The Word Cloud

This little story follows on from a previous blog called 'Silent Seduction' - I was recently inspired to write this by someone special. Just a little fun.. perhaps I'm a little romantic at heart... hee he

 Is the hunter now the hunted?

You stride towards me, in long purposeful steps.  Sure of yourself and of what you want.

Your dark amber eyes flicker and glow, as a predators would when catching sight of it's pray.

My pulse quickens to an alarming pace - it feels as my heart is pounding inside my head.

The heat of your gaze is penetrating, as if you can see right through me, to my inner soul.

My body trembles with anticipation as a wave of sweet passion rushes through it.

You can sense my hunger. The corners of your mouth lift ever so slightly, causing slight indentations against your cheeks - dimples? A wolfish grin plays on your lips.

You're so close now, almost on top of me.

I see you take in a breath and your eyelids drop ever so slightly, in a shimmer - like a ripple on the waters surface of a still lake. They recover - your gaze now intense, with a dangerous almost wild feral hunger. I can see myself reflected within them - those pools of gold.

I can feel the heat from your body, like stormy waves crashing on the shore.

You reach out to me, sliding a hand along the side of my body, to eventually rest against the small of my back. A fiery path remains where your fingertips traced. I feel the heat of your touch intensify in the small of my back, through the thin layer of material separating your skin from mine, threatening to explode and engulf me. As you reach out and entangle the strong fingers of your other hand in the hair, at the nap of my neck.

I feel the firmness and strength of you, as you slowly pull me up against the length of you, pulling back my head to meet your hungry gaze. Like a puppet on a string, I obey. Your lips are full and inviting - I'm drawn to them. Like a moth to an open flame.

Suddenly it's just the two of us, no one else exists in this space.

I tear my eyes from your lips and glance up into your eyes. I feel suddenly lost and intoxicated in those dark amber pools, captured within their heat. A silent invitation almost a dare sucks me in.

As you tilt your head down towards me - my eyes are drawn back to your inviting mouth - I can almost taste you in the air.

Your scent invades my senses, like the smell of a hot summer night engulfing me. My body burns, as if liquid fire is flowing through my veins.

My lips part as I suck in a breath and let out another sigh, as you whisper into my ear - your breath hot against my skin. Like a bolt of lightening, a wave of passion courses through my body, I tremble - my hunger intensifying. You know what I want. Again the tiger within me struggles for it's freedom, breaking the chains.

But will you survive? Are you strong enough?


 

Pilots Chapter 4

 

Weeks went by as I became a professional outpatient. Mum came with me every time I was scanned, screened and tested for every flavour of cancer known to human kind. I suffered the incredible claustrophobia of the bastard brother of the industrial tumble drier – the MRI scanner - as I was shoved in time and again, just in case they’d missed something.

 

They put a tap in my arm because they were taking so much blood for so many different tests…

 

The day of reckoning finally arrived. I was to meet with Dr Smith and possibly one of his minions to discuss the awful outcome of all this exploration.

 

I was now monitoring my weight a little more rigorously. I’d lost nearly a stone over the last four weeks. I’d gone from the boy who’d clearly eaten all the pies to my ideal weight. I looked fabulous, better than at any time since my teens. My moobs had been replaced by pecs, my one-pack had transformed into a four/ maybe a six pack. I was lithe and springy. My double chin had gone. My profile was magnificent.

 

I was fucking terrified.

 

None of my clothes fitted. Mum had gone shopping on my behalf – coming home with sundry jeans, shirts, tee-shirts and wot-not that she thought I’d like. I stopped looking in the mirror now. What started off as an episode of self-adoration had rapidly turned into an image of sand running through an hour-glass.

 

For mum it must have been the reverse of my teenage years. A time where I’d grow 6 inches in as many months. I remember how she’d struggle to clothe me, “You’ll grow into that…” and, “Ooooh you’ve got a few weeks left in them yet…” were common currency then.

 

But now nothing was said. She’d come in with a seemingly endless stream of stuff for me. Tops and trousers would appear in my wardrobe. Nothing was said in case we acknowledged this strange and unknown predator that was slowly devouring me.

 

It was all well and good having this endless supply of new and fashionable clothing, but I never went anywhere with it. I’d stopped going out. I couldn’t let people see me like this. Well, it wasn’t my physical me I couldn’t let folk see – it was the mental me. I was in a state of almost permanent trauma. Only daytime television could save me.

 

I hungrily sought any reality TV chat shows where some poor cunt was worse off than me. That said, if they were being strong, achieving great things in the face of adversity, I’d quickly switch over. I was languishing in my misery – I didn’t need some born-again fucking marathon runner who’d saved an orphanage to make me feel guilty as well.

 

We didn’t talk over breakfast. I had my usual – everything in the house – eggs, bacon, toast, beans, cereal, M & M’s, anything that came within arms reach.

 

I read the ingredients on any packaging in front of me. Any distraction was welcome.

 

I knew why mum wasn’t talking – partly the stress of the situation – but mainly because I’d become an obnoxious twat. I didn’t want her compassion or her care. I didn’t want her support with anything – any act of kindness, intentional or otherwise was met with an adolescent recalcitrant glare, grunt or slam of the door.

 

Mum was less vibrant now. Conversations were practical and polite…

 

“Would you like a...?”

 

“What’s this you’re watching?”

 

“Have you heard anything from..?”

Jen had mysteriously vanished from my life as suddenly as she’d crashed into it. My phone calls were unanswered – I even popped onto her ward a couple of times to be met with, “She’s busy,” or “She’s not in today,”

 

True, I hadn’t been terribly diligent in my pursuit of her. But you’d think…

 

“Are you ready to go?” mum asked quietly as she put the last of the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

 

“I guess…” this felt huge. The tension was unbearable.

 

The old, ‘I saw my life pass before my eyes’ adage is supremely overused – but sitting next to mum, as she drove me to the hospital I thought about all my places, the things I’d done, the things I hadn’t, my work, my university years all culminating in this.

 

My so-called fucking life.

 

The world seemed so vibrant – so stark – so loud – I was hypersensitive to the minutiae of everything. Mum over-revving the car at traffic lights – the blueness of the sky – just the act of physically being was tortuous.

 

Mum looked forward at all times. There was no idle chat. No laughing. No touching. She was on automatic pilot. We were floating in our little bubbles – separate lives inextricably linked.

 

“There’s a parking space there!” An angry explosion rather than a friendly direction. Why was I like this? Why was I barking orders at my poor mother?

 

“Where?” soft and gentle as ever.

 

“There… there, next to the…Fuck!” as a Ford Fiesta stole our place.

 

I was still seething about the Ford Fiesta fiasco as I slumped down into one of the comfy sofas in the Oncology outpatient’s waiting room.

 

Mum picked up a six-month old copy of Homes and Gardens. She was instantly absorbed by the hot tips for everyday living that lay within.

 

My anger dribbled away gradually only to be replaced with the guilt caused by my obnoxious behaviour.

 

We hurt the ones we love the most. Oh really?

 

I put my hand on her leg, “Mum, I’m sorry…I…”

 

Her hand appeared on mine, “I know John. It’s ok,”

 

And that’s how we sat for the next ten or fifteen minutes – my hand on her leg – her hand on mine.

 

“That’s us…” Mum stood instantly as my name was announced over the tannoy.

I stood outside Doctor Smith’s office. What had I done last time? Did I just walk in? Did I knock? Did I just materialise in front of him?

 

My heart pounded as I stood paralysed, rooted to the spot.

 

“C’mon John,” Mum almost whispered as she opened the door.

 

Doctor Smith was alone. He was a slim man in his mid fifties – maybe even late fifties. He had a tanned face that suggested he was always ready to smile – his blue eyes twinkled – the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upwards – his shock of grey hair, a stark contrast to his tanned face, looked like it had been tousled by his proud Mum as she saw him out the door…

 

“John, please take a seat,” he shook my hand as I sat down. Was his tone matter of fact? Was it informal? Jovial? Was it good news? How long did I have? Fuck, why wasn’t he talking?

 

He nodded, and smiled openly to my mum as she shook his hand and sat next to me on an orange bucket seat. Didn’t they expect supporting friends and family? I got a comfy seat and she got something that would elicit bedsores if she sat on it for longer than five minutes.

 

My eyes scanned the room. On the wall was a posed photograph. Him, some ageless woman and three grinning children. Was this his wife? Maybe it was his daughter? Maybe her husband had died from some particularly nasty strain of cancer and he, as the doting granddad had taken them all on. If that were the case, where was his wife…?

 

“John, I’ll cut to the chase as quickly as I can,” he took a breath, but didn’t pause long enough for me to start asking the thousand questions running through my head, “You don’t have cancer…”

 

I collapsed back into my seat with relief – only to be bounced back into the stressed position as I was hit with the question – what the fuck have I got?

 

Mum squeezed my leg.

 

Sensing my ping-pong response, Doctor Smith held up his hand, “This amount of weight loss would suggest that something’s going on – it just isn’t a cancer…”

 

“But that’s good news though, isn’t it? I haven’t got cancer?” hey, I liked the sound of that, I’ll say it again, “I haven’t got cancer? So what have I got?”

 

“We don’t know? I’ve spoken to a colleague of mine, Doctor Asanovic, he’s an endocrinologist.”

 

As with so many words in common usage in the hospital, ‘endocrinologist’ rang a dim and distant bell from my ‘O’ level in Human Biology. As with so many words like this, I came to a mental dead end.

 

“What does an endocrinologist do exactly?” Don’t say it…don’t say it…

 

“He looks at your endocrine system,” he said it.

 

“Which is what…exactly?”

 

Doctor Smith allowed himself a little smile, perhaps acknowledging that he’d been a bit of a knob, “It’s the system that looks after your hormones – they’re basically the chemicals that tell your body to do stuff – like grow, break down sugar, lactate… you know?”

 

“Vaguely,” it kind of made sense, “So you think my problem is to do with that?”

 

“Possibly, I’m just not sure – Doctor Asanovic had hoped to be here to meet you and answer any questions you might have, but he’s been called away just now,”

 

“Ok, so do we wait for him? What should I do?” I felt myself falling into the patient trap – absolve myself of all responsibility – I will do what the doctor tells me.

 

“He shouldn’t be long… I’ll probably have to go, but he can see you here, in my office if you like…”

 

I smiled vacantly. So I just wait here, in Doctor Smith’s office, until Doctor Asanovic arrives?

 

Mum got up to leave.

 

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

 

“We’re going to the waiting room – to wait for Doctor Asanovic?”

 

Of course…of course, we couldn’t just sit around in…what had I been thinking? Jesus, what was happening to me?

 

“Ok,” as I stood up Doctor Smith came round to my side of the desk and shook my hand.

 

“Good luck,” he said warmly.

 

The word ‘luck’ rang in my head as I walked out holding mum’s hand, what good was luck going to do me?

 

We sat and waited in silence. What an anti-climax! Here I was thinking that Doctor Smith was going to tell me if I was going to live or die… and now? Nothing…just nothing.

 

I tried to read the magazines – everything from ‘Peoples Friend’ to ‘Horse and Hound’ but nothing was going in.

 

“Do you want a coffee?”

 

Mum’s voice came as such a shock I nearly leapt out of my seat, “What?”

 

“Coffee? There’s a wee café just round the corner – d’you want a latte?”

 

Why was everything taking so long to process? It felt that mums words were being delivered on a slowly running stream of treacle.

 

“Coffee?” even my own voice sounded unfamiliar.

 

“Yes John,” she smiled, stroking my face, “Y’know, that hot beverage made from squashed up beans and milk?”

 

“I’d love a coffee – thanks mum – I’ll wait here though…”

 

“Of course, of course… I’ll be back in a couple of minutes…”

 

It was good that she had something to do. She liked to be busy. All this sitting around must have been doing her head in.

 

As she walked out she passed a tall guy with blond hair and sharp features. He wore a dark Armani suit and walked with an heir of confidence I could only dream of now. The reason I knew from such a distance that it was an Armani suit is that this tall, well presented fellow was an ex-colleague of mine – Claus Hansen - the worlds best dressed social worker.

 

He flitted from potential punter to potential punter until he spotted me. What does one say in situations such as these?

 

“Hi John,” Claus shook my hand in a friendly way, “how’s it going?”

 

My mind flooded. What do I say? What should I say? I’m a social worker, after all – I’m not a client. I’m not like these people – I’m a helper, not the helped.

 

“I’m here with my mum…” empty trail off to allow him space to fill in the gaps.

 

“Is she ok? I mean, obviously not if…” was Claus the unflappable actually blushing?

 

“Yeah, I’m sure she will be…” use the silence John. Use the silence.

 

“Listen, here’s one of my cards…” He has a business card?! “I’m the palliative care social worker – it doesn’t mean I just work with folk who are dying – I work with the rest of the team looking at support – pain control – talking to their families – and professionals for that matter…”

 

“Thanks Claus, I’ll give it to her.”

 

“Yeah, well, anyway John – take care…” and with that he wandered off sprinkling his business cards amongst his flock. Fuck – I can’t believe he’s got business cards.

 

“Who was that?” Mum plonked herself down next to me – sounding a little lusty for my liking.

 

She handed me my coffee as I explained who he was.

 

“That sounds great – why don’t you go and see him?”

 

Why don’t I go and see him? Because he’s a bloody social worker, that’s why. I’m not going to talk to a guy who’s been a colleague about all my hopes and fears now that I’ve got God knows what. I’m not the kind of guy who needs help.

 

“I, er, I told him that I’d think about it…”

 

We sat in silence again. This time I didn’t make any pretence of reading – I stared at my cardboard coffee cup praying for Doctor Asanovic to make an appearance so I could go home.

 

“John?” well bugger me if it wasn’t Mr. Hansen coming to distribute more of his good cheer, “This must be your mum…she doesn’t look old enough…”

 

Fuck off!

 

“I’ve made sure she’s had a particularly easy life,” I meant to grin – but it came out more as a grimace.

 

Mum, predictably, melted on the spot. To be fair, he was rather lovely.

 

“I was very young…” she giggled.

 

“You still look very young…” he oozed, “The reason I came back was I forgot to mention that we have a social group for folk who attend outpatients like this…”

 

He was talking directly at mum.

 

“For carers?” she looked puzzled.

 

I closed my eyes tightly. This wasn’t really happening.

 

“No,” now he sounded puzzled, “it’s for folk who are receiving support from the oncology department or the palliative care team.”

 

“What do you think, John?” she nudged me into opening my eyes, “That would get you out of the house.”

 

Sprung.

 

“Get you out of the house? I thought you said it was your mum who…”

 

“I’ve taken one of your cards – I’ll give you a ring,” I snarled.

 

“Ok,” he smiled quickly at mum who gave him a ‘I don’t know what’s going on either’ kind of a look, then he walked off.

 

“John?” she squeezed my hand.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” end of.

 

After an hour and a half of sitting in the subsequent silence, looking into the middle distance, my name was called out.

 

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Mum, determined in her support.

 

“Yes – bloody right I do!” the closest I’d been to declaring my undying love for my mum in ages.

 

With the Doctor Smith door incident in such recent memory I was able to enter the office unaided.

 

Mentally I hadn’t yet associated Doctor Asanovic with the gift of life and death. He was just another in a long line of folk who’d recently come into my life. As such, I wasn’t preoccupied with what was wrong with me when I set eyes on him. I was gobsmacked – he must have been nearly 7 foot.

 

“Dr Asanovic,” he stated has he shook my relatively tiny hand in his. Then, possibly by way of explanation, he said,  “I’m Serbian.”

 

“I’m John and this is my mum, I’m…” what? The king of the little people? Shorter than you? “…pleased to meet you.”

 

He sat down and was still slightly taller than me, “Please…” he indicated the seats – we sat obediently, “You spoke to Dr Smith earlier?”

 

We both nodded.

 

“He told you that you didn’t have a cancer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He told you that I was an endocrinologist?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who specialises in endocrinology?” A slight smile played around his lips.

 

“Yes.”

 

“He came to me because he thought there maybe something going on with your hormones…”

 

“Yes…” I felt like a nodding dog in the back of someone’s car.

 

“And, to be frank, there is something going on with your hormones.”

 

It felt like he was talking about someone else. Hormones were something that weren’t that important – you grew, you ate, you had sexual urges…

 

He pointed at a picture of the brain on the wall, “Just here, hidden away is a very important gland. It’s the master gland. The pituitary.”

 

“Ok,” I nodded as ‘O’ level Human Biology kicked in.

 

“This gland tells the other glands what to do…”

 

“Yes,” I smiled, “I remember this from school…” 

 

“Unfortunately, your pituitary has decided to tell your glands what not to do…”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It would appear that it is producing some manner of hormone that is… er… shutting you down.”

 

Whoa! Rewind. Dr Tall Guy who has a slightly comedic appearance, who sounds not dissimilar to Dracula in a Hammer House of Horror rerun, is telling me that… is telling me I’m…

 

“What does that mean?” suddenly my heart felt like it was beating in my throat. I felt terribly far away. My legs felt damp, my scalp prickly.

 

“At the moment, it would appear that your body is slowly, er, I mean gradually, coming to a halt…”

 

“Which means?” Mum butted in as I tried to assimilate this seemingly simple piece of information.

 

“If this continued without our input, you would probably die within a few months…”

 

He always seemed to stop when he had more to say. He definitely said ‘die’. The doctors that I worked with never said ‘die’. They would always say things like ‘they were doing everything in their power to…’ and ‘don’t go buying any long-playing records…’

 

“But it’s treatable?” I coaxed.

 

“Everything’s treatable,” he enthused, lightening my mental load for the briefest of moments, “It’s just about finding the right treatment for your condition…”

 

“And that treatment would be…er…what exactly?” mum jumped in again.

 

“Well, first of all we have to stop the pituitary doing what it’s doing. And then we have to tell all your glands and organs to get back to business as before.”

 

“And you’re how close are you to doing this?”

 

“We’re working on it just now. Come in next week at this time and we’ll talk about your treatment.”

 

We got up to walk out. I shook his massive hand again, “Thanks,” I spoke quietly but it felt with some determination.

 

“See you next week,” he smiled.

 

We walked out into the cold glare of the outpatients waiting room again.

 

I turned around, opened the door and walked up to the desk where Dr Asanovic had started writing up his notes, “Am I going to die?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” he held my gaze for the few seconds it took me to think about this.

 

“Thanks,” I said as I turned and walked out the door.

 

****

 

On getting home, I retired to my room and lay on my bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. As I was growing up I always imagined the ninety-degree angles in the cracks were waterfalls cascading and crashing on their way to the sea. There was something inevitable about rivers and waterfalls that I loved. You just knew where you were with them. I’d always thought of my life as a river, meandering it’s way fatalistically towards my eventual demise.

 

But this all felt a bit soon. I was still at that carelessly winding stage of riverdom before it gradually straightens out into that wide, slow moving old man…

 

The words that had stood out for me today were ‘I don’t have cancer’, ‘die’ and ‘not if I can help it’.

 

I can’t believe I lied to Claus. What an arse. Anyone can get ill. Anyone. I was forever telling my punters, ‘There but for the grace of God’. Strange given my atheism – but I was sure it was a sentiment I really believed. And now, here I was – Gamekeeper turned Poacher and… what?

 

I didn’t like it.

 

I decided to call Claus tomorrow. All this introspection was doing my fucking head in. Maybe a bit of socialising was just what I needed.

 

I came downstairs early the following day, motivated by the fact that I’d made a decision. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red and wet in her sadness. For the first time in years I was seeing her without makeup. She looked older in a way, but at the same time she had more character in her face, like she’d become a real person – not just a mum.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

She looked up as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She moved to stand up, “John...I…you’re not usually up at this time,” her voice shaking through the tears.

 

I rushed to her side, “Mum, it’s ok…it’s ok,” I pulled her head towards me as she wept into my stomach.

 

I stroked her hair, quietly soothing her, “It’s going to be ok… everything’ll be fine…sshhh now, shhh now…”

 

Eventually she stopped crying and looked up at me with a wet snottery smile, “I love you John…”

 

“I know mum, I love you right back,” I tousled her hair as I pulled her towards me again.

 

“I’m going to phone Claus today. You’re right, I could do with getting out of the house.”

 

I knelt down next to her and looked into her lovely face. She grabbed my head and kissed my cheeks and my forehead. She left the kitchen and went up the stairs.

 

“Claus? Hi, it’s John,”

 

Claus responded warmly as ever, “Sorry about yesterday mate, I didn’t know what was going on,”

 

“Don’t worry, that was my fault entirely – I don’t know what I was thinking,”

 

“Ok – what can I do for you?”

 

“Well I was wondering about the social thing you were talking about yesterday.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was hoping to join,”

 

“John, you need to know…”

 

“What?”

 

“These guys are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“I thought so,”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I haven’t got cancer, but I might be terminally ill…” Jesus fucking Christ – this was the first time I’d ever said it to myself or otherwise. The tears began to flow freely.

 

“Do you want to come into the office? It’s better than doing this over the phone.”

 

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

Just before I left mum reappeared, fully made-up and mother-looking once again. I held my hand to her face, “Are you ok?”

 

“Don’t make my mascara run,” she laughed, sniffing back the tears.

 

“I’m going along to the hospital now to see Claus.”

 

“What about the famous social work waiting list?”

 

“There’s got to be some perks to this bloody job,” I smiled as I walked out.

 

Claus and I talked at length about what had been going on for me. Everything from being suspended, the pending court case and this mysterious illness.

 

“As I mentioned earlier John, the folk in the social group are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“Ok? Does that mean I can’t come and play?”

 

“The stuff we do is partly funded by the cancer charities - although the social work department does chuck some cash our way from time to time,”

 

“That’s fine – I’ll pay my way,”

 

“You don’t have to,” he grinned, “Mates rates, ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

It just so happened that the next social outing was something that I’d been promising to take myself along to for years. Go-kart racing in a funky indoor arena. It had a ‘Grand Prix’ with Champagne and (plastic) laurel leaves and the smell of oil, and the screech of rubber and fireproof suits and, and… a bunch of guys wearing NHS wigs.

 

“I’m Jim,” smiled the tallest of three guys in the small group. He wore an ill-fitting tope wig with no discernable parting. He had no eyebrows or eyelashes. He looked youthful, surprised and burnt all at the same time.

 

He shook my hand vigorously.

“We’re the Ball-Boys,” he laughed as he introduced me to the other two guys who looked remarkably similar to him.

 

“The Ball-Boys?” I smiled as I shook their hands in turn.

 

“”Testicular cancer,” he whispered as if he were letting me in on some gang secret.

 

“Of course,” I smiled back.

 

He told me the names of the other two, but their names didn’t really matter. They were the Ball-Boys and that’s how I would remember them.

 

 We went through all the safety stuff associated with hurling oneself three inches above the track at seventy five miles an hour in a hundred cc racing car. We were told all about the dangers of bad cornering, of crashing and of the petrol tank catching fire and killing you to death.

 

“If I see you driving dangerously, I’ll wave the yellow flag at you. If you do it twice, you’ll get a black flag. If you do it three times – or if you do something really stupid, it’s the red flag, ok?”

 

Geoff, the master of the track, held our attention with consummate ease.

 

There were twelve of us in all. I watched as the NHS wigs bobbed up and down to show their agreement.

 

“Hey John,” whispered one of the Ball-Boys conspiratorially, “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Fuck-all. I’m a social worker – I couldn’t resist the offer of free go-karting,” I kind of winked at him. I’ve never winked at anyone in my life.

 

He looked at me as if he momentarily believed me, “Haaa!” he laughed as he pushed me hard on the shoulder, “Funny cunt.”

 

We all lined up for our fireproof clothing with full-face helmets and manly leather gloves combo.

 

I’d automatically asked for the extra large suit. I knew there was something wrong as I was putting it on. By the time I’d finished pulling up all the zips and assorted fastenings I knew that I looked like a ten-year-old who’d pinched his dads biker leathers.

 

“You look like a prick,” Jim giggled supportively.

 

At least I’ve got my own hair… Best left unsaid, “Cheers,” I smiled lamely.

 

Geoff came to my rescue. He sounded ex-forces as he spoke in his matter of fact way, telling me about the pitfalls of having an ill-fitting outfit.

 

“Blah, blah, blah…fire…blah, blah, blah, horrific burns… blah, blah, blah… death,” I think he said.

 

There is nothing more exhilarating than lining up in your first proper go-karting race. Nothing. We’d had the practice laps. We’d had the qualifying laps. And now… This was the big one.

 

We’d been split into two semi-finals of six. I’d qualified in the middle of the pack. Perfect. I could watch my adversaries, their techniques, their cornering as I carved my way through the field. To be fair, I didn’t have to do much carving. I only had to come third to get myself into the final for a chance for the cup, the Champagne and associated glory.

 

All thoughts of my ridiculous illness had gone. All that mattered now was qualification. I was disappointed to find that the three Ball-Boys, of whom I’d become strangely fond just by virtue of the ridiculous label they’d given themselves, were racing in the other semi-final.

 

My race was wholly uneventful. The three folk behind me found themselves locked in a comedy pile-up that meant I could romp home, still in third, waving to my adoring fans as I crossed the line.

 

“You were magnificent,” Claus smiled at me as I pulled myself out of my car.

 

“You didn’t fancy a bit of petrol head action yourself?” I asked, looking at my astonishingly well turned out ex-workmate.

 

“In these shoes?” he laughed.

 

“No, maybe you’re right,” As the laughter subsided I became all too aware that, from here on in, I was the client.

 

I watched the second semi-final, impressed at how the Ball-Boys worked as a team to support each other around the track doing everything in their power to ensure the success of their team-mates. Even if it meant using sneaky blocking techniques. The crafty blighters. This is what I was going to be up against in the final.

 

The track, being indoors, was pretty bendy to accommodate a reasonable distance for each lap. There was only one place, at the end of the long straight at the end of the lap, where courage would come in handy. If I could brake later than the opposition then I could take them on the tight curve at the end. Obviously, if I went too fast, or braked too late then I’d make a complete arse of myself by crashing into the tyres.

 

My heart was in my mouth at the start. I couldn’t believe that my waving to the adoring fans had cost me valuable time which meant I’d found myself in last place on the grid. Never mind, I had a cunning plan that would demonstrate my superiority over my fellow drivers.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. The final was ten laps long, so I’d have plenty of chances.

Quite surprisingly for any plan of mine, it appeared to be working. I overtook the two folk from my semi-final in the first two laps. I imagined their look of surprise as I raced past them at the end of the straight and over the finishing line.

 

Now for the Ball-Boys.

 

I knew they worked as a team. They’d be aware that I was moving up the field, so they’d be ready for me. True enough, for the next couple of laps I was successfully blocked by two of them going round the final bend in parallel which meant there was really no way through.

 

Fuck this. These cars have bumpers for a reason. As we approached the bend at the end of the 8^th lap, I could see them both braking, blocking my way completely. Not this time though. Where they were braking, I was accelerating. I knew that the guy on the inside of the curve needed to slow down the most to get round the corner, so I rammed hard into him from behind. All too late he braked hard, his wheels locked as his car went into a skid, running into his team mate in the outside, allowing me a free path straight past them on the inside.

 

Geoff waved the black flag angrily at me. At least it wasn’t the red.

 

I had no idea which two I’d taken out with my expert manoeuvre, but I imagined that Jim was to be all that stood between me and the top of that podium. He’d taken advantage of the blocking techniques of his fellow Ball-Boys and had taken quite a lead on me.

 

I braked later than him at the end of the ninth lap, but was still too far ahead to sneak past.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. I kept playing my mantra through my head.

 

As we came into the final straight on the last lap he was still too far ahead. I wasn’t going to be able to brake late enough to sneak past him on that final corner.

 

And then I was struck by a thought.

 

Fuck it – I’m going to die anyway.

 

I’m not terribly sure what was on my mind as I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator instead of even considering the brake.

 

Jim was just going around the apex of that last bend as I ran straight into the side of his Kart doing God knows what speed. Thankfully, the frame of his vehicle was up to such a crazy impact.

 

Although my frame showed similar resilience, physics was clearly against me. My go-kart somersaulted over his and the protective tyres around the track and crashed into the wall of the building with a sickening crunch.

 

I was surprised. Surprised to be alive, relatively unharmed and conscious. I was also surprised at what a cock I’d been. Most of all, I was shocked at this strangely competitive John that had manifested himself over the course of the two races.

 

It had been Jim in the Kart in front. He’d managed to limp over the finishing line before the other two caught up.

 

Once Geoff established I was ok, he disqualified me and banned me for life from his indoor karting arena. I took my punishment on the chin. Fair enough, I’d been a complete arse.

 

As I gazed upon the wonderful sight of the three Ball-Boys standing together on the podium, spraying cheap Cava all over each other, laughing and cheering, I realised I’d had no right to break that up. They had been pulled together in this wonderful bit of fun that Claus had laid on for us.

 

I’d nearly wrecked it.

 

“You twat!” Jim cuffed me round the head in the car-park afterwards, “What were you thinking?”

 

There was something wonderfully intimate in a relationship where a guy, who I hardly knew, felt comfortable enough to hit me in a boyish fashion whilst insulting me with a lower order expletive.

 

“I don’t know, Jim, I guess I wanted to win…”

 

The other two gave me that, ‘You dozy arse’ look as they all climbed into Jim’s car. I waved them off, at the same time having a very strange feeling of belonging.

 

“John, what the fuck were you doing,” Claus didn’t normally swear, I must have really pissed him off.

 

“I have no idea – I was kind of overwhelmed by a feeling that…”

 

“That what?”

 

“…I dunno, it’s weird…”

 

“Go on,”

 

“That it’s ok to try my hardest – even if I might make a mess of it – does that make sense?”

 

“Yes… you’re talking about your illness,”

 

“Yeah – also, slightly more alarmingly, I thought, ‘what the fuck, I might be dead tomorrow,’ that’s not good, is it?”

 

“Don’t worry, John, no-one was killed, injured, maimed or burnt to death,” he smiled kindly.

 

“No, I suppose not,”

 

“I’ve got to tell you something…” Claus suddenly blurted.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You know Geoff?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He refused to take a penny off me for the groups’ go-karting.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I think he felt – kind of sorry for you all – maybe he thought by not charging he was helping just a little bit,”

 

“Do you think?”

 

“Yeah – I know it sounds a bit patronising,”

 

“No, not at all… not at all. You know what it makes me think though?”

 

“No, what?”

 

“Terminally ill – licensed to kill!” I grinned only slightly demonically.

 

“Oh my God!” he laughed, followed by, “Drive carefully,” as he ushered me into the old Ford Fiesta.

Right... some of you may be aware that BP challenged me to write a sex scene. Some of you may also be aware that I am somewhat of a rambling writer. Some of you may not be aware of either of these two points and so it is to you I turn my bloggy-eyes, as the others will just scoff at my attempt and dissmiss it as typical EzBloke sewer substance. This, for me, was a serious attempt to write a scene, as AlanP blogged recently, that I just "don't do."

So here it is. Not my genre, not my subject matter and, if you are easily offended, not my problem...

A quick sub-note; it's not finished. In fact, it's not finished at a particularly critical point... I am still awaiting *cough* research to help pad out the female internal perspective at the end.

This is adults only. DO NOT READ if you are not, chronologicaly or intelli-quotiently, an adult. Contains strong language and scenes (hopefully) of a sexual nature.

You have been warned.

Beatrix, Imperatrix Sub Mundi.

               Just as the depth of night passed, and the call of dawn was now fractionally closer than the hush of dusk, Beatrix sat with her knees to her chin on her straw and blanket bedding. She had been thinking about this night for far too long. As her imagination ran wild and her young body responded she had, for too long now, pushed herself beyond the heavens with the swiftest and silken soft touches, leaving her gasping and releasing his name to the world. Not anymore. Not tonight. Tonight she would feel his strong arms tight around her waist, tonight she will feel his mouth on hers, sucking in his hot breath and his probing tongue. That tongue, oh that tongue, what it will do to her, where it will go in her… Already she could feel the heat rising, she could feel the ache between her legs, already she yearned to touch herself, to stimulate herself and to carry on with her wild and vivid fantasy. But not tonight! She chided herself. Her shaking hands gripped each other tighter, locking the arms she had wrapped around her knees ever tighter, her thin shift pulled down to her shins.

                Beatrix sniffed briefly, was there the merest hint of a slightly sweet smell in the air? She snorted as she stifled a giggle when realising it was her own scent. She looked around, her heart beating fast, suddenly anxious that the odour would carry across to the cots around her and rouse her fellow servants. She held her breath for what seemed like an age but none stirred beyond the tossing and turning she was used to seeing at this, her private hour. She leaned forward, consciously forcing her distended and aching nipples into her thighs, hoping for some respite and desperate to smother another round of wanton thoughts.
                Despite her young age, Beatrix was not unfamiliar with sex having lost her virginity to the shepherd Tortop a number of years ago after helping him introduce the households’ one and only ram to the ewe herd he was charged with protecting. Her deflowering was a not too unpleasant experience, the pain of his all too brief entry was nothing compared to the lashings she had endured as an errant child. Since then, Beatrix had enjoyed the tutelage of all three of the stable boys and, once, Emmalina the milkmaid. None of the boys, however, were as well endowed as the master, Borsmir.
                Called to the main house on an errand late one evening she passed his chamber window and chanced to look in just as he stepped naked from his dust covered breeches. His limp manhood hung low and from Beatrix’s side on point of view looked to be a good two hands width long. She stared in through the window, mouth open and eyes wide as he threw his dirty linen into a corner and, turning away from her, showed his powerful, muscle bound back  below which, shining white against his hirsute darkness, were his proportionately small buttocks. He leaned forward and picked clean breeches from his chair and turned to the window.
                Beatrix gasped, her eyes, still wide, flicked up from his limped groin and into his fierce, piercing blue eyes, they connected for the beat of a fairies heart and then she turned and ran, panicked, across the yard and on to the kitchens, her original destination. She strained her ears, waiting with painful heart for the muster that would seal her fate to yet another beating or perhaps worse to be banished from the household altogether. A yell that did not come, and she passed through the door into the heat of the kitchens at such speed nearly sending a young child and her water bucket flying. She rasped her message to the junior cook all the while glancing fitfully up  at the doorway.
                It was weeks later that she next came into the masters’ presence, and it was then that she caught his eye once again, only this time, he was fully clothed. The look that he gave her, however, stripped her naked and rammed her forcibly up against the wall, one leg over his forearm exposing her femininity and opening her up for that huge lance of his to enter unhindered; all in front of his guests and, more importantly, his heavily pregnant wife, the Lady Ethane.
                And now it was time. She rose, shaking from her cot, and padded quietly out the dormitory, her arms crossed tightly against her still throbbing chest, mainly to stop the light shifting of material from dropping her to the floor there and then to violently rub away the itch deep within her groin.
                Earlier in the day, she had prepared the ground, performing oral sex on one stable boy whilst another mounted her from behind like a mare. She felt like a boar roasted at a celebration. It was over all too soon, as was always the case with the boys, and she almost choked as one last lunge took her by surprise and she snorted his semen back up as she attempted to breath. But their gratitude combined with some extra coin in their pockets meant they had hit the town tavern hard and now she just had to check they were sleeping soundly. 
                The heady mix of damp horse and hay assaulted her nostrils as soon as she entered the stables. Meadowknight, the masters stallion and ignorant accomplice in her plans stood, head down in his stall and, stinking of drink and vomit, the two stable boys were dead to the world in theirs.
                Beatrix’s heart skipped and she her hands began to shake, she stumbled as her legs were almost weak with the excitement. She made her way through the house, her belly knotted and her groin practically soaking as she went over her plans in her mind. Wake the master gently, whispering quietly so as not to wake the Lady Ethane, and tell him the boys needed his help to calm a spooked Meadowknight.
                She entered the bed chambers on light feet, her hands still shaking to the beat of her thumping heart and she could barely control her twitching limbs as she made her way stealthily to her masters’ side of the bed. She released her captive breath in a stilted gush of nerves and laid her hand softly on his shoulder.
                “My Lord?” She whispered. “My Lord?”
                “Mmmm.” He barely stirred.
                Beatrix pressed harder. “My Lord? I’m sorry, but you must come to the stables…”
                “Mmmm?” He stirred and rolled over to face her. Beatrix dare not look from his still sleeping face down the bed to his crotch, exposed by a short nightshirt that had ridden up to his waist.
                “My Lord? There is trouble in the stables.” She spoke close to his ear.
                “Mmm? What?” He stirred and opened one eye, frowning.
                “The stables, my Lord. Meadowknight is… restless.” Restless? Restless? Stupid girl, she chided herself.
                “Let the boys deal with it!” He barked, still half asleep. Too loud, the Lady Ethane shifted and roused slightly. Beatrix held her breath. Ethane settled again, her back to Beatrix and her quarry.
                “The boys are drunk my Lord. I fear a fox my have nipped your horse…”
                “What?!” He woke and sat up, looking straight into her eyes.
                “I’m sorry, My Lord…” Beatrix spoke without thinking, “I didn’t want to disturb my Lady, but you must come to the stables and settle Meadowknight. I feared he may be lamed and your journey tomorrow is…”
                “Damn those boys. I’ll have them whipped if that horse is harmed.” He swung his legs off the large bed and waved Beatrix out dismissively. She turned away, reluctantly, her heart beating furiously and her mind racing with what if’s and possible regrets.
                “Borsmir? What are you doing?” It was Ethane.
                “Hush, now. Go back to sleep. I am summoned to the stables, something about a fox biting Meadowknight. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
                “Why can’t the stable boys deal with it?”
                “Drunk, it appears.”
                “Have them whipped. What’s the point of having the damn wretches look after the stables if they do something like this… hmmm?” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back to sleep. Beatrix, at the doorway looking outside in deference to her imminent seduction, relaxed ever so slightly. Until Borsmir, with his strong hand on her shoulder pushed her ahead of him toward the stables.
                Beatrix rushed ahead with images of the two stable boys awake and tending Meadowknight worrying her mind. She felt no sense of relief when she found the stables unchanged from her sortie what seemed like hours before. Now she had to seduce him. She turned, raising her hands slightly to touch his huge chest and slow his approach. The plan was to look up into his big eyes and whisper “If it pleases you My Lord, I ask that you fuck me,” to step back and shrug her own scratchy nightshirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground and stand naked before her master. He would, of course take her gently in his arms and kiss her long and deep before dropping both hands to cusp her buttocks and lift her off the ground while she wrapped her long legs around his waist and settle slowly down to be impaled upon his enormous cock.
                Borsmir, however, stepped round her, his eyes only upon the placid Meadowknight. He placed one hand on the horses high rump and leant down like a master blacksmith to inspect the horses hind leg.
                “My lord…” Beatrix began.
                “Hush child.” Borsmir straightened up, and threw her a fierce frown crowned look as he stepped to the horse’s, now alert, head. “Damned if I can see any bites, and I thought you said he was unsettled?” His harsh voice boomed in the large, waste-odour heavy, barn.
                “My… Lord…” She faltered. This was not going to plan.
                “What did you get me up in the dead of night to see child?” He turned to her, the anger in his eyes and the towering physique she spent so long yearning for made her step back, nervous. Her excitement was replaced with fear, with uncertainty. “Well?! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, child! Answer me!”
                Something inside Beatrix was fighting, deep inside her, she wanted to strip and seduce the man of the house, but its enemy was the overwhelming sense of fear that it would be misplaced, that she was wrong about his hungry desire for her, that one look from him was not enough to be certain this, she, was what he wanted.  And the fear was winning. She had to do something, say something, anything.
                “M…me.” She said in a half whisper, her face flushed scarlet and burning, her throat constricted and dry. She stared at him and time hung seconds on the coat hook marked hours as nothing happened. “Me.” She said again, quietly, waveringly still, but deliberately.
                Before Borsmir could reject her, she shrugged in her nightshirt, the smooth flowing drop failing to occur as planned, as practiced. The shift steadfastly remained on her shoulders, and she shakily moved her hand up to brush it gently, then more determinedly over her pale skin. The shift took it’s course and fell to the ground and Beatrix suddenly realised that maybe summer would have been a better season to stand naked before the object of her lust.
                Borsmir, watched her with a mind still angry at the intrusion, a mind still half asleep and a mind still concerned for his horse. He heard the uncertainty in her voice and the shaking stilted movements of her hands. He watched, unmoving, as she shrugged and one rounded shoulder saw the flickering light of the oil lamps and he couldn’t help the laughter that began in his belly as the young serving girl had to force her nightshift off the other shoulder. He threw his head back and laughed, and when his gaze returned he stared at the naked girl.
                Beatrix felt sick. Borsmir’s laugh made her want to run, the cold against her skin overriding the heat of her embarrassment, the golden-yellow straw beneath his feet in stark contrast to her bright-red tinged porcelain-white skin. She passed her hands over her exposed breasts and covered her small blonde patch of pubic hair. Her head hung low and she was an instant from turning and running away.
                Borsmir drank in the matchless beauty of Beatrix’s naked body. His eyes fed greedily on her large yet self-supporting breasts, the deep crevasse that formed as she forced them together in her faux attempt to hide her body. His gaze dropped to her right hand that, long fingers flat against her pubic mound, covered her sex. And inside he felt the demon lust awake, first visiting his belly, then raising his standard. His mind filled with craven images and wanton acts and penis surged with blood, crudely lifting his nightshirt. He stepped forward, his only thought was to own those soft, wet, bee-stung lips, to taste them, to feel her breath and to lick the roof of her mouth. He would suck her tongue out from its luscious cavern and let it play on the taste meadows of his.
                Beatrix looked up, her breath caught as Borsmir stepped forward. His huge head dipped down and, with one giant hand on the back of her head, crushed her closed lips on his. Their lips worked together and she opened them as his tongue announced its triumphant conquest accompanied by a warm mead-strewn zephyr that filled her widening hungry mouth. His other hand swept round behind her back and pressed across the slight valley above her spine, squashing her tightly onto his chest. Her hands, dropped from covering her shame, reached up and made to hold her new lover but Borsmir broke the embrace, his head rising beyond Beatrix’s searching, gasping reach. He stood up, proud and erect, and held her at arms length, and she searched for meaning in his eyes. She found it; it was lust, unadulterated lust. He almost stared through her, she could see his mind whirling and a look of, what she took as fear of discovery, crossed his face.
                “I’m yours to command, My Lord.” She whispered.
                “Hush, child!” He frowned.
                Borsmirs face took on a look of concern as he scanned the surroundings looking for an empty stall, whereupon he would exorcise the last month’s frustrations upon the altar of this young maid’s virginity. His mind raced with games to play, acts to perform and a perfect body to violate. But first, he had to release the pressure of four weeks of sexless pleasure or even relief as his heavily pregnant wife drew further from bedchamber activity. This girl has awoken something in him that a thousand horses could not stop. He looked around, not for location as much as just delaying the inevitable whilst he considered how he would take her.
                Beatrix, watching Borsmir look about, was beginning to feel the strength of his grip on her arms and whilst she did not bruise easily, his hold on her was dousing her ardour.
                “I have prepared the stall next door with an extra layer of hay, My Lord…”
                She was manhandled around the corner and pushed forward, twisting to land on her back. She giggled nervously as she looked up as Borsmir, framed in the stall entrance against the dim flickering light of distant lamps, and the coarse nightshift which was rendered see-through. Her nipples ached as she stared at the mountain he was making of his shirt hem and, unconsciously, she reached up to release his engorged penis.
                “Oh…My Lord.” She whispered as she flipped his nightshirt up and back to rest loosely at the base of his large cock. She held her breath as her fingers reached slowly out and touched the veined and rugged looking side.
                Borsmir, stood looming over her naked and prone body, sucked in the cool night air as she curled her fingers slowly around his shaft and watched as Beatrix, wide-eyed, stared transfixed at his pride. In an instant he made a decision and reached over, put his large hand on her head and hauled her forcibly up until her face was level with his manhood. He looked down on her, showing no emotion, and stared into her corn-flower blue eyes. He leaned over her and the weight of his cock brought it to the horizontal. He pulled her head back into position and as her lips parted to object he thrust forward and into her mouth. 
                “Suck it.” He demanded.
                No! No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what she wanted. What use is this? She wanted him inside her. Deep inside her. She wanted to feel joined, connected, filled by him. This was for him and him alone, and that was no good. Usually, with the other boys, this lasted no time at all and the buggers would roll away leaving her to finish herself off. Or sometimes just curse them and wander back to her chores, unsatisfied and sometimes even feeling decidedly unexcited.
                But if this was all I get, she thought to herself… her mind turned back to the sensations of the head of his cock inside her mouth.

PREMATURE END

So what do you think then...?

Ez.
:o)