English rose

The English Rose

 

1.

 

Spencer Thomas was a balding man in his late forties. He wore a golfing tie – white golf balls against a vivid green field. He rotated the nearly empty pint glass in the slick of spilt beer on the bar, making trails along the bar-top. It was three in the afternoon and he really should be getting on the road again. He looked up at the fake oak-stained beam over the bar and read the curious announcement over for the third time -

‘The Black Bull presents the St George’s Day Prize Draw Extravaganza. An opportunity not to be missed – an experience never to be forgotten. First prize: one English Rose. Runner up prizes including – a keg of Old Streaky Ale. Limited to one hundred tickets – enter now while stocks last.’

Spencer muttered to himself – “one English rose”. Then he shrugged and called over to the barman – “well alright, if you twist my arm, one more then.”

            The barman was sitting over the other end looking at the racing on the TV. There was no one else in the place. There had been a rather tasty young blonde, cute little thing of eighteen or so in tight jeans, clearing away the last lunchtime table when he’d come in. But she’d disappeared back into the kitchen to be seen no more.

Rather grudgingly the barman walked over to serve his sole customer.

“Same again mate?”

“Same again. Pint of Best.”

The traveller watched the barman’s big red hands on the pump. Faded blue ink dots on the knuckles, nine carat gold links around the left wrist. When the pint was done, Spence took a big swallow. “Aaah. That’s the job.”

The barman grunted. “Just passing through, is it?”

“Just passing through. That’s right. Not going far, mind. I’ll be stopping in town for the night. I’ve got to be there at four o’clock for a meeting. The Travis conference centre. But I was making good progress. You know how it is, when you’re on the road it’s nice to break the journey. Saw your sign – surprised to find a place that does real ale on this soulless stretch of road – so I thought I’d stop in and have a quick one – or two. Nice place you’ve got here, as well. You’re the landlord?”

“Yup.”

“Yeah, not bad at all. Maybe I’ll come through again on my way back tomorrow. You can keep your bra-sseries and your trendy chain bars, give me the English country pub – original and best. And you’ve got some kind of do on for St George’s day tomorrow then, I see?”

“Yup. We always do something for St George’s Day.”

The traveller’s face was flushed a rosy colour – it was a hot day. He loosened his tie a little. Nodding.

“So maybe I should buy a prize draw ticket for tomorrow. How much to enter?”

The barman put down the glass he was polishing and looked at the traveller.

“Thirty quid.”

Spence gave out a little chortle. “Thirty quid? That all?”

“Yup.”

“And … have you sold many tickets?”

“They’re’s five left.”

“So you’ve sold ninety five tickets at thirty quid each? That’s not a bad little sum. And what’s the prize – one English rose?”

“It’s for charity,” said the barman. “Sort of a tradition round here for the regulars.”

“For charity then? Oh, I see.”

The barman nodded. And went back over to the TV.

 

Seven o’clock the next evening, St George’s day, the Black Bull was filling up. Here was Spence Thomas sitting at the bar again, nursing another slow pint of Best. He smiled and shrugged apologetically when a hefty young lad with an England shirt on, all tattooes and close-cropped hair, bumped against him getting his beers. The youngster gave him a frosty look. The crowd in here was raucous and familiar. You could tell that everyone knew each other, and there was a buzz in the air like before a big match. Spence was enjoying himself. Yes he was plainly the only stranger here, and no one was doing anything to make him feel welcome. But he didn’t seem to mind. Spence thought of himself as a kind of worldly, knowing observer. Always passing through, he didn’t stay long enough to get caught up in a place, to get stuck. He just saw enough to pass the time, meet new people, maybe pick up a few stories, impressions. That way you see things about the world that maybe others don’t. Life, that’s what it was. You only get one, so you best live it, savour to the full.

One thing he observed – there were no women in the pub. Except of course for the barmaid, she seemed to be the landlord’s mrs. Not bad looking at all, in a cheap bleached-blonde red lipstick kind of way. And showing plenty of cleavage and a decent pair of pins under a short denim skirt. Not in the same class at that little hottie he’d caught sight of yesterday, but you wouldn’t say no. None of the men in here seemed to give her much trouble though – not with the landlord looking on, and you could see he was a force to be reckoned with.

Now the landlord was coming over to where Spence was sitting at the corner of the bar. And slowly leaning over to say quietly – “I’m afraid the do’s about to start shortly. No big rush though, take your time and finish that pint.”

“Oh,” said Spence. “Oh. But I was going to stay for the do.”

“Sorry, mate. It’s ticket holders only tonight.”

“I see,” said Spence. And started to stand up. Then stopped, “well, alright then landlord, maybe I’ll just have to buy one of your tickets. Thirty quid, is it?”

The landlord’s face was blank. “Look, mate, this do is for the regulars.”

“You don’t want my money?”

There was an elderly man standing next to Spence now. Full thick head of white hair and a big crooked smile in the creases of his face. “Come on there John,” he was saying, “let the man in on it. Sell him a ticket.”

Spence waited while the landlord considered. Then the girl with the cleavage was standing in front of him. A hard, puckered little mouth, Spence thought. There was a strong smell of some sharp, lemony scent. She whispered something in the landlord’s ear.

“Alright,” the boss said. “Fifty quid visitors’ price.”

Maybe it was extortion, but Spence wasn’t going to back out now. He was a traveller, an observer of life. He was intrigued now. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted in.

 

Some of the lads near the bar were singing. At the far end of the bar room was a dark corner with a little stage, a PA system set up as for karaoke, and two boxes from which coloured spotlights lazily circled round the stage. The landlord was testing the microphone “One … two.”

“Buckle me bloody shoe,” shouted a man at one of the tables close up against the stage.  

“Gi’s a song then,” someone else shouted.

“Ne’er mind all that,” another voice, “lets have a look at our little rosebud then.”

Slow clapping spread through the room, and whistles.

The landlord held his hands up, tapped the microphone.

“Patience, gentlemen, patience. Just a few moments now. Our delightful prize of the evening is just being prepared for your inspection. And have we got a treat in store for you, gentlemen.”

The lights were dimmed, the coloured spotlights swirled. “And here we go gentlemen, and let’s all have a welcome for our very own English Rose of 2007, the lovely little miss Kimberly.”

Out of the upstairs doorway came the barmaid in the denim skirt, strutting towards the stage on four inch high stilettoes. And with her, in fact led by the hand, came the sweetest thing that Spence had ever seen in his life. The crowd were whooping and whistling. The old boy gripped on Spence’s arm, “there you see? There she is. Worth every penny for the chance of a go on that.”

 The barmaid led the English Rose of 2007 onto the stage. Next to the hard pouting face and denim skirt, here was a vision of pure, innoccent, radiant beauty. The perfect English Rose. Soft, wavy blonde tresses. Sapphire blue eyes shooting off sparks from behind bashful, blinking lids.  Peaches and cream complexion, blushing rosy cheeks. Gorgeously shaped pink lips, only occasionally she was softly biting on the upper lip. Which only added to her demure perfection. Eighteen if that, thought Spence.

Yes, it was the girl he’d seen briefly yesterday. But now rather transformed, as she was dressed – or undressed – not at all demurely, to show her off to perfection.

Her peachy soft skin, smooth teenage curves, brought off by the cutest little pink and white lingerie. Little white triangle panties covering just her triangle, held together by pink ribbons tied in bows across her hip-bones. On the front a motif of a pink rose-bud. Matching bra with another rosebud between the cups, matching garter belt and suspenders holding up sheer white stockings. And to top it off a white ribbon round her neck with another pink rosebud that wobbled on her throat when she swallowed. Medium height, everything fresh and pert, standing in white stiletto pumps on a stage in front of a hundred whistling, leering men.

“Oh my word,” groaned Spence, feeling a twitch down in his balls, “oh fuck me backwards.”

“Fuck her backwards,” said the old man next to him, “backwards forwards sideways and any which ways if you’re the lucky one.”

 ‘Here she is gentlemen,’ the landlord repeated, ‘our very own English Rose. Miss Kimberly Heston, eighteen years of age. All of you here know young Kimberly, you will have seen her collecting your empty glasses or empying your ashtray for you. Now for one lucky fellow here tonight she’s going to be emptying a lot more than that … (drowned out by whistles) … So for one night only, our little Kimberly, in the first flush of youth, and – listen to this gentlemen – a bona fide, absolute 100% genuine virgin … (cheers) … yes gentlemen, absolutely 100% medically guaranteed this girl’s rosebud has never been plucked, this girl’s petals have been unfurled for no man … (guffaws) … until tonight, and the honour and privilege of plucking our little Kimmy’s little rosebud will go to one lucky – lucky? I’ll say - fellow amongst you. For one night only, the lucky sod will get to take our little Kimmie away with him for the night and show her a good time. In fact he can show her whatever he pleases, and do with her – within reason, of course, gentlemen – whatever he pleases and as much and as often as he pleases, for one whole night. Now how does that sound to you?”

“Sounds pretty good,” Spence shouted in the old boy’s ear, just about making himself heard over the din. The old man was nodding and grinning like crazy, a little trail of saliva starting to run down the corner of his open mouth. He wiped it with a frayed shirt sleeve.

Spence swigged at his pint again and went back to gawping at Kimberley. Though he did feel one momentary twang of conscience – it didn’t exactly look like she was enjoying all the attention. The way she stood there, very stiff, with her head bowed a little, like she was trying to look down and not see all the leering eyes on her. And biting her lip more now, her face bright red with embarassment, and perhaps – though Spence couldn’t really see from here – maybe she was shaking a bit. She certainly looked very nervous, on edge, maybe as if she were about to cry. But of course, she would be nervous. That didn’t mean she wasn’t happy to go along with this.

Anyway now the landlord did something to reassure Spence on that point. “And perhaps just a little word from our little English Rose,” he said, and passed the microphone to Kimberley.

“Never mind a word,” someone shouted, “let’s see her tits.”

But Kimberley held the microphone in both hands. You could clearly see she was shaking now. She lifted the mike up to her mouth and said, in a stilted, wobbling voice – “thankyou, gentlemen. I am very pleased to be here tonight … your … your English Rose of 2007. I .. I would like to thank Uncle John for giving me … this opportunity.” She stopped for a minute, and smiled at the audience. And rushed through the last lines. “I hope that you like your little rosebud. Thankyou for showing me a good time.”

Wild applause. Shouts of – I’ll show you a good time darling … Look, she’s fucking dying for it, in’t she? … She can’t wait. … Come and sit on my lap little girl …

The landlord had taken the microphone back again. “Now, before we get to the draw gentlemen, I’m sure we’d all like to take the time to get to know young Kimberly a little bit better. What do you say, gents, how’s about we ask young Kimmie to show us a bit more of her delicious charms …”

But before they got the chance to ask, the English Rose suddenly went all a-quiver. Covering her face in her hands, she turned and ran off the stage towards the upstairs doorway. Hands grabbed out at her as she ran past the tables and into the doorway, the denim-skirted barmaid following quickly behind.

“I’m very sorry,” said the landlord into a shocked pause, “just a momentary hiccup, gentlemen. The show will go on in one minute.”

“Bloody right,” said one man, “we’ve paid good money for this you know.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” said the barman, “just a few nerves. I’ll just go and see what’s the matter.”

 

The crowd seemed happy for the moment to take the chance to refill glasses. There were two more barmaids serving now – they had come down just after Kimberley’s entrance. Both of them were lookers, two brunettes showing plenty of breast in low cut tops. “Come and get your drinks in gents, Kimmie’ll be alright in a minute. She’s not used to all the attention, poor girl. All the kleenex we had to use on her upstairs, she wouldn’t stop running her make-up. Don’t worry, she’s well up for it though. I bet she’ll be a real goer once one of you lads gets her home and starts pressing her buttons.”

Spence offered to buy the old boy a drink. Jimmy, his name was. “So Jimmy, what can you tell me about the de-lovely young Kimberley then?”

Jimmy took a big gulp and explained.

John, the landlord, came down from London some five years ago and took over the tenancy of the Black Bull. He said he was a retired taxi driver. Like not a few Londoners, it was his dream to save up enough money to move out and run a country pub.

Deborah, the bar-maid with the pinched mouth and the nice legs, was John’s girlfriend. She had come with him from London at the start. Though after a year or so she had left – they were often arguing, and sometimes it seemed to get violent and Debbie wouldn’t come down for a few days, or only be seen wearing dark glasses, long trousers and blouses that covered up a lot more than usual. Then after a year she left. For a couple of years John ran the pub on his own, and he got a reputation for sleeping with a few of the local women, occasionally ending in fights with their husbands. Once a mechanic called Donavan had ended up in hospital with two broken arms after smashing all the pub’s windows and scratching up John’s car.

Then Debs came back. No one knew how or why, but she was back, and things settled down again with her and John together at the helm.

Six months after that – or about two years ago now – her teenaged half-sister Kimberly had moved in with them. It seems she and Debbie shared a father. Debbie’s mum had left – or maybe died, Jimmy wasn’t sure  - when she was just a few years old. Her dad had met up with Kimberly’s mum and produced the little blonde stunner. Then he – Lisa and Kimberly’s dad – had left Kimberly’s mum, leaving her with one seven year old daughter and one teenage step-daughter to care for. Debbie had been a difficult, rebellious, child, insecure in her stepmother’s home, and had taken to disappearing for weeks at a time, hitching up with undesirable men, drugs, and all the rest of it. Kimberly was the good girl, her mother’s darling. But her mother, broken by the father’s desertion, was weak, she didn’t know how to control Lisa and she didn’t do much of a job of looking after Kimberly. Then she had married again, but – as is so often the way – to another bad sort. He had beaten her, run around with other women. Then, the story was, he had tried to rape Kimmie. The mother had come home and stopped it just in time, putting herself between them and getting the beating of her life for it.  (The rape hadn’t gone all the way, as Jimmy had indeed seen the medical proof of Kimberly’s virginity test result which John had shown round the regulars). The mother was hospitalised, the step-father fled. Then mum came out of hospital, good daughter Kimberly had nursed her back to health. Only to get the shock of her life one day when, coming home from school, who should she find but the same wicked stepfather eating his tea at the mother’s table, with Kimmie’s mum lovingly waiting on him.

“Yes, that’s how it goes,” said Spence, the observer of life. “Some women can’t keep away from a bad man.”

But Kimberly knew what she had to do. She packed a bag and left that night. She had no one else to turn to but her half-sister Debbie, so she headed for the Black Bull.

You couldn’t say that the relationship between the two sisters was particularly close, but how could Debbie turn her away? So Kimberly, then sixteen, had settled in at the pub, collecting glasses and wiping tables to pay her way. Obviously, the way she was put together, more than a few of the lads had tried it on with her at one time or another. But Kimmie was always the good girl, always a bit shy, covering herself up. Some of the men called her a tease, but that wasn’t it. She was never one to flaunt her looks or try and use them to her advantage. She wouldn’t have known where to start - though she might have gone to her big sister for a few pointers.

Of course the other story was that John was saving her up for himself, and he didn’t seem too keen on lads trying it on with his half-sister-in-law. With his past reputation, Jimmy thought that was quite likely his plan.

So, Spence didn’t understand, how had the virginal little miss goodie-two-shoes become tonight’s English Rose 2007?

‘Aaah’, said old Jimmy. ‘You see, it’s for charity.’ And he touched the side of his nose with his bony old finger.

 

The crowd hushed again. Out she came again. Trotting unsteadily up to the stage in her heels, John walking behind with his right just hovering behind, giving her a little push on her waist or her bum to keep her going. Then she was standing up on the stage like before, hands by here sides, make-up run and sniffling a little, but the tears over now. Nearby, just off the stage, the half-sister stood just blocking the way back to the door.

“Well, well,” the landlord said into the microphone. “Here we are again gentlemen, our little miss Kimmie had a little touch of nerves, but it’s all alright now isn’t it darling.” Kimberly nodded her head. “Good girl. And to make up for her little tantrum, which I understand may have had you all a little bit worried for her, our English Rose has promised to give you an extra special little show now. Isn’t that right darling?”

Kimberly nodded again. Still biting her lip. More pronounced now, like she was tearing shreds off the sensitive skin.

“So, my lovely assistant, music please …” Debbie, standing by the tape-deck near at the side of the stage, pressed the button, and the PA started up with “I’m horny – horny, horny, horny …”

Gradually, hardly at all at first, Kimberly started swaying in time with the music. Then she found the rhythm, swung her hips into it – indeed, she smiled. Shut her eyes, moved, and her lips – like rose petals, Spence couldn’t help rhapsodising – opened into a soft, lost, coy little smile.

Her body took to the rhythm – her hips back and forward, her breasts starting to bounce with it, while the men clapped in time. She started to turn. Slowly, like a music box ballerina, she rotated, lifting her feet in the perilous white pumps only an inch or so each step. Until her arse – and here Spence sighed again, what a fucking perfect delight of an arse – was jiggling side to side in front of them, just the little white strip of flimsy cloth stretched over the inner parts of her cheeks and disappearing into that – sweet god – that little shadowy cleft between her legs. And then she started to bend. She tossed her head, once, the hair running off her shoulder blades. And began to bend at the waist, slowly gyrating down, thrusting out that snatch of cloth between the bottoms of her bum-cheeks, then, stepping her legs a bit wider, down more, thrusting out the little pocket between the tops of her thighs. Jutting out her covered pouch of her pussy towards the open-mouthed crowd, and still swinging side to side as her hair brushed on the stage floor.

Then she started coming up again. And stood with her back to the crowd again moving side to side. Then as she moved her two hands came behind her back, and her fingers – the long French-manicured nails against her back – fiddling with the clasp of her bra.

“Here she comes,” old Jimmy sighing, shaking here his head, as she turned again, holding the unstrapped cloth of the little white bra in her hands over her tits. Then, with an intake of breath from the whole room, she pulled her hands and the material away. “Perfect,” Spence exhaled as the plump eighteen year old tits swung free. “I’m biting on those nipples now.”

She was massaging the tits, plumping them up, then dropping her hands, letting her arms and the tits sway as she moved side to side. Her eyes were shut again, her lips tightly bunched up. Now she seemed to be biting on her lower lip as she danced.

“Come on Kimmie,” the youngster who had bumped against Spence before was shouting. “Come on girl, let’s get those knickers off. Let’s see that snatch you little tart.”

Kimberly had her fingers looped in the ribbon of the little white panties. Her fingers fumbled, made to tug down at the pink ribbon. But not yet. She just carried on swaying side to side. The men whistled, they started slow clapping. Eyes shut, she just carried on doing the same thing, swaying side to side. Then the song finished.

‘Come on, Kimmie,’ shouted the man again. Others started jeering, shouting: ‘Off! Off! Off!’

The landlord came back up on to the stage and took the microphone. “Alright, alright. Don’t you worry, the show’s not over yet. Don’t you worry, you’ll see the lot. Maybe … (his voice lowered to a stage whisper) … maybe though, our Kimmie could do with a little bit of help …”

A mass out-take of breath around the room. Spence put down his beer glass afraid it would snap with the tension. This was something, alright. This was something to see. A hundred men in the room poised to jump up and tear this little rosebud to shreds. And now the thought of getting your fingers and easing off those tiny little panties …

“I do believe,” said the landlord, “that time has come for the draw. And I’ll ask the lucky winner to join us up here on stage and personally remove this pair of panties from our delectable young English Rose of 2007. I’m sure the winner won’t mind sharing the sight with all our friends here …”

Cacophony of whistles and cheers. Up walked Debbie with the hat in which the hundred names were placed. Spence’s too. It could just be …

The girl stood trembling, the crowd hushed and open-mouthed, as the landlord dragged out every last drop of tension … “and the second prize, a keg of Old Streaky, that king of real ales …” - but no one would remember the name of the winner of the keg of Old Streaky - “and the winner, that lucky feller, tonight’s star prize goes to … well if it isn’t young David Baxter.

This, it turned out, was the young bruiser who had nearly spilled Spence’s beer earlier on. The young shaven-headed gentleman just stood shaking his head with a grin the size of England across his face. His mates were clapping him on the back and giving him evil jealous curses. As he walked over to the stage, all swagger and shoulders, the cheers broke out again.

Old Jimmy was nudging Spence on the shoulder. “Well, that’s how it goes,” he said. “But never mind. And that’s gonna be something, that David Baxter. You see, there’s a history between those two. There’s a bit of a history. Young Dave’s a bit of a jack the lad round here, you see, and he’s always been trying it on with her. She kept her distance though. But then one night her sister convinced her into going out for a date with that Dave, kind of set them up. He had to promise John he wouldn’t try anything on, but it was allowed, because John has a bit of a soft spot for the lad … there’ll be some saying it was a fix of course - but there’s always gonna be talk like that.

“Anyways, what happened was young Dave took her out for the evening. The story is he tried to give her just a little goodnight peck, and she slapped him one in the face. Slapped him right in the face …” the old vulture was guffawing … “now, she’s gonna get her comeuppance, and then some.”

Then they turned to look back at the stage again, as the crowd was chanting – “Off! Off! Off! Off!” Dave the once-slapped suitor was bending in front of the little beauty, pale as everything and now with tears plainly rolling down her cheeks – did anyone see? Did anyone care? It was a feeding frenzy now. Spence, the observer of life, he observed those tears – but the show was too strong, too wild, and – well there’s no question anything could be done now, even if you started to have a doubt … the game was well underway now. Dave was fumbling over the little bows that held up the panties on her hips. Undid one, then the other. He pulled the cloth away. Stepped back to stare at what was revealed. So sweet, thought Spence, craning his neck over a shoulder to look as close as he could, so white, so delicate. The little bush trimmed into one little strip, landing strip it’s called. What you wouldn’t give …

Dave was alive again now. He was going to give them all a show. He handled her like a toy, pushing her knees to shuffle open in the stiletto pumps. Turned round to look at the crowd and sucked his thumb like Peter Piper, leering. “It’s going in,” he said.

The half-sister Debbie was standing next to the girl now, holding her up. She had her eyes shut. Dave stroked her little strip of fur and ran his fingers over her pussy-lips. Then parted the lips with his left hand as the wet thumb probed at the opening.

“Yes my friends,” he shouted back at the crowd, “it’s tight alright. But sonny-boy’s going in there.”

After he’d got the thumb in and made her jiggle for the crowd on it, shaking her tits, the next trick was for her to turn round and bend over. “Touch your toes girlie. That’s right you little tart, all the way over. Spread them legs for us.”

And to the crowd – “take a good look gents. Take a look at that tight little virgin snatch. That’s all for Davey-boy.” He slapped her on the rump. “Not long now girlie, you’re going to find out what that little hole of yours was made for.”

It wasn’t long before the first ordeal was over. They put a coat on her and Dave led her away to a car and her “big night of passion.” As the regulars filed out at closing time, Spence was one of the last, sitting up with Jimmy silent now on another pint and a chaser.

“Well that was something,” the old man was slurring to himself, “that was some show.”

Spence nodded. He saw a flash of the girl bent over, white thighs strained, tight calves in those stockings, blonde hair brushing the floor, and her cunt winking at you like a beautiful dreamy eye. Then he saw her walking out of the pub, or walked out rather, that lucky hooligan supporting her every step – she was lifeless, in shock, her eyes beyond the world, even beyond crying, just the lines of her dead tears down her thickly powdered face, and her lip bitten purple. For one second, Spence thought, as she passed, their eyes met. Something in him quivered. It was that look he remembered when he was beating off that night back in the hotel room. It was that look he couldn’t get out of him all the days to come.

 

2.

Spence Thomas was passing through town again about two weeks after St George’s day, and this is what he did. Again it was a quiet afternoon when he drove up to the Black Bull, placed himself at the bar and ordered a pint of Best. John, the landlord, nodded at him with recognition, but no more welcome than he’d expected. But the next half hour found them huddled together in conversation, free drinks were served, and the upshot was a substantial amount of money changed hands.

            It was the next day, Spence Thomas was sitting in a quiet room, the private room that was rarely opened, at the back of the pub. The light was dim with thick lace curtains over the fake-Tudor paned windows – anyway the day was dull. She came in alone, Kimberly, and sat down across the table.

            “Would you like a drink of something,” asked Spence.

            She asked for a coke. Spence bustled round to the bar and brought it back. She sat there wearing jeans and a gap sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her hands clasped in her lap under the table. She looked down or around, but Spence could remember those eyes.

            “So, Kimberly, like John said, I’d just like you to tell me, just talk me through what happened that night. You don’t worry about me, I’m just your uncle Spence, I’m nobody, you just go on.”

            She drank a sip of the coke and began.

            “The car was waiting, it was his friend driving. He opened the door for me and I got in the back seat. He got in. He took me to a flat … I don’t know what flat, I think he still lives with his mum so …”

            “Wait, slow down, slow down. What about in the car … didn’t he do anything in the car?”

            “I was wearing that coat, like, I don’t know, like an old kind of overcoat. That’s all I had on, and those white stockings and shoes. He got in and sat right next to me. He put his hand in the coat, that was the first thing. He opened the coat up – it wasn’t buttoned up – like he was unwrapping some kind of present or something. He was gentle, then. Like a present. He didn’t even say nothing. He was gentle. He even stroked my hair. He said – don’t worry Kimmie, don’t be so scared. I’m not gonna hurt you am I? Just gonna play with you a little. I always liked you Kimmie. Don’t worry, not about all the things I did in there. That was just playing, I had to give them a show didn’t I?

            “He was almost like whispering. Relax, he said. Give me a kiss. He kissed me. He had his hand on … on my tummy, on my side. He was stroking me with his hand. But gentle like. On my tits. On my tummy. On my legs.

            “There, he said, don’t worry. It’s just you and me now, I’m not gonna hurt you. You see, you shouldn’t have slapped me that time, I’m not so rough. I know how to treat a girl.”

            “What were you thinking when he said that? Did you believe him?”

            “I was thinking about his friend, in the front. I don’t know what I believed. But it wasn’t just us, I thought, there’s his friend in the front. He’s saying it’s just us but his friend is watching it all in the mirror isn’t it.”

            “You let him kiss you?”

            “Let him kiss me? He had his hands all over me.”

            “How did it feel, how did his hands feel?”

            “He was gentle. But … look, I tried to relax. I thought – whatever’s gonna happen it’s gonna happen isn’t it. It wasn’t so bad now without all the people watching, maybe he’s right. All the lights, and … it was dark in the car, just the streetlights, the car moving. That’s all that happened in the car, it wasn’t a long drive.”

            “Okay. So you got to this flat. You don’t know whose flat it was. Tell me what happened then. And remember, I want details. I even want you to tell me about the flat, what it was like, little details. Okay?”

            She nodded. Sipped some more coke. Her voice was flat, something like metal, like iron, like tin. It had all the fresh tones of youth in it – she was eighteen years old – but just stayed within this narrow register. But she told it all very well. She didn’t stop to cry or choke. She was doing a good job. Spence even told her so – “you’re doing very well. It’s okay, you can do it. Just tell me the details, that’ll be easier, think of it like you’re looking from a distance, the details, don’t think about what it all means. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s over now. You can do it, you’re a strong girl. You’re a brave girl.”

            “Am I?” she said. “I don’t know. We’re at the flat, then. He walks me up the steps, I’m still wearing the coat. And those bleeding high heels. Like a bambi, I can hardly walk. He walks me up the steps with his hand round my arse. His hand keeps moving, on my arse. A little pat. Like I’m his dog or something. I guess I am.

            “He opens the door. Switches on the light. What’s the flat like? It’s a nice flat. There’s one of those wooden floors down in the hallway, what’s it called …”

            “Laminate, wood laminate.”

            “That’s it, laminate. It’s tidy. There’s coats hung up on hooks in the corridor. Spotlights. And, I remember, a little tricycle, you know a plastic kiddie’s tricycle. Whoever lives in the flat has got kids. I guess one of his mates, with kids. He says – let’s get you out of that coat, and slips it off me, and hangs it up on one of the hooks. So – you want details – there I am, all naked, just wearing those white high heels, and he looks me all over. ‘You’re a beauty alright,’ he says. And runs this one finger over me. Down my shoulders, down my arms. Just touching me with one finger. Circling it on my tummy. Then down on … on my hair, down there. And between my legs. I’m just standing there while he does this. He wants to play with his toy, doesn’t he. He’s like a kid with a toy. He puts his finger down between my legs and rubs it there … rubs it against my pussy. Then trying to push it in my pussy. ‘You beauty,’ he says, ‘you little beauty.’ He keeps repeating himself, you see. Rubbing his finger in my pussy. How does it feel? Nothing much. Nothing much really. Something stiff, something raw. I’m very tight, he says, I need to relax.”

            “Did you have your eyes closed?”

            “No. I remember … I was looking over at the wall, along the corridor, there was an open door, I was looking at the doorframe, I was looking at the paintwork on the bleeding doorframe.”

            “Did he get his finger in your pussy?”

            “Yes. But it was very tight, like he said. It hurt. Not really hurt. It irritated.”

            “Then what?”

            “Then, he held my hand, and he led me into the flat. He said – I need to piss, it’s all that beer girlie. So what did he want me to do about it? He wanted me to go with him. We went into the bathroom. He wanted me to watch while he took a leak.”

            Well it was more than that. They go into the bathroom, he unzips his fly and takes out his dick. His dick isn’t hard? No, it wasn’t hard. Well, kind of a little bit. He’d been drinking a lot, it’s true. It wasn’t so hard he couldn’t piss while this naked eighteen year old virgin in white high-heeled pumps stood there ready to be fucked. When he was pretty much finished pissing he got her to put his hold his dick as he shook out the last few drops. Good girl, he says, that’s it, now let’s get this sonny-boy all nice and clean and ready for that little pussy of yours.

            He got her to kneel on the floor and lick the end of his dick. She didn’t really care about the taste, that was the last thing she was had to worry about. They stayed there in the bathroom a while with her licking his dick, then he showed her how to suck on it, stroking her head and calling her ‘a good girl’, like his little pet. How did she feel about that? No, she didn’t mind. It was almost kind of reassuring, Spence gathered, soft and gentle like, to be stroked on the head and him talking softly to her. And actually she was concentrating hard on trying to suck his dick, it wasn’t all that easy. Yes, he had a big dick, as far as she knew, now it was getting hard, anyway it was big in her mouth. She had to stretch her mouth hard not to scrape it with her teeth. Once she scraped it and he patted her on the cheek and said – ‘I don’t want to feel your teeth girlie. You do that again and it won’t be so gentle.’

            Then he started to push back on her head until she was choking. He kept pushing. ‘Don’t fight,’ he said. ‘Don’t you fight me. I’ve been nice to you up to now.’

            This went on for a long time. It must have been all the beer, thought Spence. You’d think you’d be coming in her mouth within seconds. But he didn’t come. He just gripped the back of her head and fucked her mouth harder. He seemed to have got frustrated after a while. Anyway this was when he stopped being so nice. When he was pounding her head, saying – “you little slut, don’t let me feel those fucking teeth or I’ll knock them out of your mouth. You understand?”

            She started to be afraid again. She was crying. It was just too much. She had been numb, then he’d calmed her, even warmed her a little. Isn’t it strange how a few soft words can calm you even in a situation like that? Like you’ve got something to hold onto. But now it was like it was starting all over again. He pulled his dick out of her mouth and pulled her up by the hand. He took her in the bedroom. He got her to sit on the end of the bed and try her mouth on his cock again. After a while he took it out and that was the first time he slapped her.

            “You remember, Kimmie? You remember when you were too good for me? How does it feel now my little princess? How does it feel now you’re my little slut?”

            Then it just went on and on. He lay her down on the bed and fucked her. Yes, she bled. Yes, it hurt like crazy at first. But maybe the pain was something to hold onto. There would be more pain, later, when he whipped her with his belt. Then fucked her again, every time he fucked her. Did he look like he was enjoying it? She supposed so. Yes, he was enjoying it alright. His face all twisted up as he drilled into her dry cunt. Pound into it when the juices started to flow. “You little whore, you’re loving it now you dirty little whore.” Yes, he had a great time.

            She, she was his toy, she was a rag doll. There was no life in her. It just happened to her. He fucked her and came and even slept a bit – she didn’t sleep – and woke up and turned her on her front and fucked her again. “Wake up darling, here’s what you’ve been dreaming of.”

            In the morning John picked her up in his car. It was nine, ten o’clock. Dave kissed her on the mouth at the doorway of the flat, put his arm round her. “That’s my girlie.”

            “Have you seen him since?”

            “Yeah, of course, he comes in the pub don’t he.”

            “What happens when you see him?”

            “Nothing. Well, if he’s with his mates he has to make a bit of a show of it. Squeezes my arse. Says something. They all laugh. He has to be the jack the lad doesn’t he. Like, I wonder about that night, he had to fuck me all those times, sometimes I don’t even know if he wanted to so much, but he had to have something to tell his mates didn’t he.”

            “But he never fucked you in the arse?”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “Well, actually, I think he tried to. I don’t know. But I think it just wasn’t going in.”

            This was the first time she looked up at Spence with a stroke of life, of defiance. Something, Spence hoped, that she would carry forever. She even laughed. She had some guts, that girl. Somehow, Spence thought, we are nothing to her. She’s got something, that girl. They do have, don’t they, women. We fuck them backwards, forwards, whatever way you like, we fuck them around, and they’ve still got something we can’t take away. Don’t think you’ll ever take it away. And isn’t that why we just keep coming back for more?

           

Spence went back to the bar for another pint. Just one more, take it easy boy. And this one needs savouring.

 

Upstairs they’d got her all ready now. She was wearing the same things as on St George’s night. Just as he’d ordered, right down to the white stockings and the little white bow around her neck, with the rosebud on her throat. He moved her off the bed and put her over the dressing table, he could see her face in the mirror.

            “That’s my girl,” he said, “I’m not gonna hurt you. It’ll be alright.”

            He didn’t bother with untying the ribbons – that had ben done before after all – but slid the little white panties over her hips, slowly down her legs. Stroked her belly and her bottom, ran his finger between her legs. Pulled her bottom out so it brushed against his crotch. He had to turn away for a moment to get the lubricant and squeeze some out on his finger. Even turning away was losing a moment of this perfect spectacle, this little beauty. But then his finger was between her legs with the cold gel and pressing on the little – well, it’s more than a cliché now, but on the little bud of her arsehole. In it went. This was going to be something very special.