plik

One doesn’t expect to meet the girl of one’s dreams at a bus stop. But seven years ago,

that’s exactly what happened to me. I was still a student, living in north London,

enjoying a carefree existence of fun, dancing and girls; the joy of which I didn’t truly

appreciate until after it was gone. On this particular spring day, I was by myself,

waiting for a bus, having planned a day of sightseeing in central London. After weeks
of rain, today, at last, the sun had come out. Everyone, it seemed, was buoyed by the

hot weather. The world felt like a happier place. A group of girls I knew from college

passed by, wearing sunglasses and flimsy tops; their breasts bouncing with every

stride. On reaching me, they stopped to say hello.

Hi Josh, said one, Becky, curling strands of red hair round her finger. Where are you

off to today?

Day out in London.

Nice. We’re going to the park.

We’re gonna to catch some rays, said another. Fancy getting all sweaty with us?

Well, I would but…

Go on, you know you want to.

You can rub our suntan lotion in, Josh, said Becky with a wink. That’d be nice,

wouldn’t it, girls?

They all giggled before sauntering off. Catchya later, Josh, said one, giving me a

little wave.

I watched the girls disappear down the street, watching their gorgeous arses in

their tight denim shorts. Sighing with frustration, I became aware that someone was

behind me. I turned and was hit by a vision of gothic splendour. A flowing black dress,

a thick ornate black belt, a strip of black lace in her hair, black, leather boots with a

high heel, everything black but her face. Her skin was as white as marble, the

whiteness accentuated by her vermillion lips. She was carrying a little black fan, which

she now used to shield the sun from her eyes, as she read the bus timetable.

It’s due in two minutes.

Thank you, she said in a breathless voice as gentle as the breeze. You should’ve gone

to the park with them. Could have been your lucky day.

They weren’t being serious.

Maybe not, but they had the hots for you, especially the one with red hair.

You think so?

Sure. The way she wriggled her tits at you. Didn’t you notice? She’s well into you.

No, I hadn’t noticed.

God, men are so slow sometimes. It doesn’t take much working out but usually it

takes another woman to point out the obvious.

I’ll bear it in mind. Thanks.

Pleasure.

And so we waited for our buses in silence, me and this vision in black. People

passed by, people shopping, walking their dogs, talking on their phones. I wondered

whether I should talk to my companion.

I was watching a video on You Tube last night – Bela Lugosi’s Dead. What on earth

made me say that, I wondered, immediately regretting it? As an opening gambit, it was

certainly random, and totally untrue. Yet, I could tell that I’d impressed her.

What made you say that? she asked. That’s my favourite song. I mean… ever.

I guessed you might like it.

She eyed me up and down and I found myself involuntarily flexing my chest,

jutting out my chin. So, what’s your name? she asked.

Josh.

As in Joshua. Nice name. I’m Lilly. She offered her hand, covered in more lace. She

had long fingernails, painted black – naturally. She had a ring on every finger,

including her thumbs. Nice to meet you. So you do often watch old gothic songs on You
Tube?

All the time. It’s an obsession.

Yeah, right.

I could see that under all those garments she had a lovely figure and I had a vision

of her underwear – black and lacy. I felt a little surge of lust. The arrival of the bus

brought me back to earth. Are you getting this? I asked.

No, I’m waiting for a friend. A girl.

Oh. Well, it was nice to meet you.

You too, she said as the bus doors swung open. She’d emphasised a girl – her friend

was a girl, not a boy. Why had she done that? I boarded, glancing back. I had to say

something but what?

But it was she, Lilly, who spoke: Meet me at the King George tonight. Nine o’clock.

The doors closed. OK, I mouthed through the glass.

I sat down and waved at her as the bus drew away. Did that just happen, I asked

myself. Did I just get a date with a beautiful-looking Goth? These things didn’t happen

to me, but yes, I had, I bloody had. I caught my reflection in the bus window, and I was

grinning. Yeah, I, Joshua Rowland, had got myself a hot date. I couldn’t wait.

I arrived early at the King George. I felt it would be ungentlemanly to keep her

waiting. The pub was busy; Lady Gaga on the jukebox. Every seat outside was taken,

such was the warmth of the evening but I found a round table for two near the patio
door. On the table next to me, four middle-aged men in suits and tie talked shop. I

bought myself a pint and played with my phone. But I couldn’t concentrate. The joy of

having got a date had been usurped by a feeling of dread. In fact, I’d been in a state of

tension all day. My trip out to London, visiting art galleries and drinking coffee had, if

truth be known, been spoilt. I was too nervous to relax, counting down the hours. I’d
spent ages trying to decide what to wear. In the end I opted for simplicity – a pair of

tight jeans and a green polo shirt. I couldn’t hope to compete with her wardrobe. At

home, I’d done a bit of homework and googled ‘goth bands’, just to get an idea for

something to talk about. I should have been working; I still had that essay on the

Industrial Revolution to finish.

The King George was only a few minutes walk from home. I live with my mother,

my father having buggered off years ago. I wished I lived on the college premises, in
the halls of residence, like Becky and her friends. I still see my dad occasionally with

his new family. He’s more like an older brother to me with his ‘getting down with the

kids’ attitude. He thinks he’s so hip when, in reality, he’s just sad. My mother’s never

really met anyone else. I think a part of her still secretly hopes dad will come back to

her one day, begging her forgiveness, admitting his mistakes. Until that day, a day that

will never materialise, it’s just me and mum. I’m 22 now, last year at university. Too

old for my mother to tell me what to do, or to demand that I should be home by a
certain time. But I know every night I’m out, which, frankly, is most nights, she frets

until, in the early hours, she hears my key turn in the door. Mums the world over, I

guess. She could be 100 and me 80, and she’d still be worrying about me.

Lilly arrived, dead on nine, carrying a little handbag with a silver clip, looking

gorgeous. The men at the next table all looked up at her, their conversation halted. I

wasn’t sure whether they were caught by her beauty or perplexed that a woman

dressed like a vampire had just appeared. Either way, Lilly didn’t notice them and, on
seeing me, glided onto her chair. God, she looked stunning, her deathly-white face

brought alive by that lipstick, and her eyes painted green, her eyelashes quite the

longest I’d ever seen.

Hi, she said, in that breathless voice. Been here long?

No, not at all. Let me get you a drink.

And so we settled down and got to know each other a little, me with my beer and

Lilly with her red wine. The smell of smoke drifted in from the smokers just outside;

while the smell of chips wafted from the pub kitchen. She was wearing a pair of

elbow-length lacy fingerless gloves. Very refined. The men on the next table resumed
their conversation, getting louder as they interrupted each other. My cursory

homework on Goth bands played dividends, as I appeared vaguely knowledgeable. We

talked about music, films, art and especially books. All very hi-culture. She seemed to

have read anything remotely Gothic – Lord Bryon, Edgar Allan Poe, Dr Jekyll and Mr

Hyde, Dracula, the lot.

I sometimes think I was born in the wrong era, she said, her eyes faraway. I believe I

should have been a Victorian lady of leisure.

Yeah, and I should have been a Tudor lord with a codpiece. I’ve always quite fancied

one of those.

Hmm, most fetching.

So, I concluded to myself, it wasn’t just the clothes that made her a Goth, it was the

whole lifestyle. Impressive. She wore, I noticed, a necklace with a little bird on it. Her

bra was quite visible beneath the see-through fabric of her blouse. She told me it was

a kingfisher and I eyed it, giving me a viable excuse to view her cleavage. Very nice, I
said.

What – the kingfisher or my breasts?

Heck, was I that obvious, I wondered. Caught out within the first half an hour. The

kingfisher, I blurted. Well, now you mention it, both, I guess. Sorry.

Don’t be, she said, stroking my hand. It’s fine. I know what you boys are like about

breasts. I hoped the men wouldn’t hear this but no, they were far too wrapped up in

their self-importance. My grandmother gave me the necklace just before she died. She
had a huge funeral; she was a popular old lady. Do you like funerals?

Do I–

I love funerals; all that solemnity and black. Turns me on no end. If any man wants to

get into my knickers, he needs just take me to a funeral.

What – anyone’s?

Any man, any funeral. She giggled while I struggled to find something appropriate

to say.

Is it just me, I said, or is it very warm in here?

It’s just you, Joshua; just you.

We talked merrily for another hour or more. The men on the next table had upped and

left, each one clocking one more look at Lilly, and I felt a surge of pride that I should be

associated with her, this woman who seemed so at odds with modern life. I think it’s
time we left, she said abruptly.

Already. There’s still another–

No. If I don’t get home by eleven I turn into a vampire.

I glared at her. That was a joke, Joshua.

Oh yes, of course.

Come, I want you to walk me pass the church. You never know what might be in that

churchyard.

Dead people?

And the undead. Anyway, can I ask you to escort me pass the graveyard?

Sure, I said, rising to my feet.

As we walked from the pub, she took my hand. I felt a tingle of electricity pass

through me. The church loomed ahead of us, its spire high against the clear night sky.

I’m not a godly person, but it looks beautiful, don’t you think?

Yes. Yes, it does.

We’d crossed the road and were now walking pass the church on our right, lit by a

couple of powerful floodlights. Come, said Lilly, tightening her grip on my hand.

What? Where are we going? She’d pushed open the gate to the churchyard. Lilly, we

can’t go in there.

Why not? Who says we can’t? Are you frightened?

I decided to tackle just the last question. No but–

So, what’s the problem, then? Come, follow me.

For a while, we crept along the gravelled path, headstones either side, like jagged

teeth sticking out of the ground. We’d gone behind the church, Lilly leading the way,

when she stopped and looked at me, our faces inches away from one another. She
leant in and kissed me. How eagerly she kissed me, her tongue searching out mine.

Then, just as abruptly, she stopped. Someone might come, she said. Let’s hide. And with

that, again leading me by the hand, she dragged me into the long grass, between the

stones. It was a clear night but how quickly, I thought, had my eyes become

accustomed to the dark.

Lilly, are you sure…

Shush, now. We don’t want to wake the dead.

Or get caught. Or alert the vicar.

I don’t think the vicar will be working this late.

You mean he doesn’t live in the church?

How do you know the vicar’s not a ‘she’?

Either way, this is all a bit creepy for me. But of course, part of me was enjoying this.

The headstones leered at us, leaning at all angles, occasionally decorated by a bunch of

wilted flowers. Everything smelt in the damp air, the grass, the trees, even the moss
on the graves. She tripped. I caught her before she fell. The grave she’d tripped over

was laid in the ground, its gold lettering perfectly visible – a sad little tribute to a child

who’d died aged only eight in 1978.

Are you OK?

She giggled. I want you, she whispered. She kissed me quickly, then pushed on,

towards the back of the graveyard. I felt as if she’d been here before. Finally, we

stopped next to a sarcophagus, its engravings weathered by the years. Placing her

arms delicately around my neck, she kissed me again, more slowly this time. Take a

seat, she said, pushing me down onto the low box of stone.

Rucking up her skirt and all its frills and layers, she straddled my lap. Her hands

ran through my hair. I felt myself harden beneath her as I breathed in her perfume.

She felt it too. Smiling at me, she undid the first button on her blouse. She was in
control; we both knew this, but it was fine by me, as button by button, she undid her

top to reveal her lacy, blood red bra. Do like what you see? she whispered, as she

nibbled my ear.

Hmm, was all I could muster.

Do you want to see more?

Oh, yes.

My cock was truly hard now; I could feel it pulsating beneath my jeans. She

unclipped her bra but held onto it, delaying the moment of pleasure. I groaned in

anticipation. She dropped her hands, letting the bra fall from her breasts.

Oh, my. Beneath her blouse, her alabaster skin shone out beneath the night sky. Her

fulsome breasts were magnificent; her nipples stiff, sticking out, just demanding to be

sucked. I obliged, taking her lovely pointed nipple into my mouth; first one, then the

other. She cupped her tits, offering them to me, encouraging me to suck. Harder, she

breathed. I flicked my tongue over them as she squeezed a tit, pushing it further into
my mouth. Good boy, she said. Good boy. Suck it. That’s it, suck me, baby, harder.

Then, abruptly, she slipped off my lap and fell to her knees. My cock bulged out

from my jeans. She rubbed her hand over the denim. Sit up, she ordered. I did as told

and between us, we pulled my jeans off. Then, quickly, she pulled my prick out from

my boxers and watch it ping into life.

All of a sudden, I was seized with doubt. After all, it’s not natural to be making out

in a graveyard, to have one’s cock on full display within the shadow of a church. Lilly,
I’m not sure about this, I said, glancing round, fearful of the phantoms nearby.

Don’t worry. No one’s likely to pass by at this time of night.

Body snatchers?

Granted, a body snatcher may pass by. A body snatcher or a cocksucker. Which would

you prefer right this minute? she said, re-focussing on my quivering member.

Well, if you put it like that…

Good boy, she said again, admiring my size. Lots of cock for Lilly. She fell onto it,

taking me in her mouth. Gripping the shaft, she sucked, her head bobbing up and

down as she rammed my cock into her mouth. I looked skywards, saw the church

spire and felt a little shudder of shame. Here I was, in a churchyard, being given the

most fantastic blowjob by this beautiful woman I’d only met twelve hours ago. It

wasn’t right but my sense of decency was unable to defeat the all-conquering sense of

desire and lust.

Lilly sat on my lap and I realised from the snatch of moistness that she wasn’t

wearing any knickers. Have you brought a condom? she asked.

No, I never thought–

Well, lucky I have then. Scooping down to retrieve her handbag, she produced a

condom, waving it triumphantly in the air. She ripped open the packaging and with

expert hands, slid the rubber over my shaft.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was about to straddle my young victim. Very slowly,

she lowered herself onto me, inch by inch. I groaned as her wet cunt gradually
encompassed the full length of my cock. She began to grind on my lap, forward and

back. I cupped her breasts as she rode me, her tits hanging heavily in my hands. She

kissed me and the harder we kissed, the more pronounced her thrusts. I could feel her

arousal greasing my prick. This is good, she muttered. Fucking good.

Take me from behind, she said, lifting herself off me. She leant against the

sarcophagus. I did wonder whether it felt cold against her stomach. I had to find my
way through the various layers of her chiffon skirt until I found her bare arse. Holding

her skirt up, I rubbed my purple cock head up and down her proffered pussy. That’s

good, she said. I like that. Reaching behind, she took control, yanking my cock up and

down over her cunt while I massaged her buttocks. She then let go and I watched as

she stuffed her fingers into her hole. Fuck me, she ordered, as she sucked her fingers.

Guiding my raging cock, I found her entrance. I let it rest there, pushing only very

slightly. Oh God, the anticipation, she murmured. For once, I was momentarily in
control. But of course the lure of the pussy proved too much to resist for too long, and

I soon found myself plunging in, delighting in her squeal as my girth stretched her

cunt. I fucked her with my jeans at my ankles, not entirely believing my luck.

I stretched my arms and reached for her tits. Feeling me there, she squashed my

hands against her breasts. How hard her nipples, I thought.

Keep going, she urged. I want to feel you shudder as you cum.

And so I did, picking up speed, my thrusts becoming increasingly urgent as I built

up towards my climax. She grunted with each thrust and finally I felt the delicious

waves wash over me as I came.

Well, she said a few moments later, it’s not everyday a girl gets fucked in a cemetery.

Thank you, Joshua. I hope you don’t mind me taking advantage of you.

I’ll try to cope.

She kissed me on the cheek. You’ll always remember this.

I have not doubt of that.

Of course, she was right. I never did forget. Now, writing this several years later, I

can still recall every moment of it, every movement of her body, every expression in

PART TWO

Lilly obsessed my thoughts. I’d never met anyone quite like her. Finishing my essay on

child labour during the Industrial Revolution proved to be a real chore. How could I

think of Victorian working hours legislation when all I wanted to think about was

Lilly’s delicious pussy.

She worked in a trendy clothes shop, she said, in central London. I met her from

work one day. It was one of these trendy boutiques, up its own arse. White floors, bare

walls and a few clothes racks with impractical garments with no indication of the

price. It was one of these “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it” places. Along

with Lilly, there was only one other shop assistant, a attractive black girl, but not a

customer in sight. The two of them looked bored out of their skulls.

After she’d finished work, we had tea in Selfridges. She was wearing another

flowing dress, black, of course, but with streaks of purple and red. She held her teacup
with a finger pointing in the air, and ate her pastry with little, bird-like bites.

Everything about her was sophisticated and elegant. She was quite the lady, just one

that happened to have a dirty mind. Perfect, really.

Afterwards, we went to an art gallery together. She liked Renaissance art, all those

fulsome females with their big hips and sultry stares. She went quite weak at the

knees on seeing her favourite Titian, and exclaimed loudly about its beauty. Just look

at that colour, she enthused, the way he brings out every nuanced expression. And all
that glorious detail. It’s exquisite, don’t you think?

Yes, erm, yeah, sure.

She knew a philistine when she saw one.

We caught the tube back together and once in our neck of woods, I offered to walk

her home. She was adamant that I shouldn’t, despite my insisting. A small part of me

couldn’t help but feel hurt, as if I was cut off from her personal life. I had no idea what

sort of house she lived in, but I imagined a dark bedroom with a large four-poster
double bed and a framed photograph of Peter Cushing.

I walked home, wondering what on earth could such a beautiful, mysterious

woman like Lilly see in me. I was, I knew, just a simple, routine guy. Everything about

me was ordinary while everything about Lilly was extraordinary.

Communicating with Lilly was never easy. Whether I rang or texted, she never

answered. All I could do was wait for her to get in contact with me. Often, I’d

reprimand myself, saying this was not an equal relationship, that Lilly was using me as

a sex toy. But then I would think back to our adventure in the graveyard, and I’d think

‘what the heck’. Better, I thought, than a new girlfriend who was phoning and texting

every five minutes. Now, at least, I had experience of both extremes. About a week

after our ghoulish adventure, she finally texted me. What she said both took me by
surprise and thrilled me – she was inviting me round to her house. I didn’t expect that.

I was told to arrive at seven – not a minute earlier. I did as ordered and arrived a

couple minutes passed. She lived was down a leafy, suburban street, quiet and

unremarkable. Her house was a typical north London 1930s-styled place, with a large

bay window at the front and a heavy wooden door, painted bright green. I rang on the

bell and waited, patting down my hair, removing a piece of fluff from my jeans.

Hi, come in, she said, on opening the door. She looked stunning – wearing a

studded choker that, I couldn’t help but muse, resembled, slightly, a dog collar, and

her long lacy gloves. Having pecked me on the cheek, she led me straight upstairs,

denying me the chance to have a nose around downstairs. The landing carpet was a

garish mish-mash of colours, the wallpaper a bright yellow with swirls. This was not

the style I associated with Lilly and straightaway I began to understand there was

probably a gulf of difference between her and her parents.

Are you by yourself? I asked.

God, yes. I wouldn’t invite you round if the ‘parents that time forgot’ were still here.

What are they like?

How can I say this without sounding too snobby? In a word – common.

That does sound quite–

There’s more class in that vase of flowers there. In a little alcove cut into the wall,

was a shelf and upon it a round vase of plastic flowers.

Nice.

Exactly, said Lilly, opening her bedroom door.

Stepping inside was like stepping into another house, indeed into another era.

Welcome to my little abode, said Lilly. The low bed with a metal frame was adorned

with a deep red duvet, an old-fashioned chest of drawers was littered with jewellery

boxes, trinkets and candles. Likewise a dressing table with a large, oval mirror. The

chandelier emitted a soothing light, and instead of curtains, muslin drapes. I

wondered why she had them closed and the light on when it was still light outside. I
caught sight of myself in her wardrobe mirror and I looked like a time traveller, my

hipster jeans and trainers incongruous in these surroundings.

A lot of thought had gone into making her room very much her own. It’s lovely, I

said, aware of my inadequate appraisement.

My parents hate it – which is fine by me. If they liked it I’d know I was doing

something wrong.

Everywhere, there were shelves full of books, mostly thick tomes, old Victorian

classics. I looked out the window onto the back garden. It looked depressing –

unkempt, uncared for, a rusty trampoline dominating the space, the grass almost at

knee length.

When I’d turned round, Lilly was holding out a glass of red wine for me.

Thank you. We clinked glasses. So where are they, your parents?

They’ve gone out, thank God. They don’t go out anywhere near enough, but once a

month they go to some dreadful little social club. We don’t have long, so I suggest we
make use of our time. What do you say? She took my wine and placed both glasses

down on her bedside table. She turned to face me, a mischievous glint in her eye.

She kissed me, running her fingers through my hair, the taste of wine on our

tongues. She did have a lovely kiss. I felt the first stirrings in my jeans.

Have you ever caused pain before? she said, unbuttoning her blouse which seemed

to be made from several layers of lace, revealing a large gothic cross necklace on her
cleavage.

Pain? No. The question, I admit, made me feel slightly uncomfortable.

Don’t worry; I won’t hurt you, she whispered, undoing her bra. Now suck, she

ordered, holding up a breast, its hardened nipple pointing at me.

I didn’t need a second invitation and fell onto her mammary, sucking it, running

my tongue round it.

Take your jeans off, she said, quietly.

I did, stripping down to my shirt and boxers. Her hand slid in, pulling out my

member. She got down on her knees and looked at my cock, holding it gently round

the shaft. She just kneeled there, staring at it, making no attempt to suck me. At first, I

felt a little self-conscious but then it just turned me on even more, knowing she was

minutely inspecting my cock. A little dewdrop of pre-cum oozed from my tip. She

watched it become larger, then fall. She caught it, like a raindrop, in the palm of her

hand.

Come, we don’t have that much time. She got to her feet and with quick, swift

movements, she removed her clothes and was suddenly naked save from her lacy

gloves and the choker round her neck. What a beautiful sight, my own Goth girl, with

her fleshy globes, all mine for the taking. My cock trembled in anticipation.

Listen, Josh, I want you to do everything I tell you.

OK.

You understand? My every wish is my command. Those are the rules.

Right, I said, unsure of what I was letting myself into.

She bent over to rummage in her chest of drawers and I watched, mesmerized, as

her breasts swung heavily from side to side. With a voilà produced a number of pink

handcuffs. Tie me up, she said.

What, you mean–

Shush. No questions, remember?

Oh, OK.

Handing me the handcuffs, she ripped away the duvet and jumped onto her bed.

She lay on her front on the black sheets, facing the foot of the bed, spreading out her

arms and legs. Do it then, she said.

Don’t do want your head at the other end?

No. You’ll find out why shortly.

Without speaking, I did as she commanded. I placed her right wrist within the cuff,

closed it, and attached the other side to the bed railing, and turned the key, which I

placed on her bedside table. I repeated this for the other arm but it was only when I

began on her legs that I really began to feel turned on. Seeing her stretch her legs wide

apart, in order to reach the rail, was exhilarating, for now her cunt was fully exposed

to me, her black pubes merely accentuating the redness of her shimmering snatch.

How vulnerable she looked – naked and completely tied-up, completely at my mercy.

Now spank me, she growled.

Right. She arched backside up in the air slightly, her cunt invitingly red. Gearing my

loins, I brought my right hand down across her arse.

I said spank me not tickle me, you bastard. Let it go, lose your inhibitions. Think of

something that makes you angry and then take it out on me.

My mouth opened but no words came. I tried to think of something to anger me

but nothing came to mind. But, nonetheless, I tried again.

This time, I noticed, I left a little glow of red on her skin.

No, harder, for fuck’s sake. I can’t believe you’re such a wimp.

Now feeling humiliated by my obvious lack of manliness, I spanked her again.

Harder, you wimp, fucking harder.

That was it. This time, with my hand held high, I let it come down as hard as I

could, whooshing through the air. Her arse shuddered as my palm made contact,

stinging the flesh of my hand.

Yeah! she screamed. That’s better. Again.

Rubbing my hand to ease the sting, I slapped her again. By now I was leaving

visible handprints on her derrière.

Good boy, that’s more like it. Now do it again and again without stopping.

Again, she stuck her arse up, waiting. Strange to relate but the next couple of

minutes were among the hardest in my life in terms of pain. I tanned her arse

repeatedly, alternating my hands, breathing heavily, the sweat forming on my brow,

running down my back. Lilly screamed continually, surely, I thought, to the point of

concerning her neighbours. I took off my shirt, and carried on, one smack after

another until both my hands and her arse were raw red. I edged down the bed a little,

better to see her exposed cunt. Oh, my aching cock. Acting on my initiative, I licked my

finger and inserted it up her deliciously sopping pussy.

Yeah, that’s fucking good. You’re doing good. Don’t stop.

I was running out of breath, but I pushed myself on, slapping her hard with my

right hand, while I pushed in a second finger into her cunt. My palm was red and sore

but less so than Lilly’s quivering buttocks. If Lilly’s screaming was loud before, now it

reached a new crescendo. Her whole body, from head to foot, was shaking. Carry on,

she urged in a deep growl, I’m coming. Fuckin’ spank me, hurt me, you cunt, you

bastard, don’t stop…

Forcing myself on, I thrashed her again, her buttocks rippling, while finger fucking

her cunt. She juddered uncontrollably as a jet of white cream emerged from her pussy.

Slowly she came to a stop, panting heavily.

I too, stopped to catch my breath. Removing my fingers from her red hole, I

admired the stream of cream. Are you OK, Lilly? I asked, sucking my fingers clean.

Quickly, she said, come round here and wank into me.

Really? Fantastic. Still tied up with the handcuffs, she watched as I knelt down at

the foot of her bed, and jerked furiously at my cock, its purple head throbbing. Her

face was red and gleaming with sweat, her hair plastered to her head.

You’re doing good. Wank into my mouth. I want to drink your cum.

Oh fuck, here it comes. The first small globules of cum shot out at astonishing speed.

Closer, Josh, come closer.

I shot my load into her face, between the bed railings, large dollops of white cum

landing on her nose, in her gaping mouth, and on her chin. She swallowed it down, her

tongue sliding across her bright red lips, desperate for more, sucking it in.

Slowing down, I noticed her blinking. I think I’ve got cum in my eye. Could you get

the tissues? There, next to the bed.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting on Lilly’s bed, still recovering, still naked,

catching our breaths. She wiped her mouth, smearing her lipstick with the remnants

of my semen. I felt a little nervous, waiting for a verdict, fearing that I hadn’t come up

to expectation.

You were good, Josh, she said, taking my hand. Oh, the relief! A bit hesitant at first

but that’s to be expected for a first timer. But with a little encouragement, you came

good. She leant over and planted a big kiss on my cheek. Thank you.

The pleasure’s all mine.

Ha! You’re such the gentleman. Well, what did you think? Did you enjoy that?

You’re telling me; it was fantastic, I said, nodding my head like a madman. Although

my hand hurts like hell. I held it up. Look how red it is.

Hmm, red and creamy.

How often did you say your parents went out?

Nowhere near enough. They saunter off to their depressing social club once a month,

every third Tuesday.

So, I’ll come back next month then.

Would you like to?

Hell, yes.

Good. Perhaps next time, we’ll take it up a level.

There’s another level?

She laughed. Oh, Joshua, there’s always another level, she said, squeezing my hand. I

know I may come across a bit strange sometimes, not getting back to your texts and all

that, but life’s complicated.

I understand, I said, without really understanding at all.

They’ll be back soon, so don’t take it personally but I’m going to have to chuck you

out. Sorry.

You don’t want me to meet them?

Trust me, you wouldn’t want to.

Shall I text you?

No, I’ll text you – when I’m ready.

A couple days later, I went into college for a lecture, which was taking place in a large

amphitheatre. I was rather hoping to see Becky. She had a textbook I’d lent to her,

some dreadful tome on Victorian social history. I did like Becky and lending her the

book, and now retrieving it, gave me an excuse to talk to her.

To my disappointment, however, she wasn’t there. But, the lecture over, I decided

to try the refectory. I found her two giggly friends, Saffron and Emily. Becky was in her

room, they told me. I thanked them, and crossed the college green to the block

opposite. Making my way through the labyrinth of passageways, I found her room at

the end of a corridor. I knocked on her door and found myself feeling a little nervous.

She looked very girly, very sexy, with a white vest top with black stripes, and tight,

red tartan shorts. Josh, hi, come in. Good to see you.

Hope you don’t mind me calling in. I was just passing by.

Yeah, sure. Just passing by at the end of a corridor that leads nowhere. You’ve come

about that book, haven’t you? She wore a pair of sunglasses pushed back over her hair.

Have you finished with it yet? I’m mean, it doesn’t matter if you haven’t.

I never even opened it, to be honest. But it’s cool; you can have it back. Here, it’s

somewhere among all this mess.

She bent over, rummaging through various books and folders, piles of papers and

glossy magazines. And my, what a glorious bottom. Her tartan shorts rode up into her

crack, leaving a lot of flesh on show, the delicious folds of her butt cheeks. Aha, I heard

her say.

She turned round quickly, before I had chance to avert my gaze. Josh, were you

looking at my ass?

No, no, no. Well, maybe.

Leaving the book where she found it, she approached me, running a finger down

my cheek. Naughty boy.

Sorry.

Don’t be silly; you can look at my ass any day you want. She grabbed my hand and

pressed it against her a butt cheek. Now, this took me by surprise. I knew she liked

me, even Lilly had pointed it out the first time I met her, but I hadn’t expected this. I

mean it, Josh, any day.

Emboldened, I went to kiss her. But she pulled away, leaving me with puckered

lips, kissing the air. She laughed. Josh, you’re incorrigible. You’re with that strange Goth

girl, aren’t you?

You knew that?

Everyone knows that. Nothing escapes this place. You’ve been seen.

It’s not that serious.

That’s not what I heard.

Hey? What have you heard?

That you and Goth girl are quite an item. I admit, Josh, I was a bit sad when I heard.

I’m sorry.

She shrugged her shoulders. It’s your choice, Josh. Here, you’ll be wanting that book.

She went to retrieve it, purposefully bending over in an exaggerated fashion, wriggling

her arse at me. She passed me the book. If you ever change your mind, or if, let’s say,

your circumstances change; you know where to find me.

Becky, I knew, was one sexy girl. But it was still Lilly that dominated my thoughts. I

waited for her to contact me. The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks.

After about the third week, I could bear it no longer and I texted her. No response. I

left it a couple more days then tried again. Then I tried phoning her. Her phone was

switched off. It was always bloody switched off.

I began to pine for her; I so needed to see my Lilly. Why, I almost spoke to my

mother, but decided however bad I felt, I could never feel that bad.

I felt so lonesome that one grey Tuesday afternoon, I even returned to the

churchyard. I pushed open the gate to the side of the church and went in the

graveyard, following the gravel path round the side of the church to the back. I tried to

remember the steps we took. Traipsing through the long grass, I found the small
headstone to the child that had died in 1978. Eventually, I came across the

sarcophagus. My heart lurched at the sight of it – half from the memory, half from the

guilt. On seeing the names carved into the stone, the full force of remorse hit me.

Edward Waldron, 1795 to 1870, and his dear wife, Edith, 1814 to 1898. You old

bugger, Edward, you married a woman almost twenty years younger. I ran my fingers

along the stone, tracing the letters of their names. I’m sorry, I said aloud. It wasn’t right

that we had fucked over their final resting place. So, why, if I was feeling so contrite,
did I have an erection?

But I knew that it wasn’t really Mr and Mrs Edward Waldron I was feeling sorry

for, I was feeling sorry for myself. I walked home, head hung low, hands in pockets.

It was at that moment that I received a text. Expecting it to be my mother or a

friend from college, I looked at my phone. My heart skipped a beat – it was from Lilly.

Note from the Author

Thank you for purchasing this novel and taking the time to read it. Spanking the Goth

is the first in a planned series of three, Sex and the Goth, featuring the sexual

adventures and mishaps of Joshua and Lilly.

Be sure to check out my other erotic novel, Putty In Her Hands, part one of a planned
series of three, called Diary of an Affair, also available on

All Romance

To be the first to know of future releases, please sign up to my

email newsletter

. (And

don’t worry; I will not share your details with anyone else).

Otherwise, feel free to contact me via

With kind regards,

R. J. Butler.

PS look out for parts two and three; coming soon!

Thank you so much.

Bonus extract from: Putty In Her Hands: Diary of an Affair, Part One.

Prologue (June)

We were in the taxi heading home, three in the morning, feeling worse for wear and

incredibly randy. The whole party had seemed randy and on the point of an orgy.

People I knew, usually the epitome of respectability, had that look in their eye, circling

round the party looking for someone to fuck. A friend of ours, Rebecca, had tried to

entice me into the toilet; her blouse already unbuttoned beyond decency, revealing a

hint of pink bra, her motivation all too apparent. I had to resist. Her husband wasn’t
too far away and this was not really her sort of thing. Nor mine. Something had gotten

into her and I knew she would regret it and would make things awkward between us

all. Even my wife, Emily, bless her, had lost the power of speech and had a wild and

frankly frightening look in her eye. Everyone, bar myself, seemed to be affected. It was

time, I decided, to go home.

In the taxi home, Emily managed to recover the ability to speak and think.

Someone had spiked the drinks, she said. I agreed. It wasn’t natural. How are you

feeling? she asked. Now that she mentioned it, I was experiencing some movement

down my nether regions. But with our taxi driver humming the tune of Take My

Breath Away, I merely shrugged my shoulders and said, Ok, I guess. But she knew by

the way I looked at her what was really on my mind, and with each passing moment, I

felt increasingly horny. Emily spotted the bulge in my trousers. She smiled and looked

away as if to watch the world racing pass the window. But with her eyes fixed outside,

she gently moved her hand and rested it on my lap. The presence of her hand there
sent a shockwave through me, and my cock surged at her touch and I couldn’t help but

let slip a slight groan. I tried to cover it up with a cough while the driver fiddled with

the knob on his car radio.

As the music got louder, an anonymous dance track, and the closer we got to home,

the more risqué Emily became, unzipping my fly and slipping her hand in. She rubbed

the end of my knob through the material of my pants producing a stream of pre-cum
that soaked my underwear. I was desperate for her to stop and desperate for her to

carry on. My cock was now as stiff as it’s ever been, unnaturally so, I felt – someone

had definitely spiked those drinks.

Thank goodness, the taxi swung into our road. Number twenty-eight, please, I

managed to croak, and the car came to an abrupt halt.

Having paid the driver off, giving him an unnecessarily large tip such was my haste

to be shot of him, I staggered back to the house barely able to walk, Emily giggling in

my wake. Now we had to face Ruth, our sixteen-year-old babysitter.

How had things been, we asked her, were the children OK, did they get off to sleep?

All this, while I held my coat strategically in front of me, hiding my protrusion. Ruth is

a would-be Goth – dyed black hair and a nose stud and even a ring through her lower
lip, but polite, shy and good with Lola, our three-year-old daughter and tolerated by

Joshua, our ten-year-old son. Having paid her, it was my job to walk Ruth home.

Fortunately only a few houses down the street, no more than a two-minute walk, the

cold soon put pay to my arousal while Ruth exclaimed about a new Goth band she’d

discovered. She walks in that slouchy way that teenagers do and having seen her to

her door and thanked her, I found myself walking home in the same manner.

Then, remembering how horny I’d felt, I picked up speed. Emily would be waiting

for me, hopefully playing with herself, getting herself ready. There is nothing quite

like drunken sex to chase away every last inhibition. I was almost running by the time

I got back home. I rushed in and charged into the living room, throwing off my jacket.

Shit.

Lying on the settee, not playing with herself, not moaning in anticipation, was my

wife – fast asleep.

The next morning, I was still dozing when Emily said my name in a tone that I didn’t

like, the way she stretched out the ‘n’.

Robinnn... You would never have an affair, would you?

What? Me? What made you say that all of a sudden? I was fully awake now. The

alarm clock on my bedside table showed half nine. I was amazed Lola hadn’t been up
to see us yet. Outside, it was a lovely day; the June sun streaming through the muslin

curtains.

Nothing. Just wondering.

I’m too lazy to have an affair. All that hassle, I said. The stress; it’d be too much for

someone like me.

I sidled across the warm bed, falling into the Grand Canyon that’s emerged in the

middle of our mattress, and slid my arms round her, pressing myself into the contours

of her body. She smelt warm. Anyway, I added in a tone that even to me sounded

nauseating. With a wife like you, my darling, why would any man stray?

Robin Collingbourne, you are such a charmer.

I know, I said with mock self-satisfaction, turning onto my back. But, nonetheless,

her question had taken me by surprise and niggled at me. Did she suspect something;

had I given her cause to? But I am not. I don’t need to have an affair. I’ve been happily

married to Emily for fifteen years and totally faithful; we have two vaguely well-
adjusted children and Ginger, my maladjusted cat; and live in a fine town house in a

middle-class ghetto of London. If asked are you happy, or at least content, I’d answer

in the affirmative. Certainly not the sort of man looking for an affair.

I felt Emily’s hand crawl down my stomach and slide beneath the elastic of my

pyjama bottoms. She smiled a devious smile at me as her fingers wrapped round the

base of my cock, which stirred into life. Well, what have we here? she purred. I don’t
know what they put in those drinks last night but I’m still feeling so horny. Do you fancy

a little…?

Emily, Lola might come in, I said, conscious of my hardening cock.

She’ll knock. Anyway, she’ll be watching TV.

I nodded and grunted, unable to speak. She disappeared beneath the duvet and I

held my breath in anticipation. I lifted my ass as she pulled my pyjama bottoms down

to my knees. My muscles tightened as I felt her tongue gently lick the head of my knob

in little circular motions. My shoulders dropped as a wave of pleasure descended over

me. God, you have such a gorgeous cock, I heard her say, her voice muffled by the

duvet. Soo big, So fucking hard. I’m such a lucky girl. Her mouth fell onto my cock,

greedily devouring me.

Boy, this is a nice way to wake up. I felt her fingers massage my balls as her tongue

ran up and down the underside of my shaft. The duvet moved up and down as her

head bobbed with her sucking. After a few seconds, she re-emerged, her hair ruffled

and her make-up smudged. In her drunkenness last night, she had gone to bed with it

still on. She looked fantastic; the smeared lipstick made her look filthy, like a woman
in search of some hard, unforgiving sex.

She lay on top of me, smelling of morning warmth, while I took my cock and edged

it closer to her entrance. We both knew the children were awake, so we couldn’t

afford to spend too long on such niceties as foreplay. Go on, she breathed as she

lowered herself to the tip of my stiff cock. Stuff it in.

Slowly, I pushed through her drenched lips. God, you’re wet.

Take me then. Fucking stuff it in.

I thrust myself inside her, causing her to squeal as my cock penetrated her

gorgeously wet pussy. She fell on me, kissing me hard, urgently. The taste of her
lipstick and faint aroma of the previous night’s perfume electrified me, causing me to

pump harder still.

Oh God, yes, she said, sitting up as I thrust, holding onto her hips.

She was wearing a tee-shirt, a pale yellow one, but no bra which meant that as she

jerked up and down in time with my thrusts, her wonderfully enormous tits bounced
round beneath her shirt. I love feeling her tits beneath the thin material and pulling

back the shirt to emphasise the shape and size, and the shadow of her erect nipples

through the fabric. Slowly, Emily lifted her tee-shirt so I could see the bottom of her

breasts but not yet the nipples. The more I thrust, the higher she inched the tee-shirt

until finally, her boobs were free and jiggling deliciously right in front of me, these

glorious mounds of white titty flesh with their rosy pink, saucer-sized nipples. She

leant forward, cupping one breast with which to feed me. I didn’t refuse and sucked
hard on her huge nipple, whilst still fucking her, my other hand pressing down on her

arse. She moved her breast around in circles, rotating it in my mouth. She pulled away,

her nipple wet with my saliva, then fed me the other and we started again. Suck me,

she urged. Suck me, fuck me, suck, suck, go on, suck me.

She sat back up and started rubbing the pink gash between her legs, her hand

moving in time with my pumping, her puffy lips wide open. Shit, I think I’m going to

cum. I’m so fucking close. Can I? Can I cum?

Her eyes rolled back. Squeeze my tits, she gasped, as her hand dissolved into a blur

as she rubbed her clit yet faster. I felt her clenching her vaginal muscles, her cunt

tightening round my cock. I cupped her breasts and with a finger played with her
nipples. Yes, that’s it. I’m coming. Oh, God.

I watched with mounting excitement as she leant back, fully exposing her cunt to

me, grinding her pelvis hard as I played with her tits. Her eyes glazed over as she

came. Yes, yes, I’m coming.

Unable to contain myself, I pulled her forward and sucked hard on her nipples, and

frantically banged her, my cock drilling her dripping cunt with ardent thrusts, until I

came from beneath her, huge, hot gushes of cum spurting into her warm pussy in

torrents.

We lay in bed, speechless, enjoying the glow of morning sex, happy that the

children hadn’t disturbed us.

That was nice, said Emily, still breathless.

We ought to get up, I said. It’s a lovely day out there.

And so, we started our day. But throughout it, I was still troubled by the thought

that my wife might think I was having an affair. I’m not that sort of man. But that was

last June; six months ago, an invariable lifetime. Two weeks later I met Dawn.

* * * *

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