The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  “What is felching?” Helen’s curiosity roused.

  “Shut up!” both girls shouted at her.

  “Later,” promised Tara, winking at her.

  “Sex is so bloody difficult,” moaned Helen. “So much to learn, I’m never gonna get it right, even when I do find the man of my dreams and drag him back to my place, a)…”

  She gulped a sip of wine and stuck one finger in the air between them.

  “… a)… I hate the sight of my body, all those hanging bits. There is no way I can be on top with the lights on… I have to lie down and suck my tummy in…”

  She stuck up a second finger.

  “b)… I look ridiculous when I come, my face all red and strained like a weightlifter; it’s SO not a good look… Cecilia strained so much once that she peed all over the guy; she was mortified, he wasn’t that happy either… they had to change the sheets.”

  The girls looked confused, who was Cecilia?

  “Cecilia, you know the one, I met her at line dancing, she has since found out that it’s ok to be a squirter.’

  “Urrgh! Not more piss,’ hand palmed Tara.

  “Well, Cecilia says it’s lady juice, actually, just a lot more of it, and with force…’

  “Urrgh, stop, am sorry, but whatever it is, it doesn’t seem like a good look to me,” Tara grimaced. “When did you start line dancing?’

  “A month ago… I’m not sure it’s my thing, it’s like my blow-jobs really, I get all out of sync… Cecilia says the squirting can be a bit boring after a while, cos it’s a bitch to deal with afterwards, no one wants to sleep on that side of the bed… anyway where was I? Orgasms… I know they can’t see your face in the 69 position, but I can’t breathe and get claustrophobic. I never have been much good at concentrating on two things at once, too busy wondering what he is up to… so, it’s easier to fake it, looking beautifully serene, with lots of sound effects.”

  Another gulp of wine and a third finger.

  “c)… I can never find the G spot in their peri…perennial thingy. I know it’s under there somewhere and I’m supposed to stroke it, but it’s a mystery to me. I can’t even find my own G spot, what chance have I got? she sighs. “I’m a complete waste of space when it comes to sex. Seb knew it, that’s why he left me…”

  Poor Helen, she was having one of her mini-confidence crises, which normally happened mid-menstrual-cycle and after the first bottle. Seb’s rejection still haunted her. Tara and Josie set about correcting her.

  “a) The guy is lucky to have you, flab or no flab, men like something to get hold of… b) they love to see your face when you come, you plonker, it’s sexy, it gives them pleasure ’cause they were the stud that made it happen,… what was c)? … oh yeah… I have no bloody idea where my G spot is, was at the back of the queue when they got dished out… and what the hell is a bloody perennial?,” asked Tara.

  “Perineum, Madam, it’s called perineum,” the dulcet tones of the Shakespearian waiter had returned. He stood over them holding a large silver tray. “The smooth taut area of skin running from the testicles to anus, Madam, one puts pressure on it during ejaculation, stimulating the prostate gland beneath the skin, therefore producing deep orgasm, Madam.”

  “Thank you, Sherlock,” laughed Josie.

  Helen and Tara sat staring up at him. He was wasted working as a waiter; he should have his own television quiz show.

  “It’s actually Nigel, Madam, it’s a pleasure, main course is served.”

  Once they started tucking into their plates of delicious food, Tara filled them in on the Italy trip, how wonderful it had been, on the first two days anyway. She made them laugh about Anton’s antics and jealous with Franco’s bathroom scene and shock marriage proposal.

  They fell silent when Maria arrived and gasped when the Ed pictures arrived, putting her budding romance to an end. The newspapers had put her career to an end. Vulture press, a voyeur pervert and police questioning had put her privacy to an end.

  But the good news was there seemed to be no more mice.

  “Jesus, life wiv you is never borin’, T…you poor baby, no wonder the mouse moved out. Do you fink the Ed the Head pictures were taken by the same guy or girl? It could be that Maria, you know. She looked pretty evil, and she has ’er nails well and truly into Franco, saw pictures of ’em at the airport after you left, they looked pretty cosy together.”

  Josie’s words hurt; she hadn’t seen the airport pictures. Bloody Iti, even then he was lying to her. To think for a nanosecond yesterday she’d thought about getting back with him.

  “It must be so spooky, having someone spying on you like that; let me catch him, I’ll cut his balls off,” said Helen protectively.

  “Or her,” reminded Josie. “You’ve got to move out, he, she, it, might come back.”

  “I don’t think it’s a girl, it feels like a guy; I can’t imagine a girl being interested in my bathroom activities; there was a camera over the bath… shit, when I think about it I feel sick,” she paused, staring off into the distance.

  “You know, sometimes I had a funny feeling someone had been in my apartment, been through my things. Nothing was ever missing but just slightly out of place, you know what I mean… and then there was the put-down phone calls, the damage to the car,” the girls nodded, beginning to feel frightened for her.

  “Seeing those pictures of Franco and me is so humiliating, I can’t tell you. If I’d known I was on camera, I would have at least have held my stomach in, had a wax, and done my hair, I look like The Wreck of the Hesperus, SO not a good look.”

  Her trial at humour was a good sign, thought Josie; she’ll get through this.

  “Well, I think all in all you looked fuckin’ fantastic, and he looked delish, I bet there ain’t an ’ousewife in the land who wouldn’t want to pull ’is plonker. You should make sumfing positive out of this, put some spin on it, ok, so Franco ain’t no saint anymore, but saints are boring; everyone loves a sinner. Sporjakk have even more press now than ever; they should use it in a positive way.”

  Josie nudged at Tara, trying to make her see.

  “Look, the ’ole flippin country has been tryin’ to ’elp ’im bloody find his bird. Well, now he’s found ’er; what did people fink ’e was gonna do when ’e found ’er, play tiddlywinks? Get a life; ’e was gonna shag the living daylights out of her, a’course. The agency and client were not conning anyone, they were in the dark, you did it on your own, trying to keep your job, so what? Tell them the truth, it got out of hand… anyone would do the same. The companies can stand by you and look holier than fucking thou. The charity made a shed load-a-money. The public got entertained. The press sold papers. Everyone’s happy. No one died for gawd’s sake! If the charity don’t like it, he can give the cash to another one that does, HIV or prostate cancer or something.”

  Tara sipped her drink, Josie may have a point, with a little creative thinking there could be a way to put a positive spin on it. A saints and sinners campaign. They discussed the ins and outs for the next hour, formulating the beginnings of a plan. Tara began to see it could work.

  “Josie, I love you,” she got up, leaned over the table, and gave her friend a big hug. “You are so right, I’m gonna put this together and give it to the bosses, truth wins out… I love yoooooooooou, group hug, group hug,” she stole the line from Anton.

  Helen stood and joined in, tears in her eyes. Diners looked over, wondering what the celebration was.

  They laughed away the rest of the afternoon; planning Tara’s come back, calculating the number of BJ’s needed for Josephine’s retirement, and talking Helen out of seeing Kevin again.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Fifteen years earlier, Heddington Forest, Berkshire, England.

  The sound of the camera’s shutter pulsed through the still forest.

  Click, click.

  Squinting through the lens, he focused in tight on a gaping wound, his hands trembling… shit, this was good. The pale pink flesh w
as already turning blue, the cherry-red blood darkening. Autumn leaves whispered in and out of the shot as gusty winds picked up and gently played chase with them across the warm lifeless body.

  Click, click.

  Blood-soaked surgical gloves adjusted the picture, slowly, provocatively, bringing the full horror into view. He caught his breath… beautiful, he smiled… perfectly presented… a textbook dissection…

  The corpse had been laid out for dissection. Dark blood had drained from the wounds, forming a watery, glistening halo around the length of the body, seeping into the soil. A silver tray of blood stained implements lay to the side of the head, a deep incision had been made from the collarbone to pelvis, clothing and skin had been pulled back, pinned layer by layer, precisely positioned for optimum viewing… very neat; master would be pleased, top marks, dear boy!

  It was a shame about the putrid smell, but defecation was to be expected when in distress; luckily, it had occurred after sex. He’d been surprised to find the pacemaker, the old boy seemed fit for his age.

  Forest creatures crawled up from the undergrowth, taking a keen interest in the newly rotting flesh. Flies and bugs vied for position on the seeping wounds and foul-smelling faeces… dinner is served, nature at its recycling best, he smiled.

  Click, click.

  The soft clicks of the camera at work were tame in comparison to the agonized screams that had ripped through the trees moments earlier; the Headmaster had been alive during the cutting; it had been a slow death. The forest heaved a sigh of relief as the torture finally stopped. Its heartbeat slowed to a peaceful rustle of branches and chatter of birds, its memory short, business as usual.

  He reached down and pulled the red-handled screwdriver out of the right eye socket. It made a satisfying squelching sound as it wrenched free, torn remains of tissue and retina hung from its tip. Fresh blood oozed from the bony socket, causing a rush of iridescent blowflies seeking to lay their eggs.

  Click, click.

  The photographic log complete, he began the clean-up. Bending to his knees, eyes and hands anxiously searched the forest floor. Piano-playing fingertips ran over dry leaves and twigs until a warm, soft package nudged up wet against him… found it.

  He proudly plucked up the trophy and held it high against the sky’s dimming light, congratulating himself on how full it was… my my, I have had some fun.

  He pocketed the used condom… we don’t want to leave any tell-tale signs, now, do we?

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  At lunch Josie had drunkenly promised to let Helen come along on one of her jobs, as a voyeur, if one came up that suited. One had.

  A regular monthly client, Jeff, had a wife who liked to watch while he fucked Josephine. She would stand quietly in the corner and watch while he and Josephine got it on. It was straight sex, nothing kinky, so a relatively easy job. Apparently the wife loved it, got off on seeing her supposedly ‘virile’ man take another woman, in a controlled environment of course, her control, and she and her husband had great sex thereafter on the memory of it.

  Although Jeff initially didn’t feel happy about being watched by the wife, there was something instinctively scary about a wife standing over you as you shagged another woman, it was normally a crime that led to being hung, drawn, and quartered, he agreed to go along with it, and the expense, Josephine did not come cheap, initially just to keep her happy. After a while he started to get hooked on it. He loved the fact that his wife was watching, he liked performing to her, and Josephine was a hell of a sexy woman, a man’s dream, it was a big turn-on.

  He’d called the agency for his regular dose of Josephine, but had requested that she bring another girl to play the part of the wife, as the wife couldn’t make it; she was away visiting her mother. He was now so hooked that he couldn’t get it up without being watched; he needed his monthly treat of ego stroking. Josephine told the agency she had just the girl; it was an easy part for Helen to play, and agreed a good price for her.

  She wasn’t sure whether Helen was more excited about earning the money or watching the sex. She’d gone bananas with excitement when Josie told her it was on for the next night.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod…where?” she asked excitedly.

  “Normally it’s a hotel in Park Lane, I get told the venue about an hour before, are you up for it?”

  “You bet, Josie, how exciting, what do I wear?”

  “Wifey normally wears a little nightdress, nothin’ fancy. So wear one under your coat. Now you promise to be quiet as a mouse, Hel; pretend to be playing wiv yaself, fake orgasm when I give you the nod; we will be in and out of there in no time, ok?” Josie instructed the eye-popping, nodding Helen.

  “It’s easy money, and try not to larf when I’m doin’ my spiel; the rubbish you have to say to get their rocks off is pathetic, but that’s what I’m paid for, ok?” Helen immediately giggled.

  Josie was beginning to think it may not be such a good idea, but what the heck, she’d been so grateful that Hel had accepted her and her dirty secret. Maybe it would be fun to have her there; it would seem less sordid somehow, sharing it with a mate, what could go wrong?

  She got the phone call at 6 p.m.; they were to be at the hotel at 7 p.m. and go straight to room 801.

  Helen had been waiting at Josie’s flat with her since 5 p.m.; she’d brought two full-length mink coats with her for the pair of them to use, even though it was summer; she thought it would help them look the part. Josie giggled at her romantic view of the game, but played along.

  They had got through a bottle of wine, while waiting for the call. Helen’s initial nerves were well and truly put to rest now, the wine had numbed them; she couldn’t wait to get at him or it or whatever it was she was doing. She had that wonderful buzz she craved when she did something new; she felt alive.

  Josie eyed her nervously; her friend looked to be enjoying this a little too much, and they hadn’t even started yet. It would not be the first time that evening that the same thought crossed her mind.

  In the cab on the way there, Josie reminded her of her duties. Getting her to practice a few moaning sounds to fake her orgasm. The cabbie thought his boat had come in. One bird looked to be wearing a nightdress under her mink coat, and the other was done up to the nines under hers, in a little black dress, stockings, suspenders, the lot, he’d sneaked a look at Josie’s long legs as she stepped up into the taxi. Jesus and now they were groaning in the back seat… the boys would never believe this.

  On arrival at the hotel, they went straight up to room 801. Helen, scampering a few steps behind the confident, striding Josephine, was loving her friend’s sudden change in demeanour… so assertive, so classy, so Cleopatraesque … sighed Helen.

  Jeff answered the door in his boxer shorts, holding a glass of champagne.

  Mmmmm, thought Josie, he doesn’t fork out for that stuff when the wife is here… it’s a bottle of house white and that’s her lot.

  “Evening, girls, wow, Josephine, you look great, and your friend is cute,” he purred, the cat that had (or was about to have) the cream. Helen noticed how excited he was already; a little marquee effect was going on in his designer boxers.

  “This is…” shit, she hadn’t got a name for Helen, it was not a good idea to use your own name, “this is, ummm…Venus,” it was the first thing that came to mind.

  Helen nearly choked, trying not to smirk…Venus, where the hell had that come from? And why was Josie sounding all posh? She had to cough through a smirk that was trying desperately to break into a laugh.

  “Venus, meet Jeff,” Josie gave her a dark look of ‘don’t you dare laugh’.

  “Hiiiiii, Jeff,” Helen purred as deeply as she could, furiously fluttering her false eyelashes, overplaying the sex kitten.

  She walked seductively past him into the room, making sure she brushed against him as she did so. The excitement level had been sent up a notch. Josie smiled to herself, she was a little over keen, but had the makings of a real pro. She
noticed the wife’s chair had been set up in the normal position, the far corner of the room.

  Helen surveyed the suite, tutting; it was typically hotel drab, how disappointing. In her opinion most hotels failed miserably at making their rooms cosy and comfortable.

  “Let’s breathe some life into this place,” she enthused.

  Skipping around the room, she switched off the harsh main light, switched on the soft bedside table lamps, drew the curtains, flicked the music on low, chucked the hideous kitschy bedspreads into the closet, revealing pristine white bed sheets and shunted the two beds together to form an inviting king-size…voila, a sexy shag den.

  “There, that’s better,” she grinned, standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips, proudly surveying her work.

  Josie and Jeff stood bewildered in the doorway, watching her.

  “You don’t have to act quite so much like a wife, dear,” chuckled Jeff.

  “Venus!” Josie almost shouted. “Why don’t you sit in the chair, over there,” she pointed furiously at the elegant Prince Albert-style chair in the far corner.

  This was definitely a mistake; Helen was far too much of an accommodating hostess to be a hooker.

  “Oh yes, of course; sorry, Josie…iphine, was just trying to make it a little more welcoming… champagne anyone?”

  “SIT!’ Josie barked, Helen jumped.

  Remembering her instruction, she obediently took off her coat, hung it neatly on the back of the chair, and sat like a prim schoolteacher, upright, hands clasped on lap, waiting patiently, smiling sweetly.

  Jeff closed the door, and walked to the dressing table where the drinks were laid out, three glasses, an ice bucket and three bottles of champagne, the first of which was almost empty. Jeff was obviously well-relaxed. Not a good sign, Josie thought, it took longer to get them to come when they had had a few, she hoped he hadn’t taken any Viagra.