6. Farmed Out

The farm is dark and silent. The light I saw comes from a lamp atop a huge empty barn with a corrugated roof. The other buildings slump around me. Some are ancient, some more modern although those are shabbier. There is a thick, fertile smell of hay.

The silence unnerves me, even as I stand panting in the courtyard.

“Hello?” I call.

This is ridiculous – I am calling like I don’t want to disturb anyone out of stupid middle-class politeness.

“Hello! Help me, please!”

It is not clear which, if any of these buildings is a dwelling, or even if there is anyone here. What if it is a smallholding that’s managed remotely? I think of Mutant John collapsed in the wood, whether he’s still alive. If he were going to die, I could at least have stayed with him –

“HELLO!” I scream.

I’m dazzled with blinding light and clap my hands to my face. When I can see again, a stocky man is pointing a shotgun at me.

Thankfully, having guns pointed at you is quite rare in England – indeed, this is my first time. In situations like these, it’s tempting to think that you will remain calm, but the reality of your life being a finger squeeze away from ending is always more of a shock than you expect, no matter how many Clint Eastwood movies you’ve seen.

I scream, screw my eyes shut, and put up my hands. Distantly, I am aware I have sunk to my knees.

“Please don’t shoot! My friend has collapsed, and I – please, just call an ambulance.”

“Collapsed where?”

His voice is quite high, with a Kentish burr that seems appropriate, given that he is quite clearly a farmer.

I point behind me up the hill.

“Yonder ridge.”

Yonder ridge? What the fuck was in that spliff?

I realise then how this must look. A transgender woman has appeared on this man’s property in the early hours of the morning wearing nothing but her bra and panties. She is smeared with dirt, is obviously high, and possibly insane as well.

“Please, call the police if you want, but just get a fucking ambulance! My phone is lost, and I… My friend is about sixty and he’s had a heart attack.”

The farmer is still suspicious.

“What were you doing up there?”

I look down at myself, then back at him.

“Ah,” he says.

“Please dial 999, I’m begging you.”

“Ambulance won’t get up there,” he says. “Need the shovel.”

“You can’t bury him yet – he might not be dead!”

My voice has taken on a hysterical edge even I find annoying.

The farmer tuts, lowers his shotgun, and pulls out a mobile. I stay on my knees with my arms up, then I hear the beep of a button being pressed three times. He mutters something into the phone, but does not take his eyes off me. Grunting, he tucks the phone away, cracks the shotgun and pulls out the unspent cartridges.

“If this turns out to be bullshit, I don’t need a gun to break your fucking neck,” he says.

“That’s fine,” I say.

“Of course it’s not fine. Just don’t be a bullshitter.”

“All right.”

 “Get up, and don’t move. The ambulance will be here in ten minutes, and we need go and get him so we can meet it down here.”

Still carrying the shotgun, he strides into the darkness.

There is silence, and the light, which must be on a timer, clicks off. For a moment, I wonder if he’s gone back to bed. Then I hear an engine start – a big vehicle that makes the Harley sound like a toy. More light floods the farm’s courtyard, and the biggest tractor I have ever seen crunches towards me. The front end is a shovel the size of a car, which rises off the ground and then lowers again with a smooth pneumatic whine.

I remember I’m still kneeling and get to my feet. The tractor stops in front of me.

“Get in the shovel!”

I scramble into the metal cavity. It’s caked with dried mud and hay, which feel unexpectedly warm against my bare feet. It moves, and I grip the front as I’m elevated, although not so high that I obstruct the farmer’s view. With astonishing speed, the tractor races across the courtyard, through an open gate, and up the hill. From time to time I point in the direction I ran from, remembering to orient myself with the location of an elm – the only one I could see when I left the wood. Mutant John is behind it.

The bumpy ride is thrilling, scary, and tense. Will I find a dead man in the wood at the top of this hill? Did fucking me kill him?

The white light washes across the dense front of trees, as if they are defending themselves against us. It would be wise of them, because the farmer rams the shovel with me in it straight through the lower canopy and keeps driving. When he can get no further, he lowers the shovel and I jump out.

I spot Mutant John and rush over to him. He has not moved.

“John!” I scream at him.

His mouth moves. I notice his cock is still out and still hard (how?!). I manage to get it tucked in before the farmer appears beside us.

“We’ll have to drag him,” he says.

In fact, we manage to carry Mutant John to the shovel and tip him over so he slides down inside. I jump in after him, and the farmer runs around to the cab and leaps into it with surprising grace.

I hold on as the tractor reverses at speed and keeps going backwards down the hill to the courtyard, which is now lit by the flashing blue lights of an ambulance. The tractor turns, presenting me and Mutant John to a pair of medics who, to their credit, make no comment about the bizarre scene. Instead, they get the farmer to lower the shovel so they can check Mutant John inside it, then get a trolley alongside and haul him out.

A transparent plastic oxygen mask is clamped to the magnificent hairy face, and then the medics wheel Mutant John to the ambulance, where they load him up.

“Are you coming?” the female medic says.

“We’ll be along,” the farmer says before I can decide what to do. “To Maidstone Hospital, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“See you there.”

And his arm settles around my naked waist.

7. Love & Firelight

He lives here alone.

It would be obvious from the state of the farmhouse, part of which is spotless, other parts untidy and dusty, as if his focus is just the areas he has use for. It is an old, old place. I can feel history in the walls, like a hum of voices condensed over time. I expect it to smell damp, but it doesn’t, although the walls have that odd bulging quality that suggests there is wattle and daub behind the flaky white plaster, and horsehair in the ceiling. It is one of those dwellings that has been here so long it is almost part of the landscape, a human construct that has finally earned its place.

The kitchen is large, with a big oak table that has two chairs at the end nearest the old butler sink, which is the only part that’s lit. He indicates one of the chairs, and as I sit he takes off his coat and settles it over my shoulders. I feel his residual warmth, and the smell of dirty hay. I pull it tight around me.

“Whisky?” he says. “All I got.”

He holds a half-empty bottle of Laphroaig.

“Yes please.”

He roots in a cupboard, gets down two cut-glass whisky tumblers of different designs, plonks one in front of me and half-fills it with scotch. He puts less in his glass. I pick up my glass, which feels wonderfully heavy, and take a big gulp, then another.

“Oops,” I say to the now-empty glass.

I’m a big whisky fan, but it’s never slipped down like that before. I didn’t even feel the burn. He refills my glass.

“You all right?” he says.

I nod.

“Bit of a shock, that.”

He sits and stares at his own glass, then looks up at me.

Now I can see him properly, it’s clear that he is about the same age as Mutant John, but hewn from a very different material. I cannot see this man keeling over with a heart attack. I cannot see him keeling over with anything. He is an old-school generational farmer, a tenth son of a tenth son, made to withstand the constant unreason of crop, weather, animal, food politics and the predations of supermarkets that charge more for water than for milk. The elements will not weather this man. He is a human crag who adapts to them instead of being worn away. His face is unexpectedly smooth, but ruddy and with deep creases around the eyes. His hair is probably still thick, only he shaves it to a stubble. His eyes are the dark brown of the soil he works with, and the saddest I have ever seen.

“I’m okay,” I say. “How are you?”

He shrugs.

“As you see. What’s your name then?”

“Kelly.”

He regards me, trying to work out how to ask what he wants without being rude.

“Always been that, has it?”

“Yes,” I say. “But only officially about ten years ago.”

He nods.

“I’m Gordon.”

“Hello Gordon.”

“Kelly.” He looks me up and down, as if he can see me through his thick coat. I like it – it makes me feel like livestock. “Good body on you.”

“Thank you.”

“You do hormones, surgery and that?”

I shake my head. He nods with what might be approval, it’s hard to say. We drink in companionable silence, and the whisky joins the dope, the poppers, the sex, the terror and the excitement to form a whole new cocktail of strange possibility.

I think about his arm around my waist.

“You always wear that much makeup?” he says.

I look at him in surprise.

“Is it still on?”

He nods.

“Then, yes. I like makeup.”

He drinks again, a larger swallow this time. I wonder if this is what passes for him as nervousness.

“What do you farm?” I say.

“Dairy. Herd’s at the other farm – has been for a while. Got TB around this end again.”

I wondered about the absence of cow shit, and what a relief that was given my current state of undress. Then I consider what TB must mean for him.

“Sorry to hear that.”

He grunts.

“Time’s almost up anyway.”

“How so?”

“Subsidies going. American imports coming in. Son’s got the other farm. He’ll take all this on. Got big ideas. Gonna turn it into some sort of theme park.”

“Theme park, eh?” I say.

Gordon nods. I have no way of knowing if he thinks the theme park is a good idea or not. He does not seem bitter, just unhappy. His eyes glisten as he looks up. He waves a stubby finger at the ceiling, as if to include the whole house.

“Was here with the wife, but she’s gone now, poor dear. Twelve years.” He nods, drinks. “Been no one since her.”

“Oh no,” I whisper.

He shrugs.

“Lucky to have had what I had. Still, it gets to you. I just farm. The land is always happy to take from you.”

I dazedly wish I knew more about agriculture, so I could have a proper conversation with him and not keep saying sorry, as if I pity him, which I don’t, because he instinctively commands respect. He charged in and saved Mutant John with maximum urgency and – shotgun business aside – very few questions asked. This is a man who understands perspective.

He frowns.

“I probably should have asked this earlier, but where are your clothes?”

“In… ah…”

“Yonder wood?” he says, his eyes creasing as he smiles.

I point at him as if he’s won bingo.

“Yonder wood. Also hidden there are Mutant John’s Harley Davidson, and a very expensive pair of boots.”

“Christ.”

“Yes.”

“We could go and get them,” Gordon says.

He makes no attempt to move.

“We could,” I say, as if giving the matter genuine consideration.

“But it’s awful dark.”

“You won’t find my stockings, and I really need those.”

“Best stay then.”

I smile at him.

“Okay.”

He gets up.

“I think the fire’s still going in the other room. Would you like to come through?”

I get up, and sway. He comes around and puts his arm around my shoulder.

“You’ve had a rough night my darlin’,” he says. “Best I take care of you now.”

“Yes,” I say. “That would be best.”

Still with his arm around me, he guides me through the dark end of the kitchen and into a hallway that feels heavy with dust and the slow tick of an unseen grandfather clock. Ahead, a closed door is lined with a faint orange glow. He opens it to a large living room, dimly lit by the embers of a dying fire. Ancient sofas line one wall, and on one of them lies the dozing bulk of a huge Labrador. Its great blocky head raises, regards me, and then it reclines back into sleep.

“Your guard dog isn’t very efficient,” I say.

Gordon chuckles, and he prods the furry bulk.

“Oi, outside you.”

The dog eases up with a sigh, and pads out of the living room. Gordon picks up the blanket the dog was lying on and throws it to one side. He gathers sofa cushions and drops them by the fire, which is an open-grate cavern lined with soot-blackened brick. Then he gathers logs and places them on the red embers. Soon, they begin to crackle.

The room is warm, so I slip out of the coat and cross to stand by Gordon. Still on his knees attending to the fire, he turns and regards me between the legs. I can see the smears of dirt on my thighs and belly, which means he can too. He knows how they came to be there. He reaches up, takes my hips in his rough, powerful hands and pulls me down beside him.

“Are you warm enough my darlin’?”

“Well,” I whisper, “I can always do with being made a little warmer.”

Gordon takes a deep breath, and then another. Despite his attention so far, he is clearly surprised by how deeply he fancies me. I gaze at him, my eyes big in the firelight, and the body he so admired displayed for him. He swallows.

“You want any more whisky, or anything?” he says, unable to keep the husky note of desire from his voice.

Instead of replying, I lie back to rest on my elbow on the cushion, my long, shapely legs stretched out beside him. He looks at them. I rub them together and sigh, because I am incredibly turned on. For the third time tonight I have given myself up to any possibility.

Gordon puts his hand on my thigh, and then with a suddenness that surprises me lunges forward and presses his mouth to mine. It’s clumsy – our teeth clash and he almost knocks me over, but I recover and press myself against him. His arms go around my waist, and my elbow supports our combined weight, which is considerable. I don’t move though. I take the weight and concentrate on moving my mouth against Gordon’s.

He is nervous now. I can feel his heart through his jumper, and his cock is hard in his trousers. He withdraws, hauls off his jumper and his shabby Fila T-shirt and throws them aside. I lie on my back and he lies on top of me, breathless with excitement. He holds my face, strokes my hair and kisses me again, more gently this time.

His solid body is less hairy then I expected, and the area around his nipples is wonderfully soft. He has a bit of a belly, which I like as it presses against my sleek abs, complementing them. He musses my hair and smells it. Again, I get the sense of being appraised, for milking, sale, or slaughter.

He kisses my mouth again – he really likes kissing, and I really like being kissed. For a long time, our mouths are locked. Our tongues touch, but they do not entwine, which is enough for now as the fire grows beside us until I feel Gordon’s sweat trickle down me and soak into my bra.

“You’re hot now, Kelly.”

“I’m always hot.”

“Maybe you need cooling down.”

I shake my head, and he presses his tongue as far into my mouth as he can. I can taste whisky, and smell his sweat, and my heart speeds up again as I spread my legs and then wrap them around his waist, my toes pointed.

He kisses me and holds my face, and smooths my hair, and kisses my fringe and then my mouth, staring at me as if he cannot believe that I am in his arms, and that he wants me. This surprise is especially delightful. A new world has opened for Gordon tonight. He will be less alone now.

But for now I am his first, the trans-erotic pioneer, the one against whom all others will be compared. Out of the magical wood I came, with my drama and my thrilling tales of outrage and woe. Now he can enjoy my big brown eyes, my full mouth, and be astonished at the eerie press of Big Clit against his own intimacy.

He relaxes as I sense him realise how the familiarity of that touch is nothing to be scared of. The rules he followed are not so strict or meaningful after all as he breathes in the scent of my sweat and the tang of forbidden substances working their way out of my pores.

He knows I am a bad girl and a slut. He knows I am trouble – I have caused him enough tonight. And yet how worth it I am as his weight presses down on my breasts, and he feels how my strength is out of all proportion to my size. Did he ever imagine it would be like this?

There is something I want to say to him even as he tries to devour me mouth-first. It is always a risky thing to say, for many reasons, not the least of which being that it is so overwhelming – as much responsibility as promise. And yet I want to say it to him with an urgency that feels like the need to come. We could carry on kissing like this, of course we could, but he might get carried away in the wrong direction, and there is much I’ve got to share with him.

My lipstick is all kissed off – thank God I used peach tonight or I would look like a satiated vampire, and I can’t have that. There is no stubble on my face or anywhere else except my brows and head – I had it all zapped off years ago. Gordon is stubbly though. I doubt he has shaved since Sunday and it’s Tuesday now. I like that burn. It’s not like I’m going to be seeing anyone else tonight, and I enjoy the way a man makes his mark on me when he has me like this. Gordon will see my face become as red as his, as if we are blending, which of course we are. He is fit – not in a gym-based manner as I am but in a way that enables him to manage cattle and the heavy machinery of a farm every day without stopping until it’s done. And yet his breath is getting heavy and I fear I am beginning to wear him out. When he pauses for breath, eyes bright with fire and lust, I place my hands on his cheeks, my touch gentle.

And then I say it.

“Do what you want.”

His eyes widen. I lie in his arms, sultry and heavy-lipped, my eyes lazy with sexual hunger as he studies me as if the meaning of life is hidden somewhere in my face, my hair, my unfathomable body. He stops as if daring himself, then he gets up. He still has his trousers on and he undoes them as I get to my knees and watch him, my pouty expression unchanged. He pulls them down, along with some ancient Y-fronts, which he tears at until they rip and then he throws them on the fire.

His cock is stubby, like his fingers, and his pubic hair unusually long, like Mutant John’s beard, only brown instead of grey. The cock is uncut, and its head pulses in and out of its sheath. It smells of chestnuts.

I have it in my mouth before he can decide what to do, and he screams. I expect him to come, but he doesn’t. I don’t know what he will do – he might push me away or hit me. He might not want to do that, it could well simply be instinct. I don’t care though. He will have to dislocate my jaw to get me off.

He shouts, and leans back in order to get his powerful cock further in, as if he has suddenly discovered a shocking pride in it. His hands flutter around my head and his chest heaves.

And then he strokes my ears.

“Oh God,” he sighs.

No one really bothers with my ears. They are quite large and pointy, elfin almost, with small lobes I’ve got pierced with twenty mil gold hoop sleepers. Gordon loves them though. He makes this odd hiccupping sound as he brushes the little curtains of my bob aside so he can get at the ear tips, and then he holds them, pinching tight. I don’t mind, although it’s not comfortable, and not one my usual erogenous zones. Even when I take him deep into my throat and leave him there to thrust as he will he seems distracted. His focus is my ears. How lovely.

I have something of a Star Trek Vulcan look. It’s to do with the length of my face, the shape of my eyes, and of course the shiny black bob. Gordon’s attention feels like a validation of that. Even the pain as he pinches my ears doesn’t bother me. It’s distracting, but the shuddering breaths he takes more than compensate.

Then he smooths my bobbed hair down and holds my head. I take him deep as he thrusts and thrusts. I don’t bother holding his shaft. It isn’t long enough anyway, and I want to use my mouth. Up and down I go, and he shouts again, then lets go of my head to wave his arms.

I love the taste of raw cock, but don’t have it often because of the health risks. This one is delicious though, and I get as much of it in before withdrawing and licking the meaty glory of his groin.

“Oh, that’s… That’s all right, is it?” he gasps, astonished.

I lick until I can no longer taste him, only myself. Then I suck his cock again, but with smaller movements this time so I can lash it with my tongue, pushing the foreskin up and down and rubbing the exposed head with the rough surface of my taste buds.

“Fucking hell!” he shouts. “Kelly, for fuck’s sake stop or I will drown you in semen!”

Semen? He really is a farmer.

“How–how do I put it in you?”

I turn so I land on my hands and knees, then pull my panties off and extend my bottom to him. I’m still well-lubed from where Mutant John fucked me, and Gordon is slick with my saliva.

“Like that,” I whisper.

He falls to his knees, and then he is in me.

I had expected some questing probe movement, but no. Gordon is, as I surmised, a practical man. He has surveyed the area to be fucked, perhaps like the vagina of a cow who needs to be impregnated with a litre of bull spunk in some kind of gigantic turkey baster, and thrust the matter firmly home. Now it’s my turn to scream – he is smaller than Mutant John thank God, but still has an impressive girth.

“Shhhh,” he says, and strokes my hips. “Shhhh…”

I calm my ragged breath, and relax onto him as he lays me on my front, grips my shoulders and begins to slide in and out of me. He is clumsy, and I can believe he has not done this for a long time. To his credit he seems to understand and compensates with gentleness, which delights us both.

“You feel so good inside,” he says, and buries his face in my hair. “You’re so beautiful. I had to have you, had to…”

“I’m glad you’re having me,” I sigh as he moves that solid, tender girth as far in as he can get.

“I never knew it could be like this, with a woman like you… Oh Lord. The world is so big, so big…”

“Vast and fabulous…”

“So rich…”

“Yes…”

“Fertile…”

“Mmmm… yes…”

Our voices blend until no one can tell who is speaking, as if we have become psychic, and then, quite unexpectedly, he rolls us onto our sides.

He grips Big Clit in one strong, calloused hand.

I tense, because I didn’t expect it, not that I mind.

“That okay, Kelly?”

“Oh yes!”

“You don’t mind me touching it.”

“No! Touch it all you want! Do what you want with it.”

He grips tight.

“Like that?”

“Tighter.”

He does so. I scream and twitch in his arms as Big Clit hardens in his brutal, loving grip. He begins to thrust harder into me.

“That’s it my darlin’,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll milk you like the sweet bitch cow you are.”

“Oh! Oh!”

“Milk you and fill you with milk you hot fucking sweet tranny cunt.”

“Cunt… Cunt…!”

The friction on Big Clit is ridiculous, overwhelming. I have never been held like this before. I don’t know how he does it, but the man is a fucking hand-job genius. Soon I am shaking in his arms and he has to use his entire great strength to restrain me. I buck and scream, almost out of my mind now as the fire roars before me like a glimpse into my raging, chaotic, lust-mad soul –

When I come, I shoot straight into the flames and there’s a sizzling as my juice hits the blazing logs. On and on I go – where is it all coming from? He is milking me right enough, more than I have ever been milked before. Everything that has happened blazes in my core as yet more orgasm tears through me like a demon ripping itself free. I don’t care if I head-butt Gordon, or smash anything up. I am nothing but sensation, the night’s madness having worn away reason. I exist merely to procreate in frenzied gouts, expending myself in a series of superheated jets to leave nothing but steam…

Gordon comes in me at the same time, his grip on my slippery body as tight as he can get it as I scream and thrash, convinced I am now a liquid entity spending itself in a last paroxysm of pure uncompromised existence. Only the pounding in my pussy convinces me I still exist, and that my physical form has not reduced itself to erotic semi-conscious plasma.

I think then how magic my sex is, and picture Mutant John in his hospital bed being revived, as if my orgasmic energy is drawing him back to Earth.

I think of Ronson in his trailer, no longer quite so lost. In his uneasy slumber, he senses what his happening a few miles away like a light igniting in the dark landscape. This explosion of erotic sorcery brings dazzling, inspiring brightness to his dreams, illuminating the pathways of his mind to reveal new ones…

I think of Dave and Adriana waking suddenly for no reason they can explain. Without any thought or preamble they join in the darkness and fuck like they did when they were first together. Their joint power and energy reignite like a new sun birthing from an old one, the night sky blazing with it.

I think of the police officer on his lonely beat along the darkened roads of Kent. He sees something strange on the horizon and knows, through some human alchemy, that it’s me doing it. He knows too that it would not have happened without him, and he is worthy, and valued…

8. Sunrise

I wake up, with no idea where I am.

There’s a doggy smell coming from somewhere, which turns out to be the massive Labrador. It lies beside me on the floor with an expression of patient wisdom on its lovely furry face. I look around.

Other than the dog, I am alone, with an uncovered feather duvet over me. I move, and my body aches in a way that suggests I have not moved for a long time. I must have simply lain in the same position I passed out in, however long ago…

Crisp winter morning light floods in through grimy windows. The fire is out, but residual warmth still emanates from it. My mouth is dry, and I then spot a pint of water beside me. Grunting as I move my stiff limbs, I reach for the water and drain it in one. The dog goes back to sleep, and I sit up.

Other than my bra, I am naked, but to my surprise I see my clothes on the arm of a nearby sofa. They have been carefully folded. Even my bag is there. I push the duvet aside and get to my feet, dizzy with the effects of last night. Half of my underneath aches, the other half is tender. I clench the tender part and gasp, although the discomfort is gratifying, as if I have been exercised, as I suppose I have been.

I need the loo, so I pick up my stuff and pad out of the living room.

There’s a downstairs toilet off the ancient hallway, so I go in and use it, and then employ wipes to clean myself. There is probably a shower somewhere, but I can’t be bothered trying to find it, and will have a bath when I get home. I get all last night’s makeup off and make some effort with my armpits and the residual dirt stains on my front and legs, although much of that I’ve sweated off.

I get dressed, put more makeup on although not as much. My little black bob is less of a state than I expected. I give it a good brush until it swings glossily but with a little inevitable matting. Stowing my brush and other kit, I head into the kitchen.

There’s a full cafetière, and I glug still-warm coffee straight from it. Turning to the table I see a note, written on a page torn from a pad with a faded picture of a flower at the top.

Kelly

I am at the other farm. Have to get up early in this game. Phoned hospital. Your friend is okay. They put a stent in and he is being kept in for a time. His bike is in the barn. Your car is in the yard.

Gordon

Next to it is another note, with a phone number and the words You are very gorgeous. Last night was amazing. The writing on that one is less fluid, as if he is not used to saying things like that, and had to work harder on his penmanship.

I smile, put the number into my phone, and walk out of the kitchen.

It’s sunny out, but with a cheerfully ruthless chill in the air. My beautiful car is indeed in the yard. It is so good to see it, as if the vehicle is a loyal old friend. I get in, start it up, and accelerate out of the yard, along the access track and onto the road.

I ensure my phone records the location because I will definitely be back, and then I tap in my home postcode. I see that it’s not that late – only around 8.15am, so the day is not lost and I will get that presentation done after all.

I drive through the country until I hit the A21, then go south until I reach Tunbridge Wells. The roads are livening up, and it takes me another ten minutes to get home. When I pull into the drive, I notice a car I haven’t seen before parked outside my house. Probably a guest of one of my neighbours. I’m too weary to worry about which one as I get out of the Triumph, grab my bag and slam the door. As I lock it, someone says, “Kelly?” and I turn.

The police officer from last night is getting out of the strange car. He is no longer is uniform, and must have finished his shift.

“Oh,” I say. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he says.

We stare at each other for a while.

“I was just passing,” he says.

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“How come?” I ask.

“I must have been drawn here,” he says.

“Lights in the sky?” I ask, recalling my ecstatic sexual reverie of the night before.

He stares at me, and I realise he has very naughtily used the DVLC database to find out my address.

“Um… Yeah, sure,” he says. “Actually, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About your offer.”

Ah yes. Handcuffs in the back seat. I notice he does not have his handcuffs now. It’s probably just as well. I frown.

“How long were you there for?”

“Oh, not long,” he says, although I don’t believe him.

I think about my tender underneath, the lure of a hot bath, and my presentation. And then I think, Fuck all that.

“Well,” I say. “You’d better come in then.”