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Jemima Pt. 2

“So what kept you? Give the posh bird a length?” Paul’s pissing himself. I’ve just walked into The Britannia and it’s gone half nine. I’ve missed the football and it’s obvious, as I have to ask the score; Leeds have held them 0-0 away and just have to do the business at Elland Road. I didn’t get back to my place until gone eight, and dived straight into the shower, trying to get my head straight.

I felt the need for company so came straight up the pub once I’d changed. Something’s not right though, as I feel myself blush and feel angry that he’s asked me the question. I realise I’ve got no intention of telling them anything about the afternoon, so I mumble something about being knackered when I got back and having a kip. This is strange, as we normally have a collective post-mortem of all our shags, living it up for laughs. I’m relieved they seem to take my statement at face value and go back to bantering about Leeds’ chances in the European cup.

I try and concentrate on the conversation, the cold lager flowing into me, hoping it will dull my imagination, but all the time a part of my mind replays the afternoon. I’d slept for a bit over an hour, and woke to find her showered, changed and sitting on the bed smiling at me. I felt a tit as I still had the dildo strapped to me, and I felt well self-conscious taking it off. She’d led me through to the shower and got in with me. I was just stood there as she washed me, and made a thorough job of it too, but all I had to wear were my grotty work clothes, which is why I dived in my own shower when I got home. She’d hardly said a word, but I knew I was meant to leave quickly once dressed. She smiled and at one point said “Thank you, Tom” but I had no idea if she wanted a repeat performance or not, and wasn’t sure if I wanted to go through that again, then just as she was showing me out the kitchen door to where the van still stood she’d passed me a card which I put straight in my pocket. I didn’t want to stop and read it there in case it said “thanks and now fuck off” or some such message. I was half-way home before I dug it out of my shorts’ pocket and had a look, whilst waiting for yet another set of fucking traffic lights to decide that I’d seen enough red to be going on with.

‘Jem – 07777 313131’ was all it said. I wondered if it was coincidence that her mobile number was so distinctive, or maybe posh fuckers get special treatment. I couldn’t remember if her Merc had had a personal plate or not, but reckoned it probably would. Turning the card over I saw handwriting:

“Call me now”

Now? How the fuck did she know when I was going to read it? Part of me found it funny, this bird trying to play mind games with me; someone her kind would usually describe as a mindless thug. But despite myself I picked up the mobile, plugged it into the hands-free kit and started to dial the number, one eye on the road, the other making sure I didn’t misdial. The phone rang twice and her voice filled the cab, rich and smooth, making some subliminal link, me thinking of the woman on the Kenco coffee advert. Assured and confident: “You took your time Thomas. I just wanted to arrange your next visit”

Thomas? No fucker ever calls me that; even my mum calls me Tom. And why hadn’t she asked me before I’d left? Not that she was asking, she was telling me that I’d be going back. I felt my pulse increase, excitement and lust competing with apprehension, all combining to release adrenaline into my bloodstream. I had to say something in reply but took a second to muster as much assuredness as I could:

“Yeah? When’s good for you then Jem?”

“Call me Jemima”

Then why the fuck did she have ‘Jem’ on the card. Or was this some way of making me feel different? Special? Or highlighting the fact that I’m not part of her world? It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d demanded I call her m’Lady, and I’m not even sure I’d refuse. This was so far outside anything I’d done before I wasn’t sure what the rules were.

“Ok Jemima, when do you want to meet up? Saturdays are out for me. Football day, lad’s night”

“No, this Saturday you’ll be at mine at eight. But not one minute before. You can be a few minutes late if you like, but not early. I’ll see you then, and wear something nice”

“Look, I told you; Saturday’s for me and my mates, so it’ll have to be some other time”

And she fucking hung up. I got three loud pips over the speaker and it went dead. I was fuming, and knew she’d be sitting there waiting for me to call back. Fucked if I was going to be so predictable. I’d left the mobile sitting on the passenger seat and turned the radio up. Some techno-dance shit on there, but I didn’t care. Just needed something to drown out my thoughts. I used to bring a few tapes with me when I was out in the van but the tape player kept chewing them up, and when it ripped up my bootleg Jam tape I’d decided the radio would have to do. Radio 1 was nothing but pretentious techno-crap and saccharin manufactured pop, and although there were commercial stations that played good stuff you still had radio adverts to put up with, but unless the boss forked out for a new player it was all we had.

“Oi! Dip-shit. Are you on something?” Paul and Andy are staring at me. I realise they must have been talking to me but I can’t tell what it was about.

“Sorry mate, just tired”

“Oh, so you’ve got fucking Aids! Become an uphill gardener have you? A fucking shirt-lifter, and I was about to accept a lager from you”

Andy pitches in, giving me shit, but at least I realise it’s my round and with a grin at him I make my way to the bar. Quite busy for a Wednesday, but the Britannia’s always been popular. I order three lagers and look admiringly at Angie’s arse as she bends down to pick up the glasses then wiggles her way to the pumps. A typical London peroxide-blonde barmaid, she looks good until she opens her gob, at which point a fucking awful squeak comes out. She can shatter glass with one giggle, but most of us have been there at least once. She’s only a year or two younger than us, but she’s always come across as a giggling schoolgirl. She gets turned on by violence and violent men, and whenever we’ve been in a ruck and come in the Brit to lick our wounds and laugh about who got a kicking and who did the business, she’s always there licking her lips and up for a good shafting from anyone who fancies it.

I pay for the lagers and carry them back to the lads. They’ve plonked themselves down at a corner table, leaving me to sit with my back to the room and miss leching at any skirt which may come in. Fucking typical, but I’m not going to whinge about it. The lads are back to the staple subject of our conversations; Chelsea’s chances next season. They’ve fucking blown it for this one again, too much inconsistency. New manager can’t even talk English, for fuck’s sake. My mind drifts again, back to when I’d got home. I’d managed not to pick the phone up and call Jemima again in the van, but as soon as I got into the flat I’d cracked. Been fucking stupid too; only went and used my land phone, so she had both numbers now.

“Hello again Thomas. So you understand about Saturday; not a moment before eight”

She’s unbelievable, I thought to myself, but even as I’d thought it I’d been answering:

“Ok – but why not Friday?”

“Sorry, I’ve got other people to see on Friday. Saturday or not at all. And that’s ever”

Her voice firm, leaving me in no doubt she meant it. It was only later, on my way to the pub that the thought occurred to me that she must have liked what I’d done, if not me for myself, for her to want a repeat performance at all. During the call though I’d reverted to Mr Putty-in-her-hands. Fucking sad really – a confident and proud bloke turned into a fucking rent-boy, except I wasn’t getting paid. She wasn’t finished

“I may have a little surprise for you. I’ll see you on Saturday, and Thomas, don’t be a disappointment, there’s a good boy” and again she’d just hung up.

I drag myself back to the present in time to hear Andy speculating about Saturday’s game against Villa. Not much chance of a decent ruck, not against that lot. No real firm to talk of, although they’ve got a big support base. Fucking whining brummies. Paul’s saying how they play good football, the way it should be played, quick passes and breaks, the way Chelsea do it. We remember a few seasons ago, when we played them up at their place, and they had eleven Englishman in their starting line up compared to our one, and their fans were singing “Eng-er-lund Eng-er-lund” at us. Fucking beat us too. But Villa are a nothing team. Rarely struggle too much, but do fuck all either. Can’t remember the last time they were in Europe. Still living off ’82 when they won the European Cup. Or was it ’81? I’m wondering how I’m going to get away after the game, missing the usual ritual of match, pub, grub, club followed by kebab and/or bird. Couple of weeks ago we got invited to a party at some tart’s place. Student nurses, five of them living in one fucking house. Andy only shagged the bird whose party it was, whilst Paul did the good thing and kept her bloke chatting about the advantages of wingbacks over a traditional flat back four! Fucking funny, looking back. My brain feels like it’s made of cotton wool, can’t think straight, another pint landing in front of me won’t help, but it tastes good and I decide not to think about it until tomorrow. Fuck it!

Thursday afternoon, and I’m getting the thrill again. I’d woken this morning with the germ of an idea. Can’t remember where it came from; a dream, something said on Wednesday night – can’t remember much of that, I’d got well hammered, raised a few eyebrows the next morning and the boss thought I was still pissed as I’d been wandering round like I was in a trance all day, but it wasn’t due to the hangover, it was because I’d been thinking through my idea. I wanted to see Jemima again, or at least to fuck her, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror without examining myself to see if the weakening was visible. I knew I’d acted like a fucking nonce who gets off on women dominating him. Wearing fucking nappies and being spanked – not my scene at all. So this idea had started to form. I remembered how she’d gone into one when I’d first slipped my length into her, then in the next breath started encouraging me with all that “Tommy knows what mummy wants” shit. I was sure I could get away with this, but I wanted to make it real. For her, at least.

One thing I’d always been good at was accents. At school I’d even been encouraged to do a bit of acting, but I’d dropped it like a brick when my mates started taking the piss: “One step away from being a fucking ballet dancer, you ponce”, and that kind of thing, so I’d told the drama teacher to shove it, and went back to mugging swots for their dinner money. But I’d never lost the ability to do regional accents, and would practise them when telling jokes. Fucking hard to tell how realistic they are, but I reckoned I could con a posh bird like Jemima, who was unlikely to have been exposed to too many strong accents. Scouse, I reckoned. Fucking pondlife from Liverpool virtually had their own language, and I was sure I could do the voice. Only thing was, would she be seeing her ‘other people’ on Friday at her home or elsewhere? I hoped it would be elsewhere, and when she got home she’d have a fucking shock. If she was in, and I had to wait until her guests left it would be more complicated, as I wasn’t sure what security the house had, but it was bound to be pretty good. I’m no fucking thief, so I’m not exactly skilled at getting into other people’s houses, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to. If it all went pear shaped I could always bin the idea and just turn up as ordered on Saturday, but I didn’t want to. Basically, so long as it went as planned, I’d grab her as she went to open the door, rush her inside, fuck her brains out and leave. I’d want to give her just a hint that it was me, and before anyone starts thinking I’m a fucking rapist, I certainly wasn’t going to hurt her. Well, not in any serious way, but I had a strong idea that this would be as good for her as it would be for me. I still had a balaclava and black roll-neck top from a fancy-dress party the three of us had gone to as SAS blokes. Fucking scream that had been – touching up birds and minesweeping beers, and although the soft cunts at the party had known we’d been normal blokes in costume the balaclava thing had really intimidated them. I had black jeans, but had better wear trainers, as she’d seen my boots and I wanted to leave her uncertain.

Now my plan was sorted I was impatient. I go for a few pints on Thursday evening and the lads are asking if I’m out on Friday. Tell them I don’t fancy it, keeping my powder dry for Saturday. Of course I’ll still have to explain to Jemima why I’m not going to make it on Saturday, but I’ll think of something, and I get the feeling that she’ll have had enough by then.

“Hey Tom, tell Andy that joke about the Scouse kid at school in London”

Fucking Paul’s telepathic. I’m just thinking about getting the accent straight and he gives me a chance. I get Andy pissing himself at the joke. Feel good – being the funny man, but know he wouldn’t be so expressive if it wasn’t for the five pints of lager sloshing around in his gut. Plastic beer, but better than the warm heavy crap that the traditionalists tell us a true Englishman should drink. What the fuck is a true Englishman anyway? The only cunts who ever talk about it have got nothing to do with me or my kind. They always miss the fucking point, going on about some golden age when everyone did as they were told, and there were no hooligans, no kiddie-fiddlers, no unemployment. A fucking dream, a con. It’s always been there, all of it, it’s just no one talked about it and very few heard about it when it did come out. That’s the price of an all-informed public, and it’s hard to keep the news quiet when everyone’s got a TV. Educating the Empire cost us the Empire. Churchill said that. Fucking true Englishman there, even if he was a toff. Knew what he was on about, did old Winston. And we’re still fighting them on the beaches, only difference being the Government hasn’t declared war on them this time. But we know what it’s all about. Flying the flag, keeping the Euros aware of us, scared of us. The English barbarians, proud fighting race. I’m fucking rambling now, and I know it. Realise I’ve been talking aloud as I hear Paul agreeing with me.

“Fucking right Tom! Fat cunts in Brussels telling us how to run our country, growing rich on the fucking curry train”

“It’s called a gravy train, you ignorant wanker” I laugh at him, he’s pissed and cracks up too

“Gravy, curry, what’s the fucking difference? Knew it was something Northern cunts put on their chips”

We’re all pissing ourselves now, Angie giggling along with us even though she’s just walked up to our end of the bar and hasn’t a clue what we’re laughing at. Daft cow. Looks good tonight though. Nipples showing through a white t-shirt – must be on heat. Some other time she might just have got 7 inches of Chelsea up her tonight, but I’m keeping myself fresh for Lady fucking Chatterley.

We grab a kebab on the way home, and I’m wearing half of it by the time I let myself into the flat. Fucking greasy shit, have to be pissed to eat this, although I feel pretty well together. I dig out the black clothes and balaclava and make sure they’re handy for tomorrow night. I’ll take my motor out there and park it a good distance from her house. Hope there’s no intruder alarms in the woods around the grounds, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take. She’s probably got security lights, so I’ll have to be careful approaching the house itself, especially if she’s in. The gravel could be a problem too; fucking noisy. At least I’d seen no sign of dogs. It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know when her husband’s coming home. Could it be him she’s seeing on Friday? But if so, and he’s just come back from abroad, how could she be free on Saturday? Unless he’s one of these weird cunts who gets off on seeing his wife fucked by a stranger. I can’t see it being likely, but I’ll have to give the place a good looking over when I get there. I turn in but struggle to get to sleep, my mind too active to relax. End up having a wank, thinking about what happened on Wednesday, and what I hope will happen on Friday.

Friday evening, and did this fucking day drag or what? I could hardly keep my mind on the job, although Paul, who’s pretty much my best mate and would have sussed something was on my mind was out on the van today, thank fuck. Andy really gets into his work, so he didn’t notice anything, and I reckon the boss thinks I’m a fucking zombie anyway. At least after this week. I made it home in good time, and have showered and put on some aftershave. Dolce and Gabbana; meant to be a bit classy, though probably not to a rich-bitch like Jemima. But it’s all part of the master plan. Give her something to think about, and classy or not, it’s distinctive, and that’s what I want. I put the clothes on, but wear a beige jacket over the top for the journey there. Feel a bit of a twat wearing it, as it’s one my mum bought me to keep me dry at the football. Must be the first time I’ve ever worn it, and I wouldn’t be seen dead in it usually. Before I leave I slip a clasp knife into my jeans pocket; you never know – I may need it to add a bit of steel to my act.

I wander down to the garages which go with my block of flats. As I drive off I’m running through the plan, wondering if it’ll come off or not. It’s nine pm and I reckon at this time of night I’ll make it out to her place in forty-five minutes. Straight down the A22, which is a cast-iron bitch of a road during rush hour, but now it should be a doddle.

Ten o’clock, and I’m at her place. Sneaked through the woods from the road, and I’m standing looking at the side of the house. The end of it I drove around on Wednesday. Looks dead, but there’s a light on downstairs in the kitchen. Just about the only window I can be sure of. No sign of the Merc, but it could be in the garage. I don’t know if she’d drive herself or get a cab. Or a fucking limo more like. I realise I could be in for a long wait, and start to make my way around toward the back of the house, keeping in the cover of the trees, just on the edge. I can’t make out any security lights but it’s too dark now. Should have got here twenty minutes earlier, when there was still a bit of light left. Ah well, wasn’t it some general who said no plan survives first contact with the enemy? I can’t remember who, but he had a point. I’m feeling like some hero soldier, behind the enemy lines here, setting up the ambush. Only my enemy isn’t here, or I don’t think she is. I realise that if she pulls up now I’m too far away. If she spotted me as I cross the gravel she could make it inside and lock the door before I could get to her, so I move further around, until the garage and workshop are between me and house. I creep toward the back of the workshop, on grass still, nice and quiet. Looking around the edge of the workshop I can see a couple of wheelie bins at the back of the house. Right next to the kitchen door. I don’t remember them from Wednesday but then I wasn’t really looking. Making my mind up I race across to them, sure now she isn’t in and they’re perfect. I can crouch down behind them, concealing myself from the door, and I’m only a few yards away from it.

Nearly eleven, and I’m getting cramped here, so I stand to stretch my legs. Just as I do I hear a car. Hard to tell if it’s coming up here, but then there’s the crunch of tyres crossing gravel and I’m home and dry. I must check it’s just her of course, but the adrenaline starts to flow and I’m positive this is going to come off. The crunching stops and the engine dies, but I still can’t see the car. Fuck! She’s stopped round the front. Bollocks! I didn’t even think about that. Stupid cunt! I’m swearing at myself, wondering if I can salvage something, and notice lights coming on inside. I’m staring at the garage, furious that the silly cow isn’t parking the car there when light comes pouring through the French windows away to my left. They swing open and I can see her, but she’s talking to someone. Her hair’s piled up and she’s wearing a long dress. Very classy, but I’m getting fucking nervous now. If she looks this way there’s a good chance she’ll see me in the light. Who the hell is she talking to? Relief floods through me as I realise she’s talking into her mobile, bending her head now down to the left to grip it whilst she does something with her hands. Lifting them to her face and she’s got a cigarette in her mouth, but it looks a bit battered somehow. A spark and a flame and she’s smoking – I hadn’t realised she did. Talking again now, and a cloud of smoke drifts toward me as she exhales, laughing into the phone, that musical laugh I remember so well. I can’t believe what my sense of smell is telling me, but she’s smoking fucking ganja! She’s doing a joint – Mrs Rich-Twat is getting high, and it suits me down to the ground. I listen to her conversation, but it’s all giggles and agreement; no way of telling what the fuck the person on the other end is on about. She keeps calling them ‘darling’, but with this lot that could be anyone from a sister to the fucking bank manager. Means nothing, and I’m getting impatient. I freeze as I suddenly hear my name being mentioned:

“Thomas? Oh, I told you, he’s an absolute daaaahling! Ever so cute, and so …manageable”

More yahs, and mmmms follow, and I’m fucking furious – she’s told some wanker about me. Mind you, it could be another woman, and I start to think I may be right there as she says into the phone “you’d love him – you really would. He’s just your type. Yes, darling, mine too” and shrieks with laughter again. She’s saying goodbye now, with some fucking pretentious yuppy farewell ceremony, all ‘Chin-chin’, ‘toodle-pip’ and finally ‘ciao’. We didn’t create the World’s leading language to start speaking fucking Eytie to each other. I’m focused now and start to move toward her. She’s turned to face away from me, and I’m moving an inch at a time, trying not to make too much sound across this gravel. She starts to turn toward the house when I’m still three or four steps away from the three wide concrete steps which lead up to the French windows but she stops looking into the house and turns again – thankfully away from me once more, and she flicks the roach onto the gravel. Seems a bit careless to me, although I guess her old man may not know what it was even if he noticed it. I’m on the concrete now and can smell her perfume. She starts to turn, must have heard me, and with a roar I’m on her. She tried to run inside, but I’m too fast and I grab her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides as I wrap mine around her. We fall to the floor, me on top of her, and remembering to do the accent, I yell at her:

“Shut the fook up! Don’t fookin’ move, you tart” she’s sobbing and whimpering and I can’t help but feel sorry for her – must be fucking scary seeing this masked bloke rush at you. I stand for a second and pull the doors closed, but she’s got no spirit left to run, just lies there sobbing. I bend down and lift her onto her feet – although she’s tall and not exactly skinny she’s light, although it may be the adrenaline surging through me that makes her seem so easy to lift. On her feet now, me holding her arms into her side, and I keep up the pretence:

“Where’s yer fookin’ money? Jewellery and that? Don’t fook me about. Coom ahead now, fookin’ tell us”

“Upstairs – it’s all upstairs. Please, just don’t hurt me” she manages to blurt out. I march her down the room and into the corridor, turning out the light as we go. We pass the door to the room where we fucked the first time, and I push her down the corridor to the stairs. She doesn’t resist at all, just stumbles along in front of me, so I release her arms and just keep a hand in her back so she knows I’m there. Up the stairs, we’re climbing into darkness, and I can’t remember seeing any light switches, but she turns them on as we cross the landing – must be an automatic reaction. She points at the bedroom I remember so well, and I push her towards it. She opens the door, and we go inside, but this time she doesn’t put on the light. I shove her hard towards the bed and can see her fall across it where she draws her legs up into the foetal position. I reach down and turn on a bedside light, then look down at her. She’s buried her face in the quilt, which is silk like the sheets. Some kind of bluey-green colour, and I realise I can’t remember what colour the sheets were the other day. She’s making a high-pitched keening sound, not sobbing but far from fucking happy. I wonder if my idea’s about to backfire on me. I steel myself to see it through, and with one eye on her start to go through drawers in the tall chest. I start at the top, knowing what I’m going to find at the bottom. I rummage through clothing, tossing it onto the floor, swearing as I go:

“Where’s the fooking good stuff, youse ‘ave gorra stash of gems and stuff, ‘aven’t yer?”

She doesn’t look up, but sniffs:

“It’s in the small dresser, with the mirror. Top drawer”

I move to the dresser, look back at her but she’s as still as a corpse. I open the drawer and lift out a padded box – it opens easily, although there’s a keyhole in the lid. Obviously not used. It’s got a tray across the top full of rings and brooches, and when I lift the tray out there are a few velvet bags or cases underneath, which reveal necklaces, some pearl, some gold and an intricate silver one.

“Dis is more fooking like it. Now wharr-else ‘ave youse got stashed away, eh?”

I’ve got no intention of actually nicking anything, but need a good reason not to; I don’t want to make it too obvious that I’m not what I’m pretending to be.

“Please, not the silver necklace. I’ll get you money, I’ve got quite a bit of cash, but please leave me the necklace” She’d lifted her head to stare at me, her eyes wide in fear or intensity, pleading with me and this was a new vision of her. She really meant this, and that could be useful.

“Ok, let’s see wharr-else you’ve got then. If I get enough, I may let youse keep the fooker”

And I move back to the tall chest. I’m one drawer from the bottom, and as I throw the contents out, all bedsheets and pillowcases in this one, I glance back at her. She’s watching me still, but I can see the tension in her face now; she knows what I’m about to find and I reckon she’s shitting herself – not sure what her burglar’s reaction’s going to be.

I pull the bottom drawer open and don’t have to fake the surprised gasp I’d prepared; it’s stuffed full of fucking sex toys. I can’t see the strap-on I’d used on her the other day, but there’s all fucking sorts in there. I grab an armful of stuff, stand up and walk to the bed where she throws herself down on her side again, knees drawn right up to her chest, face buried in the quilt, hands clenched into fists and tucked under her chin. I empty my collection onto the bed and begin to examine it. A double-headed dildo which I pick up by one end. It bends just a little, and when I grab the other end and apply some pressure it bends quite easily in half. It’s about 18 inches in length from tip to tip, and pretty much the same thickness as the strap-on had been, and as my own cock, which is now fucking solid inside my jeans, straining to get over my waistband. There’s two balls connected by a string, must be Japanese love-balls or whatever they’re called, three slim metal-look vibrators, another vibrator which has loads of little coloured plastic balls inside the transparent head. Fuck knows what that’s for! And a pair of velvet-coloured handcuffs. I pick them up and I’m glad to see the key sat in the lock. I open them, pocket the key and move onto the bed to kneel above her. Grabbing hold of her piled hair, slightly dishevelled but still in place, I pull her up the bed. She doesn’t resist and shuffles up the bed. Still holding her by the hair with my left hand I reach below her head with my right and grab her right wrist. Locking one of the cuffs onto her right wrist I pull it up toward the headboard which has thick wooden rods running vertically. I hold her wrist near the centre rod, and releasing her hair use my other hand to feed the empty cuff around the rod and back out. I let go of her captured wrist and reach down for the other. Still she doesn’t struggle, though out of willing acceptance or reluctant submission I can’t tell yet. Locking her left wrist into the second cuff and making sure they’re tight, I move off the bed and examine her. I reach across and grab her ankles, pulling them down the bed until she’s stretched out on the bed, face down, her arms reaching up above her head. The cuffs, I notice, are swivel mounted on their chain, so I could turn her over without hurting her. But that would come later. I want some kind of reaction first.

“Ok lady. I’ll tell youse the fookin’ score. I’ve got all yer sparkles, but youse can buy ’em back if yer like. At a price, o’ course”

“I told you, I can get you money” her voice muffled, but quite level and sounding more in control now.

“I may not want money now. I may want something different like. Youse ‘ave got a fit body on yer”

I heard a sharp intake of breath. So she was starting to realise this may have a different dimension. I wonder if she’s going to take to the idea or not, but fuck it, I’m going to do it anyway. I pull out the knife and open it. Reaching up I place the cold metal against her shoulder blade, making her flinch, but I’m no fucking psycho – I slide it up under the shoulder strap of her dress and cut upwards. It slices through the rich material easily, and I do the same to the other strap. I realise I’ve done her bra straps with them, and feeling hornier by the minute I fold the knife and shove it back into my pocket. Grasping the zip fastener at her back I slowly pull it down her body. The dress is well enough made that I can’t see how far down it goes, but it proves to be almost at her buttocks. Grabbing the hem I pull sharply down and hear her gasp again as I pull the dress right from under her. Moving back up I unhook the bra, and pull it out from the side. Her panties, or rather g-string go next, slid down her body, but she still does nothing to protect herself other than forcing her legs together.

I walk across to the dresser and pick up the jewellery box, taking it back to the bed and placing it on the bedside table.

“Look!” I order her, stretching the word out, remembering I’m meant to be a Scouser. I take out a few of the rings and opening the table’s drawer I drop them in.

“Youse can buy these back first. An’ all youse ‘ave got to do is open yer legs and give me a feel. Alright like?” I try to sound reasonable and cheery, as if I’m offering her an obviously good deal.

I move down her body and place my left hand between the tops of her thighs. They’re still clenched hard together, and although I’m sure I could force my hand in between, I don’t want to have to; I want her to let me willingly. She’s still looking at the box on the table, and I wiggle my fingers to remind her what she’s got to do to get her rings back. I reckon the slag’s trying to work out the total cost, knowing I’m going to leave the silver necklace until last.

Her legs relax a fraction, and my hand slips an inch further between. Then they almost fall apart, her arse slightly rising and I’ve got full access; I run my flat palm up the inside of her right thigh until my forefinger is resting along her gash, then start rubbing it up and down. She’s instantly wet, and it’s too quick to have only begun now. She’s warm and moist now and I slide two fingers inside her cunt, slowly pushing them in before sliding them out again, now adding a third finger and keeping it really slow I start to rotate them inside her. My little finger has reached beyond and is sliding across her clit, open and obvious now and she starts to groan softly. I remove my hand, and slightly disappointed that there’s no complaint I grab her hair with my right hand again and feed my left fingers into her mouth. She opens up and licks at them eagerly enough, and whilst she’s sucking away, tasting her own juices I remove the clasp from her hair, watching it tumble down over her face and shoulders. She flicks it away with a toss of her head as I remove my fingers from her mouth.

I next pick up one of the necklaces in its bag. I have a look and see it’s a pearl one. Very appropriate!

“Are yer gonna be a good girl fer this ‘un too?” I enquire in what’s becoming a fucking annoying nasal whine, even to me. I want to revert to my own voice, but need to keep this going for now.

“What choice do I have? You can take it, rape me, kill me” she’s working herself into a state now, self-control slipping away, “what the fuck can I do about it?” I nearly laugh as she swears; it sounds so unnatural delivered in such a cultured voice, but her tone is unnerving me. She sounds really fucking scared, and it’s time for some reassurance.

“Alright, alright. Calm down lady, fook’s sake! Look, I’m not gonna hurt yer, I’m not gonna cut yer, and yeah, o’ course I was ‘ere to rob youse, but I don’t think I’m gonna do that either. So long as you’re nice to me. So do we ‘ave a deal, like?”

She only starts fucking crying. Real body-shaking sobs, and I’m feeling a total cunt. This was meant to be my way of getting my self-esteem back and giving both of us a good time, but either she’s still putting on a show and a fucking convincing one too, or I’ve really screwed her up. I just stand there like a twat wondering what to do next. Do I whip off the balaclava and tell her the whole story? Just release her and leg it? Or carry on and hope I can turn her on enough to bring her round? I’m being fucking indecisive, and realise that she’s still getting to me, sapping my resolve, though this time I’ve brought it on myself.

I remember how I’d felt, stood before her, spent and weak, when she’d lifted my cock and let it drop; I try and recall how fucking small I’d felt, how humiliated and scorned, the anger buried deep down, no energy left to bring it to the surface. But now I can let it out, I just have to steel myself to carry on. I look around, not sure what for, and see the pile of toys at the foot of the bed. Suddenly her crying seems less convincing; this bird is well up for it – I know that but she’s made me forget it with her fucking sobbing. Doesn’t like it now she’s not in control anymore. I grab her shoulders and roll her over onto her back. Her eyes are wet but she’s hardly in floods of tears. I move the hair off her face, then place my left hand under her neck, and tilt her head toward the edge of the bed, pulling her closer to me. I pull the knife out of my pocket again and opening it one-handed I hold it before her face.

“Right youse fookin’ bitch, do as I say or yer’ll get this. Ok? I’ve tried to be nice but I’ve ‘ad enough of youse and yer fookin’ whining”

She makes no response other than to stare up at my eyes, and it’s hard to remember I’m hidden behind the balaclava. I place the knife on the bedside table and undo my belt, unbutton the jeans and pull them down, pulling my boxers after them. I’m only semi-rigid due to the confusion of the last few moments, but I grip my cock at the base and pulling her head closer I point it at her mouth.

“Now open yer gob, and suck it like a good fookin’ girl. An’ if I feel just one tooth on my fookin’ prick I’ll cut yer fookin’ throat”

The tip of my cock is pressing against her lips but she’s not opening up – I grip her neck with my left hand, squeezing hard and she opens her mouth enough for me to push inside. I’m half-expecting to feel her teeth digging in, not sure how convincing my threat sounded. She’s certainly not doing the business like the other day, so to give her some encouragement I reach down and play with her nipples. The effect is instant; I can feel her tongue starting to swirl around my cock again, lashing at it as I release her head and now use both hands to pull at her nipples, rubbing my fingers across them, then massaging the massive breasts. I reach lower with my left hand as her knees come up and she moves them further apart in an obvious display of lust – opening herself to me. My cock’s like a stick of fucking rock again now, and she’s moving her head along it, letting me fuck her in the mouth without my having to move. I use the fingers of my left hand to play across her clit, and can feel the warmth from her cunt, knowing she’s in full flow again. My confidence returns and I can start enjoying myself again, my cock being sucked hard, her lips and tongue expert, as I trip my fingers along her slit, opening her up, easing her lips apart and slipping one finger into her – probing deep inside, then out and up to slide across her clit again, slick with her juice. I bring my fingers to my lips and suck on them, tasting her, and pulling out and away from her mouth I move to the foot of the bed, climb on and bury my face between her thighs, the balaclava rubbing against her soft skin, my lips and tongue forcing through the mouth hole, my mouth sucking in one lip, my tongue sliding across it, then running my tongue all the way up the side of her cunt, flicking across the lip, tasting the wetness, reaching the top and continuing into the cleft, finding her clit and circling it, flicking across as she starts to moan. I stand back from the bed and gaze down at her. Even now, playing a robber and a rapist, I’m still in awe of her. She’s got into my head in a way no fucking tart ever has before. She is a tart in a way, but so different to any other I’ve ever known. I feel my last doubts dissolve, my determination to push the boundaries strengthening and I move around the bed, back to her side, reaching down and grabbing her hips then flipping her over again. I kneel beside her and reaching under her belly lift her, so she’s on her knees, arms still secured to the headboard, her head turned to the side as she tries to see what I’m going to do. I move off and around to the foot of the bed again, picking up the double-headed dildo, and going back to the drawer I dig about for the jar of cream. I can’t find it and presume it’s with the strap-on somewhere, but I see a tube of KY jelly and open it up, squeezing it into my palm then rubbing it onto each end of the double-header. This thought has been growing throughout the evening, and I’m going to see if it will work. I climb onto the bed at her feet, and reaching down with one hand I move one knee then the other outward to open her up. I pick up the KY and squeeze more onto her arse, toss the tube back onto the bed, then work it in and around her anus with my fingers, probing her with one, then two fingers – starting to finger-fuck her properly, hear her moaning appreciatively. Pulling my fingers out, I grab the dildo in both hands, bending it so both tips are pointing toward her. I know she can’t see and won’t know what’s coming as I line the heads up with her cunt and her arse. I push the upper head against her ringpiece as the lower starts to slide into her cunt with ease. There’s firm resistance to the upper end of the dildo, but I increase the force, and the head suddenly plops inside her. I can grip the u-bend of the dildo and start to DP her with it – I know she likes this from last Wednesday’s experience and I wonder if she’ll make the connection. With my left hand fucking her with the dildo, I move around to her right side and cup a breast with my right. They’re hanging down and look bigger than ever, and I play with the stiff nipple, a good half inch long and thick. She’s panting loudly now, really getting into it and looking over her shoulder I see she’s staring at my cock. I move my hand from her breast and slide it under her belly to play with her clit. Suddenly she’s into an orgasm; no warning, she just starts grunting and shaking, repeating yes, oh yes with an almost manic intensity then slumping onto her side, looking up at me with glazed eyes, a weak smile on her lips.

I gently remove the dildo and toss it onto the floor. I suddenly feel the urge to fuck her, get inside her and feel her warmth, so I kick off the trainers, jeans and boxers, realising I’m looking a prat wearing nothing but a black roll-neck, a balaclava and a straining hard-on! I climb onto the bed and lie on my back next to her then reach across and half-lift, half-drag her on top of me. She looks down into my eyes and I can’t believe she doesn’t recognise me; but then maybe she does. Her hair falls into my eyes as she lowers her mouth onto mine, kissing me fully through the hole cut in the balaclava, which is making my head fucking hot now. I reach down and hold my cock upright as she lowers herself onto it. I feel that delicious warm glow as her cunt grips my shaft, then she’s into her rhythm, arms over my head and I guess she’s gripping the headboard as she pounds herself up and down on my cock, slamming into me, now backing from the kiss and raising her head. I can’t resist the huge breasts swinging in front of my face and I capture a nipple, sucking it in and gripping it firmly with my teeth and lips, then flicking my tongue across it. She’s gasping again, and I feel justified and strong again. I’m fucking loving this, and know I’ll be here tomorrow, lad’s night out or not – this woman has got me hooked, well and truly. My cock feels bigger than ever before, I’m sure I’m reaching deeper into her than last time, and her cunt is gripping me tighter – the friction sending me into an intensity of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

“Come in my mouth…in my mouth” she pants, and I’ve got no intention of coming yet, but I grunt my agreement, not sure if my grunt sounds like it developed in Liverpool or London, but nearly beyond caring now. She climbs off me and rolls onto her back, not seeming bothered that her wrists are still held by the cuffs. Her breasts fall apart on her chest and I can’t resist bending my head to suck in a nipple again, before climbing on top of her and entering her without needing to guide my cock. It’s a fucking guided missile and it’s homed in on it’s target. I’m gliding in and out of her now, slowing the pace, getting into my rhythm and circling my hips, pushing all the way in and sliding my abdomen up to bring pressure onto her clit. She’s making little whining noises through her nostrils now, and her eyes have shut. I’m sliding my cock into her, out until the tip is just free of her cuntlips, then pausing a second, watching her eyes snap open, accusing, then plunging deep into her and the eyes glaze over and close again.

I pull out and picking up the KY tube I climb up her body to kneel across her belly, the KY squeezing onto her chest, dropping the tube and rubbing the jelly into her cleavage. Moving up I lay my cock between her breasts and squeeze them together, one hand on the outside of each one, and begin to pump my cock between them. It feels fucking awesome, and I’m not far away now, looking down at her she’s bending her head to see, her mouth opening in an obvious invitation to me. I pump and pump at her, force her breasts harder onto my cock, the increased friction sending me closer to the edge. It’s coming now and I’m falling, just maintain enough control to release her breasts, see them fall away, reach around to support her head and lift it with one hand whilst the other guides my cock into her mouth. Fuck knows what KY jelly tastes like but she seems to like it as she slurps at the head whilst I pump the shaft, catching her in the face, the flinch and then she’s back into the sucking, her tongue doing it’s thing, remembering the sensation from Wednesday, flicking at the underside of my bell end, and I’m exploding into her mouth. I see her swallow, some semen leaking from the side of her mouth, her arms held above her head, the very picture of vulnerability, but now she’s a willing victim and the eroticism of it all adds to the rush. My eyes screw shut once more, unable to keep the fuckers open, the instinct stronger than sneezing, and as the tide ebbs, the sharpness subsides I open my eyes to look at her and see recognition in her face, my cock still held in her mouth. She knows. I’m not sure how I know that, but I do.

I climb off her and reach for my jeans. Taking the key I undo the cuffs and her arms fall onto the pillow but she makes no effort to move them. Maybe they’re numb, I don’t know. She’s lying on her back then rolls toward me to lie on her left side, facing me. She’s looking at me with a totally neutral expression, almost sleepy, not saying anything. I’m unnerved again, and to hide myself I turn off the bedside light and climb over her to lie behind her, spooning with her. I pull off the balaclava, feeling cool air on my face, then the roll-neck. It just feels natural to slide my left arm under her head, bending my arm so I can caress a breast, my right arm wrapping around her. I can rid myself of the fucking stupid accent now:

“How did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t until you came” she sounds happy enough – not accusing or sullen

“don’t tell me you could tell by the taste” I almost laugh

“no stupid, although now you mention it…” she giggles “no, it was the way your eyes screw up. But thank you; you really had me going there, and it was incredibly horny. Thomas, you really are quite special. So are you coming over tomorrow still?”

“Fucking right I am” I feel really good now – Studley Ramrod, me! I didn’t plan to let her know, but it just seemed the right thing to do, and now I’m glad I did.

“But you don’t have to go yet, do you? And I know you can do it twice in quick succession, so why don’t you make love to me? But don’t put on that awful accent Thomas darling”

I chuckle, and start to caress her body, taking my time, my cock beginning to swell already, on the promise. I’m nuzzling her neck when she speaks again:

“Of course you realise I owe you one now” I pause. This makes me pause before answering.

“I’d kind of reckoned that made us quits. 1-1, an honourable draw”

“Oh no, Thomas. Not by a long chalk…a very long chalk.”

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