Me 

LiteraryFiction 

Chapter 2

Birthday Boy

i

God! I’ll never survive, thought Neil, his eyes and teeth clamped shut with the effort of suppressing intense, sexual arousal. One hand was pressed hard into his groin, the other held tight to the back of Cath’s black, velvet evening dress as he stumbled through the door to room twenty seven. It was his thirtieth birthday so he’d abandoned his usual grim, grey suit of business and worn his shortsleeved, paleblue nylon shirt, open at the neck - also, his matching, cornflowerblue trousers. On his feet were black, cotton socks and black, lace-up Brogues. He looked like an outoftouch businessman vainly attempting to be casual and hip - which is exactly how he was trying, but failing miserably, to act.

Cath, though more than ten years her husband’s senior, still turned heads with ease. A “natural beauty” many said; and Neil constantly bragged to friends and colleagues how his “forty two year old bit of fluff” could blow any of their much younger but “inexperienced little bints” clean out of the water. Sadly, his pride was of the arrogant, possessive type rather than its healthy, humble twin.

Tonight, Neil was even more keen to show off his own personal property as Cath had made an extra effort. The image, as she’d emerged from their bedroom to walk gracefully across the landing and down the six-feet-wide stairs, was lasered into his memory: the lowcut gown that presented her magnificent cleavage to glorious effect; her long, almost black hair, permed into soft curls; and those hips that swayed hypnotically. Despite the six inch stilettos, she carried herself exquisitely on legs that went all the way to where his main interest lay.

But it was the perfume that had been sending him crazy with lust ever since they’d pulled out of the gravel drive in their newest BMW, over an hour ago. He’d had a pretty good “semi” on before they passed between his lionheaded gateposts, and, since then, the situation had steadily deteriorated. He’d been so excited at the prospect of a night of passion, without disturbance from their three young boys or the night staff from his office, that it had taken a sixpoint turn and a fit of giggles before he noticed the oxygen level within the car was seriously depleted by the amount of Chanel No 5 floating around. That had upgraded the stiffy situation to defcon4, as he chose to refer to those few desperate, frantic seconds immediately prior to ejaculation.

Neil considered his sense of humour to be his greatest intellectual strength.

“DEFCONFOUR, CATH!” he would bellow, just before collapsing, twitching and gasping and groaning across her body; shortly to slobber slimily across her collarbone and throat.

The faintest whiff  of “No 5” was enough to cause his dick to dribble in anticipation. Neil was a living example of Pavlov’s theory, which is ironic, as he had never heard of Pavlov, and, if questioned about the famous man’s canine assistant, would probably think it was the wife or floozy of some randy, Russian diplomat. But, when the Chanel first registered in his sluggish, unidirectional brain via his stubby, spiteful nose, in an instant (as the gambling pushers on TV say) his “semi” had become a fully fledged, throbbing boner.

Sex was the only thing that Neil thought or cared about. Sexual indulgence; erotic fantasy; being simply, downright rude, was a fundamental and lifedefining necessity to his continued existence and happiness. His mind was permanently occupied by pants, bras, tits, bums, fannies, pubic hair - and sand - he had a special place in his heart for sand - but we won’t go into that just yet.

Neil saw himself as a highlysexed, mature, sensual male; everyone else thought he was an infantile wanker. And, if it hadn’t been for the illogical and, to their few friends’ way of thinking, naturedefying fact of his marriage to Cath, that is precisely what he would have been: for Neil was a “once a night - every night” man, regardless of time, mood, propriety, taste or consideration for his wife. His demands were simple but quite firm: that he be allowed to shoot his load, on a daily basis, into any available orifice of the woman he claimed to love. He argued that, if this small request was denied him, there would be an unwelcome and unhealthy buildup of testosterone (Neil pronounced it “tosterene”) in his body, which would make him aggressive and, possibly, quite ill.

Cath blamed herself, which is sad but nonetheless true: she’d allowed him to get away with it simply for a bit of peace and a reasonable night’s sleep. Less than a year into their decadelong marriage she’d learned that, after Neil climbed into bed beside her, to simply push out her behind and wiggle it provocatively towards him, would illicit no more than two minutes unpleasantness (one if she slopped that stinking scent down her back that he kept bringing home) and buy her a full night’s sleep. Plus, it would avoid the excesses associated with his pathetic attempts to provide pleasure for her - especially if he’d been drinking down the lodge. His enthusiasm for sexual experimentation, in the vain hope that one day he would give his wife an orgasm, was, for Cath, almost as depressing as his more usual, total disregard for her feelings.

“Now then, lass, I’ve ‘ad a reet good idea on way down street,” were words that she’d grown to fear more than actually getting pregnant again. And the idea of yet another male offspring to go with Little Neil, Nigel and Nolan, much as she loved them, filled her with dread. They were her whole life and yet they tied her to a man that she loathed - a man she could not tolerate a moment longer.

That she would one day leave him was beyond dispute. She’d known that even before the wedding ceremony, but a personal fortune in excess of eight figures has a certain tendency to turn a girl’s head - and takes some abandoning. She and the kids needed to separate Neil from his money, and, although she’d spent ten years stifling murderous thoughts, that was what the birthday surprise was all about. That was the only reason she’d doused herself in that repugnant, sickly scent before she’d even set off in the car: he must be primed, focused exclusively on pleasures to come, to not suspect anything was amiss when she started to set him up for his final, fatal performance later on. He needed to be carefully prepared and so desperate for sex that he would go along with whatever she said, no matter how outrageous, without question. Cath wasn’t sure that her nerve would hold out.

ii

“Right, Neil,” she called behind her. “You can open your eyes now.”

Neil did as he was told. He knew where he was, obviously. Cath had managed to keep the destination a secret right up until they pulled onto the private road of Hambershaw Hall, but, even though he now knew where he was going to spend the night, he still didn’t know what was in store for him (which, of course, was as well). However, as it was his thirtieth birthday, he felt supremely confident that it would be special.

“Jesus!” he gasped, trying to take it all in: the fourposter bed with its lace and linen, the erotic Japanese paintings on the walls, and floating, perfumed candles, placed at strategic points all around the room. Tiny flames sent flickering fingers of light dancing across the figures in the paintings, giving life and movement to the remarkably explicit acts; an ancient, virtual orgy. Neil glanced at Cath and saw her frown. He hoped she wouldn’t ask why he was bent almost double. He knew that she knew he would be expecting sex to be involved in his birthday treat at some point, but he didn’t want her to think that was all he was interested in. Even though it was. That was why he was attempting to camouflage what he was beginning to think might well be a lifethreatening erection. “Is it the honeymoon suite?” he groaned, looking like someone trying to impress a visiting Japanese dignitary.

“Are you alright, Neil?” said Cath, bending at the side of him in an attempt to see his face.

“What? Oh, er yes. I’m fine.”

“Well you don’t look fine. Do you need the toilet?”

A picture of Cath, draped in filmy, gauzy, lacy thingies, sitting astride the toilet, brushing her hair and applying more perfume to her body flashed instantly into Neil’s mind.

“Ooooh. Yes, I think I do,” he groaned, and dashed off in the direction of what he hoped was the ensuite and not the balcony.

iii

The bathroom was as impressive as the bedroom only much more modern. And, much lighter. An overhead strip caused Neil to squeeze his eyes shut against the glare after being in the candle-lit room. After a few seconds he was able to open them and look around. The first thing he registered was the double tub; obviously not a room just for crapping and washing your arse, he thought. The place was clearly geared up for adventures in erotica, as indicated by the massive mirror tiles on each wall. In one corner was a walkin shower with ample space for at least four people. The three separate shower heads confirmed his suspicion that the room was not necessarily designed for consenting couples only. In the opposite corner to the shower was a white, porcelain thunderbox and one of those biddy thingies that he used to think were for washing your feet but which he now knew were special, French fanny washers. The sight of that low, cold, waterless closet and its intended function nearly undid him. He tore at his belt and unzipped his trousers by simply pulling as hard as he could in both directions. He wrestled down his overtight Calvin Kleins and retrieved the offending member. He stood, still doubled over, staring at it. 

“Fuck me, mate, you’ve got yoursen in a bit of a state.” His overused, oversized but considerably overrated penis, was bright red and looked as though it had been repeatedly stamped on in a cobble street by someone wearing pitboots. He touched the inflamed tip and jumped as a barely bearable tingle seared down his back. 

He faced a major dilemma. It was always the same for him when he got into a state of high arousal. If he so much as attempted to have sex with Cath then the chances were he would simply squirt down the backs of her legs before he managed to get himself properly installed. That would never do. She’d brought him here with the express intention of enjoying a night of passion (obviously) so what would it look like if he finished in two seconds and was pushing up the zeds before she’d even managed to tissue herself down?

It was bad. Bad because, the only alternative was to treat himself to a precoital evacuation, or, as Neil thought, a quick, insurance wank. Normally that would be the answer but on this occasion he couldn’t guarantee that the required recovery time would be available. It was even more of a dilemma, because, he reasoned, she might be lying out there on the bed right now in a state of advanced undress and arousal; and so, if he was to relieve himself now and then go walking out there, satiated, albeit only temporarily, then he would be depriving her of what was rightfully hers. 

And Cath’s rights were at the very forefront of Neil’s considerations. He could find no sympathy with the old order of males; he was a fervent supporter of female rights. He believed that they had as much right to a good shafting as he had to giving it to them, and he would fight anyone who disagreed with that. On the other hand, if he remained in his current state, he would be equally useless to her. 

“It’s a reet dilemma,” he whispered to his pulsating knob. “That it is.”

That was when he had an idea.

Neil pulled up his Calvin Kleins and marched out of the bathroom, having reduced the state of his libido by finding a possible answer to the problem, and into the sensuous, tenebrous room. 

“Hi, doll,” he said, ignoring the worried look on Cath’s face. She wasn’t lying on the bed and was still fully clothed. “I didn’t want to mention it but, well, since we left home, I’ve had me a bit of an old lobon, bit of a podgy, you know?” There was no audible reaction and he had to go through the process of waiting for his pupils to grow accustomed to the change in light again in order to see any nonverbal clues. “Well,” he continued, while rubbing at his eyes, “rather than go at it like a bull in a Chinese shop, I’ve ad me a reet good idea.”

Had Neil been in possession of even an ounce of sensitivity he would have heard the heavy, dull thud as Cath’s resolve fell, abandoned, to the floor.

Instead he saw her staring fixedly at the bulge in his CK’s; he’d left his trousers in the bathroom. He mistook the look of distilled, pure horror as one of lust.

“I thought mebbe we could Christen the place with a bit of a gobble. What d’yer reckon, lass?”

He had no success in reading her expression; which was as well: Neil would have been most upset to know that his devoted wife was praying to God with every fibre of her being that he would strike her husband dead with a thunderbolt.

“What d’yer say?” he prompted.

Cath stammered a few times. Neil’s grin started to spread across his face. Anything other than an immediate refusal meant there was a chance . 

“What - do you mean?” she managed. 

“A gobble, a blow, you know: a tonsil tickler. See if tha can get a tune out the old oboe. Thought it’d be a bit of a change like. You know, from usual.”

Neil didn’t like the way that Cath’s face was beginning to crumple. Eventually she regained control of her facial muscles. 

“Are you suggesting,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “that I perform oral sex on you?”

Neil grinned even wider. He loved it when she played hard to get. She went on. “You honestly think that there would be pleasure in putting your penis into my mouth?”

Neil was nodding now. He could feel saliva building at the corners of his mouth. The tension increased exponentially with every second of teasing torture that Cath poured over him. God! she knew how to turn a bloke on. 

“Yes,” he eventually slobbered. He pulled at the waistband of his boxers; he needed to relieve the pressure that had suddenly built again. He was almost back where he started.

“I hate oral sex, Neil, you know I do.”

Neil did his best to make sense of the statement but, try as he might, he couldn’t think why Cath thought saying that would excite him further.

“Oral sex,” she continued, “the very thought of oral sex with you, Neil, makes me feel physically sick.”

Oh, that’s it! She wanted drama, he thought. She wants it all to be exciting and dramatic. He took his cue and pulled his pants down to his knees. His penis, now in a state of acute instability, twitched - erotically, he thought - disgustingly, she thought -in the vague direction of the door which, at that very moment, burst open. A tall, blonde girl dressed in a short black dress with a white pinny stumbled in. 

“Oh God!” she said, putting her hand to her mouth like the world’s worst actress. “I’m so sorry.” 

Jesus! thought Neil, she’s laid on a whole fantasy for me here. “It’s me birthday,” he said, two octaves higher than normal. The wobble in his voice was from almost terminal arousal rather than nervousness at being seen in such an ungentlemanly attitude.

“Don’t apologise!” Cath snapped at the girl. “I was just leaving.” With that she stormed out through the door leaving the birthday boy and the maid staring at each other across the candle-lit room like gunslingers in a shoot-out. 

iv 

Cath stomped downstairs into the bar and ordered a large gin and tonic with lime. This she drank in one, then ordered another and a bag of cheese and onion crisps. She could hardly stop herself from shaking with anger. Neil had always been an unfeeling, selfish bastard and she knew that there would come a day when she couldn’t stand it any longer. After all, a massive income wasn’t everything, was it? But she’d always presumed that, once the end was in sight, once her future was laid out before her, as it now was, she would be able to deal with him all the more easily. But that hadn’t been how it was at all. When he’d suggested that she suck that thing of his, she’d nearly abandoned everything, including the settlement that would follow, and simply left him. She knew she had to calm down.

She finished the crisps and the second gin and decided to make her way slowly back up to the room. Her anger had started to subside in the knowledge that he would have sorted himself out by then and that the only horrors left to deal with (other than the messy business of his murder later on) would be the drunken gropings while the band (she’d organised them as a noisy distraction while he was despatched) deafened all the guests from the stage.

As she walked past the desk she saw the same maid, now with a damp cloth, dabbing at the shoulder area of her black uniform. They made eye contact for a second but the maid turned bright red and looked away. Footsteps clomping down the stairs distracted her. She looked up to see Neil, now fully dressed, descending the staircase sporting an even bigger grin than he’d had when he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes ago. 

“Cath!” he shouted. “This has got to be best birthday a’ve ever had. I mean it, lass, the very best. Are we ‘aving some snap now?”

The urge to punch the bastard in the bollocks (which were at a perfect level and distance for such an attack to take place) passed as Cath realised that she may well have escaped destitution by the opportune interruption from the poor girl who was still dabbing at her dress. 

“Yes,” she said, turning back towards the bar. “But first, an aperitif I think.” She had every intention of getting herself, as well as Neil, shitfaced drunk. Her initial belief that the occasion would be bearable, given the fact that it was no more than a means to an end, a means to a very agreeable end, was starting to look a little overoptimistic, and she’d only worked through the first hour, most of which had been taken up with driving. There was still plenty of time to go. Alcohol was the only way to deal with it, the only way to cope; she just had to be careful not to lose control.

Cath felt a certain twinge of guilt at the thought of how awful everyone else’s evening would turn out as a result of her actions but, well, she’d waited a long time to get even and his thirtieth birthday was just about the perfect place to do it. And, as long as the band turn up, she thought, everything should work out fine. As long as the band come and play.