Call Me (18 page)

“Oh, very nice!” the queen said.

My chest reddened with each deep sniff of poppers. Perhaps I had that shiny black in my eyes that dogs get when they want to screw or when they see something they're desperate to rip apart. All of a sudden he was whispering like a sissy:

“Hey, I don't want no trouble.”

How I hate a double negative.

He moved to the windows. When he drew back one of the three sets of curtains he saw that I'd bolted each and every window catch down. He eyed me with pathetic speculation:
What the…?
Something must have begun to pound in his head in that room which had the not unfamiliar stink of a Thermos Night Sauna cabin in Amsterdam or Dublin's Incognito off Aungier Street. He'd only wanted a nice slow quickie as he'd turned the key in the door, letting me in. What had he let himself in for? Even I didn't know.

“You said you wanted a love bite, my lovely. You're gonna get one. Get down there.”

Twisting an arm around his back and putting a hand over his mouth was as easy as in the movies.
Nine To Five
by Sheena Easton began to play in the flat below, very loud. I was the only one who smiled at this.

“Hurry up now. The quicker we do this, the quicker I'll be out of here. The more you comply, the fewer the injuries,” I said, winking like it was the greatest bit of fun in the world.

His mouth tried to open behind the palm of my hand. He wanted to say something. I kept my fingers shut tight, squeezed against his face, as if super-glued.

“Shut up! Don't talk. Just get down there. Now!”

I released his mouth, gripping his neck for variation.

(Whispering) “Please.”

“Shut up! Come on. On the floor.”

(Whispering) “I can't while you've got hold of my neck. Oh.” (Then faintly) “Help.”

“Sh … Sh … Shut up. Keep quiet and you'll be all right.”

“Don't undress me, will you?”

“No fear of that, ugly.”

“I'm expecting a phone call at ten o'clock,” he said.

“I'm scared.”

The man lay obediently on the edge of the polythene sheeting. With the rope I'd decided to bring at the last minute, something Ray had used on me once or twice for fun, I tied his wrists to upper femurs. The body felt very warm through the clothing that covered it. Interestingly, his little dick was semi-erect. I did every button of his shirt up to keep his body odour in as much as possible.

“I want to put this in your mouth.” (Pause) “Right in.”

“No. No way. Can't we…”

“I'll slit your throat if you don't shut up.”

I kung-fued the creep a few times playfully.

He stared at that pair of stained pink knickers which Janis had searched high and low for before realising her queer little visitor had pinched them. Maybe he caught a whiff of her cunt, a quick smell of the jogger's rectum or the stink of the spunk the garment had wiped off my bedroom mirror the night before as I removed them slowly from a Sainsbury's grocery section plastic bag. Perhaps he was also catching a whiff of organic carrots. I'd like to think so.

“I'm going to put this in your mouth. Keep it in and you'll be alright.”

He shook his ginger head from side to side.

“Hush now.”

“I've got your number in my diary,” he threatened.

“And I've got your life in my hands,” I informed him.

(Heavy breathing, sounds of distress, then childishly)

“Oh. Oh.”

“Open wide. If you don't…”

“Oh Euan, please.”

“Shut up or you'll get a taste of my sewage pipe.”

(Laboured breathing)

“Open wide for Euan. Open wide, love.”

“What's this for?” he dared ask. So I slapped him. Finger marks showed quickly.

I think he said, “I can't breathe,” when I pushed the knicks right to the back of his throat. Had I videoed all this, the Hi-8 cassette later being discovered among the contents of a brown suitcase kept under my bed, those sounds might have been described as
muffled
or
indecipherable.

When I covered his face, his breath misted the clear polythene and he looked quite angelic, fading into soft focus by the minute. He now had a fully erect dick. I gave that tired little organ a firm-to-hard wanking through the denim. It probably hurt.

Though his attempts at speech should have been indecipherable, it's amazing what you can pick up just on rhythm and intonation:

“I do hope you're not going to kill me,” he tried to say, just above the volume of a seductive schoolboy's last muffled plea.

“Let's pretend I'm a serial killer,” I said. “A serial killer wanting to beat the record. Forget Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy, Nilsen, Sutcliffe and West … I'm going to be the best!”

That's when the sobbing started. His mind was rewinding recent reports of queens cut down in their prime, in their homes, necks slashed. You can never be too careful.

“You have potential, as a statistic. Ooh you're lovely. Give us a kiss.”

As his life flashed before him, which must have made tedious viewing, he pulled the face of an ugly cartoon character who'd just tasted something very hot, making his mouth open as wide as possible. I spat into it.

That's when he pissed himself, spoiling the carpet, howling “Nnnggahnoo!” (Followed by a gurgling noise.)

“Try not to be so overtly feeble. What would your poor mother think? Shurrup crying.”

The thumb of my right hand pierced the thin polythene. I plucked Janis' sale item out and entered his mouth, feeling the hot, high roof. He gasped like a bad actor in a Crimewatch UK reconstruction. Then he blinked, like he was about to say something, but he didn't. Sheena finished the final chorus downstairs. As the song faded he gulped for air.

He was absolutely silent, just like I used to be when on the receiving end of a thrashing from my father.

He wondered if it was all over. He'd come in his pants, loneliness and despair jutting out on his face in the seconds in which he ejaculated. He'd also, without a doubt now, shat in them. So much for the prolonged douching.

I pictured the piano falling down in slow motion on to him as the clock ticked by. Yawning, I decided against it. I've always been very considerate towards neighbours.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was really lovely.”

As I knelt beside him, his body odours were no longer concealed by aftershave. His face and neck were wet with sweat. I gnawed at the jugular. “Nnnggahnoo,” was the sound he chose to repeat.

Spitting faint traces of blood back into the body, aiming for the back of the throat, I missed. He squeezed both eyes shut like it was acid.

Gargling for safety's sake with a drop of gin from the bottle he'd offered when I arrived, probably laced with sleeping pills (you can never be too careful), I sprayed his carpet with gin. Then I untied the knots Ray had taught me, cheerful as a Blue Peter presenter.

“There now. Tell them at work how you let strangers come knocking at your door, show them your slaggy neck. That'll freak 'em out, duckie!”

He failed the attitude test by sneering just a little from the recovery position he'd assumed on the carpet as Bike Boy waved bye bye, so I took the shiny, sharp knife from my bag and placed it on his bottom lip.

His “Nnnggahnoo,” was so much better articulated than before. God is great, He provides for all.

*   *   *

Somewhere close to midnight when the Goswell Road was having one of its quiet moments, Cuddles the teddy bear jumped from the seventh floor, followed by the flowers and that nasty piece of wicker.

No greeting.

This card is blank inside and suitable for all occasions.

No natural forests were destroyed to make this product.

Only farmed timber was used and re-planted.

We hope you enjoy sending this card.

Price code F.

Made in England.

Some illustrator who'd served time on an art course somewhere had done a bread-and-butter graphic of a huge, inflated teddy bear holding a red rose.

For someone special
was written in creamy yellow on white.

In the vast, blank interior of the card
D
was initialled inside in angular black, as per usual.

What he wanted were rights of tenure.

*   *   *

“Frank's such a butch name.”

“You think so, huh?”

“You've got a nice voice. Bet you've got a nice cock, too.”

“I'm not saying it's enormous or anything, but when I push it in all the way … I've been told it hurts.”

“Ooh. I think you're going to have to come over. I'll arrange one of my little parties, get the girls round.”

Shutting all three sets of curtains which she'd run up herself, Glenda eyed me with adventurous speculation, as did her two friends, also dragged up to the nines:
Will we get those shorts off?
The copulating rhythm was slow to start pounding in that room which had the atmosphere of a surprise party and the stink of a perfume department. While Sarah turned the key in the door, as Bobbie lowered the dimmer switches, Glenda crossed her legs and smiled, showing a crooked line of lipstick over capped front teeth.

“I do hope you're going to be gentle with me, ladies,” I whispered.

They'd already got through quite a bit of vodka by the time I got there. A four speed electric fan did its best to keep us all cool. Walking through the door in Dr Martens, cycle shorts and a teeshirt with I CAN FLY on it, shiny silver capitals on black, screams of excitement were to be heard all over Fulham. They took an above average instant interest in the size of my dick and how I came to possess such a gorgeous love bite. When I blushed they all agreed I was such an improvement on that last one and we all wondered where my ejaculate would end up.

All three of them lit candles around the room. Bobbie and Glenda were skinny as rakes and expensively dolled up. I was probably older than Bobbie and Sarah. Glenda was pushing thirty. The flat was an above average nine-to-five torture chamber for City gents.

Watching Jeff Stryker jerk off in a shower, four faces inches from the screen, big fat joint doing the rounds, I felt pleasantly relaxed. When Glenda ran a hand over my legs she shrieked and turned up the lights for a better look.

“Right girls! Louis Marcel to the rescue!”

“You don't want to shave yer lallies luv,” said Sarah. “Waxing's best. One treatment removes unwanted hair for up to six weeks.”

“Ooh, you sound like the side of the box Sarah. Give us a strip of the stuff and hold him down. He's wriggling.”

Glenda sprinkled talc below my left knee. I gave up the pretence of being an unwilling victim and allowed them to have their wicked way. Glenda blew off the excess powder. The strip was cut in half, backing sheet removed, then pressed firmly on the skin in the direction of hair growth.

“Darlings,” Bobbie announced. “This isn't going to work. Is that unsightly stubble a minimum of four millimetres long? I ask you!”

Holding the skin taut with one hand, Glenda pulled the strip back on itself very quickly in the opposite direction to hair growth. Ninety nine per cent of the stubble stayed firm.

“We're going to have to shave him!” Sarah squealed.

“Oh, please!” said Bobbie. “Can't we have a drink first?”

Glenda gave me the rest of the strips, advising me to keep them in the fridge. She didn't need them, she'd progressed to proper waxing at a salon.

The cocaine was chopped for a good five minutes. We each took a line through a tenner. Sarah coughed, bloodshot eyes needing an extensive retouch. I opened a bottle of champagne stolen from a press launch at Lynne Franks a couple of months back. Nasty stuff, much appreciated.

A fly came into the room and Glenda spotted it instantly. It made a big mistake, huge, by aiming for Jeff Stryker. Fake nails flashed through the air, dragging the juicy debris over the screen as Stryker delivered a million dollar mumble, shooting his muck. We all tittered.

“Flies, dirty things. Hate 'em,” Glenda pronounced, sucking her drink down sharply. “They spread germs.”

“I detest bugs. How dare they enter my little nest without permission?” Bobbie joined in. “I don't like to kill them. What I normally do is put a glass over them, then they just die. That way it's not like
I
killed them.”

A sharing moment.

“There's a woman trapped inside this body,” Sarah whispered to me in an awkward silence. The new Take That release had come to an end.

“Well dear,” Glenda sneered, panto-style, raising a plucked and pencilled eyebrow, “… judging by the shape of you the woman trapped inside is heavily pregnant.”

This had all been said before and no offence was taken. They were putting on a little show for me. It only seemed fair to do likewise. Pretending to be hot I removed my teeshirt. Sarah put a variety of simple, thumping, computer pop CDs on random select while Glenda headed off towards the bathroom.

“You could make a lot of money with a body like yours. Modelling,” said Bobbie while adding gloss to a mouth already heavily lipsticked.

“Or whoring,” Sarah said, more to the tv screen than me, like it was a reasonable option for any young man. (Which it is.)

The second line of cocaine quietened all of us as my naked body was shaved. It was so nice. Three GII blades dragging along slowly. Sarah Immac-ed my armpits considerately, not wanting to scrape in the semi-darkness. Bobbie took charge of my groin, applying shaving foam only after a very slow tongue bath. Glenda was matter of fact with the larger expanses of flesh. When I was turned over my arse was hers.

Her tongue licked long and slow and deep. So warm, so wet, so softly. Her breath entered my body, blowing my bowels up like a balloon, easing me into doggy position, repeating the cycle of long, slow, deep rimming, developing into a penetration softer than a dick and so much more pleasurable in its delicacy.