The sex grew a bit stale after a while, as it always does I’m led to believe. So I went back to heavy internet porn use. I didn’t try to hide it from Carla, and at first she didn’t seem to mind. But as time went on and I started to get into more and more sicker things, regular sex just dried up. She didn’t excite me any more. And then she started to resent the amount of tissue time I spent with my square-headed girlfriend. By this time the business was doing well and I’d bought myself a flash big-screen wank machine, with a top-notch sound system for proper appreciation of that wah-wah soundtrack and the grunts and moans of the damned and depraved.
I began spending more and more time in the computer room, with a box of tissues and a tub of hand cream. I’d discovered a site where people post their own … well, you can imagine. They had literally thousands of clips on there, and I made it my personal mission to watch every one and give it a rating. There was a lot of rubbish on there, but some great stuff too. Some things I watched, then wished I hadn’t. But I couldn’t help myself. There are a lot of sick people out there. I guess I’m one of them, maybe those of us that watch are the worst. Without an audience these sites would dry up and die.
I met another girl on the sex site as well. This one liked me to watch her while I burped the baby. She’d fill herself with a succession of toys and type the most filthy things you can imagine while doing it. I kept her existence a secret from Carla. But, as it turns out, I needn’t have bothered as Carla had had enough by this point. Can’t think why.
I didn’t notice she’d gone for three straight days. I was so grateful she wasn’t pestering me to come out and eat a meal with her that I just carried on flipping the ferret until I started bleeding. I staggered out, malnourished and dehydrated, to find a note on the table. I didn’t even care. I slept for twenty-four hours straight, then ordered a pizza and headed straight back to the computer, manipulating myself to German bondage, the pizza grease serving as an unexpectedly effective lubricant. The Germans are the best at porn, by the by. They just don’t care what they do, the dirty buggers. The worst are the Italians. All style and no substance. Lots of hand waving and shouting, but very little cock action.
I knew I needed help. But I didn’t look for it. I felt free again. Free from my dad, free from Carla, free from my boss, my teachers. I could look at whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. And free to continue my lap-based web-browsing till my cock came away in my hand if I so chose.
So that’s what I did. I hired a guy to look after the business, and simply wandered about, finding ever more inappropriate places to masturbate. I’m sure Dr Galloway could tell me in clever language exactly why my psyche told me to go out and do it in public. All I know is that I needed to get out from behind the computer and involve myself in the world, the only way I knew how, by spurting jizz all over it.
I started off in strip clubs, the ones with cubicles where you pay your money and the slot opens for a few minutes. There’s always some hollow-eyed girl in there swaying about in a drug haze, starkers. They provide tissues but I never bothered. A cleaner always popped in after you’d finished anyway, sometimes you’d pass them in the hall. ‘Look in the right-hand corner,’ I’d say helpfully. I’d go to adult cinemas, and to strip clubs. I got beaten up by a bouncer in Soho for rubbing one out at the bar.
I also got busted in a park, ogling the girls. I spent the night in jail, waxing the Buick. I was banned from the Natural History Museum. What? Those Neanderthal women haven’t got tops on. They look like they’d be pretty wild in the sack too.
After I was arrested a second time, for masturbating in a restaurant, I tried to pull myself together. I tried going cold turkey for a while, and gave my computer away to charity. I hope I remembered to wipe the hard disk. I lasted a couple of days, lying in a cold sweat, trying not to think about how much I wanted to butter the corn. I went to the library to take my mind off porn and to try and find something a bit more cerebral. I ended up in the indexing room pounding the flounder to a Jilly-bloody-Cooper bonkbuster.
I bought a new computer that afternoon and had another three-day wank-a-thon. My health was suffering. I couldn’t sleep, just dozing, waking, milking the moose then dozing off again. I was lethargic and irritable. I had no friends left, even the guy at the local adult shop wouldn’t talk to me. His best customer!
I talked to my doctor about it, and he suggested that exercise was a good way to relieve the tensions and tire me out so I could sleep properly. I took up swimming. That worked for a while. I just ploughed up and down the pool, looking down, trying to think of nothing. I swam for hours every day, exhausting myself and going straight home to sleep. But in the summer the problems started again. The place was suddenly filled with young women preening and sunning themselves by the pool as I swam up and down. The sight of all those girls in skimpy swimming costumes was just too much. One day something snapped. I snuck behind the changing block and stood on an old wheelie bin to have a peek through the old grimy louvres, straight into the showers. This was better than porn, this was real. There’s something just so erotic about foamy skin and I stood there for hours, spanking the pony as a succession of teenage girls came in, stripped off and soaped their hot little bodies.
Now let me make clear that these weren’t underage girls, I’m not into that kind of thing. But unfortunately I had a hard time convincing the police of that, when they caught me, which of course they did soon enough. I was arrested for a third time. The coppers came around the corner, saw me giving it the old one-gun salute and just shook their heads in disgust.
My parents flew in from Singapore, my mother crying non-stop and my dad wringing his hands, trying to stop himself wringing my neck. They knew I was a serial self-abuser of course, they weren’t dumb, but they’d never expected me to turn out to be a Peeping Tom, and quite frankly neither had I. I’d shocked even myself and was chastened. I pleaded guilty of course. I’ve never tried to hide what I am.
The judge gave me a conditional sentence and put me on the Sex Offenders Register. I have to attend this course as part of a court order. If I screw up, I go to jail. And I don’t want to go jail. I’ve been here five days and haven’t so much as touched my winky. I’ve even been sitting down to pee. I have had some pills to reduce my libido, but even so, I’m really proud of what I’ve done so far. It hasn’t been easy sitting here and listening to all your sexy stories. But it’s been important for me. I need to learn how to stop treating every sexual account I see or hear as fodder for my wank-bank.
I’m here not just because the judge told me to come. I want to be here. I want to get better and lead a normal life. I know I can do it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After Larry had finished, Verity told them they’d have recreation before dinner.
‘I suggest you do something as a group. I can see you’re all bonding well, but I want to keep that going throughout the confessionals, and beyond. I need you to look after each other. It’s a lovely afternoon, why not pop out onto the croquet lawn?’
‘Croquet!’ Cian shouted enthusiastically. ‘Whacking my opponent’s balls with a bloody big hammer? Count me in.’ The others agreed and they made their way down the hall to the double doors out onto the croquet lawn. Shelley tapped Rose on the shoulder. ‘Just got to pop to the loo, I’ll catch up with you.’
In the toilets she locked the cubicle and sat down, her head in her hands. Poor Larry, she thought. What an awful story. She felt terrible, and not just through sympathy. She felt guilty at her deception, and a crippling, stomach-wrenching fear about her own confessional the next day. She knew now that she couldn’t do it. She’d have to leave the group, tonight. She’d have to let her new friends down.
She decided she was going to march up to Dr Jones’ office, and use her telephone. It seemed unlikely she would have woken up considering the amount she’d drunk. And if she did, so what? Shelley was leaving, come hell or high water, and bugger the Mental Health Act. As she stood to leave though, she fe
lt her BlackBerry buzz. She wavered for a second, then sat down and flipped it open. A message. From Aidan.
Hi Shelley,
Sorry about the delay on this. I’ve been thinking it through carefully, trying to get it just right. Thinking about what sort of things you might get up to and trying to write them in your brilliant style. I’ve aimed to strike the same kind of level as the confessionals you’ve been sending back, so some of it is pretty raunchy. I’m no writer, but I hope what I’ve been able to do will give you enough material to make a good fist of it. I know you won’t let me down. I’m confident your story will be the best of the lot and will round off the series well and merit the cover. You deserve it for the work you’ve put in. Just one more push.
And after that Aidan had provided a detailed, involved and explicitly-written story for Shelley. As she read it through, she felt herself flushing. It wasn’t just the jaw-dropping sex he’d described, but the fact that he was thinking of her when he’d wrote it. She imagined him late at night, in a flash pad somewhere in Chelsea, sitting in boxers and a tight vest tapping away with his strong fingers. All the while thinking of her naked, with another man’s hand between her legs, or another man’s cock in her mouth.
She read it through twice, and as she finished the second time, she realised she had her hand hard against her crotch. She let her middle finger trace over her swollen clitoris, then pulled it away hurriedly.
‘Well, I guess I could stay for one more day,’ she told herself. Then she checked her make-up, washed her hands and went off to join the others.
‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ Cian yelled as Shelley stepped out of the doors and walked over to the croquet lawn.
‘You plonker!’ Will shouted at him.
‘I’m allowed to do it!’ Cian shouted back, grinning madly. ‘If your ball ends up touching mine I can whack it as hard as I like.’
‘Not with a fucking cricket bat!’
‘Sussex rules,’ Cian said, shrugging.
‘Where did you get that bat anyway?’ Abigail called over. She’d apparently taken charge as soon as they’d reached the green and was busy ordering everyone about.
‘I found it with the other gear in the games room,’ Cian said, hefting and spinning it, forcing Will to duck.
Shelley joined Rose at the edge. Her friend was wearing a white skirt that came about half-way down to her knees. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Well, no one really knows the rules, or at least they don’t agree on the same set of rules. Abigail’s sort of in charge and is adjudicating on disagreements, of which there have been a lot already. Will was winning, but now Cian’s hit his ball into the compost heap so Larry’s in the lead.’
‘Your turn, Rose,’ Abigail said.
Rose moved into position and bent over to tap her ball towards the next hoop. This had the effect of exposing most of her backside. She was wearing a dental-floss-thin white thong, leaving nothing to the imagination. Shelley felt like clapping.
Poor old Larry, standing beside her, nearly fainted at the view.
‘Christmas Day,’ he said and sank to his knees.
Rose finished her shot and stood up, oblivious to the effect she’d caused.
‘Right, that’s it,’ Larry said and sprinted off towards the woods.
‘Where’re you going, mate?’ Cian called after him.
‘I can’t hold it any longer. Be back in five.’
Will and Cian fell about laughing.
‘What was that about?’ Rose asked Shelley.
Shelley smiled, and shrugged. ‘I think Larry really likes you.’
Abigail wandered over muttering: ‘I could teach that boy to control himself. It’s just a matter of discipline.’ She whacked the handle of her putter into her hand with a slap that made Cian and Will wince.
I like Rose too, Shelley thought to herself. In fact, she liked everyone.
Maybe another week here wouldn’t be so bad.
That night, Rose was in the shower as Shelley got into bed. She closed her eyes and tried to forget the crowd of images in her head. Verity enthusiastically slurping on Dr Galloway’s slick penis, Aidan striding brashly across the Vixen offices, Cian slapping his engorged member from hand to hand as he glared at her hungrily.
Rose came in wearing her see-through nightdress. Shelley was used to it by now and felt comfortable with the older woman’s semi-nakedness. ‘All okay, honey?’ Rose asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Would you like to chat?’
‘Yes, but not about my confessional, and not about sex at all. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Okay,’ Rose said, smiling as she sat on the bed. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, house prices, politics, anything but sex. What about babies?’
‘Babies?’
‘Yes, you know, little noisy things, crapping everywhere and chewing on your nipples. Do you want babies? Slap me if it’s too personal a question.’
‘I think I do,’ Rose replied, after a pause for consideration. ‘But I need to sort myself out first, I know that.’
‘You’d make a great mother,’ Shelley said.
‘Why, because I have child-bearing hips?’
‘No, because you’re a kind, thoughtful and intelligent woman. Plus you have pots of money.’
Rose laughed.
‘I’ve never really understood the term child-bearing hips,’ Shelley said after a pause. ‘Does it mean you’ve got a wide pelvis to make it easier for them to come out? Or does it mean you have a sticky-out hip suitable for carrying a child around on?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rose replied. ‘Maybe both?’
‘All I know is I don’t have them,’ Shelley said. ‘Straight up and down, that’s me. Even if I could force an eight-pound poo machine out without cracking my pelvis, it’d just keep slipping off my hip in Tesco’s.’
Rose laughed again, leant over and kissed Shelley on the lips.
It wasn’t a proper, passionate kiss. Just a sweet smack, but it was the most intimate contact Shelley had had with another human for some time and she was left speechless.
‘You’re cute, Shelley,’ Rose said, climbing into bed. ‘I’d like to keep in touch with you, after … all this.’
‘I’d like that too,’ Shelley replied and got up to turn off the light. As she lay in bed, she puzzled over whether Rose meant she wanted to keep in touch just as a friend, or maybe something else. Had that kiss just been a friendly peck? If so, why on the lips? And more to the point, was she, Shelley, really interested in sleeping with another woman? Or was she just horny and looking for affection?
At least all these new questions have stopped me worrying about tomorrow, she thought, as she drifted off.
Larry was in the room with a lap-top.
‘I want to show you something,’ he told her, sitting on the end of the bed and opening the computer. There on the screen, she saw a naked woman on all fours. Her face wasn’t visible as the camera viewed her from behind. As the movie played, she saw a large cock glide into view like the Imperial Flagship in Star Wars. The owner of the cock eased it slowly inside the woman and began thrusting.
‘Great stuff, isn’t it?’ Larry said excitedly, his hand in his pants.
The camera pulled back and Shelley now saw another man at the other end, getting a blow job from the brunette. The camera pulled back still further and she gasped as she realised it was Aidan. The camera began travelling slowly around the room until the first man’s face could be seen. Shelley was unsurprised to see it was Dr Galloway. She was, however, surprised to see the face of the woman. It was her own.
The next morning was bright and warm. Shelley opened the window and took a lungful of the country air. She didn’t feel too bad, even knowing what was to come later. The door opened behind her and Sandra came in with the bromide tea. Rose was still slumbering, her hair splayed sexily on the pillow; even in her sleep she looked every inch the porn
star.
‘Big day for you,’ Sandra said, her hair tied in a bun, her face still showing the scrapes and bruises she’d got during her scuffle with Abigail. ‘Time to face the music.’
Shelley eyed her suspiciously. If Sandra did know something about her, why didn’t she just come out and say it?
‘Nice new look you’ve got,’ Shelley replied. ‘What happened, get in a fight outside the chip shop?’
Sandra sneered. ‘Save your clever words for the confessional today, some people will be listening very closely indeed.’ And with that she left.
Shelley talked non-stop at breakfast, her anxiety spilling out of her mouth. She’d helped herself to a large doughnut from the counter, claiming she needed the sugar. She munched it now, eyes down on the table in front of her. The others sensed her nervousness and spoke quietly, not wanting to make it worse. She could feel their support, their love, and it helped.
Abigail tapped her on the shoulder and whispered: ‘You’ll be fine, Shelley. It’ll all be over soon.’ It was the first kind words the dominatrix had uttered, and it meant a lot. Shelley nodded and grabbed another doughnut from Cian’s plate. ‘I eat these things just to keep me going,’ she said. ‘Every time I eat one I find I have another twenty minutes’ energy. The coming-down part always lasts longer than the high, though. It sometimes seems I spend most of my life crashing from a doughnut rush.’
‘Don’t replace one addiction with another,’ Verity said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Okay everyone. Cian, please stop swinging on your chair. Larry, hands on the arms please. We’re here this morning to hear our final confessional – Shelley’s. Once all the confessionals are over, we enter the next phase of the course, but for now, please sit quietly and offer Shelley the patience and respect she has showed you.’ Verity turned to Shelley and smiled. ‘Go ahead please Shelley.’
Confessions Page 23