But as I stare into his eyes, I see a flash of something old.
And suddenly I know. This humiliation is not punishment because I came into his bedroom and stole his tiepin. It is because of what happened when I was thirteen years old, when I tripped over a tree root and fell down. My skirt flew up and my panties showed. I can remember them even now, white cotton with red polka dots. All the other kids and BJ saw them. I hated everyone seeing them. I wanted to jump up, but I was too winded to move. Utterly humiliated and ashamed, I remained sprawled on the ground, an object of ridicule.
Some of the kids laughed. I knew them. They were afraid of Jake and they would never have dared laugh if BJ hadn’t been there. At that time our families—BJ’s and mine—were in a bitter generational feud. It is only recently that Jake and BJ had uprooted the barbed fences between our families. Since everybody knew about the bad blood, they thought they could ingratiate themselves with BJ by laughing at me.
But in a flash, BJ came to me and pulled me up easily. Even then he was a big lad. The other kids immediately ceased laughing. They were scared of him.
‘Are you all right?’ he’d asked.
But I was so mortally embarrassed that he had witnessed my humiliation, I lashed out ungratefully. ‘Take your dirty hands off me, you filthy Pilkington, you,’ I spat.
He had a mohawk then and it looked strange when he flushed bright red. He jerked his hand away from me.
I turned on my heel huffily, and limped away on my twisted ankle, my nose held high. I knew he was watching me but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning back to look. After that we became enemies. And now he had caught me in his bedroom.
Finally, he can exact his revenge.
He takes a step towards me and I nearly cower, but he only strides past me. Alarm plucking at my belly, I watch him sit on his enormous bed, slap his thigh and say, ‘Ready when you are.’
‘Where force is necessary, there it must be applied boldly, decisively and completely. But one must know the limitation of force; one must know when to blend force with a maneuver, a blow with an agreement.’
—Leon Trotsky 1879 -1940
THREE
Layla
He holds a hand out to me. Dazed with disbelief, I walk up to him. Even now, I still can’t believe he means to go through with it. This surely must be the part where he admits it has all been a brutish Pilkington joke. My eyes plead frantically with him.
‘Lie across my lap,’ he instructs politely.
Oh dear God! For a moment I cannot move, my mind unable to accept that he really expects me to submit to such humiliation.
Unaffected by my silent pleas, he cocks a dark eyebrow and nods meaningfully at his lap. ‘No need to be shy. I’ve seen it all before, remember?’ he taunts.
Our eyes lock. I flush furiously. Then my pride kicks in. No, you despicable, disgusting, insufferable man, you haven’t seen it all. So much has changed since you last looked.
My bottom is naked, but for three bits of string and the smallest triangle of black lace. It’s a far cry from the polka dot underwear he once saw. Only this morning, I had exfoliated my entire body until it was silky smooth, then rubbed Golden Brown Level 3 fake tan over every inch. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am glowing!
I lift my chin and stare down at him with a mixture of contempt and stiff hatred. His reaction is to twist his lips with amusement.
I drop my purse to the floor and, gritting my teeth, I put my hand into his and gingerly lower myself onto his lap. I flinch when my skin makes contact with the steel-like muscles of his thighs. I turn in his hard lap and bend forward, laying my palms flat on the floor to steady myself. In order to keep my legs firmly together, my knees are straight and stiff. The tips of my toes don’t touch the floor and hot blood floods into my head. The position is awkward and unsteady. My nose is less than a foot away from the dark floor and I can see the grain in the naked wood as it glows purple in the firelight.
‘Are you ready?’
Hell would have to freeze over before I agree that I am.
Glad that my hair is hiding my burning face, I close my eyes with impotent fury and shame. He grasps the many layers of my skirt and flips them over my lower back … and becomes completely still. So still it affects even the air in the room. A mad thrill runs through me. You haven’t seen it all have you, big guy? Another thought: he’s not immune.
I hear him inhale sharply before a large callused palm rests on the cheeks of my bottom. I know he can see the string of my panties between my pussy lips. Resentment races down my spine, but I am suddenly conscious that I am inexplicably wet. His palm is still resting on my skin. I feel it move slightly, almost a caress but not quite and I feel myself begin to tremble.