by Helen Walsh
We kiss some more, then she puts the bottle to rest on the bedside table. I feel a stab of disappointment. I liked having it down there between my legs, within such dangerous proximity of my most sacred part. And I know it – it’s implanted a hankering in my mind that can only leave a bitter aftertaste of frustration, no matter how skilful her tongue and fingers. She pulls my wet knickers down over my knees and I flick them off with my feet. I lie there, supine and waiting. Her hand snakes my belly which churns at her touch. The gliding, guileful hand lingers over my hips and thighs. When I can stand it no longer, I thrust her back down to my cunt and beg to be fingered. She dips two fingers inside, and opens them up like scissors, then, kissing me deeply and holding my gaze, she slips in another finger and fucks me softly, her pupils dilated with lust and power. I close my eyes and abandon myself to her touch and I let her, I just lie there and let her finger me.
I come powerfully and my cunt contracts around her like a glove. When I open my eyes she is staring right into me, her face betraying a flicker of smugness. A self-congratulatory smile seeps across her. I always come like that, I want to tell her – but instead I remove her hand, which is glistening in my juices, and instruct her to her knees. Momentarily, she looks humbled and naive, but she removes her negligée, quickly and skilfully, revealing a cunt that’s been shaven with a cheap razor. The evidence of childbirth is there in her tits and her lower abdomen. She kneels on the bed, legs spread slightly, exposed, subservient. Now who’s smiling?
‘I want you on the floor,’ I say.
Her eyes flick round, shining with insolence. Reluctantly, she hoists herself off the bed and drops to the floor like a cat. I kneel down behind her. The carpet is coarse and claws at my knees. I part the cheeks of her arse. I run a flat tongue over her cunt and lap her like a dog. She tastes vulgar – rubber and cunt juice and stale, stale sweat. I love it. As the lust in me swells, I have to refrain from asking about the bloke with the ponytail. Is this him I can taste? What did you do? Did he fuck you in the arse? Did you suck his cock? Did he lick you like I am doing now? The images run amok in my head. Him forcing his cock into her tiny arse and fucking her hard and wild. Her cunt soaking, belying the face that feigns such apathy. I bet you love getting fucked don’t you? I bet you lie in bed at night, wanking over your punters. You love being a whore don’t you? You don’t do it for the money. You do it cos you love it! I feel a tension mounting in my limbs as a new desire swarms over me, the yearning for absolute depravity, to degrade and myself be denigrated. I bury my tongue deep inside her arse and this time she slumps like succumbing to anaesthetic. She drops down to her elbows and rests her limp head on the floor, and slowly her legs spread wider and wider til her clit is just inches from the floor. Dirty images crash through my head, clashing with my hidden most disgusting fantasies. And she too seems gripped by the same depraved sense of desire that drives me. Billy once told me that it’s a whore’s code of practice to switch off when she’s getting fucked. Pleasure is not a perk of the job. That being the case, she has violated that code of conduct over and over again – moaning unashamedly, allowing her cunt to slurp and drench my face, loving the fuck as much as I am. I rim her a little longer and when I feel her stiffen towards orgasm I pull back and reach for the bottle. She throws me a look that’s both dread and excitement. I kneel down behind her and run the tip of the bottle up and down her slot, feeding a few centimetres into her arse.
‘Other way,’ she whispers, thrusting it out with her muscles. ‘Can do damage like that.’
The bottle’s too wide to put in her arse, so slowly, carefully, I feed her cunt. She gasps hard.
‘Would you like me to stop?’ I ask, slipping her a little more length.
She throws me an ambivalent expression. I ease the bottle out a little.
‘If you don’t like this I can stop. Just say.’
I remove my hands, but the bottle remains stationary so her cunt is just gripping the bottle.
‘I’ll stop then, shall I?’
A rainbow of emotions slides across her face. She shakes her head in wordless intensity.
I grab her hair and yank her head back and make her look at me as I thrust in the whole of the bottle. I do her fast and rough. The muscles in her back arch and subside, glistening in sweat. I bottle-fuck her harder, syncopating from the wrist. Her cunt sucks greedily on the bottle, dictating the speed and force of the ride. I stick the forefinger of my free hand inside her arse which seems to dilate and contract with each lunge and surge of the bottle and I’m shocked by how silken the skin is that separates cunt from arse. I fuck her without skill or compassion. I’ve lost it, now. I’m just slamming the bottle in and out as fast as possible. Her groans turn into screams and her whole body shudders and spasms til suddenly she buckles and falls to the floor and the bottle shoots from her like a bullet.
She pulls away and lies there spent, shimmering in sweat. I slide down beside her, all senses slowly returning, and I am enraptured by the moment. Whore and punter united, as intimate as newlyweds.
We lie there in the hazy aftermath, our shadows accentuating the rise and fall of our chests. We are strangers once again, silent and awkward and coming down. I’m taken over by that old familiar impulse to abscond. I don’t want to be in this room, with this woman. I can smell her cunt on my lips and I feel nauseous and dirty and damaged. I should put on my clothes and go. That’s what I’ll do.
In a minute.
I’ll go.
I awaken. I don’t know where I am. It’s unfathomably dark. Loud music seeps down through the ceiling, slews of beats and bass. No voice. No melody. It’s just stripped sound tearing up and down the scale, defying all tonic logic. My cunt feels damp and uneasy. Slowly, I become aware of her lying next to me. Sabrina.
The night flashes before me. Pocohontas. Liam. The old gadgie at the bus stop. Her.
She has thrown a duvet over us that smells of cats and men’s bodies. She’s lying on her back with her head turned away from me, whimpering softly, trapped in some distant dream.
The disorientation and fear fade and a feeling of lust swells in its wake. My hand crawls over to her body and finds her naked. I reach down to her cunt. She’s soaking. I dip a finger in her cunt and massage her clit with a wet fingertip. She stirs a little and lets out a low moan. I rub her some more and she opens her legs involuntary. This is wrong. Gently, I slide a couple of fingers in. Her juices are thick and stale. I leave my fingers sleeping inside and with my other hand masturbate. I come hard and violently and it rouses her from slumber. She sighs angrily and turns over, releasing herself from my fingers. I tut back and collapse into the nowhere of my pillow.
When I come round it’s morning – a vile and gradual realisation that burrows into my consciousness. A blinding shaft of light stabs through a tear in the curtains, forcing me back down under the covers. It stinks down there. I fucking stink. Outside, the city is still dosing. The streets are empty of traffic and noise. My throat hurts and I feel hostile to the body lying next to me. The musky smell of her knocks me sick. I pull back the covers and snatch a quick look at her. Her hair is damp against her forehead, her face paint smeared across the pillow. She’s a decade older than she looked last night. The light from the curtains picks out a starving cold sore on her chaffed bottom lip. I recoil – how the fuck did I miss that last night? I slide gingerly out of bed and creep through to the bathroom. This is how married men must feel when they wake from a boozy one-night stand with some slapper, this acrid stew of horror, guilt and disgust. My jeans on have been stiffened to cardboard by the radiator. I slip on the vest I find underneath them, washed of all colour, but warm and dry. My trainers squelch, and my jumper and denim jacket smell like a wet dog. I swig orange juice from a ragged carton, spilling it down my chin. I spot a pack of L&B among the bills in the fruit bowl, and slot them.
On the street the light makes my head hammer behind my eyes. It’s that period of beautiful nothingness between dawn and sunrise w
here yesterday and tomorrow are both within equal grasp.
Yesterday sucks.
I blew a week’s living expenses on an experience that’s left me feeling spent and unloved. I drove Billy away and made myself look foolish. I have two unconsummated essays that are now two days late, and I didn’t bother ringing Dad to tell him I was staying out. I dip in my pocket and find I’ve plenty left for a cab, but I decide to walk yesterday out of my system instead.
Princess Avenue is staggering this time of year. The leaves have begun to harden and fall and the autumn air has sharpened and cleansed everything. My breath smokes in front of me and I have to keep blowing on my hands to stop them stinging. I walk on the grassed central reservation which will soon be littered with elderly Jamaican gentlemen cogitating serenely, all with twinkling eyes and benevolent smiles snuggled beneath grizzly silver beards. The scene fills me with a wave of nostalgia and I’m suddenly remembering again what I love about Toxteth. It’s a law unto itself. Whatever schemes and innovations are foist upon L8, its citizens will take no notice and carry on doing their thing. They’re hard, the people round here – no doubt about it. Jamie, Billy, Sean, Liam – even Mr and Mrs Keeley, they all wear the countenance of the barrio, and they’re all of the best people I know. Even fucking Sean is worth ten of Jacko in charisma.
I find myself wondering what last night might have been like for her. Sabrina! Mandy, more like, or Michelle. I feel for her. I feel badly about my own part in keeping a foot on her head as she wriggles and gasps for breath. A rare tear dribbles from my eye and grows cold on my cheek.
I walk down Devonshire Road, but instead of turning left towards home I peel right into Admiral Street, down towards Keeleyville. I skulk on the pavement opposite their house. His car is in the drive, all the windows frosted over. I pick a stone that’s light enough, yet still heavy enough. His bedroom window is right there. Another tear slides down my face. This is bad. This is as low as I’ve known. I let the stone fall to the floor, throw my hands into my pockets and turn on my heels.
Slowly, the city is beginning to uncoil. The light is bleary-eyed, unsure which face to show at first. Then as I turn back on to Princess Avenue, the sun bleeds over the Cathedral and the new day comes rushing on. An Echo van pulls up at the side of the street and out fly a bundle of morning papers. Life goes on. The detour to Jamie’s sinks back into yesterday. Another tear slips from my eye and suddenly I’ve gone under. I’m walking and crying and crying in thick, violent sobs. Not about last night. Not about Jamie. I’m crying for something else. I’m crying for me.
CHAPTER 4
Millie
I’m hovering outside Kennedy’s office with a sore throat and a swollen cunt. My mind’s oscillating madly between the wild excuses I’m about to hit her with and my humbling encounter with Doctor Ali, this morning.
‘The good news’ he said, peering over his spectacles, ‘Is that we’ve got to this in good time. That’s good – we’ve eliminated a lot of potential damage. You see, often, when gonorrhoea infects the throat or rectum, there are no symptoms…’
‘Gonorrhoea?’ I murmur. He holds a hand up.
‘The bad news is that the other problem looks more serious. The sores and swelling on your vagina seem to be related to genital herpes. This can be controlled with the correct creams and treatment, but this is an STD that is with you for life. You need to think carefully about informing your partner – or any one else you choose to have sexual relations with.’
‘Life?’
‘Well – yes and no. Think of it like an oral cold sore. Although some people carry the virus all their life, they may only suffer one or two outbreaks.’
‘Yeah, but even when the sores have cleared up, are you saying that I can still infect people?’
‘People you have sexual relations with, yes.’
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what I think.
‘It’s unfortunate Miss Reilley…’
‘Miss O’Reilley…’
‘It’s unfortunate Miss O’Reilley, you’ve caught these diseases – but they’re not life threatening. They can be controlled with the correct care and treatment. I’m going to give you a course of penicillin to treat the gonorrhoea and some creams and bath soaks for the other.
But what we really should be concentrating on now is perhaps the type of contraception you’ve been using or perhaps not been using.’
Head down, he writes out the prescription. He can’t even look at me. Being branded a sexual leper is bad enough, but to have the messenger wallow in my embarrassment is too much. I stare at the family portrait on his desk. Dr Ali and his blowsy-faced wife and five bloated children, all wearing the frozen smiles of middle-class beatitude. I put my life on it that behind the virtuous veneer was a sick and depraved man. I knew his type all right. The Jags and Mercs of Hope Street. Doctors, lawyers and bankers. Dirty, sick men. Proud husbands and proud fathers. The fucking hypocrisy of it all.
‘Your partner? Is he aware of the situation?’
He’s looking at me all right, now. I meet his gaze full on.
‘She,’ I say. I get up and walk across to his desk with as much attitude as I can muster. I take the prescription from him and exit.
After that, I don’t know if I can take any of Kennedy’s shit. I don’t know if I can even be bothered lying to her. She’s sprawled across her desk with a stern face and a pencil stabbed into her hair. I loiter in the doorway for an instant then step into the room. A fug of crude spinster’s perfume cloys in my throat.
‘Have a seat, Millie,’ she says, settling back in her chair and removing her glasses. I sit down and my jeans rip into my swollen cunt. I still can’t believe it – a lifelong punishment for one lousy, drunken encounter.
‘Now, you know why I’ve sent for you, don’t you Millie?’
I sigh affirmatively. She evades my gaze, and fixes her eyes to a piece of paper that has my name printed at the top. My surname’s been misspelt. I contemplate pointing this out.
‘We’re now on week six of semester and according to your quarterly report card, you’ve got an attendance of 47% and you’ve handed all your essays in late. And Mr Jackson is still awaiting a piece of work as am I…’
I switch off and slide my vision over to the window where a slate sky is raging above the concrete sprawl of the city. It’s staggering, the view from up here. It’s religious. I wonder just how much of that vista is lost on Kennedy or any of them gobshites down there on the grass. Jamie though, Jamie would look at that sky and well up. He’d feel the same fearful downpour of emotion as me.
‘I can’t emphasise just how serious this is Millie. The drop in the standard of your work is cause enough for concern, but your attendance…’
She pauses and sighs. A muscle tenses below the wad of fat on her jaw.
‘All students are required to achieve eighty percent attendance unless there is a legitimate and valid reason to exempt them.’
‘But have you seen that sky though?’
‘What?’ Her voice tightens. ‘Millie, you do realise that you may have to repeat the year again and that being the case, you are only eligible for a pass. And this is very sad… I mean looking at last year’s marks. You were a high 2:2 weren’t you? A 2:1 was certainly within your grasp but now, it looks like…’
Another theatrical sigh.
‘… I didn’t want to have to do this, but unless you can produce a Doctor’s note or provide a sound explanation for your absence then I will have to escalate this matter.’
I lug my eyes from the window and stare right at her. She looks like one of those silhouettes on Crime Watch.
‘Look,’ I say, squinting hard. ‘There is. There’s a reason.’ I pause and sink my teeth into my bottom lip. ‘Something bad happened.’ I take a deep hard breath and throw her a helpless face. I can’t. Not Kennedy.
‘I, erm – I was assaulted. Sexually.’
‘Millie?’
She’s up and out of he
r seat, shuddering over to me, this heaving mass of fear and concern.
‘Oh my God! Millie, darling – have you, I mean…?’
‘I’ve reported it. My Doctor, Doctor Ali, has examined me. Whatever documentation you need…’
She’s stunned. She does not know what to say.
‘Please don’t tell anyone else, Miss Kennedy,’ I plead, addressing her with the correct title. ‘Please! Not Mr Jackson and especially not Dad…’
I drop my eyes into my lap.
‘Oh Millie, darling – of course I shan’t say a thing. Please. Just be sure that you can tell me as much or as little as you wish, you poor dear. My God this is… If there’s anything at all I can do…’
‘Thank you. I knew I’d be able to confide in you…’
I tilt my head slightly, meet her gaze then let my eyes sink back into my lap.
‘Oh, Millie – how foolish of me not to have suspected! I should have known there was something… Now don’t you worry, don’t worry about a thing. It’s all going to be OK.’
She reaches out to me and the flesh on her naked arms sways and knocks me sick.
‘Thank you, Miss. Kennedy. Thank you.’
I can’t say I feel fantastic about what’s happened, but what can you do? You have to play the hand you’re given.
I tear down the stairs, repressing a grin, upsetting a couple of studes along the way and as I’m exiting the building I pass that blonde girl with the falsies who I sat next to on the bus last month. Pocahontas’ mate. I don’t recognise her at first. Her face is drawn and full of fading bruises and her hair is greasy and has been clumsily scraped back into a pony. She’s wearing no make-up and has an ugly splatter of spots on her forehead. The magnificence of her breasts is lost in a useless Rugby sweatshirt. I smile at her, a nice one, not a lewd one and she smiles back, gingerly. I turn back and watch her disappear into the building, all fragile and sapped of life.