DIRTY
LAUNDRY

This book is a work of fiction.

In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

First published in 2002 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA

Copyright © Penny Birch 2002

The right of Penny Birch to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

www.nexus-books.co.uk

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound by
Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

ISBN 0 352 33680 3

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Dedicated to Lucy, Sue and Nicky
for invaluable experience

DIRTY LAUNDRY

‘I want it!’ I pleaded. ‘Now!’

‘No,’ he answered, ‘you’re going to be seen by some more people first. Come on.’

He had a firm hold on my hand, pulling me along the path, towards the lay-by. I went, thinking of how I must look with my tear-streaked face and my soaking dress, a truly sorry state. I’d done it on purpose, too, I knew that, and I wanted to be punished for it, spanked with my soggy panties pulled down, or stuffed in my mouth, while I was beaten.

We reached the lay-by, and a car passed almost immediately, another behind it. I was sure both had seen, but neither slowed. The third one did, an old white Fiat, and I caught the driver’s eyes, staring right at me, his mouth open.

‘Now bend down,’ Monty ordered. ‘Show the next one the wet patch on your bum.’

By the same author:

PENNY IN HARNESS

A TASTE OF AMBER

BAD PENNY

BRAT

IN FOR A PENNY

PLAYTHING

TIGHT WHITE COTTON

TIE AND TEASE

PENNY PIECES

TEMPER TANTRUMS

REGIME

One

I slid my hand down between my cheeks, into the smooth, powdery valley, parting them with two fingers and applying a third to my jelly-smeared bumhole. It was more than I could resist not to have a little feel, just stroking the slimy little ring, my fingertip caressing the tight, sensitive star shape before popping inside to the warm, wet embrace of the hole. The lubricant went in with my finger, making a rude, squelching sound, and I began to work it up my hole, my mouth coming open in pleasure as I did it.

It was so tempting to masturbate like that, with my bottom stuck out and a finger well up the slimy hole between the softness of my cheeks. A few dabs to my clitty and I’d have been there, in my dirty, anally obsessed heaven, just from the pleasure of lying nude on my bed with a finger up my bum, or over thoughts of being caught like I was, perhaps spanked, and then buggered.

I had to force myself to stop, pull my finger out and get on with what I was supposed to be doing: giving myself an enema before my date. The nozzle was on the towel beneath me, and I groped for it, finding the welllubricated tip instead of the handle. With my fingers slimy with jelly, I poked it between my cheeks, feeling the cool, hard metal push between them, to my anus.

My mouth came open again as my ring spread around the nozzle, the thick end sliding up my juicy hole to give me a new flush of dirty pleasure. I poked it up, right up, until my ring closed on the narrow neck. I was already breathing heavily, with my pussy wet and my nipples in a state of straining erection, and as I reached back for the valve my fingers were trembling so hard I had trouble holding it.

I got it though, between finger and thumb, and held tight, teasing myself by withholding that awful, glorious moment, before I twitched it open and felt the cool water start to flow up my bum. Immediately I was in heaven, my eyes shut and my mouth hanging wide as my rectum began to fill, with the helpless bloated feeling building slowly inside me as I wondered how on earth anybody could fail to find the experience of an enema sexual.

It is sexual, it has to be. I mean, it’s so intimate, so dirty, so intrusive. OK, so I didn’t have to do it in the nude, or so that I could see my rear view in the mirror, with my pussy lips peeping out from between my thighs and my bare bottom with the thick red tube protruding obscenely from between my cheeks. It makes it better though, and I could think of absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t indulge my dirty mind while I cleansed myself.

I opened my eyes, glancing at myself in the mirror, then moving to watch the bag as it slowly emptied its contents into my body. There was a pint of it, and I started to pant as my rectum filled, with the pressure growing and my urgency growing with it. It was getting hard to keep in, and I was clenching my hole on the nozzle and wiggling my toes, with the dreadful feeling of helplessness and panic growing in my head. I needed to run to the loo, urgently, desperately, but I held back, forcing myself to lie there and take it, until at last the full pint was in my rectum.

Even then I held still, shaking my head and gasping in air, revelling in what I had done to myself and the ghastly certainty that if I didn’t move soon I was going to make the most disgusting mess imaginable of my bed and my bedroom floor. By the time I gave in I was nearly screaming, and at last I could hold myself no more and pulled out the nozzle, jumping up from my bed and dashing for the loo, knock-kneed, with my bumhole clenched shut against the awful pressure inside me.

I made it, as I always do, because I know exactly how much I can take and still hold it in. Sat bolt upright on the loo, I let it all out, a feeling almost as good as taking it, a sense of relief close to ecstasy. It left me feeling weak, but only briefly, while I also felt light, and clean, and very, very naughty. The date was going to be good, I was sure of it, and now I was just in the mood for getting pleasantly drunk, indulging in some nice dirty foreplay and fucking until the morning. I could also be buggered with impunity, or at least as much impunity as is possible for a woman having a man’s cock forced up her bottomhole.

I showered, powdered and made up at leisure, not even bothering to look at my watch. I was sure to be late, but it didn’t matter, and anyway, if Damon had any sense, he would prefer me clean, fresh and happy but late to hot, flustered and on time. It was what he was going to get anyway.

He was just what I needed: young and good looking and modern, the very opposite of Percy, my pet dirty old man. I was cross with Percy, who had refused to come back from France at the end of summer, simply because he wanted to be in Bordeaux for the vintage. It was really unfair, because I’d had to come back and I was missing my regular spankings and all the other dirty things that only he can really provide. I’d been sulking for over a week.

Being asked out had provided the perfect opportunity to get my own back. While Percy has no claim on me for fidelity, I knew he would hate the thought of me going with someone as highly strung and possessive as Damon. Not only that, but there was something about Damon which appealed to me, a self-absorption that made him callous, cruel even. Not only did that make me hope for some dirty, abusive sex, but it would be the perfect excuse to get rid of him when Percy finally condescended to come back from France.

I’d met Damon at the Café Eperney, my favourite Covent Garden bar, where my friend Ami Bell had been standing him lunch in an effort to get him to sign up for the PR firm she worked for. He was a film producer, making very intense, arty stuff, which was either completely over my head or crap. It was all he talked about, and Ami seemed genuinely fascinated, although I was more taken by his dark good looks and assertive manner. The feeling was obviously mutual, because every time he looked at me his eyes would flick from my face to my chest. Sure enough, once Ami had returned to her office he’d suggested dinner. I had accepted immediately.

What I wasn’t sure of was how to dress. Even the underwear was a problem. It seemed to be too much to hope for that he was actually a spanker, and even if he was it was unlikely that he’d appreciate the sort of English schoolgirl look that Percy enjoys – tight white cotton panties and a plain bra, preferably with old-fashioned stockings and suspenders. Something loose in heavy black silk would have been my own choice, but I didn’t want to risk anything really nice getting torn or pinched for a souvenir. Then again a sporty look didn’t seem to suit his character, while I was sure a G-string and no bra would be too overt.

For a while I sat in a pile of underwear, trying to decide what would make me seem at once alluring yet vulnerable. I wanted to play to his sense of conquest, which is always the best thing to do with arrogant men. He hadn’t told me where we were going, which made it even harder, as I didn’t want to go for an urban chick look and then end up at the Savoy, or a cocktail dress and find myself at some trendy bar in Soho.

In the end I decided to please myself, high briefs under tight white trousers to make the best of my bum, with a lightweight bra and a little top that left my tummy on show and gave just a hint of perky nipples beneath. A tiger’s-eye lavabell through my tummy piercing and sandals completed the look, and if it turned out to be the Savoy then that was just too bad.

His brief scowl of irritation when I turned up nearly an hour late at the Café Eperney quickly turned to a smile, and from then on things went well. He had chosen a Polish restaurant in Bloomsbury, the Borscht, which was good, and popular: packed with people and with a real buzz to the atmosphere. It was so noisy I could barely hear him speak, which was just as well as he was droning on about the film noir he was making. The wine list was hopeless, but they had good beer and an excellent selection of vodkas to make up for it. I was soon drunk, and hornier than ever, just watching the calm certainty in his face as he spoke.

We had chosen a table at the back of the restaurant, well away from the door and, as we ate, the room became more and more crowded, until by the time he called for the bill we were pretty well jammed into the corner. We’d been trying flavoured vodkas, and when I got up I was unsteady on my feet, holding a chair for balance while he went for our coats.

Getting out was not going to be easy, with an enormously fat man blocking the way where he had pushed his chair back to fit in his colossal belly. The sight made me giggle, which he noticed, and when I tried to get past he wouldn’t move his chair. Damon was already at the door, and I was in no mood for being messed about by some fat slob, so I told him to get out of the way, pretty curtly.

‘Say please,’ he answered, grinning at his friends.

‘Look, just move will you?’ I answered. ‘I need to get through.’

‘Say please and I will.’

‘Just move, now.’

‘Watch your manners, or I might just have to sit on your head.’

His friends burst into laughter at that and I felt myself start to colour, with my temper rising at the same time.

‘Just move it, you great lard tub!’ I snapped.

His friends laughed at that too, and he moved, but only after giving me a really dirty look. I joined Damon at the door, dismissing the incident as trivial. It wasn’t, not to me, and not because of what had happened, but because of what he’d said. I like my sex dirty, and I like it submissive. I can’t help it, and having someone threaten to sit on my head is just the sort of thing that gets to me.

It would have been bad enough anyway, but the man who made the threat had been just so gross. I mean, Percy is fat, and the fact that he’s fat adds an extra touch to the sexual humiliation that I crave, especially when he spanks me. This guy wasn’t just fat, he was vast. You could have put Percy inside him and nothing would have stuck out at the edges. It wasn’t just his huge gut either, but everything: great fleshy arms, tree trunk legs, ream upon ream of billowing flesh around his middle, a great fat neck, several chins and a moonlike face under a bush of curly black hair. Worst of all was his bottom, with his buttocks great soft pads which bulged out to overflow the sides of his chair, a quite simply obscene volume of quivering human flesh, and he had threatened to stick it in my face.

The thought made me feel weak at the knees. It was just so obscene. I could imagine it, in appalling detail: being forced down on the restaurant floor, struggling in his grip, the laughter of his friends, the sight of that vast bottom being positioned over my head, my utter horror as he undid his trousers and pushed them down, taking his underpants with them to expose the great soft, hairy buttocks and a set of grotesque genitals, my scream of consternation and dismay as I was smothered in it and ordered to kiss his anus or suck on his dangling balls. It was too much for me, disgusting yet horribly compelling, and I was nearly sick as Damon led me into Gower Street. He didn’t seem to notice, doubtless thinking it was just the drink, which I was grateful for.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of his flat. I didn’t object. I knew I was going to be fucked. It was what I wanted, but my brain was spinning with dirty thoughts and images, and they weren’t of my companion.

In the cab he held me, with his arm around my shoulder, and we were soon kissing and letting our hands wander. I wanted to get his cock out and suck it, all the while imagining I was being forced to do it to the fat man, or to be taken to some lonely park, spanked by him and the cabbie, then fucked comprehensively. Fortunately I had enough sense left not to try, and reached Gospel Oak without disgracing myself. Not too much anyway. Once there it was a different matter. Damon knew I was drunk and willing and made no effort to hold back. Nor did he make any effort to consider my pleasure, which was exactly how I’d imagined it and exactly what I’d been counting on to give me far more pleasure than any eager-to-please little new man could ever achieve.

My top was up almost before the door to his flat was closed, my bra with it, leaving my boobs bare to his groping hands. I responded, scrabbling at his fly in my eagerness, and getting pushed down for my trouble, right on to his cock as it sprang free. I gave him his blow job, right then and there, squatting in his hallway with my boobs out and his hand twisted hard into my hair. It was like he was forcing me, but he needn’t have bothered, I was desperate for my portion of cock and badly wanted him to spunk in my mouth.

He did, right down my throat, forcing his erection in until I was gagging on it while he called me a slut and a bitch. I swallowed the lot, clutching at his firm, neat buttocks as he emptied himself into my mouth, but still imagining that it was the fat man who was making use of my mouth and not Damon. Even when he had finished I was still sucking, and he had to be quite rough to get me off his cock.

Damon had come and, like nearly all men, he expected that to signal the end of sex, at least for a while. I had other ideas and, even as I sat down on the hard wooden floor, I was struggling with the button of my trousers. It came loose, and I pushed them down, taking my panties with them. The whole lot went to my ankles and I lay back against the door, spreading my thighs open to him as my hand went to my pussy. He just watched, his mouth wide open, as I masturbated, rubbing and snatching at my pussy.

I was playing with my boobs too, one-handed, bouncing them and tweaking the nipples, getting closer and closer to orgasm. It felt so rude, so open, so dirty, with him looking down on me in shock, as if for all that he’d done to me, what I was doing was wrong. That was just perfect, and I was imagining myself doing it in the restaurant, on the floor with my top up over my boobs and my thighs apart to show everyone my pussy, their faces set in shock or delight, outrage or excitement.

It would have been after the fat man had sat on my head, not bare, as I’d first imagined it, but clothed, just to punish me. Only it would have got to me, and once he’d done it I’d have exposed myself and spread myself, masturbating in public like the dirty little slut I am, bare and spread, nipples hard, two fingers up my pussy, my legs so far apart my bumhole showed, coming in a welter of dirty ecstasy, in front of them all.

Then it was different, the three of them ganging up on me, the fat man and Damon and the cabbie. I’d be stripped in the cab, stark naked, my clothes thrown out of the window. They’d take me to a park and spank my bottom, hard, across their laps, punishing me for my insolence, for being a brat and a slut. I’d scream and kick and struggle, so plenty of people saw, but they wouldn’t care, knowing it was just some stuck-up little tart getting her just deserts. Then they’d fuck me, throwing me on a pile of rotting leaves and taking turns with me, or better still, all together, with me mounted on the fat man, the cabbie in my mouth, and Damon up my bumhole . . .

The orgasm hit me and I screamed, at the top of my voice, then started to babble, calling out that he was a fat bastard and that I should be spanked, and buggered, and all of it in public.

I woke up in Damon’s bed, stark naked, with a wet patch under my bum and a grade one hangover. At first I thought I’d wet myself, until I remembered that we’d fucked before going to sleep. Well, he’d fucked me anyway, because I’d only been half aware of what was going on. My memory of the rest of the evening came back slowly, with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction.

It had been good, in a way. In fact my orgasm had been great, and I knew full well it wouldn’t have been anything like as powerful without the extra hit of dirtiness unwittingly provided by the fat man. On the other hand there was the truly awful memory of trying to explain to the rake-thin Damon why I had apparently called him a fat bastard at the moment of climax.

He was still asleep, lying beside me with his face turned away. For a moment I considered sneaking out and making my way home, only to abandon the idea. I needed coffee, and toast, and orange juice, and I needed someone to make it all while I nursed my head. So I shook him awake and suggested he get on with it.

Fortunately his arrogance didn’t extend to expecting me to play maid to him and I got my breakfast in bed, including some Turkish coffee that nearly took the skin off my throat but proved amazing for clearing the cobwebs. He was also not the type who wakes up and expects his morning erection tended to, which I really wasn’t up to. Like me, he wanted to take waking up slow and easy.

By the time I’d finished eating and had covered his bed with toast crumbs I’d decided I was up for a second date. He had been a bit of a pig with me, sexually, enough to arouse my interest anyway, and I wanted to find out how much more he had to offer. I had also got on with him as a person better than I had expected to, and I could tell that Percy would be green with envy.

It quickly became clear that his reticence was the result of the way I’d behaved, and that he was actually a bit wary of me, if not actually scared. A lot of men are like that, wanting a girl to do as they want and not really happy if she takes matters into her own hands. In the end I had to pretend to be embarrassed by what I’d done, which cheered him up enough to demand another blow job before I left.

He got it, and I walked back to Primrose Hill with the taste of his spunk in my mouth and an uncomfortable and embarrassing wet patch between my legs. Back at my flat I ran a bath and masturbated in it before lying back in the hot water to think about the previous night.

In some ways it was a bit of a waste, because the incident with the fat man had got me in such a state. If the incident hadn’t happened, then I’d have been less urgent during the cab ride and Damon would have taken more time to deal with me. On the other hand, he had asked me out again while I was still swallowing down his sperm, so it looked like I’d get it in due time.

The fat man was another matter. I had no idea who he was, and that was just as well. If I’d known, the temptation to indulge my filthy fantasy might have proved too much for me. I’d have done it, adding to the already considerable risk of it becoming common knowledge just how dirty I was.

I’d been seeing Percy for three years, and so far I’d managed to hide the fact from all those of my friends who would disapprove. I’d also managed to hide the fact that I enjoy my bottom spanked, or at least from most of them. There was an exception, Jo Warren, who I’d foolishly thought might be up for spanking me. I’d asked and she’d been horrified, but as I had more dirt on her than she did on me I felt fairly safe. I’d ensured her boyfriend was safe by seducing him, and he was so wet I knew he wouldn’t dare tell, which only left her therapist, Gabrielle Salinger, who she was sure to tell but who could be relied on not to break a professional confidence.

If I’d gone with the fat man it would have been just my luck to find out I knew his sister or something, which would have been a disaster. Being revealed as a spankee would have been awful, but getting off on being humiliated by fat men was worse. It’s the way society is unfortunately, that while girls are supposed to be out and proud, certain things are very definitely taboo. Enjoying being spanked is one of them, but fat is worse, far worse. Unfortunately that’s the way my sexuality works. If it was really cool to go out with fat men I wouldn’t have been interested, because the fantasy wouldn’t have been humiliating. I’m not into fat, it disgusts me, which is exactly why the idea of being abused by a fat man appeals to me.

Nevertheless, it was a shame, because I still had that image of his huge backside poised over my face fixed firmly in my mind. It was what was in my head as I lay back in the warm, soapy water, along with thoughts of my horror and humiliation as it was done to me, in a crowded restaurant, for everyone to see.

I knew I was going to masturbate again, even as my finger pressed down between the soft, fleshy lips of my pussy. I could just picture myself, perhaps held down on the floor by his friends, with my brown curls spread out around my head and my mouth and eyes wide in ghastly shock. He’d make me suck his balls first, dangling them into my mouth and telling me he’d let me off if I was a good girl.

He’d be lying though, because once I’d done it, sucking at his fat, hairy scrotum with my face screwed up and his friends laughing their heads off at my plight, his arse would go in my face. I’d be struggling as I was smothered, my hands beating on the floor and my legs kicking in a futile protest that would only draw more laughter from the onlookers. He’d tell me to kiss his anus and I’d hold back, even though I’d be suffocating. I’d do it in the end though, putting my lips to his coarse, hairy bumhole as the rest of them cheered and clapped to see me given what I deserved.

Then it would have to be into the restaurant toilets to be fucked over the lavatory bowl. He’d leave the door open so that the others could see, crowding in behind him as he forced me to kneel. He’d flop out my boobs and have a good feel, then undo my trousers, his fat hands opening my button, fumbling at my zip, easing my smart white trousers down and taking my panties with them.

With my bum bare I’d be spanked, hard, crying out my pain and emotion into the lavatory bowl until he shut me up by cramming my mouth with loo paper. With my bum smacked rosy, he’d lay his huge belly on my hot cheeks. I’d feel his cock against my pussy, prodding at me as he wanked it against my flesh. Then he’d be in me, fucking me, jamming my body against the hard porcelain of the lavatory bowl as the others watched and laughed and clapped and jeered.

My will would break, and I’d reach back to masturbate, rubbing at myself in my filthy ecstasy to every-body’s utter delight. They’d be calling me a slut and a bitch, the way Damon had, insulting me for being promiscuous even though I hadn’t asked for the treatment I was getting. Nobody would insult him though, or try and stop him, not even the women who would be watching with as much delight as the men. They’d be complimenting him on knowing how to handle a brat, and egging him on to fuck me harder.

He’d do it too, his great lardy body slamming against my poor little bottom, his hands locked on my hips, jerking me about like a doll as he grunted and panted his way towards orgasm. He’d come up me and, at the last moment, he’d push my head down into the lavatory bowl and flush it, filling my mouth with dirty water even as he filled my pussy with sperm, and I’d come myself, soiled and filthy, stripped, abused and fucked, coming and coming and coming . . .

Which was exactly what I had done, for the second time in a row, with my hips pushed up to bring my pussy out of the bath water and the muscles of my legs locked in ecstasy.

When the last shivers of my orgasm had died down I lay still in the bath for a long time, feeling thoroughly satisfied and slightly ashamed of myself. I was also gladder still that I was unlikely ever to see the fat man again. I knew for sure that I’d have wanted sex with him, and what I want I tend to get.

Not that the fantasy was realistic, because if he’d tried anything of the sort he’d have been arrested on the spot, but that didn’t matter. He was fat, enormously fat, so he was sure to be hard up for sex. He was probably a pervert too: after all, he wouldn’t have threatened to sit on my head unless the idea had been there in the first place. In fact he had probably been watching me during the meal and thinking of what he’d like to do to me.

It wasn’t going to happen, fortunately, and instead I was going to have a brief and intense fling with the moody and attractive Damon, getting my kicks and making everyone jealous at the same time. That was a much more appealing idea, and when I’d finally managed to drag myself out of the bath and get dressed I went down to the Café Eperney in the hope of having a good gloat.

The first person I recognised was Ami, at one of the outside tables, looking very serious with her big glasses and her long dark hair held back with an Alice band. I went to sit with her, putting a deliberate bounce into my walk and smiling happily as I said hello.

‘You look cheerful,’ she greeted me. ‘Won the lottery?’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘but not far off. Guess who I spent the night with?’

‘Search me. Knowing you it could be anyone.’

‘Thanks! No seriously, guess. It’s someone we both know.’

‘Animal, mineral or vegetable?’

‘Stop messing around! He’s a client of yours.’

‘What? Not Damon Maurschen!’

‘Is that his surname? I never asked.’

‘You didn’t! You bitch!’

‘I did.’

‘Natasha Linnet, you are the absolute end! Do you know how much I fancy him?’

‘Ah, but you can’t have him, can you? Very unprofessional, bonking your clients.’

I sat back, making no effort at all to hide the grin on my face. She was so jealous, and it was great just to watch her reaction.

At that moment someone came out of the café, a fat man and, for one moment, I thought it was the fat man and I found the blood rushing to my face. It was just an instant, and then I realised that the man was a lot older and not quite so fat, but it was enough, because the expression on Ami’s face had changed.

‘Tasha? Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ I managed.

‘Who was that?’ she demanded. ‘Did you know him?’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, I thought I did, but I don’t. Forget it.’

She shrugged and took a sip of her coffee, then leaned forward on to the table.

‘Tell me then,’ she demanded, ‘about Damon. Everything.’

I told her, embroidering it a bit to make it sound more romantic and leaving out the incident with the fat man and my dirty fantasies. She was impressed, and not only by the sex but by the way he had treated me in the morning, which I had also tweaked a little bit.

‘Lucky cow,’ she said when I’d finished, ‘and what do I get? Chris, who’s asleep five minutes after we’ve finished.’

‘He’s not so bad, surely. Good looking anyway.’

‘That makes it worse. I mean, I really can’t handle it sometimes. He makes me so horny, and if he’s watching football he won’t even come to bed until it’s finished. He’s really destroying my self-esteem.’

‘Stand between him and the telly and give him a striptease.’

‘I couldn’t, I do have some self-respect! Besides, I tried . . . something similar anyway. He just told me to get out of the way. I’ve spoken to Gabrielle about it and she says . . .’

‘Are you with Gabrielle?’

‘I have been for months. She’s the only thing that keeps me sane.’

‘I thought you were into aromatherapy and shiatsu?’

‘I am, or I was. Even combined they only kept my head straight for a few hours, or until something else came along to wind me up. Gabrielle’s great, but you’ve been, haven’t you?’

‘Once. Whole-being therapy didn’t really suit me.’

‘Oh, but it’s wonderful! She’s so intelligent! She’s explained to me that Chris’s obsession with football is an attempt to accommodate his own inadequacy by projecting the success of his team on to himself. Just understanding has made it a lot easier to handle.’

‘Oh, right.’

I wasn’t really listening, mainly because I’d heard it all before. Chris was a prat, a good-looking prat, but a prat. I wouldn’t have stayed with him for five minutes. Ami went on, expanding on Chris’s inadequacies and praising Gabrielle until I jokingly suggested she ought to dump Chris and go out with Gabrielle.

‘I’m serious here,’ she answered me. ‘Anyway, she’s suggested I do something to restore my self-esteem, to make myself feel wanted, as a woman.’

‘I could have told you that for free.’

‘Well I’m going to do it. I’m getting some of the girls together and we’re going to go down to Brighton for the day, where I intend to let myself get picked up and bonked silly. You’ll come, won’t you?’

‘Is Jo Warren coming?’

‘No, I invited her but she and Hugh had booked something up. You quarrelled with her, didn’t you, in France?’

‘Yes, it was just one of those things,’ I said hastily, although my heart had seemed to jump straight into my throat.

‘Right,’ she went on, ‘that’s a shame. She won’t be there, anyway, but there’s Amy McRae, and her girlfriend, and Isabel Mintower. It should be fun. Please come?’

It sounded all right, and in any case she looked so earnest that I found myself nodding automatically.

Two

It was two weeks until the Brighton trip, which was enough time for me to get bored with Damon Maurschen. The trouble was, that while he had the right attitude, he had no imagination. I mean, being held by the hair so that I can’t get away while I’m made to suck cock and swallow is fine, but not every time. He wasn’t a spanker either. In fact, he wasn’t particularly interested in my body at all, except as a receptacle for his cock. When I came on to my period he reacted with disgust, as if I was unclean, which I hate. He wasn’t even into striptease or making me show myself off in front of him. When we did fuck it was in missionary position, except for once, when he said I should go on top, which he seemed to think was some sort of sacrifice on his part.

I kept seeing fat men too. I’d never really taken much notice before, but suddenly they seemed to be everywhere, and each time I saw one I thought of the man who had insulted me. It wouldn’t get out of my head, and I was still fantasising about having rude things done to me by him, even while having sex with Damon, even when he was inside me. That was what finally made me decide that the relationship was a waste of time. I would still have stuck with it anyway, just so Percy would be jealous, only Damon got into a temper when I told him I was going to Brighton with the girls, which he simply had no right to do. I told him to get lost, and I was still smarting over his sheer arrogance the next day.

The others were going down by train, but I took the TVR, driving fast with the radio at full volume, which did a lot to improve my feelings. I parked well away from the front and took a bus down to meet them at the base of the pier. I was the first there, and spent a while just filling my lungs with air. There was plenty of it, because while it was sunny, the wind was coming in straight off the sea, emptying the beach and sending spray over the marina wall.

When they arrived it was all together. I spotted them from a long way off; Ami Bell with the sunlight glinting off her big glasses, Amy McRae with her short cropped blonde hair, Isabel, small and blonde, another girl, small and dark, who I took to be Amy’s girlfriend, and one other. The fifth girl was the tallest of them, very slim, with straight, cropped brown hair and glasses. It took me a moment to recognise her and then I realised that they had brought down the therapist from hell, Gabrielle Salinger.

Unfortunately Ami spotted me before I could make up my mind to do anything, and that was that – my day was ruined. Gabrielle knew much too much about my dirty laundry for comfort’s sake. It was impossible not to imagine her studying me, analysing me, thinking of what a pervert I was.

It got worse. They all seemed to worship Gabrielle, even Amy McRae, who edits Metropolitan and is about as tough as they come. Ami Bell was the worst, hanging on to Gabrielle’s every word, and Isabel was nearly as bad, while Amy’s girlfriend, Gina, was too shy to say much at all, but just looked on with a sort of dumb adoration.

Gina was small and very pretty, with a fragility about her that I could well imagine Amy enjoying and which appealed to me as well. Not that I was going to do anything about it, as I could only see it ending in trouble, while Amy gives me far too many commissions for me to risk pissing her off.

So I spent what should have been a really fun afternoon trying to act naturally while trying to avoid Gabrielle and not make my attraction to Gina too obvious. Being bisexual when nobody else knows is usually great, because I can admire girls in a way no male could ever do. This time I had to hold back and, with Gina in a little floaty skirt that kept blowing up in the wind, it was not easy.

Ironically, Gabrielle seemed to want to talk to me more than any of the others, and that was really worrying. It was obvious that her interest was professional, and she kept trying to get me alone, doubtless to ask some hideously intimate and embarrassing question. I felt like a specimen under a microscope, and by the time we came off the pier I was really nervous.

We ate at an Italian, and I took care to sit between Ami and Isabel. I badly needed a drink and was knocking down glass after glass of Copertino as we ate, until at last I began to relax and join in the fun. It was a mistake, because by the time we’d finished I was having serious difficulty keeping my eyes off Gina. The sun was low, with the light striking through her dress to show off the outlines of her breasts, which were braless, and also her hips. The wind was getting stronger still, and twice her dress blew up high enough to flash her panties, sending her into fits of giggles.

I wanted her so badly I could have cried and, to make matters worse, she was being really friendly to me, as if she knew. It was just possible that she did, and I began to wonder if she wasn’t teasing me to see if I’d play. That set me thinking about what it would be like with Amy and her together, which made it even worse.

We sorted out our hotel rooms and then went down to the bar. I wanted to stop drinking, but they had noticed I was a bit down and assumed it was something to do with Damon. So they kept buying me rounds and I got more and more drunk, until I was having serious trouble keeping my hands off Gina. She was giggly too, and focusing more and more on me, until I could see that Amy was starting to get jealous. Gabrielle was getting more insistent too, doubtless thinking she’d get something interesting out of me if I was really drunk, and I knew that there was every chance she’d succeed.

By the time we left the bar we had our arms around each other in a line as we made for the club we had chosen. I’d tacked on at one end, to Gabrielle, because the other choice was Gina and I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to keep my hands off her bum. Even then it was difficult, because I could feel the gentle curve of Gabrielle’s hip and the soft flesh of her waist. I hadn’t been with another girl since coming back from France, and after two weeks of Damon it just felt so good to have a female body next to mine.

I could see what was going to happen. We’d get to the club and dance and drink and I’d either make a move on Gina, let myself get picked up by the fattest bloke in the house, or pour out my heart to Gabrielle. All the options were going to be disastrous. I had to get away.

Even that wasn’t easy. I pretended to need the loo, but Isabel said she did too and they waited for us. We had reached the club before I could find another excuse and were quickly inside. It was crowded and hot, the air thick with smoke and the smells of perfume and sweat. It was loud too, with a furious bass rhythm that drowned out all possibility of conversation, for which at least I was grateful. I said I’d get the drinks, but Gabrielle insisted on coming with me to help.

There was nothing I could do, and when we got back to the others I found they had jammed themselves into an alcove. There was only one place to sit, the end of a bench, right next to Gina. I had to take it, and as I sat down I felt my body press to hers, with the outline of one little breast against my arm. Amy’s arm came up around Gina’s shoulder in a clear gesture of possession and I managed a weak smile as I passed her drink, catching a warning look in return. It was as if she was reading my mind, and I had to get out, right then.

I made an excuse, mumbling something about feeling sick, and left the table. Ami made to follow but I pushed in between two tall men and hurried off through the crowd to the exit and out into the night.

I’d only been in the club a few minutes, but the fresh air hit me like a hammer. My head was swimming with drink and confusion and erotic thoughts, all mixed up with self-pity and anger. It just wasn’t fair!

I started to walk along the front, with the wind whipping at my hair and the taste of salt in my mouth. I was vaguely aware that there was a really major storm blowing up, but it didn’t seem to matter. There were plenty of other people about, laughing as they dodged the spray that was beginning to blow over the wall, or huddled into coats, hurrying for shelter. I wanted to be alone, to get my thoughts in order, even to masturbate, and I walked on, as fast as I could go.

It was just by the sign marking the start of Hove that I saw him, seated at a bus stop: the fat man from the restaurant. I knew it was him, even though I’d been seeing him in every fat man I’d passed for the last two weeks. It had to be, every great, bulging ream seemed familiar, and I was sure the orange anorak he was wearing had been on the back of the chair in the restaurant.

I should have walked on, and he’d never have noticed, but I had to look, and for a moment our eyes met. My head filled with all the filthy images I had conjured up since our encounter and I found my mouth twitching up into a nervous, scared smile. That was it, but it was enough and, as I hurried past the bus stop, from the corner of my eye I saw him get up. Immediately my heart was in my mouth.

He was following me, I knew it, but I didn’t dare turn round. I was scared, but as much of my own response as of him. He was fat, huge, I could outrun him easily, even drunk. Anyway, he probably only wanted to tell me what an ill-mannered little bitch I was, to try to make me feel bad for the way I’d spoken to him, to try to make me feel small, to humiliate me . . . Oh, God!

I’d stopped, and turned back. He was coming towards me, slowly, his great flaccid body backlit by a street lamp, his face in shadow. I didn’t know whether to be angry with him or to apologise, to tell him to fuck off or to try to be friendly, but there was a part of me hoping that he would make some obscene threat.

When his face did come into the light I saw that he was as nervous as I was, his little blubbery mouth twitching at one side, his piggy eyes uncertain. For one moment I wondered if it really was him, but he had to be, or why else follow me? After all, no one as gross as he was could possibly think I’d be interested.

‘Going for a walk?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Nice weather for ducks, eh?’

It was such a stupid thing to say that I found myself smiling, and I realised that he wasn’t going to have a go at me. What he was going to do was try to chat me up, and that was worse.

‘Can we go for a coffee?’ he asked, a line guaranteed to make most girls run a mile. Not me, not then.

‘No, I don’t want one,’ I answered. ‘I’m just walking.’

‘How about it then?’ he went on.

‘How about what?’

‘A fuck.’

‘Jesus! You bastard!’

‘Well it’s what you’re after, isn’t it?’

‘No it is not!’

‘Get real. Dressed up like a dog’s dinner, all on your own. I can see you’re not a pro, so what else would you be doing?’

‘Going for a walk! Getting some fresh air!’

‘Yeah, sure.’

It was the most clumsy, inept, hopeless come-on I had ever heard, and I’ve heard a few. He had to be mad, thinking that someone like him could pick me up. I mean, if Brad Pitt had just walked up and asked me for a fuck I’d have told him where to get off, but this guy! Well it was either that or he knew how he’d got to me in the restaurant, which was impossible.

I turned, willing myself to walk away, but he fell into step beside me. His great, podgy arm came around my waist and I didn’t pull away, even though a voice inside me was screaming to slap him in the face, to kick him in the balls, to run. Then his hand had closed on my bottom and he was pulling me into his arms.

He may have been fat, but he was far stronger than I was. I got pulled in close, both his hands now on my bottom, kneading my cheeks through my jeans as he pressed his blubbery mouth against mine. His tongue touched my lips and before I knew what I was doing they were coming apart and we were kissing, with his great slobbery mouth wide over mine and his tongue halfway down my throat.

It was disgusting, really gross and, to make it worse, he tasted of fish and chips, but I couldn’t pull away, only put my arms up to his chest and let him have his snog and his feel. In the end it was him who broke the kiss, but not before he’d had a really thorough grope of my bum. I was so glad I was in tight jeans and not a skirt, because I knew it would have been up, with his horrid sweaty hands down my panties. There were other people about too, which made it worse, far, far worse.

‘People are watching!’ I hissed.

‘Yeah, right, let’s go somewhere private.’

‘No, I mean . . .’

He had taken me by the hand, pulling me after him. I went with the pressure, with my sense of erotic humiliation burning in my head. It was too much, I couldn’t stop myself. I was going to let him have me, to make me suck his cock and lick his balls, even to fuck me, even to carry out his horrid threat and sit on my face.

‘I know a place,’ he was saying. ‘A great place. Come on.’

I went, and all the while I was wondering what the hell I was doing, with my mind swinging from open rebellion to a desperate urge to really bury myself in all the disgusting fantasies I had thought up over the last two weeks. I thought he was going to take me to some sordid bedsit, but he continued down the front, almost dragging me and stopping over and over to snog me and grope my bum and boobs. Once we were beyond the main front he even pulled my top up, jerking my bra with it to spill out my tits for a feel. I let him, and I thought he might even fuck me, right there, in the shadow of a bus shelter with the sea spray blowing over us.

He didn’t, but contented himself with a feel and a suck of my nipples, then told me to leave my boobs out. Half of me wanted to, but I covered them, sure someone would see and report us. In response he slapped my bottom and with that I was really lost. The next time he stopped I let him pop my jeans button and he felt down the back of them, putting his disgusting sweaty hands into the back of my panties and pulling them up into my crease.

By then I was as urgent as he was, kissing back as his fat fingers took hold of my panties, jerking them up to tug the material against my pussy. My arms were around him too, feeling the huge billows of flesh around his middle and the obscene bulging shapes where the cleft of his buttocks rose out of his trousers. It was so dirty, and I was dying to be used, really used, the way I had imagined him do it, cruelly, revelling in my shame and disgust as he enjoyed every aspect of my body and forced me to indulge his every, filthy urge.