An
Unconditional
Love
Penny Moore
Published by Big Clever, London, England.
Smashwords Edition
First edition copyright ©2011 Big Clever.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4580-9626-5
Design and layout by Big Clever.
www.bigclever.co.uk
bigclever@blueyonder.co.uk
Chapter One
I seem to spend more time dealing with bills or sales calls than anything else these days. The phone never seems to stop ringing. Someone always seems to want something. Even machines call me with automated messages. Gone are the days I spent waiting for the phone to ring with nothing better to do than decide which clothes to wear, which parties to go to, which drugs to do or who to let fuck me.
I had spent all morning in conversation with the estate agents. I had some new tenants in one of the flats, which meant more money. Not that I need it. Money seems to find me. You know what they say, ‘money goes to money’.
It hasn’t always been that way. My parents were ‘aspiring middle class’. As a family, we always struggled to make ends meet. My father was a businessman who never really had a business. Some might kindly have regarded him as an entrepreneur, moving from one business idea to the next, each without success, often making a loss, scraping a living and just about surviving on a daily basis. I was the child at school that wore ill-fitting, second-hand clothes and jumpers and tights with holes. I think I was named in the hope that it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The one success of my father’s life, other than creating a life, was inheriting our house from his mother which he subsequently lost after the divorce; the price of a guilty conscience. Ultimately, the only thing he was ever really guilty of was succumbing to a physical need and being human. Arguably, my mother had been just as guilty. To her, sex had always been a dirty secret, as opposed to a pleasurable experience. I think she often used sex as a compromise, a bargaining tool or a weapon and I think my father saw through it and eventually directed his attention elsewhere, his pride overcoming his lust. After all, you know when you’re not wanted.
I closed my eyes and lay back on the sofa, just to rest my eyes and with the early summer sun streaming through the blinds, I managed to achieve that warm, enveloping, womb-like sensation, that possibly only heroin comes close to, a fluffy, weightless, dream-like slumber but then the mobile rang and jolted me out of my soporific state and I was thrown back to the harsh glare of reality. I contemplated ignoring it but decided it would be best to answer it, in case it was important. I didn’t recognise the number.
“Hello?” I said, tentatively.
“Penny? Is that you?” The female voice on the other end sounded hoarse and, although familiar, not one I immediately recognised.
“Who’s that?” I ventured, sounding hoarse myself from the snoozing.
“Mónica?” her reply was more a question than a statement as if I might not remember her.
“Mónica! Shit! How are you? Where are you? How have you been?” The words babbled out quickly because it had been ages since we had last seen each other and we had shared so many memories. Now, it seemed like another lifetime. It was certainly another life. I wondered why we hadn’t seen each other for so long. At one time, we were inseparable. We probably had very different lives now. Her exquisitely beautiful face came into my mind. She had always been so incredibly good-looking with her Spanish features, olive gitano skin and dark brown, almost black, mysterious eyes. Both men and women had always found her attractive. She had the sort of face that was hard not to stare at, the kind of face which made you forgive her anything.
“I need to see you....can we meet? It’s urgent, Pen, please, I need your help.” I heard her inhale and exhale in a way that suggested she was smoking.
“Of course, where are you?” There was a lot of noise in the background. Was she at a station?
“I’ll come to you..... if that’s ok?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m home tonight....I’m living in Clerkenwell now.”
“OK, I’ll be there sometime around eight. Can you text me your address? This is my mobile....listen, I’ve got to go.....I’ll see you later. Love you. ‘sta lo!”
It was short for hasta luego, the Spanish for ‘see you later’.
“Hasta luego, cariña....” I replied but she had already gone.
I pressed the ‘end call’ button on the mobile and sat back on the sofa to text my address to her. I started thinking about Mónica. She was the girl who had made me what I am today, pretty much. I certainly wouldn’t have what I have or be who I am if I had never met her. She had shaped my attitude to life. She was my best friend. We were soul mates. At one time, she had been my only reason for living. We had lived on the edge.
I wondered what trouble she was in. She was always getting herself in trouble but she was a born survivor and always came out the other side, though not necessarily unscathed. She had never been good with money, though. She loved to spend it; that was her trouble.
I finished tapping my address into the phone and hit the ‘send’ tab. Then I stored her mobile number. A couple of minutes passed and my phone informed me that I had a message. It was Mónica again.
Thanx babe – c u l8r x
I lay back on the sofa but the need for sleep had disappeared and my mind was alive with memories of Mónica and with the excitement of seeing her again, I couldn’t turn off.
Chapter Two
I met Mónica Sata Arroyo Ramírez Delgado de la Luna eighteen years ago, when I was eight years old, at dance classes. I had been having ballet and tap dancing lessons for three years before deciding I wanted to change classes and learn contemporary dance. My father had been worried that I wasn’t fitting in and thought that having an extra-curricular activity might help me socialise.
During the first contemporary dance lesson, I noticed a beautiful, tall, elegant girl with a long, straight neck and perfect posture who was as mischievous as she was pretty, impersonating the teachers and pulling faces behind their backs. She was two years older than me and she stood out from the other girls her age, seeming to have an aura, a confidence, a presence that was impossible to ignore or dislike. She seemed to pick me out and we immediately became friends and she took me under her wing like a little sister. She was very cheeky with a great sense of humour and was very popular, unlike myself who didn’t make friends easily, if at all. Most of the other kids at junior school seemed to see me as different but, in reality, I was just shy and a little introverted; a tiny, timid, little thing in a great, big world. Mónica seemed to make it her razón de ser to bring me out of my shell. By the time I was ten, she was a regular visitor to my house where we would practice dance moves and sing harmonies to our favourite songs.
She taught me how to speak Spanish, the language she still spoke at home, as her mother’s English was sketchy at best. We would practice by insulting each other: tu mamá huele a pescado – your mum smells of fish. I would practice saying phrases over and over, trying to mimic Mónica’s pronunciation and accent, though my voice lacked her guttural huskiness. We would speak in Spanish when we wanted to communicate privately, not in a rude way to talk about other people, just about personal, private things. When my parents divorced after my father admitted to having an affair, she was a great comfort and a true friend, always protecting me when my peers commented on my parents, telling me it was because I was prettier or more intelligent than they were and that they were just jealous and lashing out; that I should pity them and not despise them.
The youngest of four children and the only girl, Mónica also came from a broken family. Her parents had divorced when she was only eight years old and her mother had moved from the picturesque Granada, in Spain, to the less than exotic Benhill estate in Sutton, Surrey to be closer to the only relative that hadn’t disowned them, her father’s sister, who had moved here some years before.
Her father, Paco, the nickname for Francisco, was a genuine flamenco gitano, a virtuoso guitarist and a well respected one by all accounts. As a youth, he had accompanied the likes of Camerón de la Isla and Paco Toronjo, his career coming to a premature end when his right hand was badly broken after a drugs raid by the Guardia Civil. The bones in his hand had been shattered by a Guardia’s baton. It was a full two years before he could use it again and he would never be able to play ‘picado’ or ‘rasgueos’ with the required speed or precision again. According to Mónica, he had vowed that, one day, he would get revenge.
Her mother’s parents had never really accepted him, being a gitano – a gypsy. He had spent time in prison for drug smuggling and was therefore not to be trusted or accepted. I met him only once, just after he had been released from prison. He was slim and handsome with strong features and long, black hair. He had a wild, savage and untamed look about him and he scared the hell out of me. I saw him in a full, red-blooded, gypsy rage, arguing with Mónica’s mum, Estrella, in Spanish. Her mum scared me, too. Talk about airing the laundry, I thought they were going to kill each other. Mónica and I lay low. He returned to Spain a few days later. I have never, to this day, seen Mónica really lose her temper but she certainly inherited her father’s wild side.
I smiled to myself, remembering the day she danced around my bedroom singing “I got pubes, babe”, with a husky Mediterranean accent to the tune of I Got You, Babe by Sonny and Cher, then pulling her knickers down to show me. My reaction was one of sheer horror and I recoiled in disgust when she asked me if I wanted ‘a feel’, though curiosity got the better of me, eliciting a mock scream as I touched them.
“I am a woman, now!” she proclaimed, though she still looked the same, shapeless, flat-chested Mónica to me.
When I was twelve, it was Mónica who guided me through puberty and menstruation, even buying sanitary towels and showing me how to use, my first tampons. My mother was too pickled in alcohol at that point to even notice that I was growing older. Mónica was staying over most Saturdays by then. It was the one night of the week my parents wouldn’t argue.
I was thirteen when my parents finally separated. I used to lie awake almost every night listening to the arguments downstairs. More often than not, their fighting had been about my mother’s drinking. I would regularly hear bottles being smashed and items being thrown. The neighbours heard it too. I could tell by the sympathetic looks they gave me.
At other times, it was accusations of affairs which my father always denied but I think he assumed that, if he was going to be accused anyway, he might as well have one. The first I found out about it was arriving home from school one Monday afternoon to find my mother even more drunk than usual. She told me that my father had gone, that he had ‘confessed to fucking someone else’, that he had ‘traded her in for a younger model’ and that he wasn’t coming back.
After he had gone, I had to walk on eggshells around my mother. We would argue over the most trivial things. One morning, I complained about there not being enough milk to have cereal and my mother completely lost it, throwing a pair of scissors at me across the table. They stuck in the door frame behind me. We stood there in silence for a moment while her action sunk in. I went to school early. The incident was never mentioned again.
It wasn’t long before she began dating men again, often stumbling in at two in the morning, with a loud, drunken ‘shhh’ followed by sniggering as she ushered in someone she had met in a club or a bar and would then keep me awake with moans and groans of pleasure, or pain, or both, as she tried to lure men to the end of their freedom with sexual promises, until passing out in the early hours. I would regularly be woken up by the sound of vomiting - not always her - in the toilet.
Some of her ‘friends’ were more than ‘friendly’ with me. One sat next to me one morning before I left for school. I had come downstairs wearing a long t-shirt that I often slept in and I could feel him watching me as I prepared my Weetabix. When I sat down to eat, he sat next to me. He chatted to me in an over-friendly way, introducing himself as (I kid you not) Uncle Clive, before nonchalantly putting his hand high on my bare thigh. I instinctively felt there was something wrong in his over familiarity. He removed his hand very quickly when my mother came into the kitchen. I finished my cereal as quickly as I could and went upstairs to change.
I once went to the bathroom in the middle of the night only to be met on the way out by a drunken, six foot five, muscular European, preceded by an erection which nearly poked me in the chest. I swear to God, he pushed past me as if I wasn’t there, almost knocking me to the floor, as if he didn’t notice me or maybe just didn’t care. He left the bathroom door open while he urinated loudly into the toilet.
Another of mother’s ‘friends’ stumbled into my room one night ‘by mistake’ and climbed into bed with me. I felt his hand on my bottom and something hard poking my back. I felt the hand slowly move towards the hem of my nightdress. I was wide awake but lay there too freaked out to move. Thankfully, my mother came in looking for him and discovered his ‘mistake’ before anything untoward happened. I heard raised voices coming from downstairs and the front door slam shut but it didn’t stop her bringing more ‘friends’ home. Thankfully, most of them never came back.
When I mentioned this to Mónica, she just laughed.
“Men are controlled by their cojones,“ she said. “To trust a man, you have to cut off his balls. They are driven by sex. They have to sow the seed. As long as they have seed to sow, they will try to sow it. To control them, you have to take all their seed. Then they are impotent, powerless.”
I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. She shook her head with disbelief at how naive and innocent I was.
“What the fuck do they teach you at school?”
She told me that she knew everything about sex. She told me all about pornography and showed me a ragged, earth stained magazine that she’d found by the bins near her flats. There were pictures of girls, some only eighteen, or so it said, on their backs with their legs wide open, pouting at the camera, wickedly. Others were on all fours, spreading their bum cheeks, to reveal neatly trimmed or hairless vaginas. There were pictures of men, mostly too muscular, with huge, proud erections and young girls, seemingly open-mouthed in awe. There were girls kissing and touching each other’s breasts or vaginas. Some girls, according to Mónica, shaved their vaginas or chochos as she called them but that more ‘classy’ girls waxed.
She told me that a boy at school had showed her his erect penis in the woods and that she’d actually touched it. I have to admit that, although I was horrified, I was also fascinated. She also told me, that if you played with yourself, you would ‘come’. I pretended to understand, so as to look cool but it wasn’t until later that I found out what she actually meant.
“Have you come, yet?” she asked me one day when she was visiting and we were talking about boys and sex. I was still only thirteen.
“Yeah, I think so,” I replied, as nonchalantly as I could.
“Oh, you’d know if you had” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
She jumped off the bed and posed like a model in front of a camera.
“Look at me, I’m a porn star!”
She bent over and lifted her skirt. She was knickerless and all her pubic hair had been removed. I gasped, putting my hand to my mouth.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve waxed it,” she said. “It’s so smooth and sensitive. Do you want to touch it?”
Fascinated, I leaned forward and gently touched her. It was unbelievably smooth. The skin was so soft. She moaned and I pulled back my hand, thinking she was in pain.
“No, no, no, don’t stop,” she implored, lying back on the bed and opening her legs, pulling herself open to expose her clitoris.
“Touch me here,” she pointed. I did as she suggested and her head went back as she moaned again. I explored between her legs, marvelling at how different she looked to me.
“Put your fingers inside me,” she suggested naughtily. I complied, slipping two fingers in easily, as she was so wet. Her cunt squeezed and gripped my fingers; I couldn’t believe how strong the muscles were. I massaged her clitoris with my thumb as I watched her face, fascinated by her expression. Then, in a kind of crescendo, her body seemed to go into spasm, convulsing as she came, her muscles tightening even more around my fingers.
“Could you feel me come?” she asked when she had recovered, her breathing still quick and heavy.
“Fue increíble!”
She sat up and kissed me, quickly, on the lips and then again, forcing me back on to the bed. Then she leant back so that she could lift my skirt and open my legs. I could feel my heart beating in my throat. Her hands caressed my thighs.
“Your skin is so soft,” she whispered, “it’s like velvet. Quiero comer tu chocho” – She said she wanted to eat my chocho.
Her lips and tongue slowly worked up my left thigh until she reached the damp gusset of my white cotton pants and I felt her hot breath on my chocho as she passed teasingly over it to my right thigh. Then she pulled my knickers to one side, parted the soft, pubescent hair and kissed me so gently that I melted. It felt so natural, yet extremely wicked and, as her touches intensified, I succumbed completely to her touch. I felt exposed; open and vulnerable but when I came, gripping the duvet tightly, I felt at one with the universe, no longer a physical entity but one that consisted simply of pure energy and electricity.
From that day on, my life changed forever. Suddenly, sex was everywhere I looked. It was on billboards, in magazines, on television and in tabloid newspapers. It was used to sell everything from perfume to cars. I became aware of my body in a way that I never had before. I would study myself for hours, touching myself in front of the mirror. I liked the way I looked when I was naked and I liked the way that it felt, too. I had never really had a self image up to that point. I was neither too fat nor too thin, though I was taller than most other girls my age. I started to notice the way men looked at me, sometimes catching them staring at me from their cars when I was in my school uniform. I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked it. I enjoyed the attention. It made me feel special and attractive. It made me feel like I existed. It made me feel alive.
At the same time, I began to realise how differently people perceived sex. For some, it was the measure of a loving relationship while for others it was just a release, an escape. For some, it was the ultimate gift, while for others, it was a dirty secret. Some, disturbingly, perceived it as a duty, in order to keep a partner happy; to others, like my mother, it was a weapon, simply a bargaining tool or even a currency.
For me, sex was just a pleasurable experience, a way to feel good about myself, a release from the worries of everyday life. It was something that friends did. I learnt that I liked to be touched and that I liked to touch myself. I fantasised about being devoured, used and, sometimes, even abused.
Chapter Three
Mónica was the kind of girl who, when she wanted something, would simply take it. I liked being wanted and I enjoyed being taken. If she wanted me, she would simply start kissing and caressing me. It was as if she knew I couldn’t resist, although I can’t imagine anyone resisting Mónica. She was a very warm and sensual person. I very rarely, if ever, initiated it. I was purely submissive. Whether this was because she was older, or just such a strong personality, or both, I don’t really know. What I do know is that she could do anything she wanted with me and I would succumb.
The words ‘lesbian’ or ‘gay’ never crossed my mind. I was too naive and inexperienced to think in those terms. Besides, both of us showed more than a healthy interest in boys. If I was ‘bisexual’, I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it as that. There were enough images on the internet of girls enjoying each other’s bodies for me to see it as something that was completely acceptable. When I heard people comment on lesbians, I just saw them as ignorant bigots. We were just two very good friends and, as much as I looked forward to seeing her, the sex was rarely foremost in my mind. It was just something that would just happen if it felt right, because it felt right. I knew it was ‘naughty’ and I never mentioned what we did to anyone else. It was our little secret. Maybe I wasn’t as naive as I suspected.
The summer of that year was the best of my life. We built a tree house in Banstead woods, near to the prison and the ex-asylum where Pink Floyd’s unfortunate Syd Barrett had resided. It was our own little space where we would while away the hours, sharing our deepest thoughts. It was there that we learnt to smoke cigarettes, roll spliffs and drink alcohol while listening to music on a shared mp3 player and scouring paperbacks for the ‘naughty bits’.
Sometimes we talked about my parents.
“They’re always arguing,” I said one day as we huddled together, sheltering from a light shower under a plastic sheet.
“That’s the problem with monogamous relationships,” she said. “Is it reasonable to commit yourself to one person for the rest of your life? As human beings, we are born to explore, how can you shut yourself off from new experiences? It’s asking for trouble.”
She had a point.
Mostly, we talked about boys. There were no boys at my school. An enormous, red-brick building, set in the grounds that once surrounded a palace built by an infamous King of England, school was a non-event for me. Only Art, English and Spanish held any interest for me. I spent my time daydreaming at the back of the class, sitting next to Kylie Harris, who held very little interest for me either. We were just two misfits, pushed together. She was a pretty girl with petite, even features but everything else about her made her unattractive, the way she nibbled her packed lunch, the way her sinusitis made her voice nasal and difficult to understand, the ever present foodstuff stuck in her braces, the way she set her things out on her desk and the way she bragged about the things she had. She would bore me senseless talking about her horse which Daddy had bought her to soften the blow of the divorce. Divorce was the one subject on which we connected. She was also really good at Maths, so I copied from her whenever I got the chance.
The only thing at school that interested or excited me at school was Stephanie Mathers. She exuded sex. She had matured earlier than most girls in my year, her breasts full and her bum shapely. She had full, succulent lips, long, dark brown hair and deep, mysterious, green eyes with the longest lashes. There was a rumour that she had been fucked by seven boys from Sutton Grammar, one after the other, in the woods near the school. I tried to become friends with her on several occasions but without success. It appeared that I was invisible to her.
There was also an Arabic girl known as ‘Four Fingers’ Afaf, whose name, ironically, meant chastity. She had earned her nickname after, allegedly, having a boy insert four fingers into her at a party. Again, this was a rumour, though there is normally no smoke without fire.
During break times and lunch, I would sit and read, keeping myself to myself and being as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn’t hard. I never really fitted in. The other girls at my school came from well off, middle class families and they didn’t take to me. I was never invited round for tea and my mother, either through embarrassment at her financial or marital situation or because she was an alcoholic, didn’t encourage visits from other children. As a consequence, I had no friends other than Mónica. So I kept a low profile until it was time to go home.
On the way home from school, I would pull my skirt higher to give the impression that I was wearing a miniskirt, undo my tie and blouse, wiggle my backside and enjoy the attention I received.
As Mónica was always busy doing chores for her mother during the week, we could only meet up on weekends but she would always bring me little presents. She brought me books by Anaïs Nin, Jeanette Winterson and Vladimir Nabokov which were fantastically erotic and I would lie in bed at night playing with myself as I read, usually coming quietly before falling asleep.
One particular weekend, she couldn’t contain her excitement. She was soon to be leaving school. A-levels weren’t an option for her. Although she was undoubtedly a highly intelligent girl, the language barrier had always made it difficult for her to maintain a high level at school.
“I’m going to Granada, to stay with my father and brothers for a month,” she revealed.
My disappointment must have been obvious.
“Hey, it’s only for a month, querida,” she promised putting her hand on my arm. “I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone and I’ll bring you back some nice things from Spain, I promise.”
I watched her leave with a tear in my eye. I think I felt more pain seeing her go than when my father had left.
That August was the loneliest of my life. Every day, I checked the mail for a postcard and my phone for a message, though none arrived. My texts remained unanswered. I would sit up in our tree house, listening to our favourite tunes and re-reading Anaïs Nin. September came and there was still no news. No news is not always good news.
I called the Spanish number that she had left me a couple of times (her father’s, I think) but there was no reply. Then an automated voice on the phone announced: “El número marcado no….” – I could never catch the last bit but I knew it meant ‘the number you have dialled has not been recognised’. Her mobile was unobtainable, too. I went to the woods to reconcile myself but, when I got there, the tree house had been vandalised. Memories flashed before me. Memories of being drunk for the first time and the ensuing vomiting with a ferocity that I wouldn’t have thought possible had I not experienced it firsthand. Memories of a drunken Mónica throwing a Bowie knife at a tree and retreating hastily as it bounced back from the tree and glanced, blade-point first, off the back of her head. Her face was a picture. I actually pissed myself laughing.
I sat down on the dry earth and cried as I’d never cried before.
I spent the next sixteen or so months in a void. It was as if someone had turned the sound down. At least, that’s the way I remember it. I even stopped going to dance classes. It was no fun without Mónica and, besides, my mother was always complaining that we couldn’t afford it.
School became even less interesting, just a place to pass the time of day, a sanctuary from my mother and my exams were mostly a waste of time. I did ok in Spanish, English and Art but, as for the rest, I may as well have not bothered. My future was looking bleak. I’d never had a boyfriend, so marriage was out of the question and my chances of a decent career were minimal with the few qualifications that I was likely to achieve. I became extremely depressed and I felt lost and abandoned.
At school, I became more and more withdrawn. Home didn’t feel like home. I never knew what mum’s mood would be as it was dependant on the state she was in. So I’d go out. I would often sit alone in the park with a book, being distracted by young lovers kissing and dog walkers flirting as their animals sniffed each other’s behinds.
My sixteenth birthday was miserable. I spent most of the day alone. My mother had taken on a cleaning job at a local school and had already gone to work before I got up. There was a card on the kitchen table with a twenty pound note inside. She couldn’t even be bothered to buy me a present. No one at school even knew it was my birthday.
My father came round the day after. He was wearing a smart, navy blue suit which was not unusual given that he had always tried to give the impression that he was financially secure. What was unusual was that he was driving a new car. When I say new, I mean manufactured within the last ten years. The plates were only six years old which suggested that things had picked up for him.
My mother greeted him coldly; you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. He had bought me a laptop which visibly upset my mother. I don’t think he was paying her much by way of maintenance. He helped me set it up before he left (or rather I helped him) and I put it to good use as soon as he had gone, unashamedly browsing free internet porn sites in my bedroom. I found it a more than adequate distraction. I discovered an awful lot about myself. I discovered the things that excited me and uncovered things that horrified me
I had grown accustomed to spending time with myself. I would go to bed early but lie awake until I was sure that my mum was asleep. Then I would get up and browse the internet, masturbating into the early hours, taking care to erase my internet history in case she suddenly became interested in what I was doing. It became an obsession. All I thought about was sex. Having already discovered that I had exhibitionist tendencies, I would go to the park in the evenings and at weekends with a book, wearing a skirt and no knickers. When I was sure that no one could see, I would expose and play with myself, feeling elation as the cool breeze kissed my naked pussy. Sometimes I would video myself on my mobile and play it back through my laptop at night. I became more and more daring, exposing myself in more public places. I would finger myself between floors in lifts; masturbate in fitting rooms and on trains. I relished the idea of being caught and revelled in the danger. I never actually got caught but I came close more than a few times.
I never dared do it at school because the fear of getting caught there was too unimaginable. I couldn’t wait to get home. In my fantasies, I would be always caught by beautiful men or women who would end up taking me. The constant fantasising and sexual obsessing took my mind off other things. After a while, it was almost as though Mónica had never existed.
Then, one day, at the beginning of July, I arrived home from another boring day at school to hear my mother’s drunken cackle coming from the lounge. I assumed that she had one of her ‘visitors’ and was about to creep past the door towards the stairs and my bedroom, when I heard her call my name. I grimaced to myself, thinking I was going to be introduced to some new dickhead that she was sexually exploiting.
“Penny? Penny, honey, is that you? Penny come in here, quick, there’s someone to see you!”
I cautiously pushed open the door and there, on the sofa, was Mónica, looking more beautiful than ever, her skin a beautiful, smooth mocca, her brilliant, white smile radiating warmth. She jumped to her feet and I dropped my schoolbag to hug her.
“I thought I was never going to see you again.” I said, possibly hugging her a little too tightly. “You look amazing!”
“I’ve got you some things,” she said excitedly. “Do you want to see?”
We rushed upstairs to my bedroom where I unwrapped the presents she had bought for me: a white, lace, gypsy top, a pair of tiny, denim shorts, bracelets and bangles, a necklace, a traditional Spanish fan, a gorgeous, little black dress and various undergarments.
Suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. My whole outlook on life had changed. I no longer felt abandoned, neglected or alone. I instantaneously felt whole again. She said she had missed me and apologised for not having been in touch, as she had been working as a flamenco dancer with her brothers and it had involved a lot of travelling but, after a huge fight with her father, she had decided to take a job that she had been offered in England. It meant that she’d had to move to London but, now that she was settled, I could come and visit whenever I wanted.
Chapter Four
The following weekend, I met her at Surrey Quays underground station and we walked to her apartment in the Docklands. She was dressed in an expensive, two-piece trouser suit in cream. She looked impressive. I was even more impressed by her luxurious accommodation which was enormous, a penthouse in a complex of apartments that had a gym, a swimming pool, a sauna and a steam room, all available to residents and their guests. There was even a residents’ bar.
The apartment itself was open plan with a large, balconied, mezzanine floor that served as a bedroom.
“Wow!” I gasped, “This is unbelievable. How? Who?”
“It belongs to my boss, Pepe,” she replied, “and it doesn’t end there. Look!” She pulled back two ceiling-to-floor, sliding doors to reveal a walk-in wardrobe. The clothes looked expensive, way beyond her means. I realized that my mouth was still open.
“How did you…?”
“It came with the job,” she replied.
“What do you do?”
“I am a personal assistant to an executive of a multi-national property developer. I look after him when he is in the UK. I only really work for about two months a year.”
“You lucky bitch!” I exclaimed. “I wish I could find a job like that.”
“Well, you never know, stranger things have happened,” she smiled.
We spent the Saturday shopping in the West End. We giggled our way through Brewer Street sex shops, perusing the adult toys, sat in Soho Square to eat a burger and fries and checked out the stores in Oxford Street where Mónica bought a camcorder and a collapsible tripod. We ended up at a bar in Carnaby Street after having our noses pierced. I had no problem getting served due to my height.
Back at the flat, Mónica filmed me trying on her extensive wardrobe. Then she cooked a bacon risotto and after we had eaten, we snuggled up on the sofa to watch TV with a glass of wine. It was the first physical contact that I’d had since she moved to Spain. Her hands re-familiarised themselves with my body and it wasn’t long before we were kissing passionately, sucking each other’s lips and licking each other’s teeth, our clothes completely removed by the time we reached the stairs to her bedroom, my chocho dripping with anticipation for what it was about to receive. She set up the camera and filmed our lovemaking. We put on quite a show.
“Move in with me,” she said when we awoke the next morning. I only had two weeks left at school. There would be no sixth form or college for me.
“You’ll have to stay at your mum’s when Pepe is here but he won’t be back till the middle of August and he’s only going to be here for two weeks. Think about it.”
I didn’t have to think about it.
“OK,” I replied, “but I need to get a job. I can’t live off you.”
“We’ll sort something out. Don’t worry! Honestly, I’m earning enough for both of us and I don’t have to pay rent.” She kissed me on the forehead and then again on the lips. I felt her warm hand on my stomach from where it moved south. I opened my legs without prompting, ready for another session. Then she grabbed my pubes and tugged.
“This will have to go, though. I keep getting hair stuck between my teeth!” I felt my cunt ooze. The thought of being completely exposed suddenly thrilling me.
“OK, just show me how.”
She got out of bed and walked towards the stairs. I was mesmerized by her beautiful behind as it swayed in time with her hips.
About ten minutes later, she reappeared holding some things in her hands. She warmed up some wax over hot water.
“Is this going to hurt?” I nervously asked her.
“Oh, yes,” she replied with a smile, “but it’ll be worth it.”
After trimming the hairs and dusting me with talcum powder, she applied the warm wax to my pubic area and then laid strips of material on the wax. I watched, fascinated by her expertise. She spoke in Spanish in soft comforting tones. “No tengas miedo, querida, seré cuidadoso, te lo prometo....”
With that, she tore one of the strips off as quickly as she could.
“Aaargghh! Fuck! Shit!” The pain was immense.
Mónica was doubled over, laughing so much that she was holding herself between the legs to stop from wetting herself. When her laughter had finally subsided, I told her that I really didn’t want to continue but she persuaded me to let her finish. She instructed me to breathe out as she tore off the strips, telling me that it would lessen the pain but I honestly don’t believe it did.
Afterwards, she ‘kissed it better’ and then stood me in front of a full length mirror so that I could see her caressing me from behind. Her dark skin contrasted vividly with mine.
“I swear that you are the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever seen,” she whispered and, once again, I surrendered to her touches.
On the journey home, I felt sore. Due to the humidity, I had worn a light floral mini dress that buttoned at the front. I was braless and I had left my panties off, to let the air cool my pussy. The tube was relatively empty, so I could sit down. I changed at Canada Water for the Jubilee Line to London Bridge. At Bermondsey, a young guy in a dark grey, business suit sat opposite, reading a copy of Metro. I noticed he kept glancing at my thighs. He was about twenty with strong features that sat well together. I crossed my legs, wondering if he had been able to glimpse my hairless pussy. I became wet as I thought about it, my exhibitionist fantasies coming to the fore and, as we arrived at London Bridge, I uncrossed my legs, deliberately baring all for him to see and then stood up to leave the train. I don’t know whether he actually saw anything or not but I certainly wasn’t going to look back. All I know is that my cunt was dripping and that I was as horny as fuck. I couldn’t believe what I had just done or how dirty it had made me feel.
On the train from London Bridge to Sutton, it was all I could think about. It was standing room only for the first few stops, the sticky, summer humidity emphasised by the close proximity of bodies. I could smell the armpits of the large woman next to me; a sickly combination of deodorant and sweat. Every time the train slowed, those who were standing would be propelled forward and I would come into contact with a man in front of me dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and I kept wondering if he could smell my dripping cunt. Needless to say, this just made matters worse. I was relieved when I finally got to sit down.
A young couple were seated in front of me. They had obviously not been seeing each other long. The guy was all over the girl. They made an attractive couple, possibly in their late teens or early twenties. He had a trendy, contemporary hairstyle, multiple facial piercings and scruffy, loose fitting, grungy clothes that suited him well. She was a ‘rock chick’ with tousled, just-got-out-of-bed hair. Her fishnet tights exhibited big holes and she wore purple Dr Marten boots. I think they’d been drinking. They kept pecking at each other, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. The boy was in the seat directly opposite. I opened my legs a little but continued to look out of the window. I could see their reflections in the glass. Once again, I couldn’t believe what I was doing but I didn’t care, I felt like a slut. I wanted him to look up my dress but he was too engrossed in the girl to notice.
Then, just as I was thinking of crossing my legs again, he altered his position, slumped down slightly in the seat and looked straight up my dress. The girl’s demeanour changed instantly. She looked away and I could see her lips purse. I instinctively crossed my legs. I knew he had seen everything. They remained in silence for the rest of their journey. Only once did she look at me, turning up her nose and looking away as we made eye contact. He put his hand on her knee but she pushed it away, rendering him both guilty and convicted in the same instant. I looked him in the eye and he looked straight out the window.
I was relieved when they got off at West Croydon. I was left with nobody near me. Only one person remained in my part of the carriage, directly behind me. I put my fingers between my legs and was surprised how wet I was. When I got to Sutton and stood up to alight the train, I wondered whether the back of my dress was wet.
From the station, I walked quickly to St. James’ Road. When I arrived home, there was no one there so I took advantage of the situation and ran a bath. I soaked my tired legs and played with myself, thinking about the weekend’s events, and made myself come again. My mother didn’t come home that night. Neither did she call to let me know.
I went to school the following day with no knickers on. I was wet all day, desperate to get home and play with myself. I didn’t see Mónica that weekend, she told me she had been called away on business and had to go to Paris. I didn’t mind because I knew we would soon be living together.
My last day at school was uneventful. Only four people bothered to say goodbye, Kylie Harris being one of them. She’d had her brace removed. I left as I had began, a loner with no friends.
My only real friend was Mónica.
Chapter Five
I moved up to Mónica’s during the last week of July. She told me to bring as little as possible. She’d buy me some new clothes, money was no object, she said and when I arrived, she gave me an envelope containing five hundred pounds in twenty pound notes. I’d never seen so much money.
“This is spending money for when we’re out,” she said, insisting that I spent it on whatever I wanted.
“But I need a job,” I reinforced, “I can’t keep taking your money.”
“OK,” she said, looking thoughtful as she pushed the hair from my eyes. “We’ll see what we can do.”
We partied hard for the next two weeks, going out every night. I discovered cocaine and, though I liked it, I didn’t like the way it wore off so quickly, leaving you feeling empty and incredibly bored and it was so expensive. What I did like, though, was Ecstasy, MDMA, the love drug, I could have sex all night on it and the heightened sensitivity I felt was so intense When I was on Ecstasy, it was like I’d been coming, my pussy would just gush. I would become less inhibited and even more inclined towards exhibitionism; I just loved to feel someone’s eyes on me. We would go out to clubs, wearing the most revealing clothes and we would touch each other while dancing. I would find a raised spot to dance on, like a stage or podium, so it was possible to see up my skirt or dress. I always attracted a crowd of boys trying to sneak a peek.
One night on the way home, Mónica stopped suddenly.
“I need to piss,” she exclaimed. She raised her dress, pulled down her knickers, bent forward, and proceeded to piss while standing up, a big arc of pee emanating from her rear end almost hitting the group walking behind us. Mutters of disgust were issued but I was in hysterics. When we got home she made me piss on her in the bath, then she licked and sucked me clean, before making me come again.
Another night, we ended up at a house party in Wood Green. We had no drugs, so drunk copious amounts of white rum. Neither of us could remember getting home but I do remember Mónica being sick in the bathroom when we got back. I helped her into bed but I awoke early to find Mónica gone and traced her to the bathroom where she had passed out on the floor with her knickers around her ankles.
Mónica bought four ‘microdots’ from a guy in Covent Garden for two pounds each. They were tiny black tablets of LSD, not much larger than the head of a pin. I had heard about people jumping out of windows on acid, convinced that they could fly and I was somewhat apprehensive but an hour after taking one each, nothing had happened and we were convinced we’d been ripped off. So we ate the other two to make sure. Ten minutes later, the first one came up. The world dissolved before our very eyes. Everything gave us the giggles and we laughed until our stomachs ached, the muscles of our stomachs tightening with the effects of the drug.
Everything was made of colours. I know how ridiculous that sounds but even the colours were made of colours. I remember studying a leaf, amazed at the way purple, red, blue and even orange honeycomb shapes all came together to somehow make green. Even the sounds emanating from the speakers were made of colours. Every note or timbre had its own hue. When Mónica spoke, colours spewed from her lips, her skin composed of the same honeycomb pattern and when I moved my fingers, they left ‘tracers’ of colour behind them. Every word we spoke had a meaning or depth beyond the norm and seemed somehow more poignant. The experience changed my life. I got perspective. Everything I had deemed as important or necessary suddenly appeared insignificant and pointless and everything I had taken for granted seemed all the more important.
We tripped for about sixteen hours in all. At one point, we were convinced that we would be ‘permanently like it from now on’, that we were doomed to an eternity of acid hallucinations. Finally, the visuals subsided and gave way to a spaced-out, other-worldly comedown. It took days to recover.
We would counteract the excessive partying and substance abuse with long sessions in the gym and the pool and, if I say so myself, we looked exquisite. We visited beauty salons where we had our hair expensively styled and our nails perfectly manicured.
Then, in mid August, when Pepe came over, I returned home to see my mother. She seemed pleased to see me but was disappointed when I told her that I had still to find a job. She made me look through the local papers but all I could find were jobs for graduates or experienced workers. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. There was no career mapped out in my plans. There were no plans. I was looking set to become one of the nation’s unemployed.
During the second week, though, on the Wednesday, Mónica called to say that there was someone who wanted to meet me. I was to dress smart and sexy but not cheap as the meeting could lead to a job. She would meet me at Surrey Quays the next day at one o’clock and we’d go for a quick drink where she would reveal all. She said that I didn’t need to bring a CV or anything, that the guy would hire me on personality and a reference from her.
I dressed in a navy, two-piece trouser suit similar to the one I had seen Mónica wearing the first time I visited her flat. I wore understated make-up as I didn’t want my possible future employer to think of me as common. I wore high heels to add to my height. I took a CV just in case.
We met at Surrey Quays and, as we kissed, I noticed she smelt different, not unpleasant; just different. She was pleased with my choice of clothing. From the station, she took me to a nearby café and ordered two coffees. While we drank our coffees, she explained that I was to meet Manú. He was Pepe’s business associate; they worked for the same company.
“They have serious money,” she said. “Tienen mucho dinero. They earn more in a year than you or I will probably earn in a lifetime. Their bonuses alone are six figures.”
She told me that he was looking for a ‘personal assistant’ in the UK. This would entail looking after his every wish while he was over here and that it may involve meeting him elsewhere, possibly even abroad. She went on to say that he was twenty seven, good looking and married with two young children but that I was on no account to mention this unless he offered the information first. At the moment, he just wanted to meet and, if we got on and he liked me, she would take it from there and negotiate a contract.
Mónica noticed I was looking nervous.
“Just be polite,” she said, “and smile your beautiful smile. There is no pressure.”
She explained that I was under no obligation to take the job or even to meet him if I didn’t want to but that the money was fantastic and that offers like this didn’t come along very often but emphasised that, if I were to take the job, I would be at his beck and call.
“If he asks you to suck his dick, then you suck his dick” she said.
“Is that what you do with Pepe?” I ventured jokingly, not in a jealous way, simply curious. To be honest, I thought she was speaking euphemistically.
“That and a whole lot more, babe.”
Her expression was one of seriousness; her eyes searched mine for disapproval. She found none. For one thing, Mónica was my heroine, my idol. She could do no wrong as far as I was concerned. For another, I saw it as an opportunity. After all, a job was a job. How many people actually enjoy what they do for a living? Besides, we’re all prostituting ourselves one way or another. We’re all selling ourselves short. I also knew that Mónica loved sex. We both did. She knew that of me, too. That was why she was offering me this opportunity.
I made up my mind. If I fancied him, I would do it. If not, I can walk away.
“OK,” I said, nodding my approval.
Her face relaxed into a smile.
“Good girl. If he likes you, he will move you into his apartment. It’s in the same complex, so you can stay with me when they’re away, or I can stay with you. He will pay a lot of money for you because you are young and still a virgin.”
Mónica looked at her watch. “It’s time....we don’t want to be late.”
When we arrived at her apartment, Mónica unlocked the door and I nervously followed her in. Two men stood up to greet us and Mónica did the introductions in Spanish. First was Pepe, a tall, confident, Spanish man in an expensive grey suit, in his mid-thirties, I guessed, slim and greying at the temples. His face had the leathery appearance of someone who had been exposed to too much sun. He had kind, friendly eyes and greeted me warmly, kissing me on both cheeks in the European way. I immediately recognised his scent.
Standing behind him was a younger man, in his mid to late twenties. Also Mediterranean in appearance, he was dressed immaculately in a tailored suit and obviously had expensive tastes. His skin was evenly tanned and his hair was well groomed. He was tall and athletic, around six foot one, with a well structured face. He also sported a confident air. Again, we kissed both cheeks and I felt a charge of electricity as I smelt his expensive eau de cologne.
“¡Qué bonita! Encantado,” he said as we parted.
Everyone sat down and Mónica fetched drinks. The two men drank Cognac whilst we had white wine. We talked, mostly in English, about their business in the UK. They had developments, both business and residential, all over Madrid and had recently expanded to London as well as Hong Kong, Paris, Hamburg and Amsterdam. Their next large project was to be in Tokyo. They explained that the Docklands had been one of their major projects. Pepe commented on the differences between the British and the Spanish. He was very amusing and quite charming. We discussed films and music, literature and comedy. As we conversed, Manú would steal the occasional glance in my direction. He looked contented but, for the first time, I sensed he was nervous and noticed that he was playing with his wedding ring. Mónica asked me to help her with some things from the kitchen.
“Well?” she whispered when we were out of earshot. I just smiled a wicked smile. I would have fucked him for nothing.
“¡Excellente!” she exclaimed as quietly as she could. “Leave the rest to me.”
When we returned with ‘tapas’ that Mónica had prepared earlier, the conversation proceeded in a more business-like direction. They spoke in Spanish but too quickly for me to understand and I could only pick out several words and phrases. I just smiled sweetly at Manú, who remained solemn in conversation with Mónica. Pepe asked me to join him on the balcony. The sun was setting over the Thames and we chatted in pidgin Spanish and English. He was a kind man, revealing that he had a wife and two children in Madrid and that they were never far from his thoughts. He even proudly showed me a picture of his children, a boy of twelve and a girl and a girl, seventeen. He talked of Madrid and Manú fondly. He didn’t like London; it was too intense for him. Life was much more tranquilo in Spain, even in a city like Madrid. I told him I’d never been. He complimented my Spanish and I, his English.