Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  Abigail walked carefully down the treacherous steps, raising eyebrows and the spirits of the drinkers immediately. She perched - with difficulty - on a bar stool and put the small plastic bag down on the counter.

  "Rum and lime, please." She found a couple of ten shilling notes, not sure how much the drink would be. She had decided to actually take something, just to see what happened. Surely one drink wouldn't damage the fabric of time?

  "On the house." The barman, leering under shaggy eyebrows that seemed strong enough to stop an avalanche, pushed the drink at her. The glass was smeared, the drink strong.

  "Thank you. What have I done to deserve that?" Abigail fluttered mascara-heavy false eyelashes at him and sipped the drink.

  "Trade's bad this evening - you've brightened the place up a bit." The bar was wiped with cloth as dirty as the bar, by hands as large as mooring posts, arms thick as cables. A strong bulky man, ex-sailor? Tattoos shouted he might well be. Face carved from the same wood figureheads were carved from, unreadable eyes topped large nose. "Waiting for someone?"

  "Not really." Every ear was turned her way, every man lusting after long long legs that ended somewhere around her shoulders, shiny boots catching the soft light from the bar lamps and the thoughts of the men. "Just not in a hurry to go home. No one to go home for!"

  "Shame, nice girl like you." A well-dressed businessman, slim, with groomed blond hair and groomed smooth face, monogrammed briefcase and silk tie, rose from a dark corner where he had been out of her sight. "Could I buy you another drink?"

  Abigail hesitated. Who had the mirror to take her back? And who - of this mixed bunch - would provide the spice she had come looking for - a different experience?

  One she had read about in the magazines from the Private Shop somewhere in the future; magazines that she would never have dreamed were being published anywhere by anyone. But which had touched a chord in her so deep she had come deliberately - provocatively - looking for someone.

  Anyone.

  Only two men were close, the others ogled from a distance. So, she had to choose between these two.

  Choose!

  The barman wore a belt strong enough to anchor the Queen Elizabeth, but would he use it?

  The businessman had no visible sign about him to shout "I'm the one!"

  Abigail took a chance, accepted the offer of the drink with a smile and a nod, and let the magazine she was holding unroll onto the counter. The spanking magazine she had bought from the newsstand in Fleet Street, standing firm and blush-free under the lustful leer of the news vendor and handing over a green note that felt crisp and strange in her fingers. The same magazine she had so carefully concealed as people hurried home, lemmings heading to the station, blindly following their feet and seeing nothing - or did they? A hand swinging nonchalantly at a side would sometimes connect - oh so briefly -with a sensitive area, and then the man pass on as if nothing had happened, leaving her tingling. And him? She would never know. Another would brush a breast and smile apologetically, but with lustful eyes.

  Everywhere the eyes. Eyes on miniskirts, on what is revealed by miniskirts, on legs and thighs and twinkling knickers here and there, where someone had refused to go into tights, the all-concealing and all-protecting garment.

  Carried the magazine, read it over coffee at a stall while pretending to be homeward-bound, entering Fenchurch Street Station with its smell of trains of steam and grit, of oil and steel, working men and passengers, of pigeons and people; pretending to queue for the phone, impatiently looking at her watch and rushing away when she was third from the phone box. (Who would she call? Her earlier self?)

  Carried the magazine until the right moment when it unrolled itself on the bar top. Just to see what happened, to see who stiffened, who leered, who went wide-eyed with lust.

  She'd take a chance on the mirror. It hadn't failed her yet.

  Neither moved, flicked eyelids or smiled.

  Choose!

  She chose the businessman, only because of the two he looked cleaner and nicer. She leaned closer, touched his arm, engaged him in conversation, drank her drink and smiled.

  "Shall we go?"

  "Your place?"

  "My place."

  Silent streets touched by moonlight and lamplight, carrying the echoes of feet and bodies of the day, the hustle of cars, shouting for taxis, calls of news vendors. News Stands.

  "Here." His place was a top-floor flat, up rickety wooden stairs that broke every fire rule she had ever known. Boots clicked on worn wood, heels caught in worn carpet, stumbled, fell, caught by arms which were strong, breath that carried the scent of whisky and soda. A sudden soft feeling on her ear, on her neck, sending her into acute anticipation that was almost as sharp as her curiosity.

  "Here" was a cosy warm place with plump cushions and over-stuffed sofa, turkey carpet and red drapes. Bottles glinted in light dripped by sconces on walls painted with warm-toned emulsion and hung with watercolours and the occasional fine line drawing.

  No mirror. Check bedroom.

  "What's your name?" Finally asking, after inconsequential chat all the way to the flat.

  "Abigail. What's yours?"

  "Nigel." It would be. He was a City person after all. And Harrys and Bills don't live in City flats.

  "Hi, Nigel. Nice to meet you."

  "You're not from around here."

  "No. I live in Walchurch."

  Not a lie; she did live in Walchurch and it existed for all time, after all. "I just didn't feel like going home tonight."

  "Who's waiting for you?"

  She turned up her nose. "Mum and Dad, but they don't care much. Mum'll be at bingo and Dad'll be on the allotment with his mates."

  "What, now?"

  "Well, no, not now. He'll be at The Cricketers by now."

  "So you have a little while."

  "That's all I do have."

  "So what are we waiting for?" He flopped onto the sofa beside her, one hand sliding the full length of her thigh, finding the bare flesh, slipping two fingers behind the cotton panties, finding the moist slit almost immediately. She gasped and moved, rolled to let him have access. "You left your magazine behind. But with my loving you won't want that extra stimulus, will you?"

  Damn, I chose wrong.

  But he might be good.

  She pulled him close, let her tongue rove in his mouth, tasting whisky and man, let one hand get busy curled around his cock, feeling the length, the weeping head, running her thumb over the top, pushing back the foreskin, cupping his balls, while the other hastily tugged at her clothes, with his help. His kisses were passionate, his lips firm, his tongue adventurous. Hands touched breasts, neck, thighs, everywhere at once, touching, demanding, seeking out her erogenous zones and caressing them when she reacted.

  Clothes were removed in haste, as they struggled to free themselves of clinging fabrics, rushing back to kiss as soon as the clothes were dumped unceremoniously on the floor. They were all but naked in front of a two-bar fire which gave nothing back but their slightly misted reflection. Abigail caught sight of Nigel's bronzed body (did he work out and go on holiday a lot?) on her white one and wondered afresh at the exciting contrast.

  "Now, now," she panted, feeling his fingers become more urgent as his own need stiffened harder and harder. Deep thrusting, pressing her against the carpet, prickles in cheeks against backs of thighs and the weight of a body. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sheer intoxicating pleasure of being soundly and completely fucked by a man whose cock filled her to the very limit, pressed against her sides, excited her clit...

  "Oh, oh, oh." A series of tiny cries which made him laugh just a little. Coming together in an explosion unusual for two people coming together for the first time.

  "You're good," he commented as she lay lethargic and limp on his floor. He traced a finger the length of her body, stopping at the nipples and navel, at the pubis now wet and trickling cold.

  "I like to think so. You are to
o."

  "I hope so. I've had enough practice. Now tell me, you didn't miss a bit of spanking, did you?"

  "No," she lied. She got up slowly, trailing disappointment behind her. "Can I use your bathroom?"

  "Sure, through there. Want coffee?"

  "No, thanks. I must get going."

  A quick peek in the bedroom as she passed - no mirror. Damn. I have to go back to the inn.

  Hot water and a sponge, highly scented soap that made her nose wrinkle. She had a quick wash down, his sponge where his fingers had been, and dressed again. Time to go.

  He was waiting for her by the door.

  "Can I see you again, Abigail?"

  She smiled, hesitated and then kissed him.

  "Look, if I'm at the inn when you are, we'll make it again. How's that?"

  "Great. I'll look in after work for you."

  "I'll see what I can do." She smiled, kissed him again. "Bye, Nigel, and thanks. It was good." She went down the stairs, mentally going over her route back to the inn.

  Darkness pressed down, streets sounding even emptier than they did before - even the echoes had boarded trains and left for the suburbs. The moon hid its face behind a tumble of curls that masqueraded as clouds. And the inn's light shone warm and inviting on the worn stones that paved the square.

  The barman looked up as she clicked down the steps, grinned beneath the huge nose and held out her magazine.

  "I saved it for you."

  "Thank you!" Abigail took it, glanced around the inn and found it empty except for memories. She looked at the man again.

  "Come back for what you really wanted?" he asked, touching his belt oh so casually. She shivered, and felt herself melt just a little, anticipation surging through her cheeks and into her spine. Why did it do that?

  "Yes." Spoken in the tiniest of voices, unwilling to admit it was what she had come back for, in every sense of the expression.

  But she had.

  "I could've told you he'd be no good. These white-handed namby-pamby men don't understand what a woman really wants, do they?"

  "You're an expert, are you?" She smiled, sliding onto the bar stool, feeling the seams of the short tight skirt almost creak under the strain. She felt completely at home, safe, more secure than she had with Nigel. The mirror must be here somewhere.

  And he was offering what she really wanted.

  "I'm an expert. Mind you, I don't often find women coming in blatantly asking like you did. Bit of a surprise that, but I like boldness in a woman, saves a lot of time and trouble." He glanced at a huge watch almost hidden in the hairs of his wrist. "No one's gonna come by now. I'll lock up and we can go."

  "I don't... want to deprive you of trade."

  Hesitating, delaying, anticipation building. A belt. She'd not had a belt. It could be dangerous, it could be painful, it could be-

  Wonderful.

  "To hell with it, it's my pub, I'll do as I damn well wish, and it ain't every day a woman comes parading in here, half her arse on display, asking for it to be tanned. Come on."

  She stood by the bar, waiting while the huge old door was locked and bolted, lights were flipped off, keys hung from a large hook and her arm taken to guide her up the stairs.

  More stairs. All she had done that evening was climb stairs, up and down. These held the smell of spirits and age, of dust and good drinking sessions. They bypassed the lounge, she noted, straight for the bed. No messing around here, no coffee and drinks, just -

  A huge chamber that held an old bed sagging heavily in the middle, and there was the mirror, as out of place as she would be in her current outfit in the offices of Brooks Wilkins & Co.

  "Well, my fine lady, what is it you'd like? What would please you the most, I wonder? A taste of leather, a touch of hand?"

  Abigail smiled as softly as she could while inwardly quaking, longing to submit herself completely to this man, this dominant man, but still holding back just a little.

  "Sir, I am in your house, I am at your mercy. Do with me as you would."

  His eyes gleamed with barely contained lust.

  "Lie down. Face down."

  "Shall I..." She gestured at her clothes.

  "No, just lie down." His hands went to the huge buckle on the belt, undid it, began to slide it carefully through the loops. Feeling vaguely foolish, used to being loved, kissed and possibly undressed before any activity, Abigail took off her long boots and lay down on the bed, pressing her face into the coverlet, uncaring of her eye makeup and bright red lipstick plastering everywhere. That was his problem, not hers. There was a sound, a movement, a thrill of air, and she was stung by something which hurt so much her head flew back in astonishment.

  "Ah, that's more like it. Reaction at last. You felt that, didn't you?"

  Again the belt descended, catching her across the top of the thighs, bringing a shriek to her lips. She tried to roll over, but he pushed her down with one large hand.

  "You'll lie there and you'll take it, my girl. You asked for it, and damned if you ain't gonna get it!"

  Through her clothes, through her inadequate clothes, the leather bit hard, sending bands of fire through her, nerve ends shrieking in pain. She clutched the coverlet with both hands, bit it, moaned, screamed and cried aloud as he brought the leather down again and again.

  Suddenly he stopped, ripped her skirt in one swift movement, tearing at her skin with the force of it, tearing the panties, exposing skin which must have been scarlet. Abigail quivered, feeling the pain, the burning heat, the sheer fear which held her face-down, not moving, afraid to move, afraid to annoy him, this dangerous man with the power to hurt. And she acknowledged her submission to him, her thrill at submitting to him, the thrill of being dominated so completely.

  Somewhere, deep below the pain, the core of her being responded to the whole situation and she almost, almost smiled.

  He laughed. "Damned if that ain't the prettiest sight I done seen in many a moonlit night!" and the belt came down again, harder than ever, flattening her onto the ancient bed. Tears formed, fell. Black mascara ran down her face and onto the cover.

  "Oh no, please no. Let me up. No, please, stop..." An endless moaning litany which he ignored, continuing to thrash her until she found everything going faintly woozy and giddy. Then, mercy of mercies, he stopped. She lay very still, feeling intense pain, burning, nerve ends radiating agony at her, feeling tears spilling hopelessly everywhere, wanting to do no more than lie there and cry herself to sleep. But there was no rest.

  "Up on your knees, slut. Come on - all fours, like the bitch you are."

  Obediently she obeyed, pulling herself up with a supreme effort, resting her head on the pillow, her arms at each side, trying to support herself, feeling weak and almost shattered by the pain. She felt the bed move as he climbed onto it, urgent fingers at her slit, the telltale moistness from Nigel and from the experience she had just had, warm and cold together. He moved, and then rammed deep into her, making her cry out.

  He was harder, longer and firmer even than Nigel, now nothing but a distant memory of pleasurable lovemaking and gentle hands compared to this man; brute strength and vicious aim with a belt. He gripped her stomach with both hands, brought her burning cheeks back onto his hairy body, and rammed against her time and time again, until her cries became cries of pure pleasure, until she called out to him:

  "Yes, yes! Harder, harder!" And he did it harder, impossibly harder, until they collapsed together in an orgasm so big it almost threatened to carry her away.

  "Damn me if you ain't the finest bit of arse I've had and seen in a long time." Admiring voice, gentle fingers, burning cheeks.

  "I could do with a drink," Abigail murmured into his tattooed shoulder.

  "Damn right. I could do with one too. Stay where you are." The bed moved, the floor creaked, and he left the room.

  In a moment Abigail was off the bed, snatching up the torn skirt and panties. She threw her bag over her shoulder, rushed to the mirror and looked
at her tear-stained mascara-streaked self.

  And was gone.

  NOW

  "Abbey, dear, you're walking very stiffly tonight, what's the matter? Is it the costume?"

  "No, I - I slipped on a step and sat down hard, damaged my coccyx!" A ripple of sympathetic laughter ran through the cast. Alfred came forward from the darkness of the amphitheatre and smiled up at her. "So you'll be all right?"