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He worshipped me, I eased my legs round his back and locked my ankles whilst locking my mouth onto his. "Richard," I breathed, " This is beautiful, you're amazing, I can feel every vein in your cock, I've never felt like this, no-one's ever made love to me like this before." "You've never met the right man before," he said tenderly, then suddenly he stopped. "What?" I said mystified, "Richard what's wrong?" "Who's that?" he asked, his voice low, he was looking at a photo in a frame on my bedside cabinet. "That's just me and my mum," I said, "But she's dead now." "Your mum's name is Kathleen right?" "Right, but how did you --?" Then the awful truth dawned on me. "No," I shouted, "No, no, no." He pulled out of me and rolled onto his back. "Oh God, what have I done?" I got up and went back into the kitchen where I lit a cigarette, sat in the chair and promptly burst into tears. He came through and put his arms round me. "Kirsty, I'm sorry darling, I'm so, so sorry, I had no idea." "It's. The walls here were mildewed and stained opaque with dingy hues. Her wrists and ankles were bound, and her hair was a tangled mess with no brush to be located. Ella felt swollen with loneliness. You’re dreadfully disgusting, you know. That’s why you’re so undesirable. Undesirable. That’s what you told him, right? When you were locked up in that hospital? Pity you couldn’t get those cuts deep enough. Mama would probably comment on that fault as well. His voice, no matter how consonant the intonation, was always scornful. He was the one she couldn’t escape. No matter how many times she fled for the care of another, no matter how many shoulders she cried on, or how many friends claimed her, she returned. She returned because he was more abusive than any physical pain, and subconsciously, she liked this. He sat on the edge of a splintered table, while the dim lights flickered overhead. His arrogant eyes were aimed low as he used the box-cutter to clean perfect fingernails. His image was.
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