Number Six
If moods were colours there were only blue days now, or black ones. Mondays were Bethan’s least favourite, but then she had to join a very long queue indeed on that one. The relative relief of the weekend had flashed by to leave another exhausting, spirit-crushing drag through to the next. In truth the weekends were not much better than the other days, although for the sake of her sanity she had to keep that realisation at bay. This Friday was at least Girl’s Night, although it was more the getting out of the house she looked forward to, rather than the content of the evening.
The roots of her inferiority complex were hard to fathom. She couldn’t actually remember any of her neighbours putting her down, or laughing at her, or indeed being anything other than kind. Maybe it was done through subtle looks. Whatever, she felt dumb beside them - dumb enough not to try and defeat her shyness by adding much to the conversations. They all worked or had qualifications. She did not. They all seemed to have views on politics or world events, or watched more high-brow TV programs and films than she did. They knew things, particularly what was going on in each other’s lives - apart from her life, obviously. She was the outsider. They had memories to draw from, funny stories from their past before motherhood and all this. It wasn’t just that Bethan had lived at least eight years less than the rest of them. She would never have such memories because all she had ever really known was the life she had now.
The routine couldn’t be done on autopilot. Some drama would occur or one of her daughters would act up to remind her that it was anything other than simple. Each new thing jarred at her now. She couldn’t just absorb it and let it wash over her. Everything began to count against her spirit. She loved her girls and they were her light, but it was also they that drove her to distraction. It wasn’t their fault. She had brought them into the world and it was her job to look after them. She just needed some respite. If school and nursery helped she still always had the youngest. Her mum came to the rescue for sure, but it only gave her time to do the other endless chores that made up her domestic responsibilities. Getting away from it all would be nice but she had nowhere to go, no one to go with. Holidays with her husband were just her looking after the kids in hotter conditions. She had come to the village from outside and knew no one here. She hadn’t made friends, unless the neighbours counted as such, although she never found herself invited round to their houses, mixing in twos or threes as they did, chatting over coffees.
Once upon a time she had been queen of all, although this seemed like a lifetime away. At school she had been the prettiest girl in the class, some might argue in the whole year. She had the looks to scorn numerous randy suitors and wait for the big prize, and finally she landed him. Back then she said he was the one she wanted to marry, and she got her wish. They both left school aged sixteen, having been a couple for six months. She had a succession of jobs in shops. He worked for his dad, learning carpentry, getting a trade. By the time he was eighteen he was earning far more than his peers. He was handsome and flash and she loved him. Pregnancy at age eighteen meant bringing the wedding forward. She walked down the aisle with a little bump showing and he couldn’t have been more proud.
He was so looking forward to her bearing their son. All he talked about was how he would teach him sports, take him to the games, or spend weekends playing video games. The baby was born physically perfect in every single way, other than the one omission that dad hadn’t banked on: it had no penis. In all his excitement he had never even really considered siring a girl, and Bethan hadn’t helped by constantly telling him it ‘felt like a boy’ even if she had no such inkling. Never mind, he didn’t hold it against this bonny little thing. He didn’t even seem to mind that Bethan wasn’t able to shift the weight she had gained during pregnancy. Everything was still apparently fine in that department. He was climbing back on top of her before she had barely had a chance to adjust to her new role of motherhood.
Baby two followed soon enough: another girl. This time his disappointment was a little more evident although still it wasn’t transferred to the child. He loved his girls. He just didn’t share as much of his time with them as he might if they were boys. The weight Bethan hadn’t lost stayed on, with more added. She wasn’t fat but she was a little more than chubby now. The fleshy bits he used to adore got less attention. He wasn’t quite so keen to climb back on this time. He gave her an extra year to recover, before the hankering for a boy child got the better of him. At age 23 she had her third child, another girl. He had been lurking outside the delivery suite like some modern-day Henry VIII, waiting for the verdict, and just like that Tudor tyrant he seemed at that moment to deem his queen a failure. He smiled sure enough, but the delight wasn’t in his eyes. He pretty much told her to have the op to ensure no more kids would come along, as if he had given up on her. Perhaps he couldn’t take the heartbreak of another disappointment. Perhaps he had plans to look elsewhere for a provider of the son he wanted.
He lapsed into what was essentially a part-time father, a parent when it suited him. Ostensibly he was loving and caring, but in reality she brought the kids up while he went off to work, and then at weekends he would grace the family with a little of his time and the girls would love him for it. Bethan would just go round like a creeping grey shadow, feeding and cleaning up after everybody, the joy slowly leaching away. She felt trapped and leant upon, with no escape on the horizon. Worse still, he didn’t find her attractive any more, and he let her know it. She had put on too much weight and efforts would only shift some of it. Basically, he told her in his off-hand way, if she could become pencil thin again - which actually she never had been - then he might be able to bring himself to get it up long enough to climb aboard.
It wasn’t going to happen. She had no time in which to do it for a start. Her body rejected any attempts. It was as if she was doing it on purpose and his revenge was to turn cold on her. He didn’t do it angrily. He didn’t show hatred. He just showed indifference. While she was looking after the girls he was happy to let her get on with it, and he would intervene as little as possible. However, she knew well enough that his eyes would be open for other opportunities. He loved himself too much to believe he shouldn’t have it all. She could have borne everything if she thought that he still wanted her but those days, it seemed, had now gone. All she could do was cling on and hope that the inevitable didn’t happen. All she could do was sink, slowly and inexorably, feeling each day weighing upon her heavier than the last. Maybe she should have grasped the mettle and shaken herself free, found time for herself, made proper friends with the other mums in the street. Unfortunately the weight of her low mood gave only introspection and inertia. On so many days she felt simply lost, with no prospect of finding an end to it, other than one she made for herself.
The commotion outside brought her to her window. The removal van blocked out most of the light coming in. All she could see were glimpses of men humping boxes off the van and then reappearing briefly before going inside her new neighbour’s property. Maybe this was a chance to make a friend. It was bound to be another family, hopefully younger than most in the street, although these houses were generally too expensive for first-time buyers. Already she could feel the trepidation in her belly, the shrinking from the ordeal of having to make that initial contact. She knew the chance would pass her by. The others would be in there quickly and claim the newcomers as their friends, and she would remain in her own quiet purgatory.
It was only when she heard a familiar laugh that she looked out again. She could just about see Nesta but not who she was talking to. Whoever it was they were having an effect, because the redhead from Number Four was giggling away and looking a little flushed of face. The body language was clear even though the view was partially blocked. Nesta was very much taken by this newcomer. Bethan went upstairs to her eldest’s bedroom. From there she had a clear view past the van down to the couple chatting outside, only obscured by the remov
al guys taking furniture off the lorry. She pressed herself flat to the wall so that she could spy through the blinds unnoticed. She could see him clearly. As soon as she did the shiver swept through her and her stomach lurched. She slapped her hand to her mouth to catch the gasp. The goose bumps rose swiftly on her arms and legs. Her hair felt like it was standing on end.
This was a very particular feeling, one she had not experienced for some time. The last time had been in the church crypt, following her youngest girl’s christening. Before that it had been in the lobby of the ancient creeper-clad hotel they stayed at for her brother-in-law’s wedding. There were a number of times down the years, and she knew what the feeling meant. She had long known she had a connection with things paranormal. From her earliest recollections she had been interested in ghosts and ghoulies, as if born with the fascination. Any book she read was a spine-chiller or a horror story. Whilst the girls in the street were all religiously watching True Detective she was glued to some obscure channel showing camera footage from supposedly haunted houses. Vampires had become almost an obsession with her, especially since, according to film and TV, the undead were so much better looking these days.
The more she watched or read or fantasised about the paranormal in general and bloodsuckers in particular, the more she believed her interest was spawned by her unique connection with the Other Side. Particularly during her darker moods she saw it as some kind of calling. She didn’t know why she had this ability, or what to do with it, she only knew she saw or felt things when others did not. Once, over ten years ago now, she had greeted an old lady on a street corner only to be labelled mad by the friend she was with, who had not seen anyone there at all, even though it had been broad daylight.
This man most certainly was there because he was making Nesta blush and giggle and chew upon her bottom lip. Whatever the ghostly truth, he seemed from all outward appearances to be very solid, very much alive, and handsome enough to make, well, to make your stomach flip, your hair stand on end, and your whole body shiver. OK, she had to admit, this feeling was not dissimilar to the one she had when her now husband had first kissed or, and when he had gone down on one knee to propose. It wasn’t that dissimilar to those she had when a particularly nice-looking actor bit into the neck of a young beauty on the TV screen.
It was more intense though, way more. This guy might have looked uncannily like one of those she imagined during her ruder fantasies, the ones she pictured coming through her bedroom window at night, the ones who ripped her gown clean off just by sucking in their breath, who grew their fingernails and teeth and their huge demon pricks before sinking all into her defenceless body. However much she might have mistaken him for exactly one of those fantasy figures that kept her going when everything else was so dark, her body could not possibly have had such a reaction unless there was something more to it and to him. He couldn’t simply be human. For years she suspected something would come along to give sense to her rare ability. This had to be it.
The flutter wouldn’t go from inside. She sank to her knees, too weak-legged to stand, spying now from the bottom corner of the window, almost too nervy to watch but far too compelled not to. Nesta had now been joined by Eva from Number Three, who was smiling wolfishly and sticking her chest out at him rather a lot for a lesbian. Clearly the super-confident biker girl couldn’t see the danger. What would it be to stand in front of him? Would he instantly know that she could sense more than others? Would he have to act instantly against her? Here he looked totally in control, not drawn in by Eva, who so liked to have everyone in the palm of her hand. Image him in your hand, or in your mouth.
She saw Nesta abruptly turn and hurry from the group, her face red, her expression one of shock. He wouldn’t have seen it but Bethan could. He didn’t look to have said anything much, certainly nothing that could have caused such consternation. So what made the usually calm and collected Nesta make such a flustered exit? Still Eva was immune to it all, but he stood firm against her. He smiled but didn’t melt. The eyes refused to soften, staying wary. In the end Eva gave up her efforts and turned away to leave. She left with the smile still on her face, although not as wide as when she had first approached. He watched her go, his face serious.
Then suddenly he was looking straight up at Bethan. She hadn’t even seen his head turn. He surely couldn’t see her hidden as she was but his eyes had unmistakeably locked upon her own. For seconds he held her there, freezing her to the spot, catching her in her act of spying. His face was still serious, the mouth tight closed, the eyes intense. She dragged herself away from the wall, whimpering from the shock, crawling away on all fours, her head spinning. To have caught her looking was bad enough, but to catch her doing it so surreptitiously magnified her humiliation ten-fold. How could she face seeing him now?
She would have to hide from him but he was on to her. As sure as she had sensed a darker, perhaps even an inhuman side to him, he had sensed her watching. There had to be more to him than met the eye, it surely couldn’t just be wishful thinking? She knew even as she lay scrunched up on the floor that her troubled, fragile mind could be driven over the edge by this, by the faintest hope amongst all the forlorn reality that her fantasies carried some truth after all. Sanity relied on her shaking herself back and not thinking on it, yet she knew she would struggle in vain to keep him from her dreams that night. He would come through her window while she lay defenceless. Her body would magically be as smooth and as firm as it was when she was eighteen and it would not repulse him. Instead he would instantly tear into her with devastating passion. Whilst her blood flowed, his scintillating prick would stretch her open and fill her, and then he would fuck her into oblivion.
Number Three
The deep throb brought Eva to her front window. She arrived just in time to see the motorcyclist moving slowly along the bottom end of the close and then turning into the new guy’s drive to stop behind his BMW. The rider was all in black, a black mirrored visor on an expensive lid. He was in tight-fitting racing leathers that made him dismount and stand stiffly, like some black knight in full armour. His steed was an all-black angular monster, with low, stealth-style fairing, a fat rear wheel and a massive chrome front disk brake. The pointed back end was high to keep the rider down in the racing position, a stark contrast to her Harley. Hers was all about laid-back cool, about looking and sounding supreme. This bike was all about untameable power and death-threatening acceleration.
The only non-black bit of the bodywork was a line of silver writing on the petrol tank. It was indistinguishable from her window but she knew her bikes and already knew what it said: Ninja. This was a Kawasaki ZX10-R. It was on an ’09 plate, thus making it a few years old. The simple fact that it was in pristine condition and the rider was still alive was proof enough that he could handle it. Very many could not. This version was more manageable than the original ’04 model, which used to throw show-off or unwary riders like some kind of maniac motorised bucking bronco. Even with the slightly refined handling the back end of this one could snake and kick viciously if you didn’t know what you were doing. Lay down the power too soon out of a tight country bend and you would be sitting in a field before you could blink. From a standing start, in the time it took you to count one-and-two-and-three-and-four, you would already be breaking the national speed limit. In five seconds your speed would be in triple figures. People who rode these were self-confident, fearless, and maybe a little bit in love with destruction.
The rider somehow managed to bend his leather-constricted arm enough to unzip his jacket, revealing a plain, crisply white T-shirt beneath. The strap on his helmet was next and then the lid was coming off, giving a slow reveal of dark hair with a touch of grey in it, thick and just about reaching the bottom of the neck. The style was a little more unkempt than when she had first seen it, but that was “helmet hair” for you. She felt the grin spreading wide across her face and her thighs pressing together in recognition of
the tingle between them. It was as she hoped. The rider was Hunter. She already admired his Beemer, which stood for pace, luxury, refinement and reserved sophistication, but it also said “safe”. The bike though, that beastly black death-machine, all that said was “danger”.
This pretty much sealed the deal. She had been almost sure she was going to fuck him the moment she saw him. You don’t ignore lush looks like his when they are on your doorstep. She thought she had sensed an edge to him that first day, along with obvious self-assurance, but she hadn’t banked on him being quite as wild as his bike suggested. It was an exciting insight on his true character. Perhaps she should go down there and suck him off right now, right there on his drive. That would give the other girls in the street something interesting to talk about for once.
She already knew his cock would be big - she had put a lot of thought into it. You could tell just from his quiet assurance that it had to be. Not massive and unmanageable, just nice and thick, a good length, a little longer than the average. The girth would be almost the same all the way down, tapering only slightly towards the tip. When erect it would be smooth and as hard as anything you had ever felt, like a girder. That would be the thing about it that always made you tremble. It would be like holding something lethal. It would be like you imagined the cock on the very latest Terminator variant to be. When you held it you would feel the warmth and the pulse of the blood, although the veins wouldn’t bulge and spoil the silky feel, the skin seeming so tight and gossamer-thin over the muscle. Wow, yes, perhaps she had better go straight down there and get that thing inside her.
The only negative point was that he was single, a fact she had ascertained once that nosey ginger bitch Nesta had finally got the message and left the two of them alone that day he moved in. Eva didn’t so much like single men. There was a reason they were single, for a start, and she didn’t want to find out what it was. They were clingy too, always wanting more: for you to fall in love with them. She definitely couldn’t be bothered with that. It seemed no matter how much one thought they were after no-strings sex, once they had experienced her looks, her body and her dirtiness, they always wanted more. First it was another date. Then came the endless unwanted texts. Then, when these were ignored, the skulking around her place of work to “accidentally” bump into her started. Next thing you knew, the apparently self-confessed bachelor for life was under your bedroom window with a lute, serenading you.
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