Cheaters

by JR Carroll

Time passed, an hour. Then an hour and a half. He was tired but could not sleep. Mischa was out to it. She was so near but so fucking far away. He could not believe he was in bed nearly nude with this spunky chick, but apparently unable to fuck her – unless he raped her. Maybe he should assert himself, ignore her feeble fendings-off and just … go for it, stick it into her, bang – but then maybe that wasn’t a very wise career move. Maybe she really didn’t want it. Maybe no meant no. Fuck. Danny wished he could sleep too – it must have been about five, five-thirty – but he was much too fired up. He played with himself for a while, then let it go and clasped his hands firmly behind his head, trying to think about something else, gambling, anything at all, but his hard-on would not die – or if it did, for a short time only, and then it was back, stiffer and more demanding than ever. Then the birds started up in the trees outside and daylight began to seep into the room. He put his erection back inside the Calvins and turned away.

  A long, long time later Mischa stirred, mumbling and sighing. Danny turned back towards her, leaning on his elbow. It was a quarter to seven. There was movement in the hall as someone got up and started their day. Danny was dog-tired. A whole sleepless night of frustration had left him utterly drained. He waited and waited, and eventually Mischa opened her eyes and saw him.

  She took a few seconds to put it all together, then sleepily said, ‘Danny.’

  ‘Good morning, Mischa,’ he said, and pushed her hair away from her twitching eyelids.

  ‘How are you?’ she said, the lids opening briefly before drooping again.

  ‘All right. Bit tired. How are you?’

  ‘Hm. Dry. Stuffed. Such … weird dreams. Ugh.’ Her mouth made clicking sounds when she tried to make saliva to speak.

  He reached under the blankets, touched a breast accidentally on purpose, skated across her filmy stomach, found her hand and squeezed it. ‘I was awake most of the night. I missed you.’

  With her eyes still closed, she smiled, and he felt a lame squeeze in return. ‘Not much fun, am I,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He kissed her cheek, then her lips. She opened her eyes and he kissed her on the lips again. It was like kissing a dry sponge. Now he was hovering over her. He tenderly, patiently stroked her hair as his cock quickly responded, then cupped his hand around her head, lifting her towards him and determinedly French-kissing her. Rolling her onto her side he moved his hand down her back, along the curve of her spinal column. He whispered her name and kissed her again as he stroked her back and buttocks, right down to the knickers. Mischa kept her eyes open and Danny stared into them, seeking permission to continue his advances as he wetly kissed her lips numerous times. He drew her to him, so that her breasts were pressing onto his chest. He could feel his imprisoned cock pulsing against her stomach as he embraced her quite firmly. At last she put her arms around him, and their bodies were fused. Biting the bullet he grasped her hand and pushed it down between them, on the upraised shape in his underpants, and to his great relief she did not pull away, but held and squeezed it, feeling its size and hardness and then reaching further down and feeling his balls while he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his Calvins and slipped them quickly down past his backside, and then she had his naked cock firmly in her grasp.

  Danny’s eyes did not leave hers as she stroked him sweetly, rolling the skin back and forth and bringing him on, harder than he had ever been. In the blur of his ecstasy Danny found himself thinking that she seemed to have an experienced touch, that she must have felt and pulled many cocks before his – but then, how much experience did you need to jerk someone off? Get a stiff dick in your hand and there’s really only one thing you can do with it. Still, it felt as if she knew very well what she was doing, guiding him through the trip, watching pleasure widen his eyes and contort the muscles in his face, hearing his stifled little cries, feeling the blood race through his madly pumping heart while she pumped the other muscle to a steady, rhythmic beat. Danny played with her tits and then thrust his hand below her navel, into her skimpy briefs, brushing the backs of his fingers against her fine cunt-stubble, pressing on the bone of her bare mound and then snaking his fingers into the warm, sticky zone between her thighs and rubbing the softer meat there, while simultaneously manoeuvring himself on top of her and tossing back the blankets. Looking down he saw there was a little wet spot in the middle of her knickers.

  Now he was kneeling between her thighs with his hard-on sticking straight out in front of him. She was not so much masturbating him now as feeling his cock all over, smothering it with feather-light, two-handed caresses, squeezing it until a clear drop of liquid popped out, jerking it some more and then exploring all of its surface with her fingertips. In general, seeing what she could make it do and what new levels of pleasure she could induce. Definitely done this before. There was liquid all over the curved head of his cock, which she smeared down the shaft too. Danny very much wanted her to suck it for him. He reached behind her and she lifted her backside while he slid the panties down as far as they would go, which was not far because her legs were wide apart. Somehow she raised one of the legs and slipped it out of the panties and Danny pushed them down the other leg until they were just hanging off her ankle. Then, while she still wanked him, he touched the soft cleft of her cunt, tickling it with his knuckle. Mischa looked at him pleadingly, her mouth open, and Danny could see her heart beating hard in her chest. Taking his time he worked a finger right into her. Her flesh ran and quivered. She made a brief, painful sound, shut her eyes and blew out a gust of warm air that hit him full in his face. At the same time her hands fell to her sides, releasing his cock. She was wonderfully rich and creamy inside. When he withdrew his finger there was a strand of juice attached to it.

  He swallowed and said, ‘Now I’m going to put it in, okay?’

  She nodded quickly with her eyes shut, breathing harshly and licking her lips. He descended, taking himself in hand. She opened wide, lifting her behind and parting the lips of her cunt with her fingers, revealing the glistening interior. Danny went inside a little way, just an inch or so, relishing the initial sensation. He was steeping himself in a wet, pearly dream. Mist filled his head. Somewhere in the dream Mischa was making low moans and writhing like a speared creature. It was like plunging into a dense knot of twisting and squirming sea-snakes. He knew he could come anytime he wished, any second, but the trick was to delay it as much as possible. Such long-awaited pleasure as this needed to be milked right to the very end. With his hands curled around the backs of her shoulders he fucked her with deep, even thrusts. Nothing in his life had ever gone near this. When he felt the first tremors of his orgasm closing in he paused in mid-stroke, kissing her open mouth while she arched and bucked, desperately wanting him to keep moving. He sensed she was near to coming herself, but there was no way he could resume without jacking off straightaway. There was simply too much pent-up pressure in him. He withdrew, felt for her clitoris and masturbated her while she was thrashing her arms about, bouncing up and down on the squeaky mattress and squirming around so much his fingers kept slipping from her. She was so very close several times but couldn’t quite make it, so in the end he pushed his cock back in and fucked quickly, shutting his eyes and hoping she would reach the wire first. It was a photo-finish. She squealed and shuddered, slamming him hard with her pubic bone. Then a split-second into it a flash hit him. He could feel his head spinning right out as his orgasm peaked and levelled off, then began trailing away until there was only a ghostly quavering in his loins, like an after-image that became less and less distinct, until finally there was nothing left …

  He slipped out of her, still semi-hard, and rested his dick on her stomach. Thick lumps of sperm oozed from it onto her shiny skin. Mischa’s face was deeply flushed and glowing. She wiped a hand over her forehead, slid it down over her sticky breasts and took hold of his detumescing cock. When she squeezed it, yet more jism ran out into her navel, where most of his oozings had forme
d a pool. Danny was sitting up straight, watching her wet fingers playing with him.

  ‘How was that then, Danny Goldfingers?’ she said.

  ‘Not bad for starters,’ he said. He lifted her left leg behind the knee so it jack-knifed alongside him, then stroked the humid underside of her thigh with his palm. The skimpy little panties were still attached to her ankle, like a garter. Looking down he noticed semen dribbling out of her and making a sizeable damp patch on the sheet. While she played with his dick, Mischa’s eyes were travelling up and down his body. Although he did not work out in a gym he looked fit and trim, with defined pectorals and a firm abdomen with cords of knotted muscle running down it to his minimal but dense clump of blue-black pubic hair.

  ‘You’re a bit of a hunk, aren’t you, Danny,’ she said, squeezing his dick.

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing about you,’ he said, eyeing off the various enticing features of her torso. He was still stroking her thigh with the flat of his hand.

  ‘You’re also a top fuck,’ she said.

  He leaned forward and kissed her lips. ‘Then we’re even. Tell you what. Why don’t you slip it inside that nice place again and we’ll just make sure.’

  She knew that was on the cards by the renewed hardness in her hand. This time they made love in a more controlled and richly satisfying manner, and when they’d had their fill for the time being they fell into each other’s arms. Throughout, he could not push the thought from his mind that this was an experienced woman: from the liquid and supple way she moved her body, the way she lifted her legs high and ran her heel up and down his spine, from the way she reached under the pillow and clutched the brass railings of the bedhead. And when she came it was a deeply felt, sustained performance, as if she had put much time and work into achieving the perfect orgasm. At the end of the session, Danny was starting to feel really tired after his long night’s vigil, but he fought against the sting of his eyes wanting to close. Mischa was tracing lines on his face and throat and on his hairless chest, studying him up close.

  ‘Do you put a rinse in your hair to make that colour?’ she said.

  ‘No way. I’m not that kind of wanker.’

  ‘What kind of wanker are you?’

  ‘The kind who has a mobile phone and who fucks girls who wear leather jackets and ride Virago motorbikes and have shaved cunts.’

  She smiled, still stroking his chest. ‘Does the shaved cunt do it for you?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. What would you think?’

  She was about to reply, then seemed to change her mind. Danny thought she was going to say, ‘Some people find it a turn-off.’ Eventually she said, ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. I don’t mind it myself.

  ‘Looks like we have similar tastes.’

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  A pause, then he kissed her sweetly and said, ‘Would you like another nice fuck now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  So it went on through the morning. Jan and Stephanie – or someone – left and returned to the house at different times, banging the front door and making the gate creak, but apart from hurried trips to the bathroom Danny and Mischa spent the day fucking and dozing, fucking and dozing, fucking and dozing … When he opened his eyes after what felt like a long sleep she was still beside him, half-awake, and it felt like late afternoon.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘Terrific. Stuffed. You?’

  ‘Same. I’ve got a hell of a sore cunt, though.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hmm, don’t be. But I’ll have to give it a rest for a while.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Come here.’

  They kissed and felt each other up and down. Danny did want her again, very much, but since her vital part was out of order she gave him a quick hand job instead. Her busy little fingers were wet all over by the time she’d finished. He simply couldn’t get enough of her, and if she was hurting – well, there were plenty of other ways to go about things.

  At around seven, hunger pangs struck so they got up, put their clothes on and went out in the Golf for a meal. They both ordered pasta, with a green salad to share, and two bottles of Splitrock mineral water. As soon as they’d finished they returned to Mischa’s place and went back to bed. Mischa had recovered enough to fuck very carefully. But they were tired and after doing it twice sleep came easily. Danny did not wake until after 5 a.m. and when he did it took him a few moments to work out where he was. Mischa was still asleep, facing him. He sneaked an arm around her shoulder and brought her closer without waking her up. All he could think about was how happy he was. At half past seven he went for a walk down the street for the paper, still without disturbing her. It was going to be a sunny day with a light northerly picking up. He paused outside the newsagent’s, perusing the front page to find out what had happened in the world while he’d been busy screwing Mischa. There was a piece about a missing woman named Donna Pritchard, aged twenty-two, who was described as a ‘dancer and part-time prostitute’. Ms Pritchard had last been seen leaving the casino at about nine the previous morning. Danny looked at the picture: skinny, a junkie’s staring eyes, hollow-faced, long brown hair with corkscrew curls. No doubt about it. It was the scared woman he’d seen with Lewis Kenny and the two suited heavies. Kenny’s words to her came back to him: ‘You know what’ll happen if you don’t.’

  9

  When Robert woke up, feeling much worse than usual, he was sprawled face-down on the floor, halfway between his chair and the bedroom, as if he had tried in vain to drag himself to bed. He couldn’t remember doing that. He remembered shooting up, the soaring sensation as the heroin took immediate hold, then a series of dreams consisting of lush rural pictures that were awash with brilliant coppery sunshine, like the images of a poem by G. M. Hopkins or Keats made vividly real. Robert himself was not present – no-one was – but it seemed he was a privileged spectator being shown a sneak preview of the pastoral paradise near at hand. Do I wake or sleep? Robert did not want to wake: he felt that throughout the dream sequences. When his eyes opened he felt unspeakably, achingly sad and forlorn at having left that splendid, green place, so much so that he began to heave and sob right there with his stubbled – and inexplicably sore – cheek flush against the gritty and stinking carpet. Why did he have to wake up? His whole face felt tender, as if he’d been pulverised like a slab of meat.

  In time he hauled himself first to his knees, then, in case of dizziness, took a break before rising unsteadily to his full height. After consuming around half a litre of water from the kitchen tap and splashing some on his face and hair he found the remnants of a packet of cigarettes, lit one and started wondering what had become of Florence. Her opened suitcase with clothes spilling out of it was still on the floor next to the makeshift bed, so she wasn’t far away. His needle, he noticed, was rinsed and on the sink – not where he had left it, in his arm. A debilitating wave of self-loathing descended on him in that instant, utterly crushing what spirit and will to survive he had and causing him to hide his face in his hands. By Christ you are a pitiful, worthless piece of shit. Why don’t you just walk under a fucking train and get it over with? No, you wouldn’t have the fucking guts.

  He went outside partly to revive himself but mainly to go for a hamburger or a kebab. His body was crying out for an injection of junk food, the saltier and greasier the better. The last reasonable thing he’d eaten was the pizza with Florence and he wasn’t sure if that was last night or the night before. Anyhow he was ravenous beyond words, so much so that the walls of his stomach felt as if they had collapsed against his spine and his legs quaked as he walked. In his pocket he had a crumpled five-dollar note and change. By the time he reached the shop, he believed he was ready to faint from hunger but he managed to give his order and stay on his feet after a fashion by leaning on the zinc counter. He devoured the food with a maniacal intensity on the footpath, snarling and
drooling deliriously like a wolf, then sighed deeply, screwed up the bag and threw it in the gutter. There was a moment during that meal – just a fleeting, almost subliminal second in which he glimpsed that dreaming paradise – when he felt that life was bearable. Now all he wanted was a drink, and counting his coins he found he had enough for two stubbies.

  When he returned to the flat half an hour later, sometime around four, four-thirty, he estimated, Florence was sitting on the concrete landing at the top of the stairs waiting for him. She stood up when she saw him coming and he noticed she had shopping bags in her hands.

  ‘Sorry, Flo Jo,’ he said, unlocking the door. ‘Just ducked out.’

  ‘No worries,’ Florence said in a flat, nasal voice. Definitely Aboriginal.

  When they were inside he saw she had purchased the basics: wine cask, beer, cigarettes.

  ‘How’re you managing?’ she said, lighting a smoke and drawing deeply on it.

  ‘Better than I was before. Not by much, mind you. But I’m alive.’

  She said, ‘I thought you were dead. I tried to wake you up, hit you and shook you and slapped you around the face and everything, but it didn’t do any good. I didn’t think you were breathing – you were white and as lifeless as a fuckin’ corpse. I was real scared. Then I heard you mumbling and grinding your teeth, so I knew you were all right.’

  Touching his cheek he said, ‘Shit. That’s why I feel as if I’ve been bashed up.’

  ‘Sorry. I was tryin’ to do the right thing.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Flo Jo. I deserved a hiding. And thanks for … what you did with the needle.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. You should get a new one, anyway. I thought you said you were a … recreational user, Robert.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘It’s none of my fuckin’ business, but maybe you should try and give it away. That’s bad shit. It’ll kill you.’

  But he had a ready answer to that. ‘The shit itself is not bad, Florence. It’s not having it that’s the killer.’