Hey you! he heard again. Yes, you! The voice was coming from the woman’s direction, but not from her, and nobody else in the café appeared to notice it.
“Who are you?” he heard himself murmur. “What do you want?”
I want you! I want you to grab her ass and pump yourself into me until I overflow.
“You mean... ?”
Yes! the voice replied, with a note of exasperation. I’m an empty cunt with nowhere to go. Sitting here while she wastes her time on “death by chocolate”, as if that’s what she needs. She doesn’t even know it, but what she’s after is a good length of solid cock, and I’m looking at you right now, tucked away there on your master’s leg, ready to spring into action.
“Wait,” he said softly, ignored by everyone around. “I’m not a cock. I’m a person.”
What? You mean I’ve got a crossed wire with somebody’s fucking brain? That’s the last thing I need. Just my luck, to be sitting here crying out for the last ten minutes to every cock in the city, and this is all the response I get.
“Look, I’ll quite happily screw you, but I really think you ought to get permission from your owner first.”
The cunt gave a hollow laugh. Permission? You think this has anything to do with what her brain thinks she wants? Just come over and ask her if you’ve seen her on television.
“What?”
Do it. You’ll see.
He got up and walked to the table where the woman sat. It was only when he drew close that she acknowledged his presence with an embarrassed smile.
“Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but have I seen you on television?”
She blushed with pleasurable confusion. “Of course not.”
What was he meant to say next? The cunt solved it. You look a lot like that actress...
“You look a lot like that actress...”
The cunt left him to try and figure out which actress, but it didn’t matter. The woman laughed and ran a hand through her hair.
Mind if I join you? the cunt instructed.
“Mind if I join you?” he said.
There was a look of hesitation on her face. A crumb of chocolate clinging to her lower lip was dispatched by the darting of her tongue, whose own plans remained otherwise unstated.
She loves taking it from behind, the cunt interjected, as he sat down beside her.
“Do you come here much?” he asked inanely, trying to avoid the distracting voice of her garrulous hole.
“Now and again,” she said.
She picks up men here all the time. You’ll go back to her place and she’ll straddle the bed like a bitch on heat while you haul up that red skirt of hers. I’m already making a moist patch in her black knickers.
“Really?” he asked.
You bet. Half an hour from now you’ll be aiming your prong at her quivering white ass – I can hardly wait.
“Me neither,” he added.
“What?”
“Sorry.” He’d never had a dual conversation like this before. The woman was telling him something about the café, the chocolate gateau, the price of a latte, but the intruding chatter of her hidden orifice was unceasing and a lot more entertaining.
Boy, I want you so much. You’re going to fill me up and tug on her long hair like you’re riding a horse. She’ll moan and try to bite your hand – be careful, she’s a chomper. Hell of a moaner, too. But I only want you to think of me, warm and juicy. Some tongue’ll do fine as well.
“...so I sit in places like this,” she was saying, “whenever my husband’s away on another of his trips. Got to kill the time somehow, haven’t I?” For an instant, her bright eyes and loquacious twat were in perfect synchrony.
She wants to suck you off! But don’t come in her mouth, you bastard, otherwise I’ll make you sorry. You think I’m not the boss around here? Just watch – I’m going to give her an orgasm right now.
A remark about the weather was interrupted by a blush, a suppressed giggle, another spoonful of gateau consumed with quiet satisfaction.
“You’re incredible,” he said softly.
“Pardon?” she looked at him with what seemed like wonder and lust combined.
I’m wide open and ready for business, so let’s get the hell out of here and do some serious fucking, if you don’t mind.
“I’d like to take you somewhere,” he suddenly heard her say. She’d prefaced the remark with a long introduction he hadn’t listened to, but knowing that she was already having multiple orgasms over her chocolate cake made the comment seem entirely reasonable and inevitable.
“Let’s go,” he agreed.
She walked in front as they made their way towards the door.
Can you smell me yet? Can you see the way her ass swishes when she knows she’s about to get it? You’ll be lifting up that red skirt soon, pulling her knickers aside like a black lace curtain, burying your nose in my wet folds and creases.
They were outside in the sunshine. “This way,” she instructed, and as they walked side by side his swift inspection of her hair and breasts offered a welcome antidote to the endlessly divergent commentaries of her mouth and vagina. She was a little overweight, but he liked that. Her breasts would hang appealingly as he fucked her from behind, just as ordered. He would pummel and massage them, stroke her ample rump, then swiftly climax before cleaning up and escaping into the afternoon, never to see her again.
“I had a Fiat Uno for a while but never liked the colour...”
Big cock, big fuck, big cock, big fuck... Yes! Yes! Yes!
The dual monologues continued, polite nods and grunts being the only response required from him. As they walked, he began to hear other voices: passers-by he took note of, out of a perverse, premature weariness. Were they natural voices, or else the plaintive appeals of other orifices?
Me! Me! Me! he heard – a distant chorus, a hive-like hum, a great swell of desire, never before noticed. By chance or fate, he had tuned into frequencies normally unheard by human ears; the constant, single-minded wailing of discontented organs. Cunts, cocks, mouths, asses, nipples – perhaps even the occasional elbow – all called urgently for satisfaction.
This was the secret life of the city: a lust perpetually thwarted by the norms of civilised behaviour, reduced to the exchange of fruitless glances, and the invisible, forlorn communication of unheeded odours.
Only let them do what they really want, he thought as he looked around at the passing crowd, and this city would become an instant orgy. Strangers would couple and strip on paving slabs; Marks & Spencer would transform into a heaving, groaning bordello (HMV almost was one already). Old men on benches would be sucked to slow satisfaction before rebuttoning their coats; harassed housewives would unclothe themselves to sustained applause before finding pleasure where they chose. And the children? Don’t even go there, he said to himself, as they rounded a bend.
I want to fill you in on a few details, the cunt explained. That is, before you fill me in!
Her trilling vagina-laugh was almost irritating, and he was beginning to realise there might be a good reason for the human male’s evolution of selective deafness, which had suddenly deserted him.
When we first get started, she’ll go down on her knees on the floor and unzip you. Might be as soon as we get inside the front door. She’s got a real hunger for cock, this bitch, and she’ll make sure you’re like a poker, if you aren’t already. So go easy, boy. Think of... I don’t know... Gordon Brown or something. She’ll lick, suck, stroke – I honestly wish she could get over this oral fixation of hers, but as long as you don’t shoot too soon then we’ll be OK. Some of you guys can’t wait. There was one a few weeks ago, in the living room, he liked it so much he grabbed her ears like she was the FA Cup and nearly choked her. She broke free just as he came, and I’m telling you, his load shot a clear ten feet through the air. I thought that kind of thing only happened in porn films with trick photography, but he left a big splat on the wall. She’s had to hang a picture over i
t!
“Here we are,” she said. They’d arrived at a Victorian church.
“You live here?”
She laughed. “What are you talking about? Come on inside. I told you I knew exactly what you needed, and now I want to help you find it. There’s a big hole in your life, isn’t there?”
There’s a wet one waiting for you right here!
Perplexed, he followed her into the empty church, whose cool gloom made its own effortless contribution to quelling his arousal.
She led him to a pew. “Kneel with me,” she said. “Let’s pray together.”
As she began her earnest entreaties to God, her cunt made its own wish list. Fingers, tongue, cock. But mostly cock.
“Show us the path of righteousness and keep us from temptation...”
What were they doing here? It was like some terrible mistake; yet the cunt’s voice was unrelenting. I have to warn you, we might be in for a no-show today.
“It happens often?” he whispered.
Sometimes. A case of the head over-ruling the loins. Don’t take it personally – she’s let herself be rogered by far worse than you. But since we aren’t going to get as intimately acquainted as I’d hoped, how about maybe... a finger?
“Here? Are you serious?”
Trust me.
He slid his hand along the pew until it was behind her. She continued praying aloud as he brought his fingers into contact with her skirt and felt the curve of her rump.
You’re giving me shivers! Stroke her ass.
He traced a delicate, questioning spiral, but she showed no sign of resistance or approval, still begging only for God’s mercy and guidance.
Go to her thigh, then up inside the skirt. Take your time.
Her skin was like marble, and the cool patch of inner leg he touched did not in any way acknowledge the presence of his finger. Nor did the rhythm of her voice show any alteration as he journeyed up into the warmer region of her crotch. At this moment, however, a slight adjustment of her kneeling position was infinitely more telling than the rantings of her cunt. She was parting her legs, allowing him better access.
Now! Do it!
His finger found the elasticated edge of her panties, an inviting tangle of pubic hair, a slimy lip of engorged flesh. He followed the lubricated fold until he located the swelling bud of her clitoris.
Oh God, yes!
“Show us the way to truth and salvation...” He pushed into her, two fingers gripped by contractions unannounced in her droning prayer.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Then the cunt relaxed into dormant satisfaction. He slid out of her, and a moment later she stood up silently and straightened her skirt without looking at him. He followed her to the door, back out into the bright sunshine.
“You’re an evil man,” she said to him. “I hope you find God’s love and forgiveness some day.” Then she turned and walked away, soon disappearing into the crowd. Her cunt was silent, but all around he heard those other voices.
Me! Me! Me!
BED & BREAKFAST
Michel Faber
Michel Faber was born in The Hague, Netherlands, before his parents emigrated with him to Australia in 1967. He attended the University of Melbourne. He worked as a cleaner and at various other casual jobs, before training as a nurse. In 1993 he emigrated to Scotland. Faber declined to become a UK citizen in order that his book, The Crimson Petal, be submitted for the Booker Prize as he disagreed with the UK government’s foreign policy. He identifies himself as no particular nationality, and the themes, scope and style of his literary work are not characteristically British, Australian, or Dutch, but broadly European.
“Let’s go to a bed and breakfast,” he said, “and fuck each other’s brains out.”
She winced, unable to stop herself, but then managed to turn it into some sort of smile. She had to remind herself he was a bit drunk – they both were – and anyway he hadn’t said it at all aggressively. There was a softness in his voice, a playfulness, that made up for the crudeness of the words, and even with the sweat of alcohol on his face, she had to admit he was still pretty gorgeous.
“What about Jane and Gordon?” she said, looking away from him at the crowds of festival goers, then up at Edinburgh Castle, which was lit all around the battlements with flaming torches.
“They’re big grown-ups,” he said. “If we don’t turn up for the night, I’m sure they’ll cope. They might even take the opportunity to do the same themselves.”
“Do what?” she said, ambling alongside him on a different train of thought.
“Fuck each other’s brains out. It must be tough for them, having us there five nights in a row already, camped on a futon right outside their bedroom. They’re probably desperate for a bit of...” – he pouted, as if preparing to conjure up a vivid description of Jane and Gordon in sexual frenzy, then let his eyelids half close as he murmured the punchline – “privacy”.
Helena raised her face to the night sky. The soft rain was cooling on her flushed face. She felt tired and emotionally fragile, footsore, overfull of stimuli – all Edinburgh Festival’d out.
“There probably won’t be a B&B free,” she sighed. “There’s a zillion tourists around.”
He laughed, started singing her words to a pounding techno beat in his head.
“Won’t be a B&B; won’t be a B&B; bay-beh! yeah! won’t be a B&B...” Then, suddenly serious, he put his arm around her shoulder and reassured her with authority:
“Don’t worry. I’ve been to the Festival more than you. I know what happens around this time. People start clearing out before the end, to beat the tour-party crush. They’re fed up, anyway, or they’ve run out of dosh. Trust me, there’ll be a room for us.”
Helena telephoned Jane and Gordon, just as a courtesy. But Jane sounded sleepy and awkward: “We’d gone to bed already,” she said. “Oh, sorry,” said Helena, “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” but of course now she was wondering if Jane and Gordon had been in the middle of... in the middle of making love.
Making love each other’s brains out.
Replacing the phone in its unfamiliar non-BT handset, Helena decided she was too old-fashioned, too prim and hung-up. Hugh would teach her a thing or two. And then, as soon as she was absolutely sure she loved him, she would marry him.
*
The bed and breakfast was run by Jim and Nora Waddington; that’s what the sign said. A dumpy sixtyish woman who must be Mrs Waddington welcomed them in, showed them up to their room.
“A Swedish couple just left this morning. Everything’s been cleaned and changed, of course.”
There were, apparently, other rooms that were occupied by Germans and South Africans, but their doors were closed, and the rest of the house was as quiet as a cinema foyer after the movies have started.
Outside, the rain was intensifying into a downpour. It would’ve caught them for sure, on the long journey back to Jane and Gordon’s house. Hugh’s idea was for the best after all. This way, they would be in bed within minutes.
If only they were just going to curl up to sleep back to back, maybe with an affectionate rub of bottoms against one another. She really wasn’t ready for more than that...
“The safety procedure is posted on the door here,” chattered Mrs Waddington, as Hugh and Helena eyed the frilly, peach-coloured monstrosity that was the bed. “Tea and coffee making facilities are over there, under the television. We have Sky TV – excellent reception. Breakfast is from 7.30 to 9.30 – you’ll meet my husband then. We have Linda McCartney sausages if you’re vegetarian – just let Jim know when you come down to the dining room.”
“It all looks lovely,” said Helena, swaying on her feet. The bed, despite its billowing garnishes of kitsch, looked wonderfully comfortable. “We’ve been sleeping on a futon on a friend’s floor.”
Mrs Waddington tutted in sympathy, as if Helena had admitted to roughing it in an alleyway.
“If there’s anything you need, just use the intercom
there. I’ll be awake for a long time yet, watching television downstairs. So don’t hesitate.”
When the old woman had gone, Hugh and Helena sat on the edge of the bed, kicking their shoes off, appraising the decor. There was a nautical theme: a small engraving of a lighthouse from Edinburgh’s past, a photocopied newspaper article about His Majesty’s fleet, a large acrylic painting of a sailing ship signed R Butt. Also, there were three bas-relief brass submarines the size of large trout screwed securely into three of the walls. Nameplates identified them as Nautilus (Napoleonic), German U-boat (WWII) and Ohio (Modern). Their portholes were real glass, and their hulls were polished to a golden sheen in the light from the hideous ceiling lamp.
“How bizarre,” said Helena.
“Not at all,” said Hugh, leaning back on his elbows. “B&Bs are supposed to have amazingly tacky things in them. That’s part of their function. Don’t you know? There’s a special registrar of all B&Bs in a central office in Wolverhampton, and anyone who wants to start one has got to convince him they’ve got enough surreal junk to put on the walls.” Encouraged by her smile, he took the tease a bit further. “The registrar won’t accept just any old tat bought in a Poundstretcher store. It has to be heavy duty weird, like from a time warp. I tell you, I’ve seen some things in these places... Somebody should do a photography book on it.”
Why don’t you? she thought. He was a photographer, after all. But right now his eyes were heavy-lidded, his hair hanging damp on his forehead. Perhaps he would go straight to sleep after all. But she couldn’t help wondering if all those other B&Bs he’d known, and all those other Edinburgh Festivals he’d attended, had been with different women each time.
She also wished he hadn’t signed them in as Mr and Mrs Brown. It sounded so naff, so... fake. OK, they would be married soon and his name was Brown, but if he could have used her surname rather than his it would at least have sounded better. In the cold print of a hotel receipt she could imagine “Mr and Mrs Farrell” seeming less false – dignified, even.
Helena got up to prepare for bed, resisting a desire to take her nightie with her to the bathroom. She could tell, from the stickiness between her legs, that her period had started, and this made her feel less like making love, while at the same time reminding her of how tolerant Hugh was of menstrual blood compared to other men she’d known.
Desire Page 65