The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  Then, just as his compliments were getting too sickly sycophantic, he would back off, change tack and border on being disrespectful, rude, tease her about her lousy spelling, her lack of general knowledge, split ends in her hair, being a little overweight.

  His mind games fed her with yo-yoing pleasure and shame; she got a strange exciting buzz from being with him… weird or what, enjoying the company of your kidnapper!

  Scrabble went on for hours; they played game after game, laughing until their sides ached. He would gently tuck a loose strand of hair from her face behind her ear, or push her shoulder playfully when she accused him of cheating; it seemed comfortable to let him touch her, she began to will it.

  She found herself watching the slow measured movement of his beautiful long lean fingers as he carefully chose letters and placed them on the board. She had a strange feeling that she knew what his hands felt like. She watched his mouth as he talked and knew the feel of his lips, the softness of his kisses. Why was that? How could she know?

  The den pictures of him in her bed flashed into her mind. Were they real or computer wizardry? Had he come to her in the night, was he the cause of the wet dreams she’d been having? No, it was unthinkable, no one could get away with that, she was imagining it... in your dreams girl, he’s gay!

  “I wish I had known you properly at school,” she blurted, without thinking. “If I’d known you were so much fun, I would never have written that letter.”

  His hand stopped mid-air over the scrabble board, he was about to add the final letter to the word he was compiling, absolution. His eyes turned on her, loathing flashed across his face.

  Feeling uncomfortable, she turned away, wishing she’d kept her big mouth shut, the atmosphere ruined.

  “I’m so sorry, Dav…”

  He stood up, not waiting to hear her apology, and violently threw the letter onto the board, disrupting their tree of words. He towered over her, his gown falling open showing his nakedness beneath. She looked up at him… God, he’s beautiful.

  He pulled a small piece of crumpled plastic from his pocket and chucked it onto her lap.

  “Do you remember it?” he spat.

  She looked down and picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. It was a small dried flower, a daisy, secured between two pieces of clear plastic, yellow with age, the type of sticky plastic she used to cover her schoolbooks with.

  “No, what is it?”

  He bent down, took her hand and yanked her to her feet, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket. The daisy fell to the floor. She let out a squeal of pain; he ignored it and marched toward the bedroom, dragging her behind him.

  “David I’m sorry… please, you’re hurting me… what are you doing? I want to go home,” as they passed the front door she lunged at it, trying to escape; he yanked her again with such force she smashed into the opposite wall.

  He ignored her scream and carried on to the bedroom. Closing the door behind them, he swung her around and threw her up against it with a thud. He pulled open her gown and pushed his body onto her. She stood open mouthed with shock… what the hell? He stared down at her face, watching, breathing hard, waiting for her to quieten.

  Skin on skin, his mouth close to hers, he waited. She tried to push him off, but he held fast. Giving up, her breathing calmed, no point in fighting, her body relaxed.

  “Can I kiss you now, Tara?” his warm breath mixed with intoxicating wine hit her face, the softly spoken serpent willed her to say yes.

  “No, let me go, please, you said I could after the game, please.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I want to leave now,” she said unconvincingly.

  “No you don’t,” he whispered.

  She wasn’t sure what she wanted, he felt good… it’s the wine, this is ludicrous. She stared up at his face.

  He slowly started to move his hands, all the while watching the flicker of her eyes, using them as his guide. He started with the neck, her Achilles heel, he knew it drove her crazy. She rolled her head to the side to get away from him…oh shit!

  “Get off me David; I thought you were fucking gay.”

  “Don’t be so suburban, putting us all in boxes, Tara. I like beautiful things, male, female; why not try both. Life is too short to be constrained by rules set by mere mortals.”

  She felt his cock nudge against her stomach. His hands moved down her chest; he squeezed nipples, hard, she moaned with pleasure-pain.

  “That hurts; don’t do that,” she lied, her head tilting back against the door.

  He grinned, he knew when her no’s meant yes, she was getting there. His hands slid behind her back to hold her buttocks, pulling them into him, holding her steady, as he rubbed his groin against her like a dog in heat.

  She should have fought him off, punched him, instead she held onto his shoulders and looked down, watching him grind against her… shit, he’s big. She joined the rhythm, kneading her hips into him, his cock got bigger. She raised her face to his, their mouths unbearably close, she wanted him so bad it hurt.

  “Why does this feel like I know you?” she whispered. “As if I’ve always known you.”

  “Love, Tara, it’s called love.”

  “Kiss me,” she breathed, barely able to speak.

  He grinned, she was ready… so easy.

  “Beg me Tara, beg me to kiss you.”

  “What?” confused.

  “Beg me, tell me you want me, tell me.”

  He eased away from her body and slipped his hand down between her legs, she was wet. Her eyes closed with pleasure.

  “Beg me Tara, beg me,” his fingers rubbed slowly backwards and forwards.

  She knew he was hard, he was just as excited as her, fuck him if he thought she was going to beg.

  “Fuck you David; you wanna do it, do it. I’m not gonna beg you, you want it just as much as me… you and your bloody games!”

  He laughed, she was stronger than he thought, this would be fun. He set his hand to work, kneading his thumb over her clit with just the right amount of pressure, gently at first then building.

  She let out a groan, her eyes disappeared beneath half-closed lids.

  “Shit,” she rasped. “You bastard, you know what you’re doing… don’t stop…”

  He had her. He knew his victim well, he’d studied her.

  “Say it Tara beg me, go on, beg me… or I stop.”

  He increased the pressure; she rode his hand, trembling with waves of pleasure.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop… I beg you, I beg you, please.”

  “Please what?” he demanded.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, she was going to come.

  “Please WHAT Tara, tell me or I stop,” he began to pull his hand away.

  “No, don’t… don’t,” she grabbed his hand and held it to her.

  “Please kiss me David, please fuck me… I beg you,” she no longer cared what she said.

  He sank his mouth onto hers; he heard the words he needed to hear. She’d begged him, wanted him. More than anything else in the world at that moment, she’d wanted him.

  He pushed his tongue deep into his angel’s mouth, searching out her gasps of pleasure as she ate him back, hungry for his sex. He’d waited so long to take her like this, for her to consciously beg for him, want him, need him; it felt better than he’d imagined.

  She was going to come; he could feel it. She was soaking wet, her groaning getting louder. He pulled his hand away, lifted her up onto his hips, wrapped her legs around his waist and entered her hard.

  Sinking in deep, she let out a scream; her shoulders fell back against the door. He held her waist and pumped and pumped, her head thrashing against the door. He fucked her so hard he thought the doorframe would crack. She didn’t care.

  God, she was beautiful. She hung onto him like a cat until they both came; screaming into the air, sweat pouring off them. They slid to the floor with exhaustion.

  He’d forgotten his cus
tomary condom… shit! he would worry about that later.

  His angel had finally come to him, the joy cut bittersweet as it meant his life with her was coming to an end. As they lay on the floor, she snuggled up under his arm getting her breath back; tears pricked his eyes, why couldn’t she have always been like this?

  What was wrong with him that he couldn’t have love in his life, be normal like everyone else? He’d been a good boy, why hadn’t they left him alone?

  Chapter Sixty

  It was midnight before she got home. Franco had chucked her out for good, this time he was determined. He was wrong of course; she knew she was right for him. To win him back she would go to plan B.

  She had a little trick that she’d used successfully on a previous departing lover. She cried wolf by taking an overdose. He’d felt so guilt-ridden that he proposed to her, perched on the end of her hospital bed as she came round from a coma.

  Timing was key. She knew that Michael would be delivering boxes in the morning, he was meticulously punctual (all that bloody army training), she would arrange it that he arrived in plenty of time to discover her inert body, get her to hospital, have her stomach pumped and save the day. Guilt stricken Franco would be putty in her hands.

  Opening a bottle of wine, she double checked timings and started preparing the scene. She bathed in sweet smelling oils, dressed in a demure full length silk nightdress, curled her beautiful long hair and expertly applied her makeup, not too sexy siren, more the sweet innocent girl next door look. She wrote a heart-rending note to Franco, stating her undying love and how she couldn’t live without him.

  She worked through the night. By 6 a.m. she was pissed, drunk enough to have the courage to go through with the next part of the plan. The alarm clock rang out; it was time for the pills.

  She staggered to the front door and left it off the latch, then wandered around the apartment for a last-minute check that all was in order. She sat on the edge of the bed and swallowed as many pills as she could stand, knocking them back with the dregs of her third bottle of wine, and a bottle of gin – gagging, then swallowing back the retch, trying not to be sick.

  She lay out on the bed and arranged herself as if in a model shoot, her hair spread out over the pillows. She closed her eyes, as the fog came down, a smile beamed across her perfect face… Mrs Franco Rossellini.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The Mercedes pulled up to Maria’s block of apartments, just off busy Knightsbridge.

  As Michael jumped out of the car, he whistled to himself; he was in a good mood. Franco was finally getting rid of Ms Moodyknickers, she was on her way out. He had a car full of her belongings packed into boxes. It was amazing how much she’d managed to smuggle into the boss’s apartment over the months.

  Taking the first two boxes from the front seat, he buzzed her number on the entry phone. No answer; he tried again. A city gent was leaving the block, seeing that Michael was juggling with the boxes and noticing the smart car parked up behind him, he let him in, holding the door open for him.

  “Thanks, mate, women eh,” Michael tutted. “She’s probably in the bath.”

  Crossing the foyer, he caught the lift as it was closing. Her front door was on the latch as he arrived, she must have heard the buzzer after all.

  He pressed the doorbell out of politeness and waited, whistling, expecting to hear her screeching voice telling him to come on in. He began to calculate how many trips he would need to get the ten boxes up here; he should be done in about twenty minutes, great. After dropping the boss off at his agent’s office, he’d promised to meet up again with Seb.

  They’d planned for Seb to pop in on David unannounced that morning to see if he could get any more information on Tara.

  He pressed the bell again, anxious to get goin… where is the dizzy bird?

  “Maria, ’ello, its Michael, Franco sent me, I’ve got your stuff,” he bellowed through the letter box.

  No answer. He checked the number of the apartment, yep, it was the right one. He pushed open the door and peered inside. The lights were on but no sound

  “’ello, Maria?”

  Shit, where was she, he needed to get on… bloody bitch, I haven’t got time for this.

  He left the boxes in her hallway and jumped back into the lift to collect the others. It took him four trips to and from the car. He finally came up with the last three boxes and piled them neatly inside her door. Standing hands on hips, getting his breath back, he looked around, listening for any sign of life.

  “Hello… HELLO.”

  He contemplated shutting the door and leaving; he’d done what he was supposed to do, the boxes were off his hands and the boss would be waiting.

  But something was not right; he couldn’t put his finger on it, the place felt eerie… maybe I should have a quick look around.

  Crouching in back-to-the-wall combat mode, he slipped quietly into each doorway, scanned the room and moved on. He felt ridiculous in his smart black suit, stalking around like commando man, but better safe than sorry. He could smell alcohol, and something else, acidy. It got stronger as he moved to the back of the apartment.

  He found her in the master bedroom, laid out on the bed. He thought she was sleeping at first, until he touched her arm to wake her, she was cold and lifeless. A low gurgling sound came from her throat; vomit was dribbling out of her mouth down her neck to the pillow, ruining the scene of beauty she’d so painstakingly produced.

  With experienced eyes, he took in the rest of the room. Empty pill and alcohol bottles lay around the bed. The lady had obviously decided to put an end to it all, or attempt to make it look that way.

  She was still alive.

  He read the note to Franco left on the bedside table, dramatic over the top drivel proclaiming her undying love for him and without him she was nothing.

  The scene had obviously been staged. The room was immaculately tidy, recently cleaned, hover marks still in the carpet. An alarm clock set for 6am and a smiling portrait of Franco stood beside a fresh vase of roses on the bedside table.

  Maria lay beautifully Rubenesque over perfectly arranged pillows, her silk nightdress fanned out across freshly ironed sheets, her nails and makeup perfectly applied, her hair brushed out over pillows. The front door had been left open. It was a fake cry for help to make Franco take her back.

  He pulled a chair to the side of the bed. She’d obviously timed it for him to arrive and save her… the little bitch is trying to pull a fast one on Franco, the old guilt trip number.

  In any other situation he would have administered first aid , rolled her over, unblocked her pipes, removed the sick, and got her to hospital for a stomach pump. Instead, he sat patiently watching her choke on her own vomit.

  When the gurgling stopped, he leaned over to feel her pulse, happy that there was none, he popped the Franco note into his pocket and called for an ambulance.

  One less problem for the boss, she obviously hadn’t banked on him being a callous bastard.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Seb sat waiting in the coffee shop for Michael. They’d planned to meet that morning for Mission Tara, if she hadn’t shown up over the previous night, and she hadn’t, they’d agreed to make a move.

  Seb had left countless messages on her phone and buzzed her apartment, but no answer. He’d met with the Sporjakk guys the previous afternoon; she didn’t show so the meeting went on without her. No one could track her down so it was generally assumed that she’d gone into hiding for a few days while things cooled down. But that didn’t sit well with him, she wasn’t a coward, and the new spin was her baby, surely she would have been there if she could. Sporjakk were happy with the proposal and had sanctioned going ahead if Franco agreed; he was to be briefed that morning. They were anxious to get moving, to start repairing the damage.

  Seb had also put in a few calls to Tara’s mum and Helen, to see if they’d heard from her. Not wanting to worry them he light-heartedly said that he was tracking her down f
or a meeting, but neither had heard from her in the past few days. Gloria Warr was not best pleased; she blew a gasket down the phone at the mention of her daughter’s name. The pictures in the press had caused a hive of excitement in her sleepy country village, how could she hold her head up high at the Women’s Institute meetings? The vicar had cancelled tea, twice, the smut had overexcited the paperboy and her bridge class was ruined with sniggering. He got off the line as quickly as possible. Who cared what the WI thought, he’d seen those calendars, they certainly were no shrinking violets, quiet village types were the naughtiest.

  Helen hadn’t seen her, but they were due to have lunch on Friday, and she would get her to call him if they spoke. He had difficulty hearing Helen amid muffled giggling; he didn’t know what she was doing, but she was obviously having fun. Helen got off the line as quickly as possible, Tara immediately forgotten.

  His timing was not good; the girls were trying out a scene from 9½ Weeks when he called. They had gone a little overboard with the honey; it was dribbling out of control between Helen’s legs at the time, causing problems for Josie who was chasing it up with her tongue before it reached the kitchen floor.

  Helen, on her back, giggled as she tried to swing her hips up over her head in an effort to change the flow direction; maybe they should have conducted this scene in the shower.

  Seb had one more call to make… where the hell’s Michael? he thought as he punched in the number.

  “Hi, Franco, it’s Seb, how ya doin’?”

  “Fine, good news, I finally got rid of Maria last night. Michael’s moving her stuff out this morning,” that explained why Michael was late.

  “Great, about time, mate… tell me, do you know where Tara is? No one has seen her recently and she didn’t turn up to the Sporjakk meet yesterday, actually, where were you, I thought you were going?”