by Karen Botha
Wandering into the bedroom I slip my gym gear on, fasten my trainers and exit the house to take a run around Adam’s generous woodland grounds. It’s not as glam as it sounds. If this were a movie, I’d glide around with ease. However, this being real life and me only being up to stage four of the couch-to-5k app that I’m working through in a rather half-hearted manner, and me having just escaped the jaws of death, it’s not a stunning performance on my part.
It is, however, fun.
The air fills my lungs, rushing cold air into my body as I suck in wheezing gasps. The chill inside my tight chest weakens my depression, and I’m suddenly alive again. The gasping of my lungs, as they battle with pure brilliance, the hardship I throw their way, is nothing short of a delight. I need a purpose. In discovering happiness with Adam I’ve misplaced my direction. I need to re-establish a course.
As I ponder my different options, an indignation soars inside me. Damn Brian for targeting me like that. I’d like to say this spurs me to run faster, the pound of my trainers taking my uphill trajectory with ease. What actually happens is that I manage to get through the next cycle of running without stopping, the burn in my quads being a manifestation of what is churning in my stomach.
I think about my life with Adam. He would so love to marry me. Would it be such a bad thing? If I do, would I then be able to settle and trust him to look after me? I could find a new vocation. I liked having my own business, but it’s not practical now with me working at the casino part of the week and living with Adam. It was convenient when I was in my own house and working from home, but now, I don’t know. Is there a different opportunity for me??
I return to the house feeling like I’ve run a marathon in only twenty minutes. Kicking my shoes off at the door, I support myself with my hand against the wall.
Fighting Brian off felt good. My boxing and self-defence has come in handy. I can use that for something I’m sure. Harness the grit.
Paula
He is utterly divine. I cannot believe that I am sitting, having drinks in a bar, after meeting this guy on the train. How can he possibly feel the same way about me? Sometimes it’s just meant to be, I guess. They talk about love at first sight, don’t they, but I’ve never been one to believe in that. It may be time to re-visit my opinion.
My stomach flips, shoving my heart into my cotton mouth. I’m sure if I were to smile right now, my top lip would stick to my teeth, and I’d be left baring them in a less than dignified fashion.
I decide to smile, making sure my eyes glint whilst keeping my lips firmly closed.
“Here you go.” He places an elegant champagne flute down on the table, releases the silver ice bucket from under his arm pit, which I choose to ignore, and plants that next to his own glass.
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”
“So, where are you heading off to after this?” I’m sorry, I’m curious as to how long I have with him.
“Oh, nowhere special. I just have some work to do ahead of some meetings tomorrow. It’s all fairly uninteresting really, I won’t bore you with it.”
I beg to differ, there is nothing about this man in front of me that could bore me. I’m keen to learn everything about him, but instead of asking for details I accept his reticence and sit grinning at him like a twelve-year-old. Jeez, I’ve even got my chin resting on my hand on the table. I remove it. Slowly, to only look as though I’m shifting position and not to let on that I just realised I’m swooning.
“So, you’re a copper then?”
My attention snaps. “Yeah, how did you know that?”
“Sorry, I overheard part of your conversation when I went into the toilet and figured or rather hoped that’s what you were talking about.”
“Yeah, I’m on the murder squad. It’s a bit of an addiction, if that’s not too un-politically correct to admit.”
He laughs. “We need people like you. Otherwise, the world would be a much worse place. I don’t think it would be for me though. I’m assuming seeing dead bodies is a daily occurrence for you?”
“It can be, depending on which cases land on my desk.”
“How do you stomach it?”
And so, the conversation drifts to one I've had many times. It’s an interesting ‘in’ for people. Normally I roll my eyes, but this time, possibly because I’m excited about my position again, or perhaps because I'll hang off any word this chap speaks, I spend the next hour discussing anything and everything to do with being a police officer.
Our bottle is drained and I stand to buy another round, “Are you free for another?” I check.
“Sure, but I was wondering whether you’d like to head on somewhere else?”
“Oh, now that sounds interesting. What do you have in mind?” The alcohol must have gone to my head, but I’m not embarrassed in the slightest by my suggestive tone.
“Well, there are a few good hotels around here, if you’d care for a tipple in a more private setting?”
“Hmm, I think I would like that.” I know exactly what he’s getting at and I’m a modern woman. I have my needs and I’m growing a tad dusty down there. Why not?
He nods. Stands and grabs his jacket. We bolt out of the door and into the nearest hotel, hand in hand.
As soon as the key card clicks us entry to our room, we’re on each other, ripping at clothing, scratching skin, mouths sealed in the heat of a moment which feels like it’s been building a lifetime.
He pins me behind the closed door, so that my skull knocks against the fire escape notice, but the crack only adds an extra dimension to the proceedings.
He’s slipping my coat off my shoulders and with it, my blouse which he’s already unbuttoned. My breasts are spilling out of my bra, my rapid breath jiggling them as they scream out for some attention. He pulls the lacy cup down, one strap slips over my shoulder and I spill free. He takes my fullness into his hand, massaging my creamy flesh. Warmth spreads into my loins.
And he’s still not let go of my mouth. He’s sucking my bottom lip, tangling with my tongue, then nibbling my lip. The crazy mix of sensations makes my head swim, unable to focus on anything except the dizzying effect this man has on my body.
The mood shifts. Suddenly, where this had been an equal arrangement, I’m put well and truly on the back foot. He stands back, walks to the bed, sits, “come and stand in front of me.” He instructs.
My groin tingles, and I’m thankful I’m still wearing my panties because they’re catching the exaggerated effect of my excitement.
“Undress.”
‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ my brain screams.
But my hands do as I’m told.
I unbutton my jeans and slip them down to my hips, release the zip and then roll them down to my knees, kicking them free. I unhook my bra, turn around – I actually turn around – remove the lace, and cross my hands over my breasts like I’m a pro at this. Turning with my hands still crossed, I ask, “Do you want to see what’s behind here, baby?”
His eyes are dark, hooded. He licks his lips. “Show me, lift your hands to the ceiling and hold them there.”
Fuck! OK!
My heavy breasts spill free as he spends a few seconds admiring his view from the bed. I just stand there, throbbing between my legs, begging for him to take me.
He stands, hooks both his thumbs in the side of my panties and rips them wide, so the flimsy material drops to my bare toes.
He doesn’t ask, doesn’t look, he just takes his hand and thrusts it between my wet thighs. I open them for him and his palm curves as he forces three fingers deep inside me.
This shouldn’t be pleasant.
I’m fully aware that I’m being abused here. He’s fully clothed and taking some kind of sick pleasure from me being compliant.
But I am too. What the fuck?
How did I end up being in this position and enjoying it?
He’s strong. He lifts me in the crook of his arm and throws me on the bed.
I star
e up at him from my position on my back, re-arranging my legs so he has a good line of sight from where he’s undressing at the foot of the mattress.
When he finally removes his slacks, he’s almost purple. His bulbous head throbs from the power of the blood pulsing around his body in response to me. He takes his time walking over, stands massaging his cock without touching me, just watching as he slides his hand up and down his length in long strokes.
“Cum for me.” He juts his chin forward. I know exactly what that means so, without a second’s hesitation, I take my wet pussy in my hands, split my lips wide with one hand, whilst I rub my bulging clit with my other.
“Oh, you’re amazing.” He groans as his hand moves quicker.
I slip my fingers where his had been moments earlier, my space wider than normal, spread by his eager groping. I slot three of my slimmer fingers inside easily and punch them against my g-spot, bucking my hips up as my other hand continues to rub my clit raw.
“Come on baby.” His hand slows just as his head slams back, his eyes screw up and he spends a few moments panting, re-gaining his composure. He pulled his orgasm back, but he’s throbbing.
“I’m close,” I whisper as a wave surges from my groin down to my toes, curling them into the dubious cover upon which my naked butt is lying. My head explodes as all my senses are alive with the power of this man and I let out a cry as I release.
He jumps on top of my limp body, shoves his fingers in to join mine, pulls them out, sucking my juices and then puts his face down there and drinks every part of me down as his tongue delves deep inside, his large hands parting my thighs.
My brain fizzes as his tongue connects with my clit, circling and sucking, sending my hips skyward, he clings on, not letting up on the ecstasy riding my body.
I go limp as he stops, pulls a sheath out of his pocket and struggles to slide it over his cock, the rubber catching half way down, only slipping lower with some serious persuasion from his right hand.
“You OK with this?” he asks.
I laugh. “I’d go crazy if you didn’t.”
His chuckle is low and dirty before he crams inside me, his butt tensing under my fingers as he forces his way deep, his hips jack hammering against the top of my legs. The internal pressure he’s forcing on me relieves all the stresses from the last few days, from this case, from the last few months. From life.
Mitchell
Mitchell sits in his small living space, alone for the first time all week. The sour smell is slowly filtering away from his barge, and he considers his next move. It’s kind of lonely without anyone else around. Much as he despises them.
The rain falls outside, connecting with the placid water with harsh splashes. He studies the ripples created and watches them disperse into nothing. Isn’t that what life is. Isn’t that all we are to life? A ripple of the effects of that life dispersing into nothingness, swallowed by the whole.
Well, he’ll be damned if he lets that happen to him. He has a point to prove, and nothing to lose in doing so.
He coughs. The cold is getting to his chest. It feels tight, like someone has strung an elastic band around his rib cage one time too many.
He needs to move on. He knows that much, but to where?
It’s like an addiction now. He has to kill one person a day. He’s starting to get twitchy, wondering where he can get his next victim. He had a woman lined up already, but he can’t get there on time now with his change of direction, and so, she’ll have to wait. He might be able to get back for her later, alternatively, she may just have had a lucky escape.
He’s headed towards Wakefield. That’s always a hive of activity any night of the week. If he plays his cards right, he should get lucky there tonight. That’s not the issue. The issue is making sure he’s choosing the right candidates. It wouldn’t do to take someone who isn’t deserving. Where’s the point in that, when he’s supposed to be cleaning the dregs out of society?
He taps ‘speed dating Wakefield’ into his phone then instantly regrets it. That was a rookie move. Now there’s a track of what he’s searched and his location will ping up for anyone who chooses to search it.
He clears his screen. He’ll have to go with the good old fashioned route of talking face to face to people.
The service has already started when Mitchell sneaks into the Church and takes a pew at the back of the old hall the group are using to host their meeting. That’s how he thinks of it, like a service, the congregation blindly following the voice of their leader, unable to think for themselves and see the fragmentation of reality.
“We should not let them overtake us, we are the better race. This is our country.” The tone is rallying. The middle aged, middle class woman is saluting her arm in the air as if she’s speaking to a loyal gathering of followers at a Church meeting.
Her congregation cheer, chanting, “We rule,” repeatedly.
It’s not like Mitchell doesn't appreciate their point. There is a very real part of him which has experienced the worst parts of the world's disharmony. He's fought at the front line in defence of the country about which they are getting hot and bothered under their collars.
But, and this is the critical difference for him, he fought against only those who were bad to their core. It's impossible for him to use a cover-all blanket phrase about different segments within civilisation, simply because they share one commonality.
This two-bit group of sadistic nutters, like many others around the UK and most other countries today, are using the defence of their country to call a meeting about how to grow a white supremacist network.
Now, after everything Mitchell’s seen and done, he can't see their value. And he despises the people who can, classing them as narrow-minded trouble causers doing more to destabilise society than the people against who they are fighting. After all, the terrorists would obtain only minimal power if there wasn’t an uprising in their defence.
Dealing with the terrorists is one thing, understanding the difference between terrorists and the normal man on the street trying to get on with their lives is entirely distinct.
Finally, the diatribe of shit is finished, and it’s time for everyone to take a drink down in the local pub. The collection of leather-clad skin-heads shouldn’t stand out too much from Mitchell’s old colleagues, but somehow, they do. He wonders if it isn’t the anger which emanates from this pool of algae in contrast to the humour which members of the Armed Forces use to distract from their appalling experiences.
He buys a beer whilst he ponders this and approaches the woman who was crowing at the front when he walked in.
“Fascinating talk. I really appreciated listening to your perspective.” He holds out a hand to shake hers. She flicks her long, grey hair behind an ear and smiles. Her teeth are crooked but at least she still has them all.
“I’m pleased to hear it. I’m Ruby. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
“No, I’m Jed, I’m new to the area, pleased to meet you.”
They go on to chat about how the world really does need eradicating of the ‘scum’, as she calls them, and her cronies hang on her every word.
He bets none of them have ever worked a real day in their sorry little lives. Nevertheless, he smiles and makes mindless small talk with them, whilst they brag about an Asian dentist they kneecapped last week.
He swallows bile, biding his time.
He’s betting in a few hours the barriers will be down and he’ll be able to suss out who he has a chance with and who, out of those, are the best suited to his treatment.
And he’s right. It turns out to be Mickey. At first he wasn’t sure if the slight man was a female. Mitchell is trying to get to the bottom of why he carries such hatred in his soul.
“So, why are you a member of this group?”
“I’ve just had enough of them. Nothing as such has happened to me, but you read it in the papers, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Mitchell is deliberately vague. Even though he
has to mix with these idiots for the purposes of what he has to achieve, it still makes him sick to his stomach to agree with their bigoted opinions.
“Taking over the place. We should send them all back, but the government is weak. They don’t know what they’re doing. Politicians are more interested in money and power than keeping this country clean.”
“Clean?” Mitchell can’t help himself.
“Yeah, filthy bastards.”
Mitchell is willing to bet that Mickey has never lived close enough to any of the communities he’s discussing to be in a position to comment with any amount of accuracy on their hygiene standards. Here’s the test.
“So, have you lived around them then, what makes you say that?”
“Well, everyone knows it don’t they. It’s common knowledge.”
“But you don’t know it from personal experience?”
“It’s as personal as it is anyone else when they live in your country.”
“OK.” Mitchell nods as though accepting and even agreeing to Mickey’s point. It’s time. “Don’t take this personally, Mickey, but I’m assuming you’re gay, am I right?”
His lips carve up into a half smile. “I am.”
“Good, so am I, so I just thought it best to check rather than making a total arse of myself.”
“Oh...” Mickey flushes and Mitchell resists the urge to kick him right between his legs for fun.
“Anyway, but didn’t you experience similar issues back in the day when we came out?”
He’s quiet. Thinking. At least he’s giving the point some consideration. There may be redemption for him yet. But then he speaks.
“No, it’s nothing of the sort. I was born this way. I don’t do anyone any harm. This foreign lot are killing all our people.”
“Hmm.” Mitchell wants to scream, ‘not all of them, just a few radicalised individuals like you lot.’ But he can’t, because then his cover will be blown, and his mission will fail.
