Prologue: Neely’s Shower-time Prayer
Hi Lord. How’s today? I know, I know, stupid question. Drop in the ocean of eternity and all that. Bear with me, I’m pre-caffeine. Ooh yes, that fair-trade Javanese is still unopened. Totally delicious and ethical too. Shame it cost around half my weekly wage, but it tastes all the better for that—so count your blessings, right?
Blessings like hot showers on way-too-early mornings. Especially when the jets hit … right between your shoulder blades. Oh my. Heaven is hot showers and perked coffee. Or something very similar.
Gosh, note to self, don’t use up all the water. Jasmine’s not showered yet.
Okay, other things for which to be grateful … Thanks that Dad’s recovering so well. Bypass surgery sounded so drastic. All that waiting. I’m just glad he got through it. Of course it’d be good if Mum wasn’t still fretting twenty-four/seven—she’s probably driving the poor love insane. Give him the fortitude to endure, oh Lord, and keep him away from the frying pan or I’ll go home and slap him silly.
You know I felt so bad leaving, but I’ve got responsibilities here. And I’m sure Layla has it covered when she’s not looking after the kids. She’s good at multitasking, she’ll keep an eye on Dad. And I’ll do some phone-bullying later, make sure he’s sticking to his regime. I’ll call him straight after the meeting.
Meeting … Heavens, Lord, two years at Alton Bridge! Thanks for the opportunity and for the youngsters. For the chance to be some kind of positive influence in their lives. I am a positive influence, right? Most of the time. Okay, I wish not quite so many of them knew about the Brian business, because it’s nothing short of embarrassing.
Yes, I hear you, Lord. My stupid. Why I ever thought he and I were a good idea … I mean it’s not like it was immoral, well not much. Just colossally ill-advised! Hardly a fine example of a mature Christian relationship.
Remember when I thought being a Christian would simply flow into love? When I was that naïve? Course you do. Love and fulfilment, leading smoothly to marriage and delicious sex. Steady, girl, no further mention of ‘delicious sex’—not when I’m soaping down there. No mention of it, full-stop. Sorry, Lord. Anyway, I’ve got my friends, my job. You. What more could a girl want? I don’t need some guy to complete my world, I’m not Bridget bloody Jones. Pardon the French.
Right, enough with the luxury sponging. Rinse off and get my ass to the day job.
Jaz still hasn’t come knocking. That girl isn’t even out of bed yet! We’ll both be late with no one else to open up. Care to give her a shake? No? Okay, I’ll have to dry off and do it myself.
Later, Lord.
Oh, and I realize it’s not how things work, but if you care to casually fling an amazing, spiritually evolved and well-presented guy my direction … I know, I know. I’ll shut up. Bye.
****
15/05/10 20:47 GMT
You know, Carlotta, there’s a point in the debauching of any young woman beyond which it’s never as much fun as before. At least that’s my experience. (You, I scarcely need add, were a delightful exception.)
I reached the optimum point this weekend with young Katie. The thought occurred when the hot little thing was on her knees in a college shower room sucking greedily on my cock, the evening spiralling into naked hedonism around us: this is as fucking sweet as it gets and it’ll never attain these heights again. The real sport ended for me that night, once Katie had become the focal point of that student dorm-room orgy.
My seduction and exploitation of the girl had a specific motivation, of course, she being younger sister to the most irritating newspaper sub-editor with whom I’ve had the misfortune of working. These days when he gets on my case about a deadline or the validity of my sources, the memories of my cock ploughing his sweet little sister make his patronising vacuity easier to deal with. Divesting Miss Katherine of what virtue she still possessed has been doubly pleasurable. The weekend past was all about finishing the job.
Having taken her from a slow introductory fuck through progressively strenuous deep-cunt exploration, it was time to open out her sexual experience. Pass her on for others’ entertainment. Once a naughty bitch’s morality has been totally undermined, it’s selfish to hoard her, right? So when I discovered that Lawrence, younger brother of a colleague on the Bristol Inquirer, resides in the university’s most notorious hall of residence and that he’s a prime player in said hall’s revelry, it was simple to acquaint myself with him and get invited to Friday night’s celebrations. With Katie as my pass and her ruination as my object.
She’s been tiptoeing around the shallows of the student party scene but Friday night, you’ll be glad to read, saw her total immersion. With her handsome older boyfriend’s encouragement (mine, that is) she was matching the other girls' drink for drink at the Students’ Union bar. It culminated in tequila body shots with Sally, Lawrence’s dynamo of a girlfriend. Very nice to watch, and a beery group of male engineering students agreed. Then back to the halls we went for the traditional after-pub festivities. A shaken can of Stella Artois saw our party girls enveloped in a beer fountain and it took minimal persuasion to get them in a communal shower stall together.
Call me sentimental, but there are few sights more affecting than two petite naked blond girls sucking each other’s face as water jets explode off their entwined bodies. Drunken lesbo posturing on Katie’s part, but only to begin with; she was really getting in touch with her bi-side along with Sally’s slim sculpted contours as it progressed. Nor did she resist, however much her surprise, when Sally’s crafty fingers went slip-sliding into her cunt. Not even with the shower curtains ripped aside and an accumulation of rowdy students ogling. Katie, it turns out, enjoys putting on a show for admiring male eyes.
She’s not averse to sucking cock in public either, her own boyfriend’s or someone else’s. Lawrence and I were stripped off in a trice once we found our respective squeezes lip-locked in the buff, and it wasn’t long before this blond slut duo was on its knees, slurping with gusto on hard dick. They proved interchangeable, the little wet bitches, Sally going to work on my length while my dear sweet Katie blew a guy to whom she’d been introduced three hours prior. Each girl reached diagonally to wank her own guy’s pole, as a sop to loyalty. But frankly, any cock would have done for my sweet supple date by this stage.
I took my own satisfaction urgently, in the knowledge that Katie would soon be sacrificed to wider male (and possibly female) enjoyment. Knowing that her hole would soon be mine no longer, it was bittersweet to have her bent over, braced against the white porcelain shower entrance; one hand was firm on the curve of her lower back and the other fast on her neck, my cock on a hard rampage in and out of her cunt’s squeezing tunnel. How she mewled and yowled, oblivious to all the feckless students cheering my efforts and her abasement.
The frat-boy spirit of the American College has, it seems, infected our own fine campuses; mindless lager-fuelled decadence was rife, as the guys cheered my reaming of the hot shower-fresh bitch (and the simultaneous efforts of young Lawrence let it be said, as he bounced the nubile Sally on his dick, the two of them lodged in a flung-open toilet cubicle). In that moment, I felt at one with these seemingly moronic wastes-of-University-space; we had all abandoned civilised behaviour in the name of Bacchanalian excess and of sex with no meaning outside its own hard nasty enjoyment.
While these guys would scarcely be my chosen companions on a regular night, there was a sense of camaraderie that I relished, as my loins pummelled Katie’s firm ass and they exhorted me to ever greater exertions. This was something I had missed in my own student days (I guess I focused on actually crafting a career-foundation) and it was strangely satisfying to put on a display and show these callow youths how it’s done. Put on the sort of committed performance a football team would expect of their captain; after all, they’d be on this particular ball themselves before the evening was through. So I groped those firm wet suspended tits and made sure Katie’s public shafting was a damn good one.
And since, Carlotta, I know you like graphic description over sex-philosophy, let me linger on the next part. That’s the part where I put her on hands and knees on the toilet floor and made her lick Lawrence’s balls, even as Sally rode his pole, all the while persisting in my committed rear-banging. A slut, my dear, is born. Time to capitalise.
So once the ultra-petite Sally had come all over her boyfriend’s cock, we all got involved in Katie’s moral undoing. I have particularly intense memories of setting the girl’s skinny ass down on a white-tiled ledge and powering away between her forked thighs with her shower-buddy pressing her mouth and tits into her from the side, while Lawrence stuffed fingers into her mouth and rear-fucked his own girl. Bitch-in-training Katie came till she cried. Pretty damn amazing, even by my standards.
I shot the kind of smothering load all over her scrunched-up face I’m sure you would expect of me, this time with the added bonus that her new best friend Sally licked it all off. Then Lawrence and I high-fived (wasn’t I the college-dude par excellence that night?) and I showered down in preparation for leaving. Katie looked slightly confused when she saw me fully dressed prior to my departure, but by that time she was already riding one anonymous college-boy cock while sucking another, so it hardly mattered. My work there was done, cue evil laugh.
Yet here’s the rub. Exciting though this sleazy experience was, the ease with which Katie was drawn into the mayhem diluted the thrill. There was pleasure in the taking, don’t get me wrong, and that final night’s debauching was a fitting culmination. But while I could enjoy more Katie if I wanted, I’ve already had the best of her.
God, Carlotta—that sounds so jaded. Whatever happened to revelling in pure physical pleasure? That used to be enough for me. Should I be concerned?
Ray.
17/05/10 00:06 PST
Well, Ray, much as I enjoy salacious descriptions of you banging your conquests, I can’t help but feel you’re treading water. Having read your lurid account of debauching the college girl, the phrase ‘fish in a barrel’ springs to mind. It was only a matter of time before your Katie-slut realized her penchant for dirty submissive sex; a few short weeks and she was prepped for a full-on college-hall orgy. God, Ray, it would clearly have happened without your interference, so it’s hardly a significant notch on your exquisitely chiselled bedpost. I mean if it gets you through your working day, or helps you recapture your lost college years or whatever, good luck to you. But really, the whole episode smacks of laziness. Worth getting off to, but laziness nonetheless.
Believe it or not, Ray, there are women out there with minds of their own and self-respect to test your seduction skills. You need to find one and up your game. If you want to hang onto my interest, it’s time to start denying yourself the college tramps—denying yourself all carnal enjoyment for the short term if that is what it takes—in order to focus on something fresh. Something that’s a challenge.
Look, Ray, I have pleasant memories of you as passably interesting and a better-than-average fuck, but your complacency isn’t warranted. A debaucher is only as good as his latest conquest, and you have something to prove right now. So get out there and get looking. And don’t mail me till you’ve found her.
Carlotta.
PS I was debauched long before you ever met me, so don’t fucking flatter yourself.
****
Neely Jordan liked working in Lemongrass organic café. Some of her friends from church might do well to work there too, she thought. Get out of that unspotted environment. Immerse themselves in real life for a shift or two and serve cappuccinos to bohemian types with a whole other worldview. Maybe chat with the occasional agnostic. Problem was, if that happened, church members would start frequenting as customers too and the place would be populated by people from her day job. And that would be a tad claustrophobic.
An unworthy thought? She scooped a table’s detritus onto her tray and carried it to the café kitchen. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her brothers and sisters in Christ. But if she hadn’t ventured beyond church circles, what earthly good would she be doing? Salt and light was what they were meant to be, so Pastor Simmons insisted every Sunday. Adding flavour and illumination to contemporary culture. She’d never have the chance were it not for Lemongrass. Nor would she have befriended someone as cheerfully irreverent as Jasmine.
“GV, did the window-table guy get his mango smoothie?”
Neely glanced at her fellow waitress in wry amusement. Jasmine’s hair was a glossy skein of black, the tanned complexion bestowed by her Thai mother without flaw. Her body was slinky like she had been poured. It was fun spending time in the company of this exotic friend.
“Yes, he did. And don’t start again with the ‘GV’ business. I’m not ‘ginger’, I’m ‘flame-haired’.” Neely shook out her tresses in a Rita Hayworth flounce.
Jasmine smirked, mid-operations on the coffee machine. “That I’ll give you. But you can’t deny the ‘virgin’ part.”
“Jaz! Not so loud!”
“What, aren’t you proud of your status? Or don’t you want window-guy to know you’ve never done it?” Jasmine had the courtesy to mouth the final part, however slyly.
“I’m neither proud nor ashamed. It’s how I live my life. And for the record, I don’t care who knows.” Neely said it with a faux primness. She thought she’d miss Jasmine’s teasing if it weren’t there.
There was a flicker of doubt as to whether she’d really like the window-seat customer to know she was sexually intact, but she dismissed the thought as unworthy-for-sure. If the guy were a believer (please God), he would understand. If not, well she had no business dating outside the faith, so what matter? For all he knew right now she took a different lover every weekend—a fun thought. Fun and sinful. She wondered nonetheless, as she approached him again, if she could sustain the mystery.
“Everything all right? Did you enjoy the club sandwich?”
He looked up from his plate and from the laptop keyboard on which he had been at work. His glance was friendly but appraising. She flattered herself he was taking in her startling red hair and the gemstone-green of her eyes. He was all she liked on that shallow physical level—close-trimmed blond hair, boyish features strengthening into maturity and a level stare from those blue-grey eyes. He was confident too and seemed to welcome her trivial conversation. “Yeah, it was good. Any thoughts on dessert? Don’t tell me you haven’t sampled them all.”
“Of course I have—the toffee roulade is to die for. Well, to pay five pounds fifty for, at any rate.”
“I shall trust myself to your recommendation,” he said with mock-gravitas, and they shared a grin.
“What are you writing?” She nodded to the laptop screen as she cleared away his plates.
“God, all very grim and serious. It’s an article on how the recession has affected local small businesses. For the Inquirer. I’ve only begun it, still got a few contacts to follow up.”
“You’re in journalism!” Neely loved meeting serious-minded people who happened to be hot. “Hey, there’s a guy I know …”—somehow she didn’t quite manage to add “at my church”—“who’s really been struggling this past year and he’s pretty annoyed at how little support there’s been for businesses like his. I’m sure he’d talk to you if you were interested.”
“I would, that’s exactly the type of thing I’ve been chasing up.” He seemed genuinely enthused. “Maybe if you could pass on my contact details and encourage him to get in touch, Neely.” He had checked her badge and she felt a definite frisson at his use of her name.
“Sure, I’ll take those before you leave. Oh, do you want any coffee with your dessert?”
He did. Neely tried to contain the bounce in her step as she returned behind the counter, but Jasmine’s radar picked it up. “Flirting with window-guy … Careful there, Neely.”
“How was I? Is chatting to a man always flirting? I was passing the time of day, that’s all.”
“You’re hot for him, say what you like. And he might have the most wicked designs. You’d better let him know you’re off-limits before he gets too into you.”
“He’s a customer. And we were having a conversation.”
“So you don’t mind if I take a shot at him then?” Neely felt stung and hoped it didn’t show in her glance. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I was joking!” Jasmine smirked. “Go carry on your platonic little chat.”
Neely’s self-consciousness was magnified when she brought the guy dessert. It was the type of occasion when she wished her rules less strict, but was her body language giving that away? “Those are my contact details,” the blond-haired customer was saying, all relaxed in pale cotton shirt and black jeans. He handed her an embossed card with his name all over it. Raymond Archer. “Even if your friend doesn’t want to talk, maybe we could meet up and you could provide me with some background information. Confidential source, no names mentioned.” He was straight-faced with a hint of suggestion lurking beneath. It flattered and flustered her in equal measure.
“Well, I …”
“How about tonight? Seriously, any insights you have would be appreciated, Neely. Not to mention you’d be very pleasant company. We could go for a drink somewhere local.”
“Yeah, I’d like to, but …” Neely took the plunge. “Look, I’ve got a church meeting this evening. I work at Alton Bridge Community Church, you know—round the corner? And I’m actually speaking there tonight. It’s a kind of interview thing, based on the fact that I’ve been there exactly two years.”
“That’s interesting. I like it. We live in such a cynical age—I respect people who embrace belief. Might even be interested enough to come along. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Mind? No, no …” She wasn’t sure how she felt about him inviting himself along, but she could hardly put up obstacles to someone coming to the church. Even if it was attraction to her, acting as the catalyst. “Feel free. It mightn’t be church as you know it.”
“And we could have that drink after. That’s if you drink, I mean.”
“Oh yeah, I drink. Not like a fish, you understand, but, y’know … If Jesus turned water into wine, then I can have a Bacardi Breezer.”
“Perfectly reasonable. Can I take that as a yes? Call me Ray, by the way.”
“I will.” Her heart gave a judder at the thought she might have further occasion to do so. “And yes. As in, you can take that as one.”
His eyes lingered on her as he bade farewell. She smiled her goodbye and watched wistfully as he departed the café.
The nature of the exchange, if not the exact content, was clear to Jasmine. “God, Neely, are you going on a date with him? And he’s not even from church? You’re so bad! What are you going to do if he makes a move on you?”
“It’s not a date, we’re meeting up to discuss the effects of the recession on small businesses.” Neely knew how ridiculous it sounded and invested the words with playful irony. “He seems a gentleman. Even if he’s not, he could hardly be more of an octopus than Brian. And he was the bloody church deejay!”
“God, Neely …” Jasmine slinked her fingers around her friend’s shoulders from behind. “How you drive the boys wild.”
TO BE CONTINUED
