can he do?

  Another deep breath, another check that he’d stopped breathing … he’s hardly about to do a Jesus and rise again! She retrieved the prongs and gently lifted the trap, so as not to wake him, and plopped him and the prongs into the bin liner. She quickly tied a double knot so that he couldn’t escape…. duh…. he’s dead!

  She said a little prayer over the bag and blessed herself. Those nuns had a lot to answer for!

  With psycho-mouse safely in the outside communal bins, she got back to her cosy evening.

  The red light flickered cheerfully on her answer machine, letting her know that she had messages. Her heart sank; she’d had a few more of those crank calls recently at her home as well as the office. She didn’t feel like any more drama tonight, so ignored it and busied herself running a hot soothing bubble bath.

  Stepping out of her day-weary office clothes, she slipped her aching feet gratefully into soft slippers and pulled on her silky white dressing gown (one of her more expensive purchases, but hey a girl had to spoil herself sometimes; a little Hollywood number that made her feel like a million dollars).

  The bath mellowed her out, the heat of the water seeped through her tired body. Sips from the large glass of red perched on the side of the bath soothed her, pushing all thoughts of psychomouse out of her mind. She could finally throw away all those traps - would the Oxfam shop want them? She’d gone through a wonderful wardrobe purge recently, giving everything to the charity shop, it felt liberating clearing her cupboards and helping the charity to boot.

  She lay, dreaming of Franco. It was going really fast, they seemed to get on well, although she was not sure how serious he was about her, they didn’t talk too much, they tended to spend their time ripping each other’s clothes off. She feared that it may be a phase for him, a quick fuck. He was happy to keep it a secret, so he probably had a girlfriend somewhere; she hadn’t asked, too scared to hear the truth, although when did he have the time for someone else, they had seen a lot of each other over the past week.

  They met at his apartment at night, and her apartment at lunchtime, he from morning training and she from the office. They would have an hour of great sex before she flew back to work and he was picked up by Michael. She hadn’t eaten lunch for ages, and dinner was wine and snacks from his pitifully empty fridge; bad for her, but she was pleased with the weight loss. She’d begun to almost like her body. Sex was a great diet.

  Her hand drifted down between her legs as she thought of their times together… shit, he’s a good lover. She stretched out her body catlike under the water, her head leaning back against the rim of the bath. A warm horny sensation crept over her as her fingers gently stroked… hmmmm, wish he were here now.

  Franco wasn’t, but David was.

  Silently, he watched from the flat above, smiling, loving the privacy of the moment, stroking himself in rhythm with her. The screen was set to record; he would have hours of fun again with this later. She was such a naughty girl.

  BUZZ BUZZ… BUZZ BUZZ… BUZZ BUZZ

  Crashing into the silence, the doorbell rung, ruining the magic of the moment. Tara jumped, slopping her red wine into the soapy water.

  “Who the fuck… damn it,” she licked the rim of her glass to catch the drips of wine.

  She thought of ignoring it, hoping whoever it was would go away, maybe the wrong flat number…but the caller kept buzzing, impatiently. He or she wasn’t going away.

  “Okay, okay,” she shouted out, pissed off at the distur
bance.

  Lifting out of the bath, she grabbed a towel and quickly dried off the worst of the water. Luckily she hadn’t got round to dipping her head under yet. She slipped into the dressing gown and went to the door, cussing under her breath.

  “Fuck, shit, bugger…” avoiding the redundant mouse traps.

  Picking up the entry phone hand set, she screamed a fishwife’s “WHO IS IT?”

  “T, its Ed, let me in.”

  Ed the Head, her ex; what in hell’s name was he doing here; it had been nearly a year since she’d last seen him. Her heart gave a jolt. When they’d split they’d agreed to remain friends - if a man and woman could actually ever be just friends, she suspected that she’d allowed it in the hope that he would eventually come back… had he finally left ‘ her’? Too late she had a man now.

  She pushed the entry button, to open the main front door. Feeling giddy from the hot bath and getting up too quickly, she resolved to get rid of him and back to the bath. She had a new life now.

  Protectively holding the door only slightly ajar, she stood waiting for him to climb the communal stairs to her flat on the first floor. He climbed two at a time and was at the door in seconds, out of breath and a big cheeky smile on his face.

  Her heart jolted again at the sight of him; she’d forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous he was. She’d been his bit-on-the-side for a while, until she’d gotten fed up with sharing him with his non-understanding wife.

  After the initial illicit excitement of dating someone she shouldn’t, she made the mistake of falling in love, and began to despise coming second on his priority list. She experienced the classic ails of the other woman. She hated the waiting for his call, the loneliness, the lack of spontaneity, the pointlessness of buying him loving gifts he could never use, the hiding from the world, the uneasy hooker-on-call feeling (with none of the financial benefits), the wondering if he still had sex with ‘her’. Eventually she took the huge risk of making him choose - and lost.