‘I’d rather swim naked through an oil slick than have sex with you, Tommy. Although I’m not sure it’s possible to tell the difference, since you’re such a sloppy pool of shit.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t waste that gigantic brain of yours worrying about such a prospect. I like sex to be at least a little sensual. I’d get more physical pleasure from humping a stick insect than shagging you. What’s more, I’ll bet going down on your cunt is like licking the Brillo pad that’s just cleaned yesterday’s fish pan. Or do you keep that little fanny of yours trimmed smooth? Doubt it. Not sure they make brush-cutters small enough for that task.’
‘Ha! Well, I reckon you’ve got quite a pathetic cock, for all your cockiness. I’d say it’d fit just fine in a stick insect’s twat. So long as it was a rather tiny stick insect, that is. I’ll bet you’ve got more cock on your breath than between your legs.’
‘Ooo, hoo, hoo! A nasty little touch of homophobia there, Netia. Who over-tightened your nipple clamps this morning, Little Miss Needle-Lips?’
‘Slow down, speedy boi. I didn’t say there was anything wrong with the fact you quite obviously can’t resist sucking cock. I mean, it’s good for you to see how big real men are, how long they can last. But you might at least learn how to brush your teeth.’
‘Look, I know you’re just trying to cope with the pain of my persistent rejection of you, Netia, but don’t fool yourself into believing that it’s because I’ve ever been into men. We both know it’s time you let go of your dreams of shagging me. And even if I did lower myself to fucking you, you’re such a tiny streak of sinew; I say you’d barely be able to contain my excitement.’
Netia failed in her attempt to stifle a laugh and forced it into a snort of derision halfway through.
‘Ah! Don’t say it, Netia. I can see you’re about to boast about all the huge cocks you’ve wrung into submission in your lady pocket. I take it back. No, honestly, I believe you. I’m quite sure you’ve got a clunge so vast you could hire it out for nuclear submarine maintenance. Is it like the Tardis?’
‘“Lady pocket”? Fuck me, what are you, Tommy-boy, barely thirty?! And you’re talking like a creepy old git already? I guess it’s a lack of sexual satisfaction. I’m quite sure any cunt is like the Tardis next to your little-Tommie todger. Anyway, how did we get on to talking about sex?’
‘Errr, you mentioned your friend, whatshisname, the one who runs that BDSM site you ceaselessly bang on about pick-up-a-perv dot com, or whatever it is.’
‘Ooo, I had little Tommy-boy down as a sexual inadequate, but I never reckoned on him as a prude. No, wait! Methinks the laddie doth protest too much. I’m saying you’ve got yourself a filthy little profile on BDSM-reacher dot com. Yep. Almost certain. And I am going to find it. Why have I not thought to look before?!’
‘We’ve spoken about your phone obsession a few times now, Netia. It’s your porn habit, isn’t it? You can’t put that thing down. When was the last time you had real-world sex?’
‘Shit try, Tommy. Even by your pathetic sub-standards. I’m going to find your profile whether you like it or not. Hmm, let’s see. Gender: male, well you would put that, wouldn’t you? Location: London; Age: oooh! Let’s say twenty-eight going on dirty-old-man; Interests: cock sucking, halitosis fetish, small penis humiliation, dry pillow humping; Assets: bring your electron microscope. There: search!’
‘You can’t analyse live specimens under an electron microscope, Netia. Thought you were supposed to have a superbrain?’
‘Which is why an electron microscope is a perfect way to view your petrified little pintle, dumb ass. Do I have to explain all my jokes?’
‘I get it; as with any stalker, you go after someone with the life you want, looking for vicarious thrills. It’s sad, Netia; I’m sorry for you. I guess we all have our crosses to bear. But you won’t find me on that kind of stupid site, I can assure you.’
‘Ha! Found it!’ Netia sounded triumphant, and Tommy would not have been surprised to see his profile on her screen when she spun her phone around and shoved it into his face.
‘Err, no, Netia, that’s an old tramp. Why don’t you save his profile? You’re never going to do much for men, but you may be able to make yourself useful sucking on a few old tramps’ cocks. It might shut you up for a bit too.’
‘Oh! Can I practice by having a sniff of your cock? You can keep your pants on. I mean, I can get enough of a whiff of it from here, to be honest. If I can handle that without gagging, I should be ready for anything. Now… why are there so many shitty profiles from men in London? Christ, the state of some of them. Ha! Yes! Here we go! It’s you! That’s you, isn’t it?!’
‘Looks nothing like me! Would you like me to book you an appointment with the opticians? I’ll bet you can’t see to dial them yourself.’
‘And that? Come on, Tommy! You might have cropped your head off, but that’s your chin, forearms, and your fucking tasteless shirt. Fucking unbelievable. Wait, “Stromboli”, you named your profile after a type of pizza, you complete sad sack!’
‘It was both an island off the coast of Sicily and a volcano on that island long before it was the name of a fucking pizza, you ignorant little phial of puss.’
‘Ha! Condemned by his own mouth. YOU rest MY case… m’lud. Come on, Tommy, admit it. Don’t be pathetic. You’ve been busted. Right, let’s take a good look. See! Those are absolutely your underpants; they’re the same stinking ones hanging on the drying rack over there! Stromboli is such a shit name, by the way. Fitting, really.’
‘Why are you snooping around people's private profiles?’
‘People's? YOURS, you mean! Shit-try number two, Tommy Try-Again, and it isn’t even 10 am yet. And they’re not p-p-p-private profiles, you p-p-p-pillock! It’s a p-p-p-public website, Poirot.’
‘Not P-P-P-Poirot?’
‘I got sick of that affectation. Well, look at you! “Smart gentleman seeks classy lady sub for mutual dalliances!” You missed the bit where you insist they have their own sick bucket. You must surely be expecting them to puke at that cheesy bollocks. No? Oooh... “Dom”! Dom’ake me laugh, more like. Me, I’m very much a switch that leans on the sub-side, but I’d be topping a no-mark like you so fast you’d have third-degree burns just from the switcheroo!’
‘We’ve had words about your obsession with me, Netia. It has to stop. Though whomever that is, it’s not me. I’ll admit there’s a passing resemblance, but no!’
‘Yeah, right. I’ll bet I can find some Italians in London that don’t know Stromboli’s a fucking island forward-slash volcano. The number of English blokes in London who know that is probably, er, one, maybe two. And the other one just happens to have your chin and manages to borrow your underpants and shirt. No, you’re right; that’s totally reasonable. Absolutely not our little Tommy at all, that. Shit! That’s the wallpaper in your fucking flat!’
‘You’ve never been to my flat!’
‘Yes, I have; I went with Peter last week to help move your stuff over here while you were away. Well, Mr Big Dom, look who’s just busted your sorry ass to a pulp. Moi! Yours truly!’
Tommy had split with his girlfriend Rebecca a couple of months back, and they’d been awkwardly cohabiting in Tommy’s one-bed flat while she looked for a new place. Sadly, Rebecca’s dad died suddenly, and Tommy offered to give her some space for a couple of months. But being away in the US on a work trip at the time, Tommy asked Peter to pick up some things so Rebecca could be left in peace when he returned. He didn’t imagine Peter would recruit Netia to help!
‘Right, Netia, give me that phone!’
‘Hey, it’s rude to snatch; give that back!’
‘Netia, we need to work on this sharing thing; you should’ve mastered that by the age of three. You’ve had your fun; now it’s my turn. Let’s see if I can find your profile.’
‘Aaaaand it’s a shit-try hat trick! Don’t pretend you haven’t been all over my profile. Unlike you, I’m an adult, and I’ve never hidden the fact I’m on that site. I’ll bet you’ve been glopping off all over my not-safe-for-work pics, haven’t you? Don’t worry. I don’t mind. I knew there’d be men doing that when I uploaded them. I see it as a form of charity. I mean, men who are too old, dull or otherwise mercilessly unattractive in every dimension still need to spill their jolly little wrigglers. I’m happy to help you with your predicament, Tommy. I only ask that if you want to go a step further and sniff my panties, you buy them via the website rather than stealing them from the washing basket. Show me that respect, at least.’
‘People pay good money for your scabby old panties? I hope you’re following a strict packaging protocol and marking them properly as a bio-hazard. Posties don’t want to be picking up your pestilence. Ah! Look here. Well, “Nutella69”? And you reckon my profile name is bad? Well, you’re definitely nuts, and you usually look like shit, so I guess no one can say your profile is misleading. But sixty nine? Cheesy as fuck.’
‘Sixty nines are cheesy with blokes like you, for sure. Well, smeggy, but that’s pretty much the same thing. But they’re typically a beautiful experience with women, I find. Not that you’d know. But a sixty-nine with a woman is a sixty-nine with someone who knows what they’re fucking doing, for a change.’
‘Ooo, takes a light caning! Ha! Pissing fetish! Do we need to put you in a nappy?’
‘No, not really into nappies. I like pissing, especially into men’s mouths, to get them off. I can teach you to aim if you’d like. It might save me cleaning up around the back of the loo after you had one of your little mishaps. I know it’s difficult, though, when you have such inadequate equipment.’
‘Right, lovely as this has been, I’ll confess to a slight Saturday morning hangover. I’m going up to shower it off. And Netia, seriously now, if you breathe a word of this to Peter or anyone we know, if friends start “stumbling” across my profile all of a sudden, I will stripe your backside so thoroughly you’ll have to change your profile name to “tigerass”, understand?’
‘Oooh, big promises from you, Mr Tommy Dom. I may just have to be a naughty girl then!’
‘Netia, stop wriggling your arse at me. I’m fucking serious; I don’t want people to know. I’m not okay with that.’
‘Alright, Tommy Tightass, your secret’s safe! Right, some of us are already up. I’m going to plant some sweet peas in the garden; Peter said it was okay. There’s no need for you to feel like a useless fuck for not being up and at it by ten on a sunny Saturday.’
‘Sweet peas, why do we want fucking sweet peas?’
‘Why do you think? To overpower the stench of your cock-breath with their stunning fragrance, of course! You’ve only been here a few days, but already the air in this place is becoming unbearable.’
Tommy rolled his eyes and went upstairs to shower. He didn’t imagine Peter cared much about what Netia planted in his garden. Peter was in this flat so little nowadays; he preferred his country cottage, so Tommy asked if he could stay for a couple of months, not realising Netia was in the other spare room. Netia was Peter’s friend, and Tommy had only met her about half a dozen times before becoming her temporary flatmate a few days back. But every time, right from their first meeting, there’d been fireworks.
After his shower, Tommy returned to his room wearing a towel, which he then used to dry his hair. Still suffering from the overindulgence of the night before, Tommy flopped face-down onto the bed, reflecting on Netia’s extraordinary ability to irritate him immensely. Still, he was impressed at her confidence, how she loved to be photographed naked and had no compunction about putting those pictures on her profile. Though he’d never admit it to Netia’s face, she did have the most incredible body. As he happily recalled those images in his mind, he drifted off to sleep.
‘ARGH!’
Tommy awoke to a sudden shock of pain across his backside. He spun around, grabbing his stinging arse cheeks, to see Netia in the doorway, holding a bamboo cane. Netia was desperately trying to suppress her laughter, yet she looked a little shocked.
‘What the fu… Netia, you fucking harpee, did you cane my bare ass?!’
‘It was an accident, honest! I, er, came upstairs to find you to see if you had anything I could use to cut this down. Your door was kind of open, so I decided to prod you to wake you up. But I sort of slipped.’
‘That’s “kind of, sort of” bullshit, isn’t it, Netia!?’
Tommy jumped out of bed with his back to Netia, grabbing some underpants from a drawer and sliding them on.
‘Nice arse Tommy Tiger-Tush! Just the one hand to cover your cock, though?’
‘You are pushing it, Netia. Give me that fucking stick before you use it to do something else stupid.’
Tommy moved towards the door, and Netia ran off. Tommy caught up with her just as she was leaping into her bedroom.
‘Accident, my arse, you did that deliberately, Netia, and it’s not fucking on!’
‘Honestly, it was an accident. I know all about the importance of consent, Tommy Tantrum.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Netia; you might be a fucking stick insect, but even that won’t save you; the ice you’re skating on is so fucking thin.’
‘Okay! It WAS an accident, and I’m sorry! Tell you what, why don’t you give me a whack with the cane, and we’re even.’
‘No, Nutty Netty, me whacking your bare arse wouldn’t make us even. I don’t care if it was an accident; you shouldn’t even have opened my bedroom door without knocking. You need proper punishment.’
‘Oooh, I knew Mr Tommy Top-Man wouldn’t be able to resist me sooner or later. Are you feeling super strict?’
‘Stop pissing about, Netia; you know you crossed a line. Did you seriously imagine I’d just laugh this off?’
‘Okay, okay, Tommy Tear-Ass, I’ll admit I was a little naughty in opening the door. But the rest was accidental, honest. You can punish me a little.’ Netia flashed him a look of feigned innocence. ‘Go easy on me, Dommy Tommy, Sir.’ Netia gave a sarcastic wiggle of her head.
‘Right, take off that shirt and those jeans, and stand in the corner, nose to the wall, with your hands on your head.’
‘Tommy! There’s no fucki...’
Tommy’s interjection was sharp. ‘Button it, Netia, and do as you’re told for once.’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Whatever the fuck you say, Sir.’
‘That was “button it”, as in shut the fuck up.’
Netia mimed zipping up her lips in a sarcastic and flamboyant manner. Then she locked her eyes on Tommy’s and unbuttoned her shirt seductively, slipping it off her shoulders to reveal a sheer bra that did little to veil her firm little breasts and dark nipples. She was skinny, but her light-brown waist curved out teasingly to a pair of slim, sensual hips. She began to unbutton her jeans.
‘Like what you see, Tomm...’
‘I said button it, Netia.’ She started to button her jeans back up again, beaming with pleasure at her mischief.
‘Button your mouth, Netia, not your fucking jeans!’
Netia made a sarcastic pinching movement over her lips as if to button them up, then resumed her enticing strip. She turned her back to Tommy, glancing over her shoulder as she eased her jeans over her firm little backside and swooshed them down her slim brown legs, stepping out to one side in a pirouette. Then, springing en pointe, Netia thrust her perfect little bottom towards Tommy in a wriggle, stretching her toned legs to show them off. Her sheer panties matched her bra. Netia looked back to Tommy, fixing her eyes immediately on the erection now manifest in his tight underpants. She pursed her lips sarcastically, giving a disapproving wag of her finger at Tommy’s obvious arousal.
‘Corner!’ Tommy’s command was an attempt to regain control. He’d known feral cats that were more compliant. Netia took three leaps into the corner, showing some genuine skill and holding her arms balletically in the air before bringing them to rest on her head. Her performance was an artistic display, light in movement as it was heavy on irony. The lithe sweepings of her body transfixed Tommy.
Tommy couldn’t remember which way around it was, but one of Netia’s parents came to England from Pakistan to study at university. The other was white, English and Jewish, and studied at the same institution. Netia defied any such easy categorisations. It was as though she were from everywhere and nowhere. She worked as an analyst for a City firm, though what she analysed Tommy could not recall. It was clear the job bored her, and she’d be off to do something altogether more stimulating with her sizable brain as soon as she’d worked out what that something was. Tommy pondered that her physical and artistic brilliance stood equal to her considerable intellect. Little wonder she wasn’t rushing to commit to a career path, given her vast array of options. Netia resisted comparison because she was, in nearly every aspect, at one extreme or another. That isn’t to say she’d have struck anyone as imbalanced, but her balance arose from being at those different extremes in various aspects. She was fiercely intelligent, strikingly beautiful, thinner than a whisp, off-the-scale kinky, sexually fearless, openly dismissive of anything that bored her, and incapable of aligning with any expectation.
‘I’m not going to stand here all fucking day while you perv at my ass, Tommy Tardy-Boy.’
Tommy’s rude awakening from his musings was a reminder that, with Netia, nothing was ever straightforward.
‘You’ll stay there for as long as it pleases me, you mouthy little mother of all nightmares.’
‘Fuck off, Tommy; I said you could punish me. A bit. Not bore me to fucking death.’
‘You’re a shit sub, Netia; you can’t even do that properly. You’ll stay in that corner and learn some fucking patience. I need to grab a few things from my room.’
Netia stayed in the corner but started writhing up and down with her arse jutted out like a pole dancer, trying to taunt as much as to entice.
Tommy shook his head and went to his room; he picked up the insanely expensive hairbrush Rebecca had bought him for his last birthday and a thick leather belt.
In the few moments it took him to go to his room, collect his things and return, Netia had disappeared.
‘Very funny, Netia; you can come out now.’
Silence.
The first time Tommy met Netia was when Peter randomly texted him to see if he was free for lunch one Saturday. Peter was in a large, smart, under-utilised cafe in a part of London that had tried to rebrand itself as “Noho” because it was North of Soho, but it had never quite turned that branding conceit into a coherent culture. Netia had flashed her eyes at Tommy as he sat down with them at the table. ‘But Peter, you told me Tommy was good-looking, or is that another Tommy?’ Peter had laughed indulgently. Tommy made the weak joke that Peter should stop his obsession with dating girls from charm school. Peter and Netia insisted they weren’t dating; their manner was casual enough to be convincing. ‘Only kidding, Tommy, don’t worry, you’re a hot boy. Just a pity about your taste in shirts.’ And so, the dynamic between Netia and Tommy was forged in a fire of facetiousness.
‘Netia, the longer you hide away, the longer I’ll tan your hide when I find you. And I WILL find you.’
Given the minutes that had already passed, Tommy’s assertions only highlighted his confoundment at the apparent vanishing of Netia into thin air. The stairs, not carpeted like the bedrooms, were even creakier than the floorboards on the landing, and not even the faintest of sounds emerged from either place in the few moments Tommy had taken to go to his room. She HAD to be in her bedroom somewhere. He’d checked Netia’s wardrobes and behind her curtains: nothing. There was no space under her bed.
For a girl who preached atheism with zeal, it occurred to Tommy that Netia frequently talked about her Hindu roots. There weren’t many Hindus in Pakistan, apparently, and Tommy started to fantasise that Netia might be an Aspara, a beautiful, supernatural dancer of Hindu legend. Or, in Netia’s case, an intensely irritating, fucking gorgeous, supernatural dancer.
Tommy’s musings were interrupted by a deep, muffled voice coming from somewhere in the room he struggled to locate.
‘Tommy!’ The voice boomed. ‘This is God! You’re an absolute sad sack of a loser. You must worship the supreme being, Netia, and let her whip your sorry ass whenever it pleases her.’
Netia couldn’t hold the deep voice for long, and it gave way to something much closer to her natural voice before breaking into a giggle that was unmistakably hers. It was coming from the foot of the bed where there was an ottoman so narrow Tommy could barely believe even Netia would squeeze into its hold. Rolling his eyes, he lifted the ottoman’s lid, revealing Netia squeezed inside, looking less than comfortable. She was convulsing in giggles at her foxing of Tommy, and she looked so cute he could have climbed in and fucked her right there if only he were small enough to have fitted.