Chapter Five

As I lie in the bath with two shampoo bottles stuffed under my back to keep my bum up off the tub, I try to calm down and get my hormones under control, but I can’t stop rerunning the experience of the last two hours through my mind. I feel so hyper-sensitive that I might just spontaneously cum at any moment. The first half of the match I can remember quite clearly. My two shattering orgasms and the third that crept up on me so unexpectedly. The second half is a bit hazy though. Like one of those parties where you got totally smashed and know you had a great time, but can’t really remember exactly what you did, or who you might have slept with. I do remember that it started with an incredible bang. The yellow team kicked off and ran almost directly from the start to score a goal in just seconds. There was no time for me to build up any sort of arousal or anger or any other emotion to protect me from the spanking that laid into my bottom as the goal was scored. It was just white hot, searing pain. I remember those heel spikes forcing me up and down so that the spankers got a shot in at most of my bottom and even the tops of my thighs. I cried so much I think I washed the remains of my mascara into the goggles because there was a big, black smudge in one eye for the rest of the match. Then, in something of a repeat of the first half, the red team, seemingly angered by being caught napping, charged forward and scored again within just a few minutes and I was treated to another display of what the strange and irresistible motion of that pumped up dildo is capable of doing to a human female. After that, it’s something of a blur. There was at least one more spanking, but one which I think I got off on big time, and several other climaxes at the hands of the dildo and its minions. The final score on the pitch was three, two to Liverpool, and Sue reckons nine to me and the machine. Well I lost count, but nine sounds credible to me. My God, what a way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Shopping can bloody well wait till Sunday.

 

There’s a knock at the door and Sue enters bearing a tray of glasses. “I thought you might like a little drink while you cool off,” she says. “I know I do after a match.”

 

The chunky sweater has returned, but she’s still wearing the Arollos and her knickers are still on show. I watch her as she sets down the tray beside the bath. She is so gorgeous I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to tell her right here and now. And it suddenly occurs to me that I have the perfect back up if she freaks out. I’ll just say I’m still high from the machine and don’t know what I’m saying. That’s it. There’ll never be a better time. Come on Helena, do it. Do it now for fuck’s sake.

 

“Sue. There’s something I…”

 

I climb out of the bath and stand in front of her as the water and bubbles dribble off me. I put my arms round her and pull her to me. I feel her sweater against my nipples. My breasts against hers.

 

“Whoa, you’re getting me all wet” she says.

 

“Oh I do hope so,” I reply and I kiss her full on the lips. I close my eyes and press my lips to hers. I’m half expecting her to pull away but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s just too surprised, or shocked. Well I’ve started now so no going back. I open my mouth and my tongue explores her lips. She doesn’t respond for some time and it feels like I am kissing a very lovely mannequin. But then she moans quietly and her lips part to allow me entry. I feel her teeth. Those adorable, lovely front teeth. And then her tongue. Oh, such heavenly exploration. The kiss goes on and on and I savour every moment.

 

Eventually our lips part but my eyes are still closed. I’m afraid to open them: afraid of the reaction I might see when I look into her eyes. There’s a long pause. I’ve surely blown it. She’s too shocked to say anything. I decide to bail out: to use my back up excuse and try not to blow our friendship. But when I finally look at her, she’s smiling! And is it me or does she look horny? Fuck bailing out. I’m in! Do it Helena. Tell her everything now while she’s hot!

 

I release the valve and it all comes pouring out of me like an express train. I can’t remember the exact details but I think it went something like “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that. I love you Sue. I’ve loved you for years. I love you so much I can’t think straight anymore. For so long I’ve bottled up my lust for you, for your body, for every little piece of you. I’ve dreamt and dreamt of you and longed for you to make me yours. And to see you smile at me like that, it just makes my heart pound. I can’t believe that after all this time we’re finally going to be together. Oh, make love to me Sue. Make love to me now.”

 

I’m out of control now, swept along on a wave of joy, passion and above all, flaming lust. I slide my hands down her body and grab her bum, that oh so perfect of bums. For a moment I grope her while my head heads downward as well. I’m on some sort of autopilot. My face rubs against her breasts, my nose catching in the chunky knit of her sweater. I drop to my knees and stare at those pale pink knickers with that joyous little bow than serves no purpose at all, other than to enflame me even more. What joy awaits inside those knickers? My hands are still on her bottom and I pull her to me, pushing my face into her mound. She smells like heaven.

 

It doesn’t occur to me that maybe I’ve got it all wrong or that just because someone smiles at you after you kiss them, even a big, sloppy snog like we just did, doesn’t give you carte blanche to go down on them. It’s not until Sue apparently recovers her stunned senses and yelps, pulls my hands off her bum and pushes me away that I realise I’ve made a mistake of biblical proportions.

 

“What the fuck Helena?! No! Get off me!

 

I’m left kneeling on the floor in front of her, trying to deal with the hammer blow she has just landed on me. Her words are like a landslide that comes crashing down on me, burying my joy and passion in a wall of rubble. I try to say something but no words come out. It’s like I’m paralysed and helpless as I watch her run from the bathroom, slamming the door as she goes, and listen to the cop cop of the Arollos as she legs it down the stairs.

 

oOo

 

My exit from Richard’s house is one of the most awkward social situations I have encountered. Exactly what is the correct etiquette when you are naked in the bathroom, with your clothes in the workshop, your boots are God knows where, and you have just sexually assaulted one of your hosts? Richard tells me that Sue has gone out, looking rather upset and asks if everything is OK. I make a lame excuse about knowing where she’s gone and get out of there as quickly as I can. As I sit in a cab heading home, with the driver wondering why I’m out in bare feet in the middle of winter, I start to realise that I have probably chased the most wonderful friend I will ever have from life. Me and my stupid, uncontrollable lust. I spend most of the evening staring at my phone and Sue’s number on the screen. Surely she’ll call when she calms down. But should I call her? No, no it’s me that’s fucked up. I have to wait for her to forgive me. But what if she doesn’t? Call her and apologise. No, that’ll just make it worse. She’ll call when she’s ready. Oh God!

 

I spend much of Sunday in a similar state of turmoil. No call. No text. Nothing from her. You stupid bitch Helena. How could you fuck it up so badly? We did the kiss and it was great. You could have left it at that and got her used to the idea with a few more now and again. And then worked up to a bit of nipple or toe sucking. But no, you had to get out of control and go for broke straight away. And now it’s all totally fucking broke. If only you hadn’t spouted all that crap about loving her for years you might still be able to claim you were just high from that bloody machine, but you’ve even fucked that option up. Idiot. Fucking idiot. Your sodding nympho hormones have really gone and made a mess this time.

 

By mid-afternoon I give up and start to drown my sorrows. It’s a bit of a waste to use Domaine du Tunnel 2011 just to get sloshed, but this is an emergency.

 

By Monday morning, there’s still no contact from her, and my turmoil has settled into a deep, mourning sadness and malaise. I really have blown off my long-time friend and that’s just how it is. I really am a stupid, selfish bitch. I can’t face going to work and call Anna at the office and tell her she’ll have to cope without my interference for a few days. I have to get away and I know where I need to go. There’s something that always sorts my head out when I’m all screwed up. As I make the long drive down the motorway, cursing what that machine has done to my bottom, there is still no call from her. I send a text to my central heating to turn it on and get one back confirming that it will be twenty degrees when I arrive. The text seems to just depress me further as it confirms my phone is working and she really hasn’t called. I turn it off, kidding myself that I don’t want to speak to her anyway. And I certainly don’t want to speak to anyone else.

 

It’s always been something of a mystery to me that America, the land that gives the world the worst and most tasteless cars, MacDonalds and country music, also gives us some of the finest and most beautiful sailing boats. As I stand at the top of the bridge that leads down to the marina pontoons, Mingulay, my Island Packet 320 stands out like a beacon of taste among the dreadful forest of white, mass produced, plastic crap that is all the European builders can manage these days. I really can’t imagine the design meeting where someone said they should make the hull brown and everyone else agreed. But there he is. Beige. That ultimate colour of the bland, but he looks fabulous in it, amongst all that endless white shit. I say ‘he’ because although most people think of boats as being feminine, I love Mingulay and so have always thought of him as a ‘he’. Given my recent behaviour though, I’m not sure that logic holds up any more. I wander down the pontoons and gaze at my secret love. There’s a cheap, nasty Bavaria in the berth next door and a horrible French Bénéteau opposite. Mingulay wipes the floor with them both, looking like a piece of Chippendale furniture in room full of Ikea flat-pack, and the burbling sound of his Eberspächer signals that he is alive and waiting for me.  I can already feel my spirits starting to lift. I climb aboard and open the hatch. A wall of warmth hits me. On a cold February day, heating that you can text to turn it on is golden. Down in the cabin it’s warm and cosy and even better than that, there’s a case of Majella Shiraz 2008 in the bilge. I settle down into, rather than onto, the cabin seats and luxuriate in the strange, sensual material. Ultra leather I remember the salesman at the boatshow calling it. Until a few days ago I was pretty ultra myself, maybe even an Ultra-Vixen, but I don’t even feel foxy now. I’m just a woman who has buggered up her life with her out of control hormones, but then there are lots of those in the world and they all seem to manage. I’m sure I will too, somehow. The Majella slides down very nicely and after two nights of little sleep, I’m soon off to the land of nod.

 

It’s dark when I wake but I don’t look to see what the time is. I don’t care. Time is only for working out the tide when you’re on a boat. I make myself some dinner. Just some pasta and tinned mince, but all food tastes good when it’s cooked on a boat. Tomorrow I might pull Mingulay out of his winter slumber and take to the sea for a few days. You see Dex, life’s not so bad after all is it. As I open up another bottle of Majella there’s a loud knocking on the hull and a voice shouts “hello?” I go up into the cockpit and look at the pontoon. There she is. Looking like she’s just been to the races in that asymmetric leather jacket with a big, white knitted scarf and matching beanie from under which that black hair emerges and blows about in the breeze. Below she has a light grey skirt, black tights and black, high heeled boots, but the boots have a white stripe that balances perfectly the white scarf and hat. Even in the dim lights of the marina she looks thoroughly gorgeous.

 

“I thought I might find you here,” she says. “Anna said you called in sick for a few days.”

 

“So you drove all the way down here just to see me? You could have just phoned you know.”

 

“Yeah well, sometimes the phone’s just not good enough. And anyway, yours is bloody well switched off.”

 

“Hmmm. I suppose it is. Sorry.”

 

“So are we going to talk out here in the cold or are you going to invite me aboard? I’ve got some boots of yours here. Do you know, I’ve finally worked out how to run down the street in stilettos this high.”

 

“Sorry, yes. Come on. It’s bloody freezing out here.”

 

I’ve always thought there is something rather alluring about the sight of a woman clambering on or off a yacht and negotiating the guard rail while wearing a skirt and heels. It is a trick I regularly used myself in my younger days when I was part of the racing set, to mark the boundary between Helena the deadly serious, competitive and race winning helmsman with an uncanny, almost spiritual feel for the wind and waves, and Helena the curvy redhead yot-tot, who was available for chatting up in the bar, and sex afterwards. And while I may have set a few winch monkeys’ hearts aflutter with my skirted, girly antics, I don’t think I ever managed the feat with the elegance and dignity that Sue somehow displays as she hitches her skirt up to her thighs and clambers on board carrying two bags and a pair of ridiculous Arollo thigh boots.

 

“See. At least I remembered not to wear stilettos on your deck,” she says as she walks along the teak sidedeck towards me. “I hope you’ve got some decent wine on this boat.”

 

As Sue makes herself comfortable in the cosy cabin and I pour a large glass for her, I wonder if I am trying to get her drunk, or just enough so that she can’t drive home and will have to spend the night here with me, but I realise that I am now beyond that. I’ve made my gambit and lost. I’m not trying to go back to where we were. Although I’m completely heartbroken, part of me is secretly relieved that it’s over; that all the pretence and deception is finished with. And with hindsight it’s rather obvious really. You can’t just expect someone to turn their whole sexuality on its head just because you’ve got the hots for them. But a lot of ridiculously crazy notions seem to make perfect sense when you’re in love. Although I’m desperately sad, for the first time I feel calm and untroubled in her presence. I make sure I sit on the opposite side of the saloon, keeping the table between us as a lust barrier. I’m not going to fart about with small talk while there’s an elephant in the cabin. I cut straight to the chase.

 

“I’m sorry, but all that stuff I said, it was all true I’m afraid.”

 

“I know it was. And a lot of things about you seem to make sense to me now.” She speaks with a quiet and conciliatory tone. “Tell me, how long have you felt like this?”

 

“You remember Josh Wilson’s party?”

 

“Err, yes. But that was ages ago.”

 

“Two thousand and two. October to be precise. You remember what you were wearing?”

 

“Hmmm, yes. The catsuit. I think I’ve still got it you know. Whether I could get into it now is another matter though.”

 

“It wasn’t a catsuit Sue. It was the front and back of a catsuit and no sides. Just those little thin strips holding it together. Everyone spent the whole night looking for the waistband of a pair of panties peeking out from behind those little strips. We never saw one though, and we all knew there couldn’t possibly be one there, but we all had to keep looking, just to be sure.”

 

“Heh heh. No you wouldn’t have seen one. Bloody thing was hellish sweaty though. It’s easily the sluttiest outfit I’ve ever worn and do you know, it didn’t work. I didn’t get picked up. Not a single offer. I had to go home and spend the night with a vibrator.”

 

“Ha Ha. You’re not the only one then. I bet there wasn’t one person at that party, man or woman, who wasn’t thinking of you as they fucked, wanked or vibed themselves that night. I’ve been besotted with you ever since.”

 

“Jesus Hels. All these years. Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“Well, at first I thought it was just some silly crush; that it would pass. But it didn’t. And by the time I knew it was for real, we’d become such good friends and I thought, correctly as it turned out, that you’d freak if I came out to you. So I just squashed my feelings as best I could and got with being a ‘slut and a man eater’ as you so eloquently put it the other night. I don’t really know why, but it’s all been boiling up in me for the last few months. Maybe it’s your thing with Richard that’s brought it all out, but I don’t know. I don’t… didn’t, feel jealous of him really. Jealous of the time you spent with him perhaps, but not jealous lover type jealous. I’d resolved to tell you this weekend, but that bloody machine had me all weirded up and it just came out of me all wrong. I’m so sorry Sue.”

 

“Sorry for what? We can’t help how we feel. Or who we fall in love with.”

 

“No, but we can bloody well keep our feelings under control when they’re fucked up and going to cause a lot of hurt. What did I think? That you would just suddenly turn all lezzy, dump Richard and come charging away with me? Or that Richard would say ‘Ah yes, I’m totally ok with my girlfriend having another woman on the side’?  Yeah, right.”

 

“I’m going to tell you something about Richard, but you have to promise not to repeat this to anyone, most of all Richard.”

 

“Yeah fine. I promise. But if it’s such a big secret, don’t tell me. A secret shared…”

 

“You remember when I was chasing Richard at the start? That I thought we had a connection, but he wouldn’t take the bait?”

 

“I remember. You thought he might be gay. Christ, you’re not going tell me he’s gay and you’re actually a lesbian after all?”

 

“He’s not gay. He’s impotent.”

 

“Impotent?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Oh shit Sue. But what about all those tales of great sex you told me?”

 

“I made ‘em all up. The other night, when he went all huffy at your mentioning The Machine, it was because he thought I’d told you about him. That’s why I made up that shit about seven inches and Brat Pack music. It was just to let him know I hadn’t. Don’t tell me you believed that crap.”

 

“Well now that you mention it, it did seem kinda corny. And I thought it was a bit weird how he changed back into Mr Niceguy so quickly.”

 

“Why do you think he built me a sex machine anyway?”

 

“Oh fuck. You mean my lust for you has been driven out of control by tales of your amazing sex life, and it was all fake? Well if that’s not irony I don’t know what is. Why doesn’t he just get some treatment; a pump or Viagra or something? Or just use his tongue?”

 

“It’s not because he can’t. It’s not even that he doesn’t want to. He’s all functional and gets the urge, but just can’t bring himself to go through with it. He was err… well it’s from when he was a child. I haven’t got the full story out of him yet but I think it’s pretty horrific. He’s spent his life avoiding any relationships until I badgered and muscled in on him.”

 

The hatred and revulsion is suddenly there in me again. I can see that vile, lecherous man humping on the living room floor and the red hair of the helpless ten year old girl splaying out on the carpet from under him. A girl who only came to live with his brother because her parents were so fucked up. I usually keep this image firmly locked in a safe with a large ‘do not open’ sign on it and buried in the furthest corner of my mind, but occasionally it gets out and when it does, I find it impossible not to cry.

 

“Hels? You Ok? Oh God, no. Not you as well?”

 

“I’m afraid so. ‘Uncle’ fucking Jack. Bastard. Kinda had the opposite effect on me though. Turned me into something of a slut. Maybe if I get enough cocks in there it’ll finally wash him out, but I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”

 

“Oh Hels I’m so sorry. What a fucked up world this is.”

 

Sue gets up and sidles around the saloon table to sit next to me. She puts her arm around me and pulls me close. Despite the reminder of my childhood, despite my broken heart, despite my determination not to go back, I can feel the heat starting inside me. I can’t be with her. I can’t go on feeling like this. Don’t give in to it Helena. Don’t go back. It’s over. Remember how fucked up you feel about her and how it’s hurt.

 

“I’m crazy to chase you away with my stupid feelings and lust.”

 

“You’re not chasing me away.”

 

“I can’t do it Sue. I can’t go on feeling this way around you. It’s been driving me mad.”

 

“Well why don’t we do something about it? Right now. There’s a bed on this boat isn’t there?”

 

“Stop it Sue. You said yourself, we can’t change how we are. You can’t just suddenly turn on some desire to fuck with me, anymore than I can turn mine off.”

 

“Helena, if someone had told me six months ago that I was going to fall in love with a man who wouldn’t have sex with me and that I would have to get my thrills at the hands of a crazy machine, well, first I wouldn’t have believed them, and second, if I had believed them, I would have freaked out and run like fuck, even if I were wearing boots I couldn’t run in. But yet here I am, and it’s not perfect by any means, but I’m not unhappy. So when my best friend suddenly declares she’s in love with me and wants to have sex with me, well my initial reaction was to freak out and run like fuck, even though this time I actually was wearing boots I couldn’t run in. But again, here I am. And if I’m being totally honest, it wasn’t really the having sex part that freaked me out, it was the ‘I’ve loved you for years and we’re finally going to be together’ stuff that did the damage. I mean, come on Helena, that’s like trying to pick someone up in a bar by talking about getting married and the children you’re gonna have with them. If you’d just said ‘how’s about a bit of girl-on-girl to finish off after the footy?’ I would have been up for that, especially after wearing those boots and you calling me ‘Mistress’ for half the afternoon. When I told Richard about it, he just laughed. He said it was obvious we had the hots for each other.”

 

“He said what?”

 

“Well he’s very good at reading people, but I doubt he had to try very hard with us. A few hours before he’d found me standing over you in just my bra and knickers, wearing your err… tart boots, and calling you ‘Slave’. I think that might have been something of a clue. He also said something interesting about you. He thinks all that ‘Helena the strong, sex-mad amazon woman’ is just a front. It’s a cover to hide or protect the real you from the world.”

 

“Oh so I’m just a fake am I? And just what did he say the real me is?”

 

“I don’t think he meant it in a bad way. And he said he couldn’t see the ’real you’ because you’ve got her hidden. But I think I see a little glimpse of her tonight, or should I say this morning.”

 

“Shit. Is it that late?”

 

“Yep. And I didn’t drive all this way just to stay in a hotel room with only my fingers for company. So how about it lover girl?”

  

“This can’t be happening. I’m asleep and I’m going to wake up in a minute. You wanna fuck after all? I don’t think so Sue. I can’t make you change like this. What about Richard? Why not get him round and we’ll cure him of his problem while we’re at it.”

 

“I think I love Richard very much and I’ll keep working my womanly charms on him and who knows, I think we’ll get there one day, maybe even soon. But I love you too. And I haven’t had sex with a human being in over eight months now, so I’m feeling rather open to something new. Tell me, when you fantasise about me, who gets to go on top?”

 

“Oh you do, definitely. I’m your slave.”

 

“Well in that case, Slave, there’s something for you in that bag I brought with me. The straps look a bit complicated so you’ll have to work out how to put it on me. The guy in the shop said it had a choice of three sizes of attachments, small, medium or large. I remembered you take a large."