by James Crow
The singing stopped. The sewing machine too. Bob gave his cock another squeeze, finished his water, placed the glass on the floor.
‘Nearly ready for you, Bobby. Are you ready for me?’ came Caro’s sweet voice from the bedroom.
‘Is the Pope a kiddy-fiddler?’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Can I come in?’
‘One more minute!’
He pushed up from the armchair, flexed his pecs, cracked his neck, arched his arms above his head, went en pointe but managed only half a tiptoed turn. Veins ran like cables down his arms and legs. Veins on his cock, too. He hadn’t had a hard on this good in a long time. His heartbeat sounded in his ears; the smile on his face felt good. Real good. And he’d never felt this good in a long time. A long, long time. That’s what a break away does for the soul: makes you fit and fucking horny. He picked up the empty glass and went to the tap for more water. He sank it in one, placed the glass on the drainer, wiped his mouth.
‘Robert! Robert! I need you, good sir.’
Grinning, Bob made his way through the mess of clothes and CDs on the floor and at the bedroom door he stopped, hand on the door handle. ‘What is it that you need?’ he cooed.
‘I’m afraid I have sinned, good sir. I need your healing hands.’
He dropped the handle and swung the door inwards.
His lovely Caro is spread-eagled on the bed. Bob recognises the ink-blue tunic she’s wearing is the quilt cover. The wimple – made from a pillowcase – sits neatly around her face. With her hair tucked away she looks a lot younger. ‘Very creative,’ he said, his cock standing proud.
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ she lifted the tunic.
Bob chuckled at the sight of another pillowcase, or probably two stitched together, fashioned into bloomers with a sequined cross on the front.
‘I have sinned, dear Robert, sinned I tell you. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I suppose that depends on the sin.’ He went to the bed and tugged the bloomers down. She kicked them aside and opened her legs. The sight of the pink gash slitting her pouting cunt made him growl, made his balls tighten.
‘Oh, sir, I am ashamed for I fear that my sin is too great to declare.’
‘Can a sin be great?’ He couldn’t take his eyes from that cunt. That sweet cunt.
Caro’s equally sweet face smiled from the wimple like an angel, a wisp of grey hair escaping. ‘Do you wish me to confess, good sir?’
Bob kneeled onto the bed between her legs, touched the backs of his fingers to her swollen lips. ‘I cannot forgive what I do not know, my child.’
She shuddered at his touch, feigned a fluster of embarrassment and wafted her face with her hand. ‘Very well. You must know, then, good sir, that I have a terrible desire.’
‘Terrible?’ He slid three fingers straight into her, his dick twitching when her eyes closed, her breath hitched.
‘Yes, kind sir. I want . . . I want my cherry popped, sir.’
Bob laughed.
Her eyes snapped open and she flung a pillow off his head. ‘Don’t mock me, sir. My ache is strong, and with God’s will, you shall pop my cherry. I can see my confession has excited you . . . come pluck me, good sir.’
He pulled his fingers from her, sucked them clean, then lifted her legs at the knee and buried his head between them. Her hands were in his hair, her heels in his back. She was grinding, moaning, and she tasted fucking divine.
‘Harder, sir, harder. Your teeth, Bobby, use your fucking teeth.’
Bob used his teeth, bit her cunt lips, dragged at them, sucked and nibbled at her clit and didn’t stop until a hot shuddery orgasm shook through her.
‘Oh dear fucking God,’ she said. ‘I beg you, sir. I am naught but a misguided penguin who’s lost her sorry way. I’ve saved my tight little virgin hole for someone special. Come break me, sir. I beg of you.’
Bobby pinned her down and rammed the breath out of her. He struck up a rhythm with the universe and his Caro bucked and sweated and cried out for more. Bobby gave more. Bobby gave his all. Bobby clamped his hands on her tits through the tunic and banged her till she gasped for him to stop. ‘Just for a minute, a minute, a breath, need a breath, Bobby . . . then . . . then I need to come again.’
Bobby caught his breath. ‘This is fucking good.’
‘You’re so fucking good, Bobby. Call me Sister and finish me off. Now, Bobby. Fucking now!’
He lifted her legs onto his shoulders. His girl looked pretty, the taste of her sugar-and-salt on his lips.
‘Please don’t forget it’s my very first time,’ she said in a young-girl voice that wasn’t hers. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’
Bob’s cock was a raging shaft of stone. Engorged, tight, and red with blood. Saliva spilled over his lip and dripped down onto his chest. He wiped his mouth against her calf, then bit her flesh all the way up to her thighs. She gasped, she whimpered, she pressed her hotness against him.
‘Oh, sir,’ her hands came to knead at her breasts, ‘sir, I think ye might be the Devil himself, so I do.’
Bob ran his tongue up her cunt, grazed his teeth over her clit.
‘Oh, Bobby.’
He heaved himself up and sank his straining cock into her.
‘Oh, ohhh, fucking hell, Bobby.’
‘Tell me, Sister. Tell me how it fucking feels.’
She pushed onto his thrusts and did the squeezing thing she doesn’t really like to do because it gives her cramps later on. God she was so fucking tight.
‘You tell me how it feels, good sir, for I am naught but a novice.’
‘It’s tight . . . you’re tight . . . so fucking nice, Caro. So fucking nice.’
‘It hurts, but it’s a nice hurt . . . a wonder, sir. A true wonder.’
‘God’s gift,’ Bob said and went a bit faster.
‘You feel so good inside me. You make me blush, sir.’
She was blushing, hot rosy cheeks. ‘You look lovely, Sister. Adorable.’ He gripped her ankles and rolled her back a little. ‘Deeper now . . . Sister.’
Sister groaned. ‘Are you the Devil, sir? You poke me so hot, hot, hot!’
Bob slowed a little. Sister held the tightness. A tightness that locked the pair. A tightness that felt a whole lot tighter than Caro’s sweet arsehole. A tightness that wrapped his muscles with power; a tightness that made them breathe as one. He twitched inside her. ‘Is that good, Sister?’
‘Good?’ she sighed. ‘Do it again!’
Bob did. Caro moaned for him. ‘Again.’
Bob pushed deep, twitched his cock.
Caro moaned. ‘Again, Martin.’
Again.
‘More, Martin, more!’
Bob fucked her. ‘You like it, Sister Slut?’
‘Oh yes, it’s a real fun do, sir.’
Bob faltered, a pause, caught up, let go of her legs and gripped her thighs in iron hands. A wisp of black hair had slipped through the wimple, eyebrows raised, eyes bright. Bethany Black’s smiling face was surely a glitch in his energized synapses. Bob laughed. ‘Synapses,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Screwed. Synapses.’ Bob started up again, ‘Sister. Adorable. You’re fucking adorable.’ Beth’s grin was just as Beth’s grin should be. He looked away, blinked sweat from his eyes, looked back and she was still there. ‘You said . . .’ he pumped her a little, ‘it was a fun do.’
‘I knew you’d like that, Martin.’
Bob smiled down at her beautiful face. Sister Bethany had a nice ring to it. He wanted to say it out loud but knew the magic would break. ‘I don’t want to hurt you . . . Sister.’
‘Oh, but you must, Martin. No pain no gain.’
‘I love you,’ he said, and her little lips smiled.
‘And I love you, sir.’
‘Martin . . . right now, call me Martin.’
‘Do me, then, Martin. Do me like you love me.’
Bob did.
‘I think I’m going to come soon, Martin. Faster, faster.’
/> Bob felt the same fucking way.
‘Would you like a real fun do, Martin?’
‘Yes-yes,’ he panted, slamming his cock into her.
She reached to her chest with both hands and ripped open the tunic.
COOLY DOOLY was written across her tits in sparkling sequins.
‘Don’t stop, Martin. Love me hard and watch my little titties jiggle.’
Bob loved her hard, watched those little titties jiggle, and Sister Bethany screamed her orgasm as he filled her with his cum. Spent, he slipped from her, lowered her trembling legs.
‘Bobby?’
The white-knuckled fist hit his nose with a crack and whipped his head back in a spray of blood and twinkling stars. ‘Bastard,’ Carol said and began to sob.
Bob slumped across her sequined chest and sobbed with her.
7
Beth doesn’t hesitate taking the wood spirit’s hand. She’ll be glad to get away from the showering men. The sound of rushing water hisses to a pop. Now they’re in a small corridor with a door at either end. One of the doors is plain white. The other is painted yellow. Listening at the yellow door is a younger Elizabeth. She has what looks like the coat of a fox hanging round her neck, complete with head and bushy tail fastened at her front. They approach the child and Elizabeth insists they perform the merging hug once again. Beth doesn’t want to, but this place is tight, cramped, nowhere to run. Before she knows it, the wood spirit has shoved her into place at one side of the young Elizabeth, grabbed her hands and pulled the three together.
This time the dome wall is a pleasant duck-egg blue. Real meadow flowers in tiny pots adorn the walls, and the yellow door can be seen through the two circular windows. A small yelp comes from outside, the carpeted floor beneath their feet trembles and the windows close up.
‘She feels us,’ Elizabeth says.
The trembling stops and the windows reopen.
‘Does that mean there’s another loop?’ Beth asks with genuine interest.
‘I’m unsure, Bethy. I don’t remember feeling anything at the time.’
Beth watches the windows. Sounds are coming from behind the yellow door: gasps, grunts and moans, and a woman’s voice cries out in happiness. Beth guesses what’s happening. She’s heard similar sounds from the M&Ms.
The wood spirit’s hand clasps to her shoulder. Cold lips kiss her cheek. ‘I believe you might like this lady, Bethy.’
‘Who is she?’
‘The butterfly lady. She knew she was fortunate.’
The door shrinks away as the child moves back from it, then it opens and a woman steps out. A headband with a white feather sticking from it keeps long dark hair in place around a pretty face. Many colourful tattoos of animals and flowers cover her body. Beth spots an owl, a fox, and lots of butterflies. She’s wearing glittering blue butterfly wings and her bricks are happy shades of green. Behind her, a naked Master arrives. He closes the door and looks down to the windows. Beth averts her eyes but not her ears.
Child, take the good butterfly lady to your room, give her sustenance and show her your birds. A big hand comes out, strokes the girl’s hair. The flowers on the walls shake a little and the windows blink.
Butterfly lady drops to her haunches with a smile and an offered hand.
Now they’re walking down the corridor, through the white door and onto some stairs. Master does not follow.
‘Taking a catch to my room was unheard of. Most screamed and objected, but not this one. Master told me he’d happened upon their camp of tents in a Highland glen and observed as they’d sang and danced and smoked hippie drugs. Three men and six women, all without clothes and promiscuous. It was the one wearing butterfly wings that caught his nose.’
They reach the first landing and turn down a passageway with deer heads on the wall. At the end of the passageway a blue door awaits.
Elizabeth sighs when she sees it.
‘Why did she catch his nose?’ Beth asks.
‘Because she gave her love so freely, both to the men and the other women. Not greedily like a whore, freely, with love. They used a clump of bushes away from the tents when they needed to toilet. Master waited with his rag and bottle and grabbed her while she pissed.’
‘Oh.’ Beth fails to make this image in her head.
The blue door opens to sunlight slanting through horizontal blinds. Real flowers, some fresh, many dead, have been taped to the walls. There’s a small bed with a thin mattress and a single pillow. The dresser and three cupboards hold various stuffed birds: two crows, an eagle, and a pair of speckled birds on a branch that Beth believes might be woodpeckers.
Young Elizabeth fetches a water jug and a plate of biscuits. Butterfly lady sits on the bed. She looks a little tearful, but doesn’t sound sad when she speaks. What’s your name, sweetpea? The word sweetpea repeats around the dome wall.
No reply, only the crunch of biscuit and a slight movement of the floor beneath their feet.
My name’s Danielle. My friends call me Danni.
Beth realises that butterfly lady’s smile does not reflect in her eyes.
Do you have a name, my darling?
No response.
Is he your father?
He’s Master.
I see. Is your mother here?
No response.
The windows ripple and the scene changes. Young Elizabeth appears to be sitting up a leafy tree. Down below, butterfly lady is on all fours, Master is kneeling behind her. Her wings are swaying to and fro.
‘So giving,’ Elizabeth sighs.
Another ripple and they’re back in the bathroom with the green tiles and the strong smell of lavender. Butterfly lady is washing Master’s hair in the bath. She sings the sweetest song.
‘She sings the sweetest song,’ says Beth and the wood spirit’s hand squeezes hers as the words roll around the dome.
Another ripple and they’re in the workroom. Master skins a deer, and butterfly lady helps by tidying innards. The smell of meat floods the dome.
Beth holds her nose.
Another ripple. They’re on the yard in drizzly rain. Butterfly lady is teaching young Elizabeth to dance as Master watches on.
Through the floor comes giggling and the sound of clapping hands.
Another ripple. Butterfly lady and the young Elizabeth are kneeling on the bed, drawing butterflies on the wall.
Beth gapes in awe as butterflies appear on the walls of the dome and the dome becomes brighter.
‘She was ever-compliant,’ Elizabeth sighs, ‘a rare creature.’
Another ripple. They’re walking in sunshine, picking blackberries into bowls. Master stops at a clearing and lies on the grass. Come for love, my perfect child.
Something prickly runs up Beth’s spine. She tries not to shiver.
Please, Master, Butterfly lady speaks, love me instead. I need to learn how . . . how fortunate I am.
Master waves the child away. Butterfly lady sits on Master, her wings move to and fro as she jerks her hips.
‘So eager to learn,’ says Elizabeth.
Beth tries to not think too hard. She believes Danielle is playing a game of pretend, and quickly realises these words must not roll around the walls or be picked up by Elizabeth. Must not – must not. ‘She seems a lovely lady. Can I meet her?’ must not, must not rolls around the wall.
‘Oh, she’s long-dead, Bethy, but a goodly soul.’
Beth’s almost afraid to ask. ‘How did she die?’
The dome seems to pulse with an air of sadness.
‘It was a sorry day when she died, Bethy. I cried for her to come back. I cried to Master to make her alive again.’
‘What happened?’
Elizabeth takes her hand. ‘I’ll show you.’
Beth’s not sure she wants to know.
8
Pete takes the chair from the shower room door and the prozzie falls out. He carries her to the bed and hands her the whisky bottle. She drinks some, spills more than she drinks.
Her eyes are closed. Pete looks closely at her blackened teats, takes them in his fingers, tugs a little. The prozzie moans and gives a little chuckle. ‘Gonna git me fucked now?’
Pete guides her hand with the bottle back to her lips. ‘Drink it all. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Hurt?’ She drinks the whisky down, ‘Give us some nuts.’
Pete opens a bag of nuts, folds her hand around it.
‘I like ye.’ She tips the bag near her mouth, spills more than she catches. ‘Git ye cock in me, sonny, ah’m itching fer it.’
While the prozzie chuckles and crunches on nuts, Pete builds up the pillows and rests her against them, spreads her feet into the scoops. He studies the view between her legs. She smells clean now at least, but there’s something not right. Beneath the tangle of hair there’s a lot of . . . meat. Pete hadn’t been sure of what to expect but this looks surreal – like something that weird painter Dali would paint: a melted coconut perhaps. Pete can’t imagine finding a way through.
An idea comes unbidden to Pete’s mind. It comes in the shape of a butterfly. ‘Aye,’ he says to no one. He pulls up his painting stool and brings his art-cart alongside. He plans it quick in his head. He selects four push-pins, yellow ones, and puts them in a row at the edge of the art-cart.
He gets up and goes round the bed to check on the prozzie. He guides the whisky bottle to her lips and tugs on her teats as she drinks and moans.
When she’s finished the whisky she slurs some words Pete can’t make out. He guesses she’s ready for this. He returns to the stool and picks up the push pins and readies himself.
He doesn’t really want to touch it, knows he’ll have to be quick. He imagines going through the actions in his head, with a nod of approval from Mr Wood. Then he does it for real.
He’s quick. Grabbing at the meat. Pushing the pins home. The prozzie cries out and her legs vibrate.