With my fingers and the dildo base rubbin against me, I’m bringing myself off while fucking him, a boy, and I swear tae God this feels so good, to be able tae totally control the pace, tae penetrate …
We’re at it, we’re at it, we’re at it …
— EUUHHHGGGGGG! Simon suddenly convulses, stiffens up, and then collapses into relaxation. Soft groans bubble from him, like they’re half trapped in his throat.
I’m pulling away at my clit, rubbing it, N I’M ABOOT TAE FUCKIN EXPLODE! — YA FAHKIN BEAUTY … WHOA … whoa … whoa … ohhh … EEEGGGH …
I faw oan toap ay Simon. We’re like a heap ay Alexander’s felled trees, ready tae be incinerated. I stay prone on him for a bit, feeling the knobbly bone and muscle of his back on ma squashed tits n belly. Then I push myself up, no so much pulling the dildo oot ay his bum, as watching him eject it, as if it was a shit, as he lies sprawled on the sheets. I clip off the device and hold it up tae the light. It glistens with the Vaseline, but there’s nae trace of shite on it. — You okay? Did ye enjoy that?
— It was … sort of medical … he half mumbles intae the sheets.
I throw the dildo onto the floor and pull him over on his back. He rolls compliantly for me, and his eyes stay half shut. Then I spy sticky patches ay cum on the bed sheets and oan his stomach and chest. — You shot yir load!
— Did I …? His eyes snap open and he sits up aw agitated. — I didnae realise … He turns from the mess tae me, his eyes bulging. — Listen, Ali, ye willnae say nowt aboot this, will ye?
— Of course no, I dinnae kiss n tell, this is between us!
— Right … right … he says, and we pull back the covers and get intae bed. — It was a bit intense, but that was cause it was with you, he says, pulling me close tae him. I love the way he smells; some boys are mingers but Simon has this sweet pine-like smell, like how I imagine an expensive cologne.
— It was intense for me n aw, cause it wis you, I tell him. — I couldnae stop touching myself … I grab his cock and it’s stiffening in my hand, prising my fingers outwards. — Fuck me, I whisper in his ear, — fuck me really hard in my cunt and tell me you love me …
Simon’s face takes on a dumb, cruel twist and he looks at me like he’s going to remember our pact, but instead he’s on me and slowly pushing inside my fanny and every fibre ay me aches for more as he rides us really good in that way of his, first slowly, then hard, and he says ‘I love you’ which I ken he doesnae mean, and then stuff in Italian, and I’m swimming through mists as I’m orgasming time and time again, and I’m so demented that it’s actually a fucking relief when he finally blows and screams, — Avanti!
As we hud each other in a sweaty grasp, he thankfully seems tae have forgotten all about ma arsehole, but only cause I suspect he’s thinking ay his ain, or mibbe the gear.
Skaggirl
TOWARDS THE TROSSACHS, pillows of snow, like fallen clouds, cling snugly to high hills and the roofs of good homes. Some windows are already ablaze with Christmas tree lights. From her cell inside the women’s prison, Janey Anderson looks out at the big flakes tumbling from the sky, wishing she could see more. Snow had never been an enemy. But what sort of a Christmas could this be?
Janey grows animated as she leaves her cell and walks down the corridor in a line of women, led by a solitary uniformed one, who opens a series of locked doors. Eventually, they reach the visiting room, where each prisoner sits at one of the desks, lined in neat rows. After a few minutes, the visitors start to file in, and there’s Maria, walking towards her, acknowledging her with a strained smile.
Janey Anderson’s limited experience has already shown her how the women’s prison can be as much a haven as a place of incarceration. Maria looks menaced and in need of protection. Dark circles smear under her eyes like bruises. Her hair seems matted in some parts, lank and greasy in others, and two angry spots flare on her chin. It wasn’t her child, more a Bizarro version; some refugee from that parallel world in the DC Comics her brother Murray used to collect. Maria remains standing, so Janey instinctively rises and reaches out to her. — Sweetheart …
A heavy-knit screw with short-cropped hair, who’d seemed to take a dislike to her, perhaps on account of their similar ages, pounces to warn Janey about touching. Bullneck craning round, she barks, — Enough! Ah’ll no tell ye again!
And crumbling back into her seat, Janey can’t believe her eyes when she sees him, standing behind Maria, with a sense of prerogative that revolts her to the core. Now Coke’s gone, she’s locked up in here, and this usurper has his arm around the fragile shoulders of her daughter, her Maria, who was meant to be safe at Murray and Elaine’s in Nottingham! The letter he had sent her! — What’re you daein here? She looks at her former neighbour, the friend of her deceased husband, and briefly, shamefully, her lover.
— You’ll be in here a few months, Janey, he says, pulling up a chair, his glance at Maria giving her permission to do the same. — Somebody has tae keep an eye on Maria, he sniffs, in put-upon tones.
— Ah ken what you mean by keepin an eye! Janey gasps incredulously. — She’s jist a young lassie!
Simon, Sick Boy, she’d heard his nickname was, lowers himself onto the hard seat, grimacing in discomfort then adjusting his weight. He looks around the rows of visitors in their chairs in what Janey feels is nervous distaste, but this sensation soon diminishes as she watches him fill the room with his presence, as he sits up straight and stretches out. In the event it’s Maria who protests, — Ah’m nearly sixteen but, Ma.
A bolt of shame skewers Janey. Simon had been a wee boy when Coke and her moved next door to the Williamsons all those years ago. As a young mum, she’d openly flirted with his father. One time, at New Year …
Oh my God …
Then she slept with the son. And now he has her daughter, her wee lassie. — Look at ye but, look at the state ay ye! Ye should be back in Nottingham wi oor Murray n Elaine!
Maria suddenly focuses in loathing, the look on her daughter’s face chilling Janey. — Ah’m gaun naewhaire till ah git him! That Dickson! It’s him that’s ruined everything! It wis probably him that grassed ye up aboot ma dad’s money!
— She has a point, Janey, Simon Williamson agrees.
— You shut the fuck up, Janey snaps. Bulldyke Screw briefly stirs from her Ken Follett novel, looks out with pale blue eyes, deeply set into bulbous pink flesh. Janey lowers her voice and sits forward, scowling at him. — You … wi ma wee lassie! What kind ay a person are you?!
— I’m trying to take care of Maria, Sick Boy bites back, outrage in his big eyes. — You want her tae be on her ain, while you’re hanging out in this cosy little sorority? Cause she’s told you and me that she ain’t going back tae Nottingham, despite me telling her till I’m blue in the face that it’s the best place for her. So fine. I’ll just leave her, and he throws his hands in the air Italian-style, prompting Bulldyke Screw to lower Follett to her meaty thigh in warning.
— Dinnae, Simon … Maria pleads.
— I couldnae walk away now, babe, don’t you worry. He shakes his head, putting his arm around Maria and kissing her on the side of her face, all the time never taking his accusing eyes from Janey. — You need somebody to be here for ye!