by Peter Ackers
NIGHT TRIP
Copyright 2013 Peter Ackers
all rights reserved
this is a work of fiction
NIGHT TRIP
"…LOOKING AT WEDDING DRESSES…"
A picture, they say, tells a thousand words. Well, video runs at a typical 24 frames per second. It was a twenty-six minute tape I watched that night. You do the math. No? Well allow me. 24 (frames) times 60 (seconds) times 26 (minutes) equals 37,400. Words, that is. That’s half a novel. That might take all day to read. That’s like someone stretching this fucking 26-minute story over a whole bloody day!
That bitch. That silly, evil little bitch thought I might have too many unanswered questions if she simply told me the story. It would take too long, she said. Day after day, back I’d come, trying to get her to explain this or that in more detail, elaborate on this piece or that segment. Much easier, she figured, to just show me the tape. The fucking tape she’d fucking made of her and my fucking friend fucking in his fucking bed!
What is it exactly that we so hate about a partner cheating? Is it the fact that it is cheating, and cheating is against the rules? Well, I caught my girlfriend cheating at Monopoly once, and she'd lied to me about why her brother was in prison - why didn’t those things bother me? A board game. Manslaughter instead of fraud. Big deal.
Is it the fact that by fucking my friend, she was effectively admitting that I don’t give her what she wants, or enough of it? No, she’s always telling me, in a joking manner, that she could kill me if she really unleashed her sexual hunger on me, could just milk me dry. If she was planning to make up for my flaws by bringing in another man, she would have told me, or asked me, beforehand. Not shown me afterwards. We would have worked through the problem.
Is it the fact that for that period when my friend was fucking away at her, I was out of her mind and he was all over it? That for that period he was the better man? The only man who mattered in her world?
Is it the fact that the wool had been pulled over my eyes? After all, they had their little secret, and they could, by way of smirks and winks, insult me behind my back.
You know, I just don’t know. I couldn’t figure exactly why it was that after watching that video, I felt nothing but rage and a spiralling urge to tear out his throat, his more than hers, for some reason. But hers too.
Back story bit: We’d travelled up to this little place in the middle of nowhere. A cottage by a river, set behind a row of shops on one side of a one-street village, closer to cows than cars. The road leading down to the cottage dipped sharply behind the houses, so that the river and the little bit of land the cottage had all to itself were towered over by the rear ends of homes high in a cliff. Anyone chucking rubbish out their windows up there would plaster it on the cottage’s roof, some ninety feet below. But that didn’t bother us, because the people here were nice and not the sort to lob crap out the windows. Besides, the cottage was owned by some local man who’d moved down south and now leased it out. Those who rented it were strangers to the village, people who could torch a few houses and cars before they left and probably never be found, if they’d given false names. So it wasn’t worth the risk of opening a window and flicking out old tampons or whatever. Not if there was a chance of waking at night with your bedsheets aflame.
Anyway, there we were. Hidden behind a cliff and some houses, wrapped in stone, next to a secluded river, where we were so absolutely alone. No family (we hadn’t even left them with a specific destination, and didn’t plan to answer our mobile phones). Time away from life; just me and her. And I'd had something planned, a gift of sorts - only she’d brought that bloody tape! Now, I didn’t know what was on it when she brought it into the living room, mind you. We’d just had dinner when she produced it. The village had a solitary pub, and we were planning to go over for a pint. I was letting my dinner settle, and she was going to go in the shower, beginning the lengthy logistical nightmare that is a woman’s preparation for a night on the town. She sat me down, produced the tape, and even poured me a glass of wine! Like she was settling me down for a nice movie. This is something you need to see before our relationship progresses, she had said earlier.
“We’ll talk about this afterwards,” she said now, so calmly, so fucking full of bullshit innocence. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was curious. I remember thinking I was going to see her filmed touring the shops with her mum, looking at wedding dresses. I got nervous. Was this some new way of proposing marriage? I could vision her in the shaky video as her mum stumbled about with the camera, as people do when their field of vision is suddenly restricted. Saw her point to and pick up and pose behind a variety of dresses as the woman behind the camera cooed and the saleswoman thought of her commission and said that every dress was “so you!”
Instead, there was my friend’s big round face, with that bloody straggly goatee beard that he thought made him look sophisticated, but which actually made him look like some twat who’d just been rescued from a desert island after three starving weeks. He was sneering at the camera in close-up.
“I think it’s on,” he said. “The red light’s on.”
“So’s mine,” said a voice I knew was my girl’s. And that was when I knew something was wrong. Something lurched in my guts, the way your stomach jolts when you go over a small hill in a car. The little black box was turning over and over in my impatient hands. My gift to my girl was inside. Guess the cheesiest, most embarrassing thing that could be inside at a time like this and you'd be right. Straight out of a soap opera, right?
My pal the fucking forklift driver. He stepped aside, and there she was. Short skirt of green, just above her knees. That tight white blouse I bought her a few weeks back. The outfit pricked a memory in my head. Suddenly I knew when this little film was set. The "forker” and his dad had been going to the cinema, and so had my girl and her mother, but as two separate groups that must have collided in the foyer or in the dark theatre. One dad, single; one mum, single. I don’t know if those two had fucked, too. Certainly they’d chatted, maybe flirted. Maybe they’d exchanged phone numbers after the film, perhaps arranged a nice dinner date or another film. Not like today’s youth, which was all cum and alcohol and isn’t-ROMANCE-the-name-for-people-from-Italy’s-capital-city? So mum and Dad had gone their separate ways, and here were my girl and the forker, in what I recognised was the forker’s bedroom. Well, maybe his dad’s room next door was also occupied by a couple about to get it on. Maybe there was a fucking video camera set up there, too. Maybe they were two units of the same bloody film crew, shooting concurrently to save time. Maybe they were in competition.
My girl yanked open her blouse, showing her red bra. I got the red light joke then. Yes, so funny. Bitch. The forker rushed over, planted one hand on each tit and pushed. She fell on the bed with a giggle. That giggle was more painful than seeing his fucking paws on tits that had become exclusively mine the moment she’d agreed to be my girlfriend (and agree she did - I asked her via text one day after our second date). Then she was on her back and they were snogging and fumbling, and just then I could hear the shower going upstairs. She’d had a shower after coming in that night, too. Guys, never trust a woman who comes in and goes straight for the shower. Guys, never trust a woman.
The forker got up, stood back, started to take his gear off. He did it slowly, piecemeal, and for each item of clothing he removed, she discarded an item too. Because she’d twisted her elbow shuffling cards (if you can believe that! She liked playing cards and mastering different shuffles), she wore an elbow support. There was a segment when she removed this cotton support in answer to the forker removing his jeans, and they both found this hilarious. That was one of the worst parts of the whole video. That bond they had, it was worse than the shagging they did, in ways.
The shagging was a one-off event, but that look they shared, that laughter they shared… That haunts me still.
Then they were on each other, naked, on top of the bed. Even though this was just foreplay at the minute, the bastard was making more noise than she was, groaning like a man in pain. They rolled around, touching, nibbling, stroking. She gave him a blowjob, and he lay on his back and grinned at the camera. He took her hair in his fist and forced her harder and faster, just like I used to do. She spat him out for a moment so she could answer his question of “Do you like that, baby?” with “I love it, baby.” For all the stinging that caused me, the bastard might as well have been with me in that room, stabbing me in the heart with a spike with each upward thrust into her mouth.
She asked if it was her turn for oral, and the bastard just winked at her and said, “Maybe later, babe.” I don’t know if I was glad he didn’t go down on her. Sure, to this day I’ve put my tongue in her and he hasn’t, but I know that bastard never goes down on his women because he doesn’t like it, so that’s where I get confused on the subject. I've done what he hasn't with her, but he still got his way with her, so…if you catch my train of thought…
He flipped her onto her knees and bounced round to her rear to stick his bastard dick in from behind. I could hear the wet slapping of his sweaty balls on her arse cheeks. At one point he grabbed a magazine and laid it open on her back, and they both laughed as he flipped the pages, reading and offering titbits like, “Buy one, get one free on shampoo at the mini-mart this week.”
After this base action, they settled into a slower routine and slipped under the blanket for soft and sensual lovemaking, which hit me like a fucking train. If I’d caught them doing that in real-life, I swear I know I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from killing them as they lay naked and aroused.
After the bastard shot his load in her, he turned her over and gave her a brief massage, all of fifteen seconds. His idea of being romantic, probably. Then he climbed out of the bed and came to the camera, to turn it off. I saw spunk dangling and flicking from his dick as it shook like a fleshy pendulum with each stride he made. Bastard. To think I’d put my tongue down in her since then. Right in where he’d unleashed. To think I’d kissed lips that had enveloped his dick.
I squeezed the little black box so hard it cracked. Inside was nestled a ring I'd bought for my girl. Not an engagement ring, just a "little something" for her. It could become something "more" later, I'd always thought. I wanted to kill him. Really. If my phone had beeped and a text message had informed me he’d just died, I would have been overjoyed. Of course, I couldn’t kill him because he was back home, a hundred miles away, and I was here in this little village. Alone.
Alone with her.
