“That’s better. Now I’m going to teach you a lesson for being so disrespectful when I answered the phone. Are you in your bedroom?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Good. Lean forward so that your face is resting against the bedspread.” I listen to him moving and imagine him following my instructions while I reach for the leather belt that is draped over the chair and fold it in half. It makes a fantastic sound when you slap it against the arm of a sofa or, even better, a table.
“I’m ready, mistress.”
“Keep your hands off your dick until I say you’re allowed to touch it.”
“Yes, mistress.”
I slap the belt against the sofa. His reaction is instantaneous, gasping and moaning down the line. “Now, when I tell you, you are going to apologise to me, and tell me why you were such a naughty little boy.” I slap the belt again.
“Yes, mistress.” His voice is little more than a groan, and I slap the belt again. Then again. And again. “Mistress, I’m so hard.”
I crack the belt again. “I don’t give a shit if you’re hard.” Crack. “You need to learn some manners.” Slap. “Now apologise for your appalling behaviour.” Crack.
“I’m sorry, mistress.”
Slap. “For what?” Crack.
“For being rude to you, mistress.”
Slap. “And?” Crack.
“For being demanding, mistress.” Slap.
“That’s much better.” Crack. I check the time on the clock. Three minutes. I get a bonus if I keep him on the line for more than five minutes. That doubles at ten minutes and triples at fifteen. I hold the company record at fifty-seven minutes. There’s no way this guy is going to last that long. If I can get to my five-minute bonus, I’ll be happy. Then I’m turning the bloody phone off. Slap. “Tell me how hard you are.”
“Mistress, I’m so hard it hurts.”
“Do you know what I’d do with that hard cock if I was there with you?”
“No, mistress. What would you do?”
He’s desperate to wrap his fist around his dick and pound on it. I can hear it in every heavy breath, every little moan, and every pleading whisper. But I want my five-minute bonus.
“I’d make you fuck me with that big cock. Would you like that?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“You’re making me so wet. Do you want to hear it? Do you want to hear how wet I am?” This trick gets them every time. I check the clock again. Four minutes and three seconds.
“Please, mistress.”
I grab the outside of my cheek and pull on it quickly, in and out, making a sloppy suction kind of sound. Not exact, but a fairly authentic replication of the sound of wet pussy. “Can you hear it? Can you hear how wet I am?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“You want to fuck that pussy, don’t you?”
“Yes, mistress. Please let me touch my cock.”
“Not yet. Not till I tell you to, or I’ll have to punish you.” Four minutes and thirty-four seconds. “I want to enjoy the thought of you fucking me for a little bit longer. I want to think about your big hard prick going in and out of my wet cunt, over and over again.” I can imagine him all sweaty and desperate now. The clock reads four minutes and forty-six seconds, so I pant down the line a couple of times. “I’m touching myself while I think about you fucking me. I’m going to come.” He’s groaning again. “You’ve been such a good boy I’m going to let you come with me.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
Four minutes and fifty-one seconds.
“Grab your dick.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Imagine it going in and out of my wet pussy.”
Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.
“Yes, mistress.”
“That’s it. Fuck me harder.”
He groans so loudly down the phone that I have to hold it away from my ear. Then the line goes dead.
Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.
Bastard. So much for my five-minute bonus. I used to be a social worker. I used to have a respectable job and earned good money. Now I’m down to playing vocal whore for a pittance.
I turn off the phone and head upstairs, checking on Rosie as I pass her bedroom, then start running my bath. Candles, glass of red wine, a good book, and as many bubbles as you can get out of half a bottle of bubble bath. Nothing like it to melt away the stress of the day. And dirty bastard callers. That’s when the doorbell rings. Typical. I grab my robe and wrap it around me as I hurry down the stairs and pull the door open.
Genna’s holding out a bottle of wine and a box of Godiva chocolates—all my favourite things to melt away the stress of the day. Her long red hair’s shining under the porchlight, and her cheeks are flushed. She’s wearing jeans that hug her arse just the way I like, and her sweater pulls tight over her breasts. She’s all curves and soft womanliness, and seeing her was the best part of any day. My friend and my fantasy all rolled into one lovely package.
“I’m sorry, I should have called.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re welcome any time, sweetie. Rosie’s in bed, though.”
“I didn’t come to see Rosie tonight. I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is. Any time.” I grab the chocolates out of her hand. “Especially when you come bearing gifts.”
“Were you going to bed?”
“What?”
She waves her hand at my bathrobe.
“Oh, no. I was just going to get in a bath.”
“I’m sorry I’ll go—”
“Genna, stop.”
She’s halfway out of the door before I manage to get hold of her arm. Something is definitely wrong, and I need to know what’s bothering her. She’s been there for me so many times over the past eight years. She’s been a shoulder for me to cry on more times than I can count, and she’s cheered me up more than anyone else in my life. Ever. I want to be able to do the same. I want to hold her when she’s hurting, and the look on her face now says that something is hurting her.
“Let me go and let the water out and throw on some clothes, then we can demolish that bottle of wine and those chocolates, and you can tell me what’s going on. I can’t figure out if you’re excited or upset. You look like you can hardly stop grinning but are about to cry at the same time.” I tug her towards the sofa. “Go. Sit. I’ll just be a minute.”
If I take that long, I’ll be surprised. I throw on jeans, a jumper, and a pair of socks, and I grab two glasses before I walk back into the front room. She’s pacing in front of the fire. I haven’t seen her look like this since she came out to me nearly four years ago. Her hands are trembling as she pushes her fingers through her hair.
“Sweetheart, you’re worrying me here. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
She stops pacing and perches on the sofa next to me. “No. I just don’t know where to start.”
I take hold of her hand, supposedly to stop her picking at her jeans. In reality, I just love any excuse to touch her.
“Well, the beginning’s a good place usually.”
“Okay, I’ve got two stories to tell you, one’s good, and the other’s not so good. Which do you want first?”
She’s looking at me with those eyes. Green and gold, like honey and grass. And I love them. I love her. She’s so easy to love. Always has been. She was only a teenager when she started to come round. She’d watch Rosie so that I could have a bit of time to myself when she was first born. Now she comes with us every chance she gets, to the zoo and the pictures and all the other things that are so difficult on my own with Rosie. I didn’t realise just how much I relied on her until she met Ruth. And Jesus was I jealous when I saw them together. I’d never thought about Genna in a sexual way before that. She was just a really good kid who spent time with her cousin and helped me out along the way. I knew she was gay, but it’s never been an issue between us and she never once made me feel uncomfortable or anything like that. She was just a teenager
, right?
It was the first time I went to Pride with them that it really hit me. I saw them kissing, and it made me so hot. I can honestly say that I’d never thought about a woman like that before. It was then that I realised I didn’t just love her, but I was in love with her. And for months I thought I was a freak. Not because she’s a woman. Strangely enough, that never bothered me. It was purely because I couldn’t reconcile in my head the sixteen-year-old Genna with the grown-up sexual woman that I wanted to be with. I kept thinking I was some sort of paedophile.
But it didn’t change the way I felt. I loved her. And I wanted her.
I still do.
My skin tingles when she touches me. My body just reacts, and I feel shivers up and down my spine when she just holds my hand to point something out. She hugs me whenever she arrives and leaves—this is the high and low point of every visit. I want to keep my arms around her and never let go, but I’m terrified that she’ll hear how fast my heart’s beating and know my secret. And I hear the reprimands in my head: She’s with someone else, you’re too old, got too much baggage, and she’s not interested. You’d think that would be enough to dampen someone’s feelings or libido, right? Apparently not.
“Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first,” I say.
“I split up with Ruth.”
“What? Why? When? What happened?” Would it be awful if I shout “hallelujah” from the rooftops?
“I came home from work early and found her in bed with someone else.”
“Fucking bitch!”
“Yeah, that was my reaction too.”
“She was in bed with her?”
“Yeah.”
“Your bed?”
She nods and looks down at our joined hands. There is no way I’m letting go now.
“Were they asleep? Why didn’t they hear you?”
“They were a little busy.” She waves her hands suggestively.
I’m outraged, but the cute blushing, the lewd gesture, and the way she bites her lip make me feel so much more than righteous anger for her. Stop it. You’re too old, got too much baggage, and she’s not interested, remember, Abi? Obviously, the with-someone-else reason is now off the table.
“Oh God.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and by the look on Genna’s face, neither does she. “What did you do? What did she say?”
“Well, I started packing, and I guess I disturbed them. I just finished packing and went to leave. She tried to stop me, but I think Mum staring at her standing there with a fucking strap-on on was a bit off-putting even for Ruth—”
That’s it. I can’t not laugh anymore. Tears stream down my face as I picture Ruth’s pasty white backside humping away while Addison stood by watching. I’m actually amazed that she didn’t kill the bitch. Genna’s next to me, giggling until I finally manage to calm down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Don’t know, really.”
I pull Genna into my arms for a tight hug and try not to get carried away with the feeling of holding her. “Talk to me, sweetie.”
“I know things weren’t perfect in our relationship. She worked five nights a week at least. Usually more like six. At least that’s what I thought. What we all thought, right? Turns out those extra nights she was picking up other women, then screwing them in our bed after I went to work. All the time we were together. I don’t understand what I was doing wrong—”
“Absolutely nothing. She’s an idiot. I always knew you were too good for her.”
“I thought she loved me, Abi. That’s what she said.”
“I know.” I wipe away the tears from her cheeks and feel the anger growing inside me.
“I just feel bad,” Genna says, as more tears slide down her face.
“It always hurts when a relationship breaks up, but you’ll get through it.”
“That’s not why I feel bad.”
I wait for her to carry on. She doesn’t.
“Tell me,” I urge.
“I feel bad because I don’t think I was in love with her. I was with her for three years, and I thought it would come but it never did. She said that she loved me and that we were meant to be together, but I didn’t feel the same. I feel awful, but I didn’t feel the same way she said she felt. I cared about her. I loved her. I enjoyed being with her but, I don’t think I was in love with her. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“It’s like I was there, with her because I had nowhere better to be, and that’s just so wrong.”
“Sweetie, you weren’t with her to be hurtful. I saw you together and it was obvious that you cared about her a great deal. If you hadn’t said this, I would have assumed you were in love with her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Did you know that at the time?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you were with her, did you know that you weren’t in love with her, or is this something that you’ve only just realised?”
“I’m not sure. I think maybe I knew. Sort of. I kind of have—” She shakes her head and stops. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, go on. You know you can tell me anything.”
She pulls back a little and stares at me for a long time before she speaks again. “I think somewhere inside me I knew, because I had feelings for someone else.”
“Did you ever act on them?”
She shakes her head again and lays it against my shoulder. I’m not sure, but she almost looks disappointed before she hides her eyes away again.
“No, I never did.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not interested in me. Not like that.”
“Then she’s an idiot too.” A chill spreads through my chest as I realise that this isn’t the blessing it could have been, the one that I have fantasised about for the last three years. The one where Genna tells me that she’s through with Ruth and that it’s me she wants to be with. The one where she tells me that she doesn’t care that I’m fourteen years older than her, or that I have a child, she just loves me. No, this is the start of Genna finding another woman to love who isn’t me, and I actually feel a little bit—no, a lot—sick at the thought of that. She really isn’t interested. Doesn’t matter, I’m too old and I’ve got too much baggage anyway.
“I mean, maybe Ruth didn’t really feel that way about me either. She was sleeping around after all. But maybe she was sleeping around because she knew that I didn’t really love her.”
“Genna, you were with her for three years. If she suspected that your feelings for her were different to her own, she should have spoken to you about it, not gone and screwed another woman.”
“Women.”
“Women?”
“Yes, apparently there have been many.”
“Oh God.” That’s got to hurt, even if Genna wasn’t in love with her. “Are you sure?”
“She told me so.”
Fucking bitch. “Sweetheart, that’s about her being a cheating bitch, not a reflection on you in any way.”
“How can it not be? It’s been months since she’s last wanted to make love with me. Months!”
“And you think that’s because she was sleeping with these others?”
“I’m scared she was sleeping with them because I’m crap.”
Maybe I’m being dense here. “Crap how?”
Her voice is muffled against my shoulder when she says, “In bed.”
Three years’ worth of fantasies hit me all at once. Images of Genna in my bed, writhing and moaning while we kiss, fill my mind. Fantasies of me undressing her and feeling her skin against mine, everywhere. Touching her, kissing her, loving her. Her lack of self-confidence is not surprising—she’s always been shy and gentle and so, so tender. And to know that she questions herself like this only makes me want to love her more. To give her confidence in her own body, to show her that she’s sexy and desirable and beautiful. To show her that every single sexy curve is something to be worshipped, not
wished away. And that being allowed to love her is a privilege. One that fucking idiot didn’t deserve.
“Genna, I truly believe that when you are with the right person, making love is all about emotion and sharing that love with the other person. Yeah, it’s fun, but it’s not about technique or what stupid positions you can contort yourself into that make it good or bad. It’s about what you feel. And what they feel. It’s supposed to be about sharing yourself and your heart when you share your body with the person you love.”
“Somehow I don’t think Ruth was sharing her heart. Just my fucking dildo.”
Desire shoots through me, and I have to fight to keep my voice steady and controlled. To not give away that all I want to do is pin her to the sofa and have my wicked way with her. Right. Now.
“Yours?”
“Yeah. She bought it for me as a present for our anniversary.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I know this must be a real blow to your self-esteem, but I really think that she’s the one who’s going to lose out in all this.”
She laughs and straightens herself up. I know I’m frowning.
“That leads me perfectly into my other news. The good news.” She’s grinning from ear to ear.
“So tell me.”
“I won the Euromillions.”
“What?”
“I won one hundred and fifty-six million pounds on the Euromillions lottery. So she really is losing out.”
Over the bottle of wine, she tells me about how she wants to give some of it away to all her family. She tells me how she wants to set up some sort of charity to do good works. Vague on the details yet, but the idea’s already there. She tells me how she wants to keep it a secret so that she can just be a normal person and not have this money be the thing that defines her. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s drifting closer to me as she’s talking and that she keeps hold of my hand. Sometimes I get the feeling that she’s attracted to me too. Oh yeah, then my alarm goes off and I wake up.
CHAPTER 6
GENNA
One tense and weird week later, I’m walking into the office of Roger Frasiers, Solicitors. This is the fifth I’ve visited today, and I’m starting to think that I’ll have to rethink my plan. The first one I visited was a gentleman by the name of Robert Hood, Esq. He seemed like a nice enough chap, squeaky clean sort. Manicured nails, weekly facials, a bottle of antibacterial gel on his desk. He used it as soon as he let go of shaking my hand. Scratched him off my “to use” list right there.
Just My Luck Page 6