If someone had told me six months ago this was how my short existence would end, I'd have said they were crazy. Yet here I am, hot, sitting alone in my underpants in a nondescript hotel room, half a bottle of my dad's bourbon drained on the bedside table and a full bottle of pills resting in my left hand, its label swimming in and out of focus.

It works on TV, but partway through the drink I realised they never show the details. I probably should have researched the correct way to do it. Pills first? Or drink first to line the stomach, then the pills followed by the remainder of the booze to make sure? Last thing I want to do is screw this up as well. That'd make me even more of a joke.

The more I think about it, the more I panic I'm going to end up puking before the pills have time to do their job. A knot forms in my stomach and I fear I'm going to throw up already. I pray I haven't overdone it.

My throat's dry. I attempt a swallow and it hurts. It's a different kind of pain to the incessant dread that has unravelled the seams of my life recently, but it makes me aware of my body. My mortality. I swallow again, mind made up. It has to be now. Lord knows I can't afford a second night in the hotel to try again tomorrow. Paper rounds aren't that lucrative.

With a shaking hand I pop the cap off the plastic bottle. The finality of the noise releases a sudden flash of all the things I'll be leaving behind. Classmates. A good report card. Miss Kavanagh's smile. Blinky the fish.

Shit.

Blinky.

I scrabble for my phone and open messenger. I want to type "Please feed Blinky and look after him" to my dad but my fingers won't cooperate. Predictive text struggles, then gives up trying to interpret my incoherent will, leaving a random stream of characters on the display.

Staring at the screen, I realise it's not a good idea anyway, even if I could get the words out. What if I get the message wrong and he worries and alerts someone and they triangulate my phone and swoop in the nick of time before I'm dead? Can they even do that, like they do on CSI?

I let the phone slip, tumbling to the clean bed sheets. Return my focus to the pills. Lift the bottle. The taunts echo around my head, from people I once called friends. Splutch. Splutch. Splutch. The stares. The sniggers. The teasing girls flashing their cleavages or knickers and laughing at my discomfort. My terror. A tear pricks my eye and I brush it away, steeling myself. Fuck that bitch, Trina. Former love of my life. Gossiping cow. Having my death on her conscience will teach her.

It'll show them all.

My cheeks water, stomach churns, head spins. I breathe in and upend the bottle.

The pills are acrid on my tongue and I try to swallow but there are too many. My throat's suddenly a clogged funnel. Saliva from nowhere rushes to help, only serving to break down the coatings, and my face screws up at the bitterness as I start to foam at the mouth, choking. I grapple for the drink, knocking it to the floor, its contents glugging onto the patterned carpet, spoiling its symmetry.

There's a sharp knock at the door and a muffled "Housekeeping."

I couldn't answer even if I wanted to.

The electronic latch disengages, the door opens and I'm vaguely aware of a shriek, then the bed deforming near my legs. Hands grab my shoulders and shake, lurching me forward like a ragdoll while a faraway voice seems urgent yet incoherent. The room spins again but this time it's not just in my head, it's because I’m being thrust face first to the side of the bed by the owner of the hands and voice.

Whoever it is, smells nice. A woman. She thumps my back, my head hanging over the edge and everything hurts. I can see the alcohol bottle on its side, my vision swimming further, stomach lurching. My cheeks drip saliva and foam that lands on the bourbon-infused carpet right before most of the contents of my stomach joins it, hundreds of dots of undigested tablets and froth floating in the gunk as I cough and wretch.

Hands stroke hair from my temple, but the black curtain flops back down, clinging to my damp forehead above deep brown eyes that just stare at the out-of-focus floor. I close them, drained. Confused. Maybe I pass out I'm not sure, but when I open them I'm propped up against the headboard.

My head pounds and I fight back more nausea. As the room steadies, I become aware of motion to my right. Woozily swinging my gaze down, I see a shape mopping and scrubbing the carpet.

I want to find words but can't form them. My brain tries to stop me – thinking hurts – but I persevere, managing to croak, "Sorry."

She looks up, a kindly expression. Soft and feminine, framed by a blonde bob. "You gave me quite a fright, young man."

"Sorry." My throat feels as if miniature cavalry are circling it and jabbing me with forks. I indicate the mess on the floor.

She waves my apology away. "Goodness me. Rather this than if I'd been two minutes later and found… well, I don't know. What were you thinking?"

I look away, ashamed. It all seemed so well-defined, so perfect. Fleeing the school gates leaving the taunts behind. Swiping the bottle from dad's cupboard. Collecting the pills from the medicine cabinet. Renting the room.

She blots the sizeable stain and squeezes it into a nearby mop bucket with gloved hands. "Listen, it's not my place, but if you want to talk about it, I'm not going anywhere until this is cleaned up." She flops the cloth back to the carpet and scrubs. "This is my last room of the day. We have all the time you need."

I notice the window is open as the net curtain flits. Birdsong drifts in from the trees beyond. Sounds like robins. "Thank you." I'm unsure if I'm addressing them or her.

She smiles. "You were lucky I ran out of towels earlier and came back with a fresh set."

My head pounds. She sprays some cleaner that fills the room with a strong citrus scent and lets the foam soak in, looking up at me from her knees. She has the most captivating blue eyes and a button nose with high cheekbones.

I open my mouth to speak but have no idea what to say. She waits and I just utter, "I'm thirsty."

Standing, she peels off the gloves and bustles to the bathroom, skirt and blouse swishing with her willow frame. I hear the water running and she returns with a red plastic tumbler. My hands are shaking so she helps me take sips and brushes my hair away from my eyes. She's soft. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe. You're kind." She smiles again. "Reminds me of the way Mum used to…" I can't bring myself to say any more.

"It's okay." She rests her hand on my forearm. "You don't have to tell me."

I take a deep breath as she helps me gulp more. My head is still pounding but the cavalry have backed off a little as the water slips down and fills my stomach. I focus on its motion then notice the fluttering. The heat that presages… oh, God. I pull away from her touch sharply and glare at the sheets, panic forming.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, sorry." I frantically search for something to take away the thoughts that have begun churning. Anything else. "Uhhh, Dad's doing his best but it's not the same."

"Is that what this is about?" She indicates the empty bottles on the desk across the room.

I shake my head and wish I hadn't. It hurts.

She strokes my temple again and I flush. "Won't your dad be worried?"

I swallow, battling to keep the heat in my belly at bay. Fighting my thoughts, I manage: "He works a lot more now. We don't talk much."

Her strokes, intended to calm, instead make my insides flicker. "Do you have anyone to talk to? Relatives? Friends at school?"

"They don't understand," I offer icily.

She offers more water and I accept, her proximity escalating my worry minute by minute but I can't push her away when she's being so kind. I tense.

"Is everything okay at school?"

I bite my lip and a tear forms. My voice is hollow. "Not really. Year twelve is-" I think a moment. "Intense."

The lady nods. "It is a big step up. My son said the same."

"Is he at Woodridge too?"

"No. Oasis, but he's in his first year of uni now."

Nodding hurts less. "I nearly went to Oasis, but Woodridge is closer." I sigh. "Maybe if I had, I wouldn't be here."

"Are the kids bullying you?"

"No," I shoot back. "Well, sort of. It's my own fault."

She soothes my temple again. I half wish she wouldn't, but her touch is so tender I want to burst. Her thumb brushes away a tear from my damp cheek and my spine tingles as she rests her hand on mine.

"How so?"

I feel the nervous energy bubbling. Not just talking about it but remembering why. "Trina told her friend and she blabbed and now… everyone knows and they laugh and point and call me..."

My lip trembles. I grab the phone, swipe open Trina's latest text, and let the woman sitting at the edge of my bed read it for herself.

Her gaze registers the on-screen ugliness, then her fingers pry the glowing slab from my grasp and place it carefully on the nightstand.

I twist my hand. Not because I don't want her to touch me but because it's happening again. My nervousness ramps up and I feel heat coursing my body, taking over.

"Let's forget about Trina for now." Her eyes follow mine to the considerable tent in my underwear. It protrudes almost obscenely, stretching the material in response to the slight gap in her blouse panel. "It's your version I want to hear. Go on. Please."

Her nearness engulfs both my mind and body. I try to speak but the sight of her eyes on my untimely bulge stills the words in my throat. I quake and a rush travels through me from scalp to toe then concentrates in my groin. I squeeze my eyes shut. Knowing I can't fight it is the worst part. Surrendering, mouth dropping open, sticky warmth pulses against the fabric as it turns translucent in hot blotches. Tears stream down my face and I draw my knees up, hugging them, embarrassed.

"It's okay," she soothes. "I think I know what you're trying to say."

I sniff. Want the bed to swallow me up. But I gulp a breath instead and try to calm. I wipe my eye with a thumb bitten to the quick. "I try to control it but I just can't. Sometimes I sit in class and all it takes is the mere thought of being with some girl and, boom, it's there and then minutes later I'm a mess. I have to take spare underpants to school like I'm some… I don't know," I sob into my knees.

"Hey, shhhh." She cradles my head. "Look, go and get showered. I brought those new towels up; might as well use them. I'll carry on cleaning the floor, then we can talk about it, okay?"

I swing my gaze up to those piercing eyes. She makes sense. I nod.

Gingerly scooching off the bed, I steady myself at its edge before attempting to rise. Using the nearby wall for support like a mime artist with a real prop, I make my way round to the bathroom.

Although it's a struggle, I operate the shower and start to feel vaguely human again as the steam rises and suds fizz off my body, spiralling to the plughole. Wrapping myself in one of the giant bath sheets the lady brought I waddle back into the room using the wall again.

Back on the safety of the bed, I settle as she scrubs more of the citrusy chemical into the floor to fix my mess. "I really am sorry."

She looks up. "I think it'll be fine, but I won't know for sure until it's dry. Believe me, it's not the first time I've had to clean up something similar." She sees my eyes widen. "Minus the pills of course."

She stands and peels off the gloves again. "Feel better?"

I nod. "A little."

"Good. I'm Saffron, by the way. Saffie."

"Oh. Edward. That's… that's a pretty name."

She rolls her eyes. "It wasn't fun growing up." Our pupils meet. "So, Edward. Do you want to talk?"

I honestly can't answer that and shrug.

Saffie tips her head the same angle as mine. "They say a problem shared is a problem halved." I say nothing. "Look, why don't I give you a lift home? My shift is over and odds are, you didn't drive. Am I right?"

I hadn't considered going home at all. I nod, shivering in my towel. "But I don't want to put you to any troub-"

"Please. I insist." She rises to collect her gloves and bucket. "I'll clock out and that will give you time to get dressed. No pressure, no questions... just a lift - promise. Sound like a plan?"

In the car, we sit there in silence, nothing but the hum of the engine and the passing landscapes as we drive into the early evening sunset that I nearly didn't see.

I stifle a sob at the thought of what Dad would have done if he'd come home to an empty house and found he'd lost his son as well as his wife, both under tragic circumstances. Tears well again and I wipe them away. Saffie puts her hand on mine as I blub, "I'm so selfish."

"Shhh, hey, no you're not. You're just unsure. Nobody knows how the world works at your age. Heck, I'm twice your age and I still don't know. It takes time. But that's what you need to give it. Time. You can't be jumping off cliffs or drowning your sorrows in pills and booze at the first sign of trouble."

I snivel. "I know, I know, sorry."

"No need to apologise." She releases my hand to grasp the gear stick. "When do you usually have dinner? You must be hungry."

"After nine. Dad seldom gets home before then."

"Then the least I can do is feed you first," Saffie asserts. The signal turns green and she returns her gaze to the road. My eyes have cleared enough to take in the flush arcing along her cheekbone toward the delicate lobe studded with a single pearl.

As I open my mouth to protest, she sweetens the deal. "I'll even send you back with a nice portion for your dad."

Over a simple but delicious meal, Saffie engages me in light conversation, head inclined with genuine interest. With each helping, she draws me out a little more to discuss my favourite courses and sports. When she shares an anecdote about her son, her pretty face glows with pride.

As she shows me into the lounge, her scented warmth envelops me. The tightness in my lap returns and Saffie notices.

I groan, frustrated. "What do I do about this problem?"

Letting me calm a moment, she ignites the gas fire, bathing the room in a flickering glow before perching on the adjacent sofa. She pats the seat alongside. "Well, first of all, let's not label it a problem."

"But it is!" I'm indignant. A colourful row of spines on the bookshelf behind her, mostly paperbacks, provide some needed distraction.

"No. It's a misunderstanding between your brain and body, that’s all."

Although I feel empty and broken, a spark of hope ignites in the void. "Really?" I ease onto the neighbouring seat she indicated, careful not to touch her.

She nods. "Like anything, it requires strength. Mind over matter."

"How?"

"Well, how often do you practice?"

I stare at her. "What do you mean?"

"Touch yourself. Masturbate."

My mouth falls open. "I can't do that. It's a sin."

Saffie seems amused but I've no idea why. Her face straightens. "Sorry." She clears her throat. "You really believe that, don't you?"

I nod. "It's dirty. Mum said..."

She reaches across and squeezes my hand, silencing me. "My mum said the very same thing." Her face lights with a reassuring grin. "And I know she meant well, just as I'm sure your mum wanted to do right by you.

"But I assure you it's natural. And important. If you don't know how to touch yourself, you won't know how to control yourself when someone else does. It took a while, but I had to learn that for myself."

"But… but…" my mind is spinning. "D… do you?"

She offers a sweet smile. "Of course. It's wonderful."

I look away, my mind unwittingly conjuring images of Saffie masturbating. How she'd act, what she'd look like, the sounds she'd make. I try to shake the imagery, triggering a barrage of conflicting thoughts that I attempt to process. How could Mum be wrong? How can Saffie defy faith? How can she openly admit to performing such a sinful act and enjoy it? The pillars of my worldview shake, before I realise it's me. I bunch the cushions in my hands.

The steady tick of an antique bracket clock on the mantelpiece begins to normalise my pulse. Photos, one of a tall blond man joyously embraced by a younger Saffie, the other of a cheerful sandy-haired teen who could be her son, flank the timepiece.

If Saffie – comforting, vibrant, seemingly well-adjusted Saffie – has overcome such a belief, perhaps I can too.

After the storm in my head quiets a little, I find her unwavering gaze. Then her attention drifts down to my tent. "Looks like you need to start sooner rather than later, Edward."

"W… what?!" My eyes widen. "Now?"

"There's no time like the present. And it's not like you've anything I've not seen before."

I tense. "I don't think I can."

"You'll be surprised what you can accomplish if you put your mind to it. And I can help."

My erection grows beneath the trousers and I bite my lip. My head still thumps as a tide of panic rises. I know where that leads. I can't embarrass myself twice in an evening.

Saffie's mellifluous tones filter through the tumbling thoughts. "You can do this. I believe in you." She pauses and brings her hand to my face, nudging my focus to her with gentle pressure from a fingertip. "If it makes you feel any better, I could touch myself too. So you're not alone."

I don't seem to have control of my senses. Mouth flaps open and closed. Mind scrambles to make sense of everything. The only thing that brings clarity is when Saffie removes her hand from mine, scooches down in the seat and wiggles her body side-to-side, drawing her charcoal skirt up to reveal inch after inch of creamy thigh.

My chest tightens and I hold my breath as her panties slither into view. Robin egg blue cotton. Her eyes find mine but I can't hold her gaze and drop to see her hand caress the material up and down. It's so exciting. Even more when she rolls the fabric down her legs to reveal her natural bush that she rubs to fluff up the hair that adorns her lips. Kyle Collins brought a porn mag into the common room recently and flashed the centrefold, but this is the first pussy I've seen in the flesh and it's captivating.

My underwear tents more and she whispers, "Your turn."

I'm frozen in place, heart pounding. Saffie must realise and tugs the zip down, gradually unwrapping me until my cock springs into the living room space. The cooler air makes me bob.

"There," she says. "Now just touch it."

I'm apprehensive and gaze into her eyes, seeking comfort that I find. Strength. Gradually I inch the fingers of my left hand over my thigh and make contact with my rigid flesh. I gasp at the touch and draw away.

Saffie smiles. "Good. I'm touching myself too." I check and it's true, three fingers stroking her pubic hair up and down the cleft. "So take it in your hand, make a fist and slide it up and down. Concentrate on the feeling."

"But I might, y'know."

She nods. "If you find yourself close, let go and think of something completely unrelated, or pinch the tip hard. Either will delay things."

"Really?"

"Trust me."

I tentatively reach for my knob. Can feel its heat as I approach to encase it in my grasp. I've washed it before of course but this is different. It feels wrong, yet the sensation as I move up and down at her encouragement is something else.

She smiles, stroking her pussy lips and dipping between them, first one finger, then two. "You like that?" I'm mesmerised by her fingertips that glisten in the firelight.

"Mmmm."

The fluttering begins in my belly and I sense a rising tide of panic. Saffie sees it and urges, "Squeeze the end. Reasonably hard."

I do, feeling a little pain, but it causes the sensation to begin subsiding. I even crack a nervous smile as relief floods in.

She grins. "See? You can control it."

"Wow. Thank you."

She waves off the compliment and continues to stroke herself. Her wet digits are circling the apex of her glimmering, hairy slit and I catch sight of her clitoris, proud of the surrounding folds.

A wave of doubt consumes me. "This is all well and good here. But what if I'm out and about or at school? It's different."

"Same principle. Find a way to arrange yourself so you're applying pressure to the end. Trap it in the waistband of your underwear. Bend over to tie your shoelaces. Anything."

It all makes sense. I am suddenly empowered. Although my head still pounds from the alcohol that could well have poisoned me, a huge weight lifts from around my body. The scampering hormones that would have turned into an instant orgasm gradually fade to a gentle throb throughout my system until I feel it safe to touch myself again.

Wrapping my cock, I dare to slide the foreskin fully back to reveal the head, shiny with a film of pre-come. Saffie nods.

"Explore. Experiment. Find what works for you. What things you think about that make it surge and what makes it subside."

Flashes of Saffie half-clothed in the privacy of her bed, hands slipping down her body, invade my thoughts again. This time, they are not repelled.

Blood swells into my cock, engorging in my palm. Saffie sighs and I see her looking at me as I take in her radiance, the way her mouth opens and closes at the touches she administers. She smiles, eyes far away.

"You have a beautiful cock, Edward. You'll make a girl very happy."

The excitement rises and I squeeze both the head and my eyes shut until the sensation passes.

Eventually I utter, "You really think so?"

Saffie breathes out. "Definitely."

Opening my eyes, I'm again mesmerised by her fingers circling then sliding inside her body. Pearly droplets of cream ooze from her lips that are now more splayed than earlier. "What do you think about, Saffie?"

Dimples flicker at the corners of her mouth. "This and that. My late husband. The way he touched me. The way he licked me down there like I was the only woman on Earth. That's such an exciting thought."

"People do that? Lick?"

She laughs. "Oh yes. Just wait until someone sucks your cock. It'll blow your mind."

I surge at the idea of a girl's tongue licking where my fingers are rubbing, so much so that I need to squeeze the tip yet again. "Wow."

I watch her touching herself. Her excitement seems in sync with mine. Every intake of breath makes me throb. Every little murmur and touch is like a jolt to my senses. I touch my cock, feel the firm shaft. Trace my fingertips up and down the skin covering the head, watching a droplet of liquid form at the tip. Welling heat rises so I clamp the bulb and wait. She watches me watching her.

"I like the way you look at me, Edward."

"You like being… revered?"

She smiles. "Who doesn't?"

I release the fleshy head and move down. My staff is veined and full in my hand. I slither back and forth, pulling the foreskin then gliding it back into place. I know I'm close but somehow it feels different. Having control makes me not fear the outcome.

Emboldened, I increase the tempo a little and gasp, rolling my face towards Saffie's gaze.

She's similarly lost in her own world. "Feels good doesn't it?"

I nod. She has one hand grazing, tapping and circling her clit, while the left is taking turns squeezing and pinching her breasts through the blouse. Her arm brushes mine. I can see the outline of her erect nipples and it makes my insides ache. She bites her lip and it looks so… so sexy. Better than I could ever have imagined it would. Our eyes are locked and I surge again, feeling the blood fill my organ. The head flares and another bead of liquid escapes to trickle down the shaft over my fist.

Adjusting my posture slightly, I grip my girth and masturbate harder. Her hips are rolling alongside my resting hand as she embraces her bliss. I realise with sudden clarity that my mental focus has altered. Instead of being locked in my head, struggling and fighting what I perceive as the inevitable outcome, I'm relaxed watching Saffie's joy elevate from such close quarters.

The faint clicking of her wetness beneath her fingertips is electric. I rove her body and find her staring at my shaft being tugged before she glides her gaze up to meet me. She's right. Being revered does feel wonderful. I glow inside, my body starting to quiver, that familiar feeling of completion bubbling in my loins.

She must sense it. Her breath catches in her throat, little gasps turning to a sustained moan as the motion of her fingers in and around her dripping bush intensifies. Her eyes hold me in their tractor beam as they widen. She mouths, "Gonna come," and I feel the tremor just before her free hand lands atop mine in the small gap between us.

Our fingers lace as her body convulses, hand digging between her clamped thighs, mouth falling fully open. She groans, eyes fluttering shut momentarily.

Something about the heat and pressure of her hand on my own goads me further toward the edge. I can no longer hold back but it's not like any time before. It's because I want it to happen and the joy I feel is beyond anything I thought possible. My hand moves fast, cockhead a blur as I jerk without refinement and the heat takes over, jet after jet of milky fluid firing from the pulsing head. I'm aware of globs of hot come peppering my abdomen and sexy, deep sighs emanating from Saffie alongside me.

I don't think I've ever felt so enriched. As the spasms engulf my body, headache temporarily forgotten, I'm lost in her eyes and the ecstasy displayed within them as her chest heaves and she goes rigid.

I'm awestruck, almost in some kind of suspended animation as the final spurts launch and then wane, my gaze unwavering, drinking in her frozen, raw beauty and glow. Her orgasm seems to take longer to abate than mine, cheeks flushed. The contentment she displays is enthralling. I watch her taut frame quivering before she goes limp, rolls her face my way and lets out a long breath that tickles my cheek as it passes.

We just sit like that, nothing but our breathing patterns gradually returning to normal. With a contented sigh, Saffie lets go of my hand, plucks her fingers from between her thighs and looks down. She giggles and I follow her gaze. A single thin stripe of my come laces her upper thigh, pointing at her pussy. She scoops it up and wipes it on my exposed leg. "I believe this is yours."

I turn red but say nothing.

She brings her hand to my face and offers a sweet smile. I can smell her arousal as she brushes the hair away from where it has fallen to cover one eye.

"How was that?"

I breathe out. "Incredible. I never knew…"

I can't finish, lost in her broad smile. "Good. Hold still a moment."

Pulling away, she wriggles her knickers up and skirt down then scampers off the sofa. She returns from the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper and throws it in my direction. I clean up as many gobs of sticky come as I can, my dick withering to its resting state, the low thump of my headache beginning to surface again.

Saffie regards me. "You going to be okay now?"

I nod emphatically. "Thank you."

She waves it off. "No more stupid stunts like earlier?"

I take a deep breath. "No."

"Think you can handle the kids at school?"

"Now I know I can conquer this… yes."

She beams. "I should get you home now." She nods at the clock. I look at the younger Saffie and her husband once more. This time, their embrace somehow feels as if it includes me.

The ride back is silent. Contemplative. Tumultuous thoughts interspersed with hope. As Saffie slows to drop me at the corner of my street, I turn to face her. "Thank you... for everything."

"I'm really glad I could help." She pauses then smiles. "Get back to your dad and give him an extra special hug. Spend some time together. You need each other."

For the umpteenth time, a tear threatens to surface and I nod, turning away to the branches latticing the benevolent, starry sky overhead, then release the door catch and step out.

After the car disappears around the corner, I turn toward home. I warm Saffie's portion for Dad in the oven, calm spreading through my entire body as I sit at the kitchen table and watch the meal begin to bubble at the edges. Her physical presence might be gone, but I'm confident her spirit will bubble just the same, lingering in my head and heart, giving me the strength to face the challenges of each new day forward.