After the death of Victoria, and his brother Frank away most of the time with the British Armed Forces and his younger sister Eve in those unbearable teenage years, living at home with his parents was never going to be the same. So when Gary Fowler offered him the opportunity to move into his flat, it didn’t take him long to make up his mind.
In the beginning their loyalty and friendship towards each other worked quite well, but over time, with one glass half-empty and one glass half-full and two completely different personalities, the cracks were beginning to show. So when Stella Mason asked Gary to move into her two bedroom house, he jumped at the chance.
But although they weren’t living together they still remained good friends, especially when Gary sustains major injuries in a head-on car accident.
It took most of the day and all his energy to help Gary move his belongings out of the flat they had shared for the last eighteen-months and into his new home with Stella Mason.
He was tired and exhausted and he wasn’t really in the mood for going out. But with only a couple of cigarettes left in the packet, he knew he would have to visit the off-licence at the end of the street.
Grabbing his leather jacket from a chair and picking up his door key and wallet from a table, taking the stairs two at a time, heading along the narrow street, glancing at his watch, trying to remember if Laura Beckett closed her shop at eight or nine o’clock.
He hadn’t got very far when it started to rain.
Lifting his collar and pulling the zip up on his jacket he ran from the storm.
“Fucking rain,” he cursed, wiping water from his eyes, cursing again and quickening the pace when the lights inside the shop faded into darkness, eventually reaching the front door and stepping into a small entrance lobby to shelter from the rain.
Brushing his hand across the murky glass, blinking his eyes and peering into the darkness, catching sight of a shadowy figure climbing a step ladder behind the counter, a shapely bottom inside a short skirt and flashes of white thighs blossoming from a pair of knee length leather boots keeping his interest long enough to take in the vision of feminine delights and to make an adjustment inside his pants.
The unexpected sound of fingers tapping gently over the glass and the haunting silhouette of a faceless shadow at the door startled her and she almost lost her balance at the top of the ladder. After regaining her composure and recognising the familiar face looking through the glass, a welcoming smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
Staring out through the misty glass, narrowing her eyes and pointing a finger at the sign on the door, lifting her eyes and pouting her lips in a motioning gesture of apologetic words… “We’re closed.”
Placing the palms of his hands together in that common sign for begging, pursing his lips and mimicking a smoking gesture with two fingers, silently mouthing back… “Please.”
As the deadlock disengaged from the latch and the fluorescent lamps pinged and buzzed bringing the room back to life, he entered the solitude of the shop.
“Thanks Laura. I owe you one,” he smiled. “I need a packet of cigarettes” he added, shaking water from his jacket onto the vinyl floor.
“I couldn’t leave you in the rain,” she replied, with a hint of amusement. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” she added, a thin smile showing a small gap between her two front teeth.
“I know your brand,” she announced, picking a pack of twenty cigarettes from the fixture.
“I was just about to pour myself a drink before taking a shower. If you follow me into the kitchen I’ve got a spare umbrella you can borrow. It’s a little girlish, but it’ll keep you dry.”
In all the time he had known Laura he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a man, which he thought was strange, because although she wasn’t stunningly attractive, for a woman in her late-thirties, she had a fantastic body.
“I drink alone far too often, so if you’re not in a hurry.....” she said, her voice fading, the presumptuous invitation slipping from her mouth before she realised what she’d said.
A long frustrated sigh concealed a trace of submissiveness, the very thought of spending another lonely night in bed with her fingers and a phallic friend her only companion forcing another shameless invitation.
“You’re welcome to join me,” she invited, hiding her embarrassment behind a smile, placing a bottle of vodka and two glasses on the kitchen table, taking a yellow umbrella from a recess beneath the stairs, her smile persuasive, her eyes optimistic, her voice hopeful.
“I’m just going to take a quick shower. If you’re not here and the umbrellas gone when I return.... I’ll understand.”
His lips had hardly touched the glass when she walked back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a flimsy white bathrobe tied loosely at the waist, brushing wet hair from her face, her fingers playing with a silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Say when,” he grinned, almost filling her glass with vodka.
“That’s how I like them,” she mockingly replied, pushing her tongue between the small gap in her front teeth. “The bigger the better,” she added, with a suggestive smile, ignoring the commotion between her legs.
During two very large vodka’s Laura did most of the talking, mainly about her dull and lonely social life due to the endless nocturnal hours working in the shop.
He smiled and nodded his head a couple of times trying to look interested, but his eyes were fixed on the growing nipples hardening beneath the fabric and below the table there was a familiar stirring inside his pants.
She was hot wet and impatient. He was hard and ready. Meaningless small-talk or any attempts at foreplay brushed aside in the promise of coital expectation.
Eyes met eyes. Lips met lips. Mouths crashed together. Hands searched impatiently.
He almost ripped the bathrobe from her body. The overwhelming desire to fuck fuelling the fire between her thighs, her fingers fumbling impatiently with the zip on his trousers, pulling and tugging, arousal and expectation forcing frustrated curses, a triumphant sigh spilling from her mouth as she pulled his pants to the floor.
After almost throwing her across the kitchen table the sound of her hands slapping against the timber surface spooked a cat that had been sleeping in a basket beneath the stairs.
As the cat disappeared through a small flap in the door she opened her legs.
She was wet. Too wet. It had been too long.
As the slippery flaps and folds peeled apart he eased the formidable length inside her body. Inch-by-inch he opened her up, penetrating and stretching, filling her body with hard flesh.
“Oh my God,” she blasphemed, the threatening force, the massive girth almost splitting her apart. “Oh yes,” she screamed, through gritted teeth. “Oh yes. ‘Oh yes,’ her words repeating in fading echoes off the kitchen walls.
The momentum gathered speed, strokes long, deep and aggressive, powerful and urgent, wheezes inviting grunts, sucking in air through his nose, in and out, hard and fast, plunging into her depths, letting her feel the power, the force, the energy of youth.
In a commentary of verbal filth he fucked her across the kitchen table like a man possessed, a breathless voice and motioning gestures pleading for gentleness, begging for calm, the legs on the table squeaking in helpless protest, letting him know that if he didn’t slow down the table might collapse.
But with her shapely bottom perched in the air, her legs spread apart and his gruesome length sliding seamlessly in and out of her wet opening and her tits squashed flat against the table, he had given up worrying about a tired piece of furniture.
He fucked her fast. He fucked her hard. He fucked the air from her lungs.
Balls deep inside her warm receptive entrance, buttocks clenching and relaxing, moving back and forth, pushing in and pulling out, a physical and merciless demonstration of table-top sex, a satisfied woman left slumped over the table, groaning out her pleasure in a pool of perspiration, a knee-trembling orgasm sucking the last breath of air from her lungs.
A body battered and bruised, a heart fluttering with expectation, a head dizzy with passion and arousal, wheezes chasing breathless pants, short gasps of air sucked through tight lips, her heavy legs shaking and wobbling, her laboured footfalls pleading in quiet sympathy on the creaking stairs.
Her legs were almost giving way by the time they reached the top of the stairs and there was a moment when she thought she might collapse if she didn’t get into bed. But after his performance in the kitchen she didn’t really care about her legs. Laura had experienced an awakening. Laura was going to make up for lost time. As soon as she had him between the sheets she didn’t care if she never walked straight again.
Her vagina was still burning by the time she hit the mattress.
With a single thrust of his hips he was inside her body, feeling her wetness flooding down his meaty cock and pooling on the bed sheet, his balls slapping urgently against her bottom, the bed bouncing, the headboard banging and the springs squeaking under their weight, opening her body, stretching and penetrating, filling her tight opening without mercy.
“Fuck, that’s good,” she cursed, pushing back to meet the force, feeling his swollen limb going deeper and deeper inside her body, swelling as it completed its journey, wriggling and twisting her hips, moving her bottom from side to side, making sure she had it all inside.
“Fucking hell....Oh Fuck....Oh Fuck,” was her last declaration.
A breathless gasp and a piercing scream of encouragement, a moment of sexual combustion, the waves of convulsions beginning their irreversible tidal surge, a wild thrashing of limbs, and a monologue of repeated obscenities, arching her body off the bed, tightening her legs and curling her toes, soaking him in a sea of orgasm, coming once and then twice.
Breathing in short gasps through her nose and blowing air through her mouth, a battered and bruised body lying motionless on the bed, settling into silence, trying to calm from the unrelenting after-shocks of a spine-tingling release.
No words were needed as he gathered his clothes from the floor. The sex had said it all.
The long-awaited cries of euphoria spilling from a helpless mouth were all signs that Laura Beckett had slept alone far too often.
It was still raining heavily when he stepped out into the dark street.
Pulling up the zip on his jacket and opening the yellow umbrella, ignoring a shrieking cat showing sharp teeth before disappearing through the flap in the door, sprinting like an athlete down the dark street, squeezing his body through a gap between two parked cars, cursing at the local kids who found it necessary to throw stones at the street lights.
He didn’t see, or hear the black BMW speeding up the road without lights, but he certainly felt the force of the impact against his right leg and the inevitable flight over the car bonnet before crashing to the ground in a pool of water.
The woman’s voice was responsive and full of sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” she uttered, apologetically, taking his arm and helping him to his feet.
“I didn’t see you. The street is so dark,” she said, stooping to pick up the umbrella.
“That’s why cars are given lights,” he retorted, limping to the safety of the footpath.
Curtains started to move in windows of nearby houses as curious neighbour’s peeked out.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” she said, opening the car door. “Are you injured?” she asked, shuffling nervously in her handbag, cursing a couple of times until she found her cigarettes.
“Aren’t you supposed to offer the wounded a cigarette?” he said, forcing a smile.
“Sorry, of course,” she said, apologetically, pulling another cigarette from the pack.
“You’re not going to call the police?” she enquired, exaggerating puppy-dog-eyes.
“I’ve just come from a sales conference at the Five Bridges Hotel a couple of streets away,” she said, pointing a finger in the wrong direction. “I’ve had a lot to drink, so the last thing I want to see is a copper,” she added, pursing her bottom lip.
“No police,” he said, clutching his thigh and stretching out in the comfort of the front seat.
A gasping sigh of relief lifted the corners of her mouth, suggestive words dancing behind a comforting smile.
“In that case, if I’m going to drive you home and nurse your wounds, I need to know your name?” She smiled and handed him the umbrella.
“Couldn’t you get one in black?” She mocked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“I like to carry the yellow one on dark nights just in case I happen to bump into idiots driving without lights,” he retorted.
“Touché,” she snorted, turning the key in the ignition, a subservient smile growing into a girlish-giggle, the type of giggle that most teenagers reserve for their first date.
It took less than five minutes to reach his flat, just enough time to find out that her name was Amanda King who had fantastic legs, big tits, figure hugging curves and a wedding ring.
“Are you capable of climbing the stairs,” she offered, her words betraying a hint of sarcasm, placing a comforting arm around his waist as they climbed the creaking stairs to his flat, the soft whisper of nylon stockings brushing over thighs bringing a smile to his face.
“I can offer you a drink but I can’t give you one of these,” he said, dropping a crushed packet of cigarettes on the coffee table.
“You look in pain,” she said, sipping her drink. “Let me take a look, it might be more serious than you think,” she offered, moving nearer.
“Don’t be shy,” she smiled. “You can show me. I’m your nurse, remember.”
“Shy,” he laughed, putting his drink on the table.
In a heartbeat he was standing in his briefs with his trousers around his ankles, a smile on his face and an impressive bulge resting at an angle at the top of his thigh.