The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  He stood facing her, legs apart, threw one end of the towel over his shoulder and grabbed it at his waist, he pulled it see-saw, backwards and forwards across his back, taking his time. She tried hard not to look at his cock, which was directly in her eye line and getting larger by the minute, she stared resolutely ahead, giving the impression that she was concentrating hard on all he was saying about his boring ex-girlfriend. Well, at least she was an ex; that was a positive.

  … urrrgh! I wish he wouldn’t stand there like that… it was turning her on. Her fingers, hidden beneath bubbles, furtively crawled across the top of her thigh and down between her legs.

  The bath now full, he turned off the taps.

  “I tried talking with her but she was off on one, kept going on about babies and my English whore… I assume that’s you? God knows how she found out about you… anyway, when I saw you and your friends I got her out of there fast, she was in a foul mood. I know I should have told you I had baggage, but thought I could sort it without you knowing… what a mess!”

  Her eyes were on his, intently listening, not a ripple in the water, bubbles blanketing the surface, if only he knew what she was doing, he was so bloody gorgeous.

  “Anyway, today I called her and told her to collect her things from my apartment before I got back, hopefully that should be the end of it.”

  He put down the towel and took a step nearer to the bath, casually picking up his beer. His hard cock waved leisurely in front of her face. With great difficulty she kept her eyes on his, ignoring it.

  “And what did she say to that, whatever her name is?” she asked.

  He walked around the bath, picked up a pile of towels, and scattered them around the floor to soak up the worst of the water. He would probably have to repaint the living room ceiling, but it had been worth it.

  “Maria, her name is Maria.”

  He was busy about his work, so didn’t notice her slide a hand to her breast.

  “She wasn’t impressed, started to cry, which is the norm for her. Anyway, I didn’t hang on long enough to hear much, except that she was going to kill me.”

  He looked thoughtful for a second, wondering if he should take her threat seriously… nah, she’s just a spoilt drama queen, she doesn’t have it in her to kill anyone… does she?

  He finished laying the towels and stood in front of her again, taking a final swig of beer.

  “Anyway, it’s all over now, so will you start talking to me, am I forgiven?”

  He stood over the bath, looking down on her, smiling.

  “… and stop playing with yourself, woman!”

  Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he turned her face towards him; she was at the perfect height to take him in her mouth.

  “… suck on this instead.”

  It happened so quickly, so easily that she found herself obeying.

  They didn’t make it down to supper.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It had been an early rise that morning. Even earlier for Franco, as Tara had chucked him out of her room at 5 am, trying to have some semblance of decency when they all rose at 6 am to the wonderful smell of Mimi’s cooked breakfast. Having missed dinner the night before, Tara was starving.

  They had played with each other all night, talking, making love, dozing, talking, making love, dozing a little more. When she chucked him out at 5 am, he stood grumbling at the doorway, trying to gain a reprieve.

  What was wrong with the English, always worried about appearances, so what if they had been shagging all night, who cared? Why try and pretend at breakfast that they hardly knew each other? Anal or what, far too worried about protocol, too politically correct, in denial of having a good time, was it against the law or something?

  No, it was just good manners, she chided.

  He finally gave up and ran naked down the corridor to his own room, hoping not to bump into the lovely Mimi. As he slipped into the unwelcoming sheets of his cold bed, he decided that he was going to have to teach this English bird a thing or two about living, give her the Italian touch, all in good time.

  The day’s shoot was a success; Tara’s fears were unfounded. Franco was brilliant; he took to his part like a duck to water, thoroughly enjoying it. Anton gave him a light touch of makeup and kept Tara’s hair looking lush and sexy, then busied himself helping out with directing, styling and general all round gofer.

  They shot seven sets of pictures in various settings, far more than they needed, but what the heck, it was going so well. Four scenes in the morning and three in the afternoon, with a lazy lunch hour in the middle. They tucked into Mimi’s scrumptious picnic that Tony delivered with blankets, cushions and bottles of local wine.

  Lying out in the sunshine, they teased the multi-talented Anton about his new career as a film director. He was in his element, with his dramatic arm waving and snappy Alfred Hitchcock directives, he kept them moving at a pace and in high spirits. Each time a shot was in the bag, he rushed around issuing cuddles and congratulations; his excitement contagious, even Tony caught the bug.

  Tony had only intended on delivering the picnic and leaving them to it, tut tutting that they were all crazy, but curiosity getting the better of him, he ended being seconded as Anton’s side kick.

  Anton gave him three important responsibilities: leaf management (balancing precariously on a step ladder scattering leaves over the romantic couple), shrub control (muscling obtrusive branches out of shot, while Anton regaled on his strength) and wind direction (wafting large sheets of cardboard over Tara’s tresses). He thoroughly enjoyed himself; it was an eye opener to see the amount of work that went on behind the scenes of a photo shoot.

  He also enjoyed seeing the playful side of Franco, either Franco was a good actor or this girl was good for him. He suspected that they were lovers; he’d spotted Franco sneaking out of her bedroom that morning. Could she be ‘the one’ for the boy? Franco didn’t bring lady friends to Ravello, it was his private place… she must be special, ah… young love, he thought wistfully.

  His gruff, huffing, macho exterior was a smokescreen, at heart he was a cheeky old romantic. He smiled as he remembered courting Mimi nearly half a century ago; she was quite a catch, the prettiest girl in the village. It was love at first sight, he hadn’t ever wanted anyone else, nor had she, two peas in a pod. Sadly, nowadays marriage came and went with ease, people traded-in partners more frequently than their cars; too many choices and not enough staying power.

  “Tony, dahling… more leaves, baby, more leaves…”

  An arm waving Anton pulled him out of his daydream, he cringed wishing the Englishman wouldn’t call him ‘dahling’, it would be a nightmare if his card playing cronies from the village heard, ruthless teasing would go on for months. Hastily he gathered leaves to throw over the couple.

  Seb thanked him as he snapped away. He was happy, the pictures were nigh on perfect, the crew in high spirits, the weather had held and now at the end of the day the best light had come, bathing the couple in a golden glow - he held his breath as he worked for fear of losing the moment.

  It was the last take; an orange blaze lit the sky. Tara and Franco had played, punched, laughed and held each other close all day for the camera, most models would have hated the sight of each other by now, but not these two, they had an infectious chemistry. It was easy, Tara would whisper something cheeky, Franco would laugh, and bingo, Seb would capture the warmth in their body language.

  “Last roll of film, boys and girls,” announced Seb, “Anton, whadayathink? What next? We’ve tried every possible angle… and got through all the clothes.”

  “Why not topless,” joked Anton. “They can airbrush the logo on her back like a tattoo.”

  Anton’s creativity was flowing, he was having fun, he didn’t expect to be taken seriously.

  “Yeah, let’s do it…” Seb smiled. “Franco, remember how you were when I walked in on you last night? Position yourselves in the same way… top half only, obviously!”<
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  Seb liked the idea more and more, Anton had hit the nail on the head; the tattoo was a great idea, they could Photoshop the images later.

  “What does the best-dressed man wear?… a woman, of course,” Seb beamed.

  Franco looked at him, trying to remember what he was talking about.

  “Oh no, no…” Tara started to walk backwards away from the mischievous looking Franco.

  “Don’t even think about it, buddy,” too late, Franco was unzipping his sport top, peeling it off his shoulders seductively, walking towards her, a big grin on his face.

  “Franco, no, this is harassment, don’t you dare,” she started to run.

  Franco barked orders in Italian at Tony and rugby tackled the fast escaping Tara. Tony scurried off, disappearing behind an old garden shed.

  “Gotcha,” he laughed, as they toppled to the floor.

  Anton screamed with delight.

  Franco held her tight and whispered close into her ear.

  “This is to pay you back for chucking me out of your bed this morning, you and your old fashioned English scruples. I’m gonna show you how to live a little, Italian style…”

  He yanked her up off the ground, whisked off her top, pinged the hook of her bra and slid it off her shoulders. He wrapped his arms tight around her, feeling her warm soft breasts against his bare chest. The boys were in hysterics. Mark, gobsmacked, dropped the light reflector; Seb barely managed to focus the camera and Anton ran in circles around the couple squealing with delight.

  “Oh Franco, you’re such a naughty boy… I was only joking… Tara dahling, your hair, let me do your hair, it’s a mess… oh my gawd!”

  A loud dragging noise came from behind the shed, Anton turned to see what the commotion was. A determined Tony appeared, heaving a long black water hose behind him.

  “What the hell’s that, Tony?” Anton’s quizzical face was a picture. “Oh… you can’t be serious, oh no… think of her hair,” he shuddered.

  Seb couldn’t believe it; Franco was going the whole hog.

  “Ok, Tony, turn the water on, drown them in it. This is the wet-look version,” Seb bellowed, thriving on the spontaneity.

  Tony did as he was told and showered the couple in the cold, powerful water. The shots were great. Tara, as predicted her hair a mess, squirreled her head under Franco’s chin, trying to get out of the firing line.

  “Stop, Tony, stop!” she screamed, shivering in the laughing Franco’s arms.

  Tony dutifully turned off the hose, leaving them dripping with water, holding onto each other for dear life. Seb clicked away as they swayed, laughing, getting their breath back.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” she whispered teasingly into his ear, enjoying the feel of him against her skin, her nipples hard and excited from the cold water.

  “I’m gonna marry you,” he whispered back in the same teasing voice.

  “What?”

  “Seriously, I’m gonna marry you, Miss English… and you’re gonna laugh like this every day for the rest of your life…”

  He held her face up to his and kissed her wet forehead, his eyes serious… he meant it.

  Seb clicked away, their mood had changed, he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was a lovely shot of Franco’s big hands engulfing her wet face, messing up her tousled hair even more. Anton was past caring.

  Tara reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, putting her lips onto his, open-mouthed, he responded; they kissed long and deep, oblivious to the slightly embarrassed crew. The only sound was from the camera, clicking away until it finally ran out of film. Seb let it hang down by his side, looking a little lost; the magical day was over.

  Franco and Tara eventually stopped, gathered up their clothes and began to help the boys pack up. Tara opened her mouth to apologize but Franco put his arm up to stop her.

  “We are in Italy now baby, relax, kissing is good, do as the Italians do… eh Tony?” he giggled, slapping Tony on the backside as he bent over to pick up a camera box.

  “Yes boss, but… ” he turned nervously to eye Anton. “Mister Anton, you no kissy me, ok?” his arm extended as if blocking any advances.

  Unable to resist a tease, Anton immediately chased him around the bushes screaming.

  “I want you… I want you…”

  They walked home laughing. What a great day, Seb knew he had it in the can. The ad boys were going to be very happy; there were a lot of shots they could use. He couldn’t wait to get the film processed and check it out. But now he had to prepare for tomorrow, the final day.

  As they arrived back at the house, Mimi was standing nervously at the doorway waiting for them. Franco sensed her ill ease and picked up speed to get to her, letting go of Tara’s hand and running ahead of the others.

  Maria stepped out from behind Mimi, into the doorway.

  “Franco, dahling, I’ve missed you…come, give your baby a kiss.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Sixteen years earlier, Heddington Hall Boarding School.

  It had finally come, he knew her writing anywhere, his beautiful angel had at last replied. It was time to consummate their relationship, to bring their love into the open and plan a future. He’d sent her a letter, pouring out his heart over eight painstakingly neat pages.

  He hadn’t composed a letter in a long time, and never a love letter; it took him several attempts to unleash the right words. Crumpled sheets of paper filled the wastepaper basket at his feet. He was using the smart leather-bound writing set that his mother had given him - Wedgwood-blue paper, matching envelopes, a fountain pen and bottled royal blue ink. She’d pleaded with him to write home more often, like he used to, she missed his cheeky anecdotes and childlike declarations of love for her. As she gave him the gift she gently cuffed his shoulder, chiding that he was all grown up, probably far too busy having fun to write to his boring old mother… but she adored him anyway.

  He couldn’t tell her that it pained him to write, to lie, to pretend all was fine at school. Since he’d become the ‘special one’ he was soiled. He feared that his tell-tale shame would seep through the words, that his mother would read between the lines and know the truth. That disgust would replace love and she would abandon him. Tara knew the truth and still loved him regardless; he thanked the Devil for the gift of his angel.

  Each morning after breakfast he ran to the common room to check if he had mail. He would slink into the back of the room joining the rest of the boys, waiting in anticipation for a sign of love from the outside world, that they weren’t forgotten.

  The infamously callous sixth former, Charlie Hemmings, was on post duty. He loved his job; he would saunter lazily into the room carrying the day’s post, enjoying the power he had over the pathetic expectant faces peering up at him.

  Hemmings would bark out the surname of each addressee and search the room for the relevant excited waving hand, then chuck the letter across the room in the boy’s general direction, caring less whether it was caught it or not, it was more fun if he made it difficult to catch.

  David rarely received letters so didn’t normally bother going to ‘post’, but since writing to Tara he had been every day, sitting at the back of the room quietly waiting.

  For three weeks, nothing.

  “HOWARD,” Hemmings bellowed.

  “Good God, Howard, someone has actually written to you, must be a death in the family, if you in fact have family, Howard, my guess is you were dog spawned, your mother a rabid hound or perhaps you’re a bastard orphan, Howard, that nobody wants?”

  Hemmings was a natural bully, cruel comments came easily to him, he inherited it from his tyrannical father, sadly the trait infected generations of males in his privileged family tree – setting him up nicely for a life of loneliness, once he left the cosseted confines of boarding school the real world had no time for hot aired bullies.

  David ran from the back of the room, unable to hide his joy. Laughing, Hemmings tossed the letter high over the heads
of the boys, trying to make it an impossible catch, but David hurled himself high and snatched it out of the air with ease. The letter safely in his grasp he charged out of the room, through the courtyard, along corridors, up staircases until he reached the solace of his dormitory.

  Hemmings wondered why Howard wasn’t on the cricket team.

  Panting, leaning against the closed door, he stared down at the precious envelope; her bold handwriting scrawled confidently across it, his heart leaped at the sight of his name written in her hand. He smelled the paper for her scent, there was none.

  Taking care not to tear, he gently eased open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. With a running jump and squeal of excitement he leaped onto the bed, plumped up his pillow and stretched flat out. Crossing his ankles, he nestled into the mattress, ready to savour the words of his angel.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ravello Village, Amalfi Coast.

  “Who the fuck does she think she is, Lady Muck? Common as… more like,” a petulant Anton stage whispered into Tara’s ear.

  The surprise arrival of Maria put a dampener on proceedings, a dark cloud descended over the villa. Franco couldn’t believe her cheek in turning up uninvited and how the hell did she know where to find him? Michael must have given her the address; he would kill him when he got hold of him… merda! Tara’s face was thunder.

  Maria acted as if everything was fine between them, that they were the perfect couple. She introduced herself around the group, eagerly shaking hands and beaming false smiles. Anton’s neat little dip-curtsy as he took her hand went ignored.

  “Franco has told me so much about you all, I am so happy to finally meet you,” she gushed, lying through her teeth.

  She’d arrived twenty minutes earlier, thrusting gifts of food and wine into the arms of a bemused Mimi. Wittering on, ten to the dozen that she was Franco’s fiancée and that she’d come to help with the shoot. Oh dear, hadn’t Franco told her, men, honestly they were useless! Mimi was of course courteous to the unexpected guest, but she didn’t trust her one little bit.