Fell8: The Part Where Everything Is Better Battered

“How can you think of eating at a time like this?” said Angie, trying not to sound too judgemental towards Lorna who, after all, had just saved her life.

Lorna stopped walking towards the Royal Chicken and turned to face Angie, her stomach rumbling, a timely reminder of how hungry she was and how many times she had thrown up since these strange events all started.

“Because I’m hungry” Lorna replied rather matter-of-factly “Besides what else is there to do?”

Angie’s patience towards her saviour began slipping

“What else is there to do?” she said, her tone increasing in volume and judgement “We find out what those things are. Stop them.”

Lorna sighed and glanced towards the direction that the horde had been heading. London would normally be bustling at this time of night yet it was eerily quiet. The silence occasionally broken by the blood curdling scream of yet another victim of these monsters.

“You wanna know what they are?” Lorna replied “They’re guys who have large killer dicks that can be killed by blowjobs. There you go. Case solved. Let’s eat”

Lorna’s stomach let out a roar of approval as she moved towards the Royal Chicken.

“But we need to find out why they are like that” pleaded Angie

Lorna swung round to face Angie “We don’t need to find out anything. Other people can do that. We just gotta not be killed!”

She turned back to the Royal Chicken, “And if I don’t eat something I’m gonna die of starvation.”

Angie watched as Lorna walked towards the entrance, promptly followed by Veronica and Elena, who gave Angie a disapproving glance as they passed.

Lorna paused as she reached the door, struck by how quiet it was. Normally this place would be packed with drunken revellers, alcohol having decided that they were now hungry while at the same time having no concern for the quality of the food they would be consuming.

She gazed at the corner of the building where she had once had a knee trembler with some complete stranger whilst she impressively kept hold of her kebab in one hand. Yet she dared look further down the road; a road she had stumbled along many times on her way home and back to her…..sister

Lorna closed her eyes and took a deep breath

Keep it together Lorna. She will be fine.

Her stomach interrupted any concern she may have had for the current welfare of her sister to remind Lorna why she was there.

Peering through the window she could see the place looked empty. No mega penis killing machines hanging around that would interrupt the feast she intended to have.

The lights were on but the lack of a window and smashed glass strongly indicated all had not gone well here. Blood stains covered the blue tiled floor but thankfully there was an absence of bodies. Whilst the scene looked like a massacre had taken place it could have easily been a normal Saturday night. Besides such was Lorna’s hunger she was willing to step over a few dead bodies to find food.

Confidently she strode into the Royal Chicken and immediately made her way behind the counter. Veronica and Elena followed and took a seat at a solitary table by the window. Veronica casually dabbed at small pool of blood with a serviette. A few seconds later Angie walked reluctantly in and lingered at the door way.

Lorna went to the glass fronted fridge and took out a few soft drinks which she threw to her companions. She’d wish there had been alcohol on offer but after what had been in her mouth recently she was happy to have anything that tasted sweet.

She held the can on her forehead and closed her eyes as she felt the coolness ease the headache that had accompanied her ever since these weird monsters began attacking.

It was a blissful moment of calm in the non stop chaos that had engulfed her. A calm that was suddenly and rather rudely interrupted by a figure emerging from the shadows.

Screaming the large set man headed straight towards Veronica and Elena who instinctively grabbed their can of soda and struck the attacker hard in the face causing him to tumble backwards and fall to the floor.

Elena was quick to react and moved to the legs of their attacker with a cry of ‘Kill Him!’ His cock was not as pronounced as the other monsters they had encountered and as Lorna watched Elena quickly place it in her mouth it seemed quite flaccid and small.

“Hey V” Lorna said to Veronica whose way of assisting was to timidly hit the man with a can of soda a few times “You may want to step back cos he’s gonna explode”

Veronica moved round to where Elena vigorously bobbed her head up and down. Grunts and moans could be heard from the man as his arms flailed desperately trying to grab at Elena’s head.

She stopped sucking and looked at Veronica “Why has he not exploded?”

“Maybe you’re doing it wrong” Veronica replied.

Unhappy to have her technique questioned she retorted “I’m doing what I did before. If you think you know better you do it!”

“Fine!”

With a new found desire to be a useful member of the group Veronica swapped places with Elena and took the cock in her mouth. Yet after a few deep sucks she stopped disappointed that the receipent’s head had not exploded.

“Lorna why is it not working?” she enquired “Do you do something different? Like massage their balls?”

Lorna shrugged. She looked at the man on the floor who was still moaning. Her gaze moved to Angie who stood silently at the doorway transfixed on the figure who lay on the floor.

“Maybe it’s something you do.” Veronica continued “Like you have a special power or something.”

“Rubbish! You’ve killed some too.” Lorna sighed “Move out the way and let me try.”

Lorna moved to where the man lay and knelt down, she gripped his cock which although harder than before felt different to those that belonged to the monsters she had encountered. As she placed it in her mouth she had a feeling something was not right but it was hardly the time to dwell and discuss it.

As she began sucking Veronica provided her with commentary on her efforts. A cheerleader for her Monster Defeating Cock Sucking talents.

“That’s it Lorna I think it’s working”

The man let out a low groan, his arms reaching out for Lorna’s head.

“Yep this is definitely doing something. Keep going”

The moans of the man became more laboured. He rocked his head back.

“You’ve got this. A little more. Is eyes have gone funny. ”

Lorna could feel his cock stiffen which was something she hadn’t experienced before, with the monster dicks they just felt like metal which…….Wait!

“I think it’s gonna happen…Now!”

When Lorna realised what was happening it was too late. It was not an unfamiliar feeling and in normal times would not have been unexpected either, yet as the stream of hot liquid hit the back of her throat she was a little surprised.

“FUCK!” Lorna exclaimed as she spat out the startling deposit.

Addressing the man who had managed to sit up and adjust his glasses she said “Why the fuck did you not tell us you weren’t one of them?!”

“Oh wow! Wow!” replied the man “I was having the worst day ever…weird shit happening…people dying but you three have like just made it so much better. Wow!”

Lorna, Veronica and Elena looked at each other with an expression of surprise mixed with a little embarrassment.

“How did you not change into a monster?” asked Angie “This is interesting.”

“I dunno! I dunno what’s been happening” replied the man slightly hyper-ventilating “I…..Oh wow! I mean with everything I never expected this! Wow. Why did you do that again?”

Lorna got to her feet and walked back round the counter and started to look for the chicken nuggets.

“I’m Pete by the way” said the man “I thought you know seeing as we…ummm… I should tell you my name. And you are?”

“Shut the fuck up Pete” Lorna replied, turning on the deep fat fryer and pouring in an entire bag of nuggets. The popping sound as they entered brought a moment of peace to Lorna’s rising bad mood.

“If Pete is not one of them then he might be quite important” said Angie “He may be the key to all of this.”

“Is that why you ladies did that thing….cos I am special?” suggested Peter

“Shut the fuck up Pete” replied Lorna before addressing Angie “If you want to study the chubby special one then be my guest. I just want to eat.”

An awkward silence filled the room, the only sound was the glorious sizzling of the nuggets. The aroma of fried chicken blissfully replacing the stench of death that had followed the women ever since the mayhem started.

“Anyway” said Pete breaking the silence “I just wanted to say tha…”

“Shut the fuck up Pete” said Lorna, Veronica and Elena in unison.

“Oh Lorna” said Veronica to Lorna “I am vegetarian by the way so no chicken for me”

“Sweetie it’s a chicken shop….Well I think there’s some lettuce back here somewhere”

Whilst Veronica and Lorna discussed what the Royal Chicken passed off as vegetables and whether it was edible Angie was eager to know more about Pete, who was in the process of cleaning his glasses on his ‘Sonic The Hedgehog’ t-shirt while muttering happily to himself.

“What do you remember Pete?” She asked very gently hoping to placate the hostility the other women were showing towards him.

Pete stood up and animatedly paced up and down as he explained what happened

“Well everything was normal. I was playing some Call of Duty and was hungry. So I popped across the road to get some chips ….I live just round the corner if you girls need to stay. It’s only one bedroom but I guess we’re close now….”

“Shut the fuck up Pete” said the chorus.

“It’s okay Pete. What happened when you were in here?” asked Angie calmly.

“I dunno. Everything was fine. There was some concert or something playing on the TV and then suddenly the men who were here just changed”

“And did you feel anything?” Angie asked

“I felt scared. I might have even peed myself a little….”

“That’s okay” said Angie

“And then they just started killing.” Pete began to get a little tearful “Ripping arms and legs of people outside. I was able to hide but it was horrible!….Can I get a hug from one of you?”

Lorna wasn’t interested in what Pete had to say. She had given many regretful blowjobs before, probably way too many to remember. She didn’t dislike Pete and certainly didn’t want what was about to happen to him to have happened.

As Pete was mid sentence he walked across an open doorway and that’s when it got him. The unmistakable hard penis of these newly created monsters bursting through his expansive belly followed by two large hands gripping Pete’s head and twisting it. It was an horrific end and the only consolation one can say is that Pete was still talking about the blowjob he received before he was brutally killed.

This time there was no mistaking this thing as one of the monsters. Angie leapt back to the doorway, Elena stood up poised to attack.

The monster lurched round the counter to where Lorna and Veronica were. In futile defence Veronica began throwing the pieces of lettuce at the advancing marauder.

Who this man may have been before did not concern any of the women. He was dangerous and should he catch them death would be instant.

Although Lorna had shown some disappointment in Veronica’s decision to attack it with lettuce it proved to be a stroke of genius.

The lumbering monster began to slip and slide on the wet layer of suspect vegetables. Off balance this allowed Elena to shoulder barge it in the back causing it to stumble over the counter, its deadly cock hit the bubbling oil that hosted Lorna’s chicken nuggets.

“Noooooo!” She cried out instinctively before thoughts of her own preservation took over concern for her food.

The monster rocked back causing the pan of hot oil to spill on the floor along with the chicken nuggets.

Lorna slid on the floor, wincing slightly in pain as the hot oil hit her bare skin. She reached the monster’s killer penis when she noticed a problem.

“Ermmm….. it’s battered!” She exclaimed

“Well you like fried food. Might taste better” replied Elena rather matter of factly

Shrugging Lorna opened her mouth and wrapped her lips round the battered cock. As she started to suck she could feel it crumble inside her mouth .

She pulled away, spitting out pieces of the fried organ.

“It’s falling apart!! I’M EATING IT!!!” she screamed at the others.

“Hurry Lorna!” Veronica said

Lorna gripped the crispy penis one more time and it crumbled in her hand.

“Ermm his cock has fallen off” she said “He has no cock and he’s fucking still alive. RUN!!”

The women rushed out of the Royal Chicken as the castrated monster pursued them. It roared to let them know how close it was. The cries alerting other nearby fiends to fresh prey.

“Quick over here” Lorna said pointing to a building in the distance.

The building was a club that Lorna would frequent. She did not know in these time of absolute crisis why she had to go somewhere she was familiar with.

The large black doors to the club were open and all four rushed inside. They hurriedly closed the doors and took laboured deep breaths of gratitude for their safety.

Except they had just run into a building that was on fire and out of the smoke they could see a large penis advancing towards them.

The Wet Misadventures Of One Miss Tempani Jones : Episode 2

Tempani sat exhaustedly at her desk. She’d already had quite the day and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

The orgasms (and they are certainly orgasms…plural) that Tempani experiences are quite intense. Waves of pleasure flow through her, every fibre in her body alive to the heightened state of arousal.

They are not the sort of orgasm one has where they can simply go ‘that was nice’ before popping off to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

These orgasms exhaust Tempani and as she stared out of her office window at the rain she questioned whether she would have the strength to make it back home.

Despite her post-orgasmic fatigue she had coped remarkably well at the very important meeting. Indeed, the very important client and his entourage seemed pleasantly transfixed as Tempani delivered here presentation with professional aplomb.

The only time she slightly hesitated was when a raindrop still clinging to her damp hair fell. Like a horny harbinger of ecstasy it spied Tempani’s bare hand resting on the large glass conference room table.

This dirty little drop only had only one goal in mind. It could see Tempani’s finger just waiting. Were the lines in the knuckle smiling at it? Teasing it to descend faster, to fulfil its deviant destiny by sensually splashing down on to that smooth skin and bringing with it the mother of all climaxes.

Yet despite what promise this singular speck of satisfaction held it would fail in its true purpose. With Tempani’s skin in sight and pleasure only moments away she moved her hand to gesture at the screen. The raindrop splashed inconsequentially on the glass table.

Tempani turned to glance at the raindrop that lay lifeless on the table, it’s promise of pleasure unfulfilled. It was at that moment her brain decided to add some unhelpful commentary;

“Cor! Imagine what would have happened if that had hit you? Best of luck trying to show exponential growth in a line graph while having a full on orgasm”

This momentarily caused Tempani to lose her focus but she was able to regain her composure and complete the very important meeting without incident or interruption from any more perverted little raindrops.

When the meeting was over she exchanged final pleasantries with the very important client and returned to her office. Following a brief discussion with her assistant where she asked if she wouldn’t mind popping out and buying an umbrella and a new pair of tights, Tempani closed the door and collapsed in her chair thoroughly exhausted.

The company that Tempani worked for occupied the fifth floor of a modern building in Central London. The abundance of glass meant the architect was not a big fan of privacy and any passengers travelling on the train track that ran adjacent to the building would have a clear view of her.

She would often stare out across the impressive London skyline, it helped her focus but on this day her view was distorted by the rain that lashed against the glass.

The rain was heavy and the way it hit the window made Tempani believe that it was trying to break the glass to get to her. The sound of the rain splashing against the glass seemed to hiss ‘We are not finished with you’.

She moved closer to the window and stared at the droplets that formed on the glass with impatient haste. It was probably her exhaustion but Tempani thought the rain reacted to her. The rain found its journey blocked by a transparent obstacle it slipped and slithered across the pane desperate to reach her. Deciding that strength lay in numbers it grouped together forming a larger stream. Tempani dreamily traced their futile attempt with her finger.

She would write about the events of that morning when she got home in her ‘Rain Journal’. It was a book that Tempani had started when she first realised about this condition. The hope behind the journal was that it would provide some answers as to what was happening. Yet over ten years of entries and it was nothing more than an anthology of questions, frustrations and awkward encounters.

Her gift/curse/affliction (Tempani would delete as applicable depending on her mood) first revealed itself shortly after puberty. An unexpected downpour during a hockey game led to a thoroughly embarrassed Tempani, numerous raised eyebrows from her class mates and the strong suggestion to her parents from the ex-Nun head teacher that they should consider an exorcism.

Several other incidents are recorded in this journal before a two page acceptance that the rain does in fact cause orgasms (the word orgasm is underlined and highlighted).

What follows are a number of experiments and theories, some of which have proven to be useful. Perhaps the most notable is that it is just rain that causes this reaction and not water. Baths, showers, swimming pools have no sensual impact upon Tempani at all. However, a record of a day trip to Clacton-On-Sea establishes that the sea is very much a no go area. Tempani then spends a number of unnecessary pages theorising whether this means rivers as well and when she might end up in a river, concluding that this probably applies to lakes also and repeating the process.

In amongst the reminders of rain induced orgasms are pages entitled ‘Practical Tips’. Here Tempani bullets points in a variety of different coloured felt tips steps she could take to mitigate the consequence of coming into contact with rain.

Page 7 for instance is the reason why if you asked anyone who went to her school ‘Do you remember Tempani Jones?’ they would reply without hesitation ‘Oh you mean the girl who came to school wearing a poncho carrying an umbrella’.

A melancholic theme of this journal is the bleak look that a young Tempani has on living with this bizarre gift. An attractive and previously outgoing, happy-go-lucky girl slowly becomes more recluse. It is, should you require a reference, on Page 12 of her journal where she happens upon a semi-permanent solution to her troubles – Not go out.

Whilst she reluctantly accepts that her education requires leaving the house she justifies limiting social interaction with a graph, the accuracy of which may be suspect but one can at least admire the pretty colours she chose to use.

Effectively withdrawing from society has its consequence that Tempani painfully reflects upon. Her parents, still reeling from their daughter’s very public sexual awakening, may have been happy she was not sneaking off to see boys but very disappointed she would feign illness to escape a picnic arranged for Aunt Margaret’s 80th birthday.

Whilst she still maintained a core group of friends she had little desire to extend it, her theory was the less people she interacted with the less chance of witnesses of any storm based sauciness. However, even her closest friends would not often invite her to places citing the reason that they didn’t think she’d want to come, it nonetheless frustrated Tempani that she was deprived the opportunity to say no.

Withdrawn and isolated Tempani found the only suitable distraction was her education and with very little distraction she thrived. University beckoned and with it a set of new challenges.

The move from teenager to womanhood is marked in the journal with a declaration that she must live a normal life. It is a mission statement to herself that she would not hide away any longer. Despite this new found resolve she still maintained some of the usual precautions – avoiding large groups and where possible outdoor activities.

Her commitment to leading a more normal life extended to no longer resisting the advances of those who found her attractive. At school she had dismissed any possibility of having a boyfriend finding the notion to be ridiculous (with or without her affliction) but she could not deny her curiosity and desire to indulge ‘in that sort of thing’ (this is also highlighted and underlined).

Her first experience was with Tom after one boozy night at a local pub. His wish of how he wanted to end that evening was made clear before Tempani had even ordered her first rum and Coke. After a number of drinks they ended back in his room for an evening that Tempani would describe in her journal as ‘absolutely fucking terrible’.

To be fair it would be wrong to simply lay all blame at Tom’s drunken fumblings because as Tempani recognised this disappointing liaison led to a scientific discovery – Only the rain could arouse her.

Masturbation was something that Tempani never really considered doing. Why would she? Why put all that effort in if you could simply stick your head out the window and let the rain give you a mind blowing orgasm.

Despite all her ‘experiments’ Tempani had never tried out manual stimulation. Had she done so she would have quickly realised she felt no arousal whatsoever. Instead, this discovery was left to Tom.

Admittedly his technique of prodding at her like he was entering his PIN number at a cash point was not the most masterful way of doing it but it really wouldn’t have mattered. Tempani could feel nothing. She just lay there trying her best to encourage the increasingly frustrated Tom.

However no amount of rubbing would produce any sign of arousal and the faux deep breathing Tempina did to give the impression she was sexually excited started to make her seem like she was asthmatic.

“What’s a matter with you?” Tom said, the alcohol doing little to help control his emotions.

Tempani abruptly stopped that line of questioning by giving Tom a lack lustre handjob resulting in him unemotionally depositing himself over her belly. At least Tempani could put ‘Semen’ on her list of wet things that don’t cause orgasms.

After this non event Tempani spent perhaps too much time trying to make herself manually have an orgasm. Despite her technique being far more refined than Tom’s the result was the same – nothing, not the slightest hint of arousal.

She even tried sex toys but this just resulted in a one page, double sided rant in her journal that she was fifty pounds down and wasted loads of batteries.

Tempani later theorised that perhaps she was cured but the unfortunate consequence of that cure was that all sexual desire had been removed from her. Although she was only twenty she already felt she had a lifetime of orgasms and probably could live with that.

Her awkward experience with Tom happened as England entered a long spell of dry weather and the glorious sun matched her equally glorious mood. She felt free of this curse and threw herself fully back into life by attending many social events.

It was at an outdoor music festival (a previous no go event for Tempani) that she met Ethan. Their relationship blossomed slowly and whilst there was clear sexual chemistry between them Tempani was in no rush to take things to the next level.

No longer concerned with rain the journal entries changed to her theories on how she could possibly keep a man when he would not be able to sexually please her.

She mused on the possibility that a mix of blowjobs, handjobs and any other jobs she could think of would keep them more than satisfied but the problem would arise when they wished to reciprocate. Even the best lover in the world would not be able to make Tempani the slightest bit aroused and guys seem to take that personally.

Within the journal is a whole essay on the possibility of a platonic relationship. They certainly exist and Tempani was in no doubt that there were plenty of couples enjoying such companionship.

What she didn’t know is how does a relationship become platonic. Even at a young age she knew guys do not approach you in bars and say ‘Fancy coming back to my place for a nice platonic relationship’. How do you even raise it? When is it socially acceptable?

“Darling I just want you to know I am going to suck your cock but other than that our relationship is strictly platonic’.

Despite her insecure scribblings Tempani very much enjoyed the company of Ethan and they began to spend quite a lot of time together. Heavy petting on the sofa would not lead to anything more intimate than awkward silence. Ethan masking his erection wondering how to get her in the bedroom and Tempani wondering if now is the right time to say ‘Hey let’s go platonic’.

Despite the awkwardness they continued to see each other even indulging in such pursuits as jogs around the local park (something that Tempani would have normally avoided and not just because of the rain).

During these jogs there would be impromptu races which would lead to flirtatious attempts to trip each other up. As they lined up to start their next race Tempani kissed Ethan on the cheek and said ‘Catch me if you can.’ They both laughed as he chased her round the park, Tempani took a hard right into the wooded area where Ethan found her resting against a tree.

“You caught me” she said, smiling but clearly out of breath.

“What’s my prize?” Ethan replied advancing towards her.

“Come here and I’ll show you”.

Ethan approached Tempani, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her in close as they started to kiss. Above them storm clouds were forming and light drizzle fell hesitantly from the sky.

The leaves of the tree protected them from rainfall but the hissing sound it made alerted Tempani to its presence.

She looked up at the dark clouds that menacingly filled the sky. Normally she would be feeling a sense of panic at this sight, desperately looking to escape the rain or at the very least find somewhere to privately submit to the pleasure it would bring.

But now she was cured. She had no fear. As Ethan nuzzled at the nape of her neck she smirked at the clouds , a teasing smile to entice a jealous reaction from an ex-lover.

The clouds did react throwing down more rain at the kissing couple, ensuring this time it was harder so the weak barrier of leaves would provide no protection.

Drops landed on Tempani as she nibbled on Ethan’s earlobe. As the rain trickled down her cheek she began to experience something she thought lost forever. Within moments her body began to tingle, her heartbeat quickened and her breathing became shallow.

Tempani pulled Ethan into her, his arousal could be felt poking through his shorts. She grabbed his hand and put in between her legs, the dampness already seeping through her jogging bottoms.

She gripped the band of his shorts and tugged them down releasing his cock which she took in her hand and began to stroke.

“Fucking Hell Temps!” he moaned as he slightly pulled away to look at her.

She stared back at him. Tempani could feel the orgasm beginning to build, it was only a matter of time before she would be experiencing the full force. Drunk with arousal she had the presence of mind to bring Ethan along for this wild ride.

The reality, of course, was she didn’t need him. Nothing he would be doing aided her arousal, the rain had that totally covered.

Pulling down her jogging bottoms while Ethan hastily struggled with putting a condom on she purred impatiently ‘Hurry up and fuck me!’

Tempani did all she could to delay this inevitable orgasm. Ethan had to be inside when it happened otherwise she’d be experiencing the same sexual awkwardness as she did with Tom, albeit at the opposite end of the spectrum.

Tempani stifled a moan of pleasure, keeping it at the back of her throat which she only released as Ethan’s cock slid inside with ease.

Once he had entered her Tempani fully submitted to the pleasure that only the rain could provide. Pressed against the tree she wildly bucked and slammed down on Ethan’s hard cock.

Any intention for Ethan to be involved in this orgasm disappeared, Tempani was lost in the throes of it so much so that Ethan could have quite simply ejaculated followed by doing a few laps of the park and Tempani would not have even known he had gone.

When she later reflected on this liaison in her journal she would be unable to recall whether she felt Ethan’s cock inside her. She would remember from holding it in her hand that it was thick and certainly above average size but whatever it was doing as she welcomed wave after wave of blissful pleasure you would have to ask Ethan.

To be fair Tempani would make a particular point of complimenting Ethan on his athletic prowess. With her fingernails dug firmly in his shoulders and convulsing wildly in his manly grip, she was impressed he managed to stay standing throughout.

At some point when there was a small respite before the rain demanded another orgasm from Tempani, she heard Ethan moan, his buttocks thrust wildly before he nuzzled into her. She presumed this was his orgasm but any weakening of his grip was met by Tempani tightening hers. She hooked her legs round his, gripped his neck and welcomed yet another orgasm.

You see, as Tempani recognised at Page 52 of her journal, the rain controls her pleasure. It decides when it is enough and often it’s desire to cause Tempani pleasure was insatiable.

The final climatic wave dripped through her body, turning every nerve into pressure points of pleasure. Perhaps Ethan was of some use after all, she could feel his fingers on her side that caused her to roar out the final orgasm. Exhausted and spent she gently lowered herself down and rested wearily against the tree.

Despite her lack of concern throughout for Ethan he seemed to have enjoyed this unexpected frolic in the forest as he addressed his assessment to the exhausted Tempani

“Oh wow! Fuck! Wow! What the fuck just happened. Wow!”

Whilst Tempani would have loved to indulge in a debrief with Ethan she needed to get out of the rain and get dry. Another thing she had learned about the rain is she only has a post-orgasm immunity for a short period (Page 13 of the Journal – The Didn’t Towel Dry Your Hair Properly Incident)

“Let’s go” she said smiling before running back to the car as best she could with weak legs so she could get dry.

Tempani knew that after this any suggestion of a platonic relationship was off the table. Throughout her journal she would often reflect on the lessons learned with this liaison.

The first lesson was she could have a sexual relationship with a partner, it just needed to be raining when she did. What follows in the journal are a number of prints out showing the average rainfall in England as well as certain specific cities.

On average it rains 156 days and Tempani reckoned that was more than enough sex per year to keep anyone happy.

A flaw in this plan was that it never rained at a suitable frequency to make this viable. Firstly it can often rain for a full week and she did not know if her body could cope with a week’s worth of the orgasms that the rain provided.

Secondly, England had experienced more lengthier periods of dry weather. Often weather presenters would be eager to reveal a month being the driest ever on record. Whilst this suited Tempani’s health and prevented her just becoming a mess of liquid on the floor it was not great for sustaining a relationship.

For example, the storm that brought such a passionate encounter between Tempani and Ethan was a brief interlude before England was once again basked in hot dry weather.

One can forgive Ethan for wanting to experience as soon as possible what he did in those woods and Tempani could only keep him at bay for so long before a frost formed over their relationship.

This caused Tempani to revert back to the beginning of her journal and opting for a life of withdrawal and isolation.

Tempani often mused in her journal about Ethan and others. Wondering what their sex life is like with others. She questioned whether she is being fair to them. After all, a woman having wild multiple orgasms on their cock may give them a sense of achievement they have not strictly earned.

She imagined Ethan sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands after some unsatisfying love making

“Seriously love it must be you cos I once had this girl literally explode on my cock”

Yet despite these misgivings Ethan would not be the last to experience Tempani’s rain induced sex sessions. Each one recorded for posterity in her journal with the conclusion ‘I never learn my lesson.’

Tempani broke her hypnotic gaze at the rain that still relentlessly tried to pursue her through the glass. She turned to her desk where her phone was vibrating. She picked it up and saw that Danny had messaged her.

Danny was the latest to show Tempani some affection. They had met a few months earlier at a rather dull conference she was forced to attend. She regretted that the conference took place on a particularly sunny day because a wet session with Danny would have livened things up. Nevertheless they stayed in contact and had been out for some perfectly platonic dates.

Fancy going out tonight the message read.

Tempani looked back out of the window at the storm clouds that showed no sign of relenting. She scrolled through the many Weather apps she had installed which confirmed rain was forecast all night.

Absolutely!!! She replied.

Some time later Tempani Jones would write in her journal that she never learns her lesson.

The Wet Misadventures of One Miss Tempani Jones

There is nothing unusual about a rainy day in London, especially in October.

The pavements full of workers on their way to the office, jostling for position with their tiny black umbrellas, grumpily making way for the one who ploughs through the bustling crowd with his oversized golfing umbrella.

The previous night’s takeaway boxes mangle into paper mache works of art against the side of the pavement. A solitary paper cup not wishing to be part of this impromptu abstract sculpture attempts to escape down the dirty stream, it’s journey disturbed by a black cab ferrying a passenger whose new haircut is worth paying the disproportionate fare to preserve.

The paper cup perseveres in its determination to reach the mystery of the drain it spies in the distance and the promise of a magical journey into the unknown.

In its haste the paper cup becomes entangled with a newspaper but it has little time to dwell on whatever horror is the main headline of the day.

Such is the determination of this adventurous little cup it fails to notice the oncoming bus with its large wipers that dismiss the raindrops with arrogant glee.

Yet fortune is on the side of this intrepid cup as the stream which carries it towards its final destination quickens with the increasing rainfall, pushing it safely past the advancing wheels of the bus. The cup spins to reflect upon this closest of calls as it watches the wheels of the bus brush up against the pavement.

The cup is now mere moments away from completing its journey, the wrought iron finishing line agonisingly close. Suddenly a gust of wind striving to reclaim the attention from the rain in this storm picks up the little cup, lifting it high up into the air. It’s goal that had been so close fades into the distance. Is it a raindrop that drips from the lid as it spins uncontrollably in the air or a tear of a dream unfulfilled?

Quickly bored with its newly found plaything the wind unceremoniously dumps the cup in a nearby alley. There it rests, defeated. It takes one final melancholic roll as it concedes to be forever forgotten. The hopes of what wonders lay beyond that drain disappear as it rests still.

Yet our broken cup was not alone in that alley on that particular morning. Had the cup just found the strength to roll one final time it would have hit a patent leather kitten heel shoe.

That shoe belonged to one Miss Tempani Jones. And she was about to have an orgasm.

Now a woman pleasuring herself down an alley is a relatively rare occurrence, even in London. Rarer still at 8.30 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

To be fair to Tempani she certainly had not intended on being down an alley pleasuring herself. It was not part of her normal morning routine, she was not some kinky exhibitionist getting a quick thrill. Nor was she filming a brief video to later upload to a porn site. This was very much an unplanned masturbatory pitstop on her way to work.

Equally it would be unfair of us to judge the location Tempani had chosen for this impromptu orgasm. We can all sit in moral judgement offering alternatives such as doing it at home before she left or the toilet cubicles at work, to even maybe not doing it at all. But this was all out of her control.

Tempani loved being in control. Her life was dictated by precise routines each specifically designed to ensure she would not find herself leaning up against a wall knuckle deep in her own pussy, especially before she has even been able to buy her usual Espresso Macchiato.

So what events conspired to make poor Tempani have no option but to satisfy herself on that stormy Thursday morning?

The previous evening had been beautifully mundane, the sort of day that isn’t even worth registering as a memory. Yet when Tempani reflects on her unusual start to her Thursday morning she would realise events of the previous day were more malevolent than she had assumed.

Firstly, her very important meeting that was scheduled for 9.30 a.m. with a very important client was moved forward to 8.30 a.m. This did not trouble Tempani who would simply get the earlier train to work. She would not wish to blame this very important client for why she was finger fucking herself in the alley, he was after all very important and this contract would see her with a nice bonus. She did however hope he had his worst performance on the golf course ever.

On her walk home from the train station that Wednesday the strap on her large leather tote bag snapped. Tempani loved this bag, it was just the right size to keep all the items she may require at any given time, including the small umbrella she always ensured she had on her person. You will see the relevance of that umbrella later.

Nevertheless given the stories she had read about how these fashion items are made she certainly would not be looking to blame her awkward Thursday on whatever poor soul made the tote bag.

Her Wednesday evening was spent drinking wine and preparing for her very important meeting. It was the pleading sound of the notification alert on her phone that interrupted her work to demand she upgrades to the latest operating system. Tempani was more than happy for her phone to be busy doing other things so not to disturb her further from her work.

Yet what Tempani did not know is that a minor glitch caused by an error in the code would mean all her alarms would be reset. The consequence of this is that on Thursday Tempani would wake up late. Waking up late was not part of Tempani’s routine and she was more than happy to throw shade at the software engineer in California that caused her to oversleep.

Rather than her relaxed morning routine Tempani found herself on that particular Thursday morning rushing around. There was to be no relaxing shower instead she found herself cleaning her teeth whilst rubbing shampoo in her hair; the hope was this newly discovered method of efficiency would claw back some lost time.

Instead of taking time to pick out her work outfit she instead hurriedly dressed in whatever she could find, laddering two pairs of tights before triumphantly hopping into the third pair without consequence.

There would be no time to sit and have that first cup of coffee in the morning while she watched the news, paying particular attention to the weather report. Instead she quickly grabbed her replacement bag, a smaller black handbag, rushing to check the contents before slipping on her heels and hurrying out the flat.

As she hurriedly clipped-clopped in comedic fashion towards the train station her focus was more on not breaking an ankle than the clouds that begun to form in the sky.

While waiting on the platform Tempani was more absorbed with telling her assistant on the phone all what she had to do than to the clouds that had now begun to turn sinisterly dark.

It was when she only a few stops away from Charing Cross that she happened to look up from her phone and see the first drops of rain hit the dirty train window.

Calmly, Tempani reached for her handbag to seek the reassurance she had her umbrella. Her relaxed searched became more and more frantic as the realisation dawned on her that her umbrella was still very much at home, housed as it always was inside her now broken tote bag. Yet even after it became obvious she did not possess an umbrella she continued the futile search, even rifling through the most smallest of pockets in the hope she might find it there.

Don’t panic Tempani it may just be a little drizzle she told herself. A rumble of thunder seemed to answer her back “Fuck you! I’m more than that”.

As the train slowly pulled into Charing Cross she hesitantly stood up. Her gaze was drawn to the gentleman who had been sitting opposite her who was in possession of an umbrella.

“Excuse me? I don’t suppose I could borrow your umbrella” she asked, ensuring she fluttered her eyelids as she pleaded to his chivalrous nature.

The gentleman just looked at her in absolute disgust before leaving the train (Tempani would later wish this gentleman experienced a disappointing sexual encounter for his refusal to give up his umbrella). She slowly followed the other commuters down the platform and onto the concourse.

There are a number of shops located within Charing Cross station purporting to cater for the needs of the weary worker, yet on this particular day not one had any umbrellas for sale.

Tempani stood in the archway and looked out on to The Strand. Normally there would be plenty of taxis waiting but the weather had meant these were in high demand. She opted to wait for either a taxi to come to her rescue or for there to be a miraculous break in the weather.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and noted the time. 8.15 a.m. It would take her at least ten minutes walk to get to work. She decided to wait a little longer, hopping on either foot in impatience.

Each minute that passed was agonising. She couldn’t be late for this very important meeting. Every time she checked her phone her brain would offer up an image of the very important client walking out of the office with his golf clubs in tow. Or her Boss disapprovingly shaking his head as she walked through the entrance before making her do the walk of shame to clear out her office.

Fuck it. Tempani decided she could wait no longer. Pulling the sleeve of her jacket over her hand she grabbed a free newspaper, held it over her head and made a run for it.

Now you may be wondering what Tempani’s deal is with rain. After all unless you happen to be the Wicked Witch of the West it really can’t hurt you. Indeed, the rain didn’t hurt Tempani – on the contrary, it made her horny.

When we say horny we are not talking just a little frisky. Whilst the mere presence of rain does heighten her senses it’s more what happens when one single raindrop touches her skin. Should that happen Tempani experiences waves of pleasure. The more rain that hits her the more intense the pleasure is. It’s like each raindrop is a mini vibrator specifically designed to create the most arousal possible.

So when Tempani decided to rush out into the rain with just a newspaper as protection she was not risking bodily harm, she was risking having a full blown orgasm in the middle of London during rush hour.

To be fair to Tempani she made a good effort of avoiding the rain. Perhaps she may have even been able to make it without incident were it not for the driver of the Audi (someone who she blamed unreservedly for the events of that Thursday morning) who decided driving at speed through a puddle was an appropriate way to confirm his masculinity.

In her attempt to dodge the mini tsunami she dropped the newspaper that had been protecting her exposing her forehead to the arousal inducing raindrops.

Tempani was able to quickly duck into a doorway for cover but she knew by now that it only took one raindrop to bring on the feelings of intense arousal. She could feel her nipples harden underneath her bra. Between her legs began to mimic the dampness of her forehead.

She couldn’t stay there in the doorway and allow the rain to do it’s thing. Not only were customers coming in and out of the shop and might say something about the smartly dressed woman having a loud orgasm but time was running out for her to get to the very important meeting.

Stifling a moan of pleasure she yanked her jacket over the head and continued her journey to work. The jacket was tight over her head making it difficult to see, plus the occasional pang of pleasure would make her legs suddenly go weak and with it an instinctive groan of arousal would follow.

To the passer by it would have looked as if Tempani was on her way to audition for the lead role in some porn parody of a horror movie. Eventually she made it to her office which was an attractive glass fronted building her firm shared with a number of other companies.

Now something else you need to know about Tempani’s ‘gift’ is that the pleasure she experiences will not subside until she has had a complete orgasm. Many times previously she has rushed indoors after getting caught in the rain, although drying herself manically with a towel did little to prevent her experiencing the complete climax.

Fortunately for Tempani there is a small alley which separates her more modern place of work with one of London’s many Victorian buildings. Avoiding meeting any work colleagues she rushed into the alley and no longer fought off the pleasure the rain was determined to bring.

Now you will recall when we first met Tempani in this alley her fingers were deep inside her. It is a legitimate question to ask why, if the rain does all the work, would she be needing to put in any effort of her own.

Well, she entered the alley at precisely 8.30 a.m. when her very important meeting was due to start. Even in the throes of pleasure Tempani had the presence of mind to believe that a bit of manual assistance would bring about this disruptive orgasm quicker.

Had she not done so and put her very important meeting ahead of her very real pleasure then she would have been in the midst of a complete and blissful orgasm before she even got to third slide of her PowerPoint presentation. She feared shouting at the very important client “Oh fuck! Yes! More” may come across as a tad over enthusiastic.

Within a few moments and with the assistance of her fingers Tempani welcomed the much needed orgasm. As this was an orgasm borne more out of necessity than want she was not willing to indulge in the full pleasure experience.

No sooner had she felt that wave of intense pleasure flow through her body and her vagina begin to contract as if it was trying to applaud happily, she was pulling up her tights and adjusting her skirt before running round to the entrance of the building.

Waiting in the foyer was her assistant who took one look at Tempani and asked “Did you get caught in the rain?”

“Yeh a little” replied Tempani, still experiencing the final throes of her orgasm.

“Anyway. The meeting is about to start” said her assistant moving towards where the lifts were located.

Tempani took a moment to collect her thoughts and ensure all the rain induced pleasure was firmly out of her system.

“You coming?” asked the assistant.

“Yeh I am.” replied Tempani “Just give me one more moment.”

Thrusting: Proposals & Disposals

I watched The Blue King disappear in the rear view mirror as my apparent saviour drove at speed down Old Street.

An uncomfortable silence filled the car. This mysterious man clearly wanted to say something to me and I had plenty of questions for him, such as

“Who are you?”

“Not important right now” he replied without disturbing his attention on the road.

“Okay. Where we are going?”

“Also not important” he said bluntly “Just relax you’re safe now.”

His tone was far from reassuring but I persisted in ensuring I got all my questions in at this early stage.

“Are you taking me home?”

He sighed “You shouldn’t go home” .

He added nothing more which led me to contemplate whether I had made the right decision getting into his car.

I gazed out the window and into the murkiness of the night. There was little illumination and what there was offered only a fleeting glimpse of revellers making their way home or seeking out a place to get another drink; I doubted The Blue King would be open to cater for that final indulgence.

I asked no more questions of my saviour and instead just stared into dark nothingness as I tried to process the events of the night. Did Mr Karpinsky die? Did I kill him? Will I still get paid my wages, rent was due after all. I shuddered at the thought of my Landlord’s alternative means of payment.

Lost in thought I had not realised that we had travelled all the way into central London. The car came to a gentle stop outside a grandiose building; the gloom of the night made it difficult to witness it in all its gothic splendour.

The mystery man, who still hadn’t told me his name, exited the car, took the time to do up the button of his impeccably tailored suit before walking briskly round to my side and opened the door. He offered his hand which I nervously took as he gently escorted me out the vehicle.

I followed him up a few stone steps to an imposing set of double wooden doors. He used the large wrought iron door knocker, one crashing knock seemed to cause the door to open magically.

As the door slowly opened I was presented with a long hallway, a regal red carpet stretched as far as I could see. Paintings of old men sporting different moustaches looked down at me, each with their own expression of disapproval that a woman dare walk these halls. Not just any woman, a working class girl of all things; as I walked further down the hall I half expected the paintings to shake and fall off with unrepentant fury.

Despite the unwelcoming interior I felt comfortable. The cold silence in the car had left me wondering if my apparent saviour had more sinister intentions. However seeing the splendour of this place made me realise he wouldn’t kill me here. No way would they allow the blood of a girl from the East End to stain these expensive carpets.

We turned right into a large room, red leather chairs were neatly positioned around large circular wooden tables, much more lavish than the ones in The Blue King.

Some of the chairs were occupied, all were men and all were dressed in tailored suits. An elderly gentleman was asleep in one chair, his drink precariously balanced in his hand.

Some acknowledged my saviour as he walked in with a nod of recognition which he politely returned. None acknowledged my presence; they chose not to see me although I had no doubt they were mentally drafting a letter to the management regarding that time they let a common woman into this place.

My mysterious companion escorted me to the far corner where he gestured for me to sit in one of the large leather seats. Catching the objecting glance of one of the older patrons I gently lowered myself into the seat, my hands sliding across the silky leather armrests. I half smiled wishing my family could see me in a place of such extravagance.

‘Look at our little Molly in such a posh place’ my Nan would have said before running to tell the neighbours. But the smile quickly faded as I reminded myself of the circumstances that led me here.

Lost in that daydream I hadn’t noticed that a man had approached our table, although he was quickly dismissed by my companion with an order of two scotches.

While waiting for the drinks he cocked his head to one side and looked me up and down, the awkwardness of this compounded by the realisation of how short my skirt was. I instinctively made the futile attempt to lower it below my thighs.

The silence was broken by the sound of two glasses of scotch being placed on the table. I picked up the glass and without any care that it’s content probably cost more than what I earned in a month at The Blue King swigged the whole thing down.

My companion smirked and ordered a replacement with a wave of his hand.

“Well you’ve had quite the evening, haven’t you Miss Jones” he said

Wiping the remnants of scotch from my lips with the back of my hand I replied “Is he dead?”

“Mr Karpinsky? Oh he is dead for sure”

“Did I kill him?” I asked

My companion smiled, “Intentionally? No. Seems Mr Karpinsky’s heart couldn’t take the thrill of being in your company Miss Jones”

I grabbed the glass from the table and holding it with both hands rested it on my lap. I watched as the amber liquid swirled in the expensive cut glass. With my head bowed I meekly said “So I’m not in trouble?”

“Oh you’re in big trouble Miss Jones”

I lifted my head up, the tears forming in my eyes were met with the outstretched hand of my companion, maybe partly to calm me down or perhaps this place had rules against ‘women making a scene’.

“You see Mr Karpinsky is not a nice man” he continued “His associates are not the sort that would be sitting around prepared to wait for the results of an autopsy that would show he died of natural causes. No, they’d be determined to find the young woman who ran away”.

“I was scared. I panicked”

“That may very well be the case but the associates of Mr Karpinsky aren’t the sort to listen”

I took a swig of my drink, the taste of the alcohol an antidote to the tears I was trying to fight back. “Why am I here?” I asked

“I told you Miss Jones. I can help you. I can keep you safe.”

“How?” Given that my companion was now in a talkative mood I wanted to get a response to all my unanswered questions I had raised in the car.

He didn’t respond quickly, instead he took a sip of his drink allowing the alcohol to swirl round his mouth before speaking.

“Come work for me.” he finally said, smiling.

“Why? Do you need a singer?” I asked.

“Something like that.” He paused to take another sip of his scotch before continuing “You ever hear of a band called The Konrads?”

“No. Should I have?”

“No Miss Jones and that is the point”

“Wait. You’re a manager of crap bands no one has ever heard of.” I said laughing “Cos I already have that gig with the worse manager you can think of”

“You really think you can return to Jimmy and The Blue King?” he said raising an eyebrow.

The boldness of my earlier statement quickly faded as I was quickly reminded that I was apparently being hunted by the associates of Mr Karpinsky and the fear returned.

“But how does being in your band keep me safe?” I asked.

“The other people in the band are a very special bunch. They will keep you safe.”

He looked at me but all he was met with was my vacant expression. If he thought I was following what he was talking about then he was very much mistaken. Regardless of me not understanding what was going on he continued.

“What are you? Nineteen? Twenty? Certainly born after the war. You, like many of the population, believe the war is over. We live in peaceful times. But the war was never over. It merely evolved”

Still vacant.

“Those who would seek power realised there are other ways of achieving it besides guns and soldiers. And for years they have been working in the shadows attempting to take control without anyone noticing”

Still vacant.

“And those of us who would seek to stop them have to also work in these shadows. Secrecy is their weapon of choice. Information the silver bullet of success.”

I took a large swig of my drink hoping to mask the fact I had no clue what he was talking about. My only thought at that time was if this was to be a long story I may get another drink out of it.

“Miss Jones I work for the British Government. The others in this room all play a role in the national security of this country”

I spied the old man snoring away in the chair and my confidence of how secure the country might be quickly dropped.

“The Konrads were an early project of mine to pass on information to our allies without it falling into enemies hands. It was based on earlier work done by my mentor during the war. He devised a way of sending messages encoded within songs. To innocent ears they were just morale boosting songs about meeting again or blue birds over Dover, yet to those behind enemy lines they contained vital information”

“Wait?!” I interrupted “You saying Vera Lynn was a Secret Agent?”

“Something like that. I tried to emulate the same principle with The Konrads but it did not have the same effect. Something was missing. Then I realised in these times you not only needed to pass on information but gather information. And this brings me to you.”

I drained my glass but this time my companion was not quick to offer me a refill “Me? What about me? And should you be telling me all this. I might be an agent for whoever it is we are supposedly at war with. I mean you’re a pretty shit spy if you’re just randomly blurting all this out.”

He smiled “I have done my homework Miss Jones. I know all about you….and your Father. Sorry about what happened to him by the way”

I brushed away any concern I ought to have had that he knew everything about me and concentrated on why he thought I was so special.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Mr Karpinsky was quite a private man. Paranoid as well. Never let his security leave his side. He had good reason to be worried, there were many people after him. I certainly could not get anywhere close to him. Yet tonight he forgot all that just to be with you. So that’s why.”

I stared at my empty glass desperate for alcohol to aid me with processing all this information.

“So you want me to sing coded messages and shag enemies to death?”

He laughed, loud enough to disturb the old guy from his slumber “Miss Jones what happened to Mr Karpinsky was a freak coincidence. However I certainly could use a woman of your talents.”

Part of me doubted there was any truth to what he was telling me. Many guys had lied about who they were to try and sleep with me. James Bond was all the rage and for all I knew this was just some posh bloke indulging in some pretend Secret Agent seduction.

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

He shrugged and finished drink, although to my disappointment did not seek to get another round.

“Then Miss Jones I will simply take you home.” He paused, scanning the room before continuing “Of course what happens to you after that will neither be my responsibility or concern. Maybe Mr Karpinsky’s men will already be waiting for you. That might come tomorrow or the day after but eventually they will find you. And as for The Blue King I doubt that place will ever open again.”

For some reason I didn’t want him to think I was scared even though my heart was pounding and my mind chaotically tried to process the events of that night which had spiralled drastically out of control the moment I stepped off the stage at The Blue King.

This attempt to stay strong was betrayed by me looking away from him and down at my lap muttering to myself “You should have turned left Molly.”

“Sorry Miss Jones?” He said, leaning forward to try and catch my eye “What do you wish to do?”

My head roared in confusion. I wanted to ask more questions but it was clear whoever this mysterious man was he had run out of patience with me.

I still was unsure that he was telling the truth. I may be perfectly safe, that no one was after me and after a grovelling apology to Jimmy I could go back to my job at The Blue King.

The guy in front of me maybe well connected but he could also be an absolute psycho trapping me in a lie for his own nefarious reasons. Secret agents didn’t go round telling strangers they were secret agents. Did they?

I dug my nails into the arms of the leather chair. My instinct was to run, that’s always been my instinct. Just run as far away as I could. But I would eventually have to stop running and if he was right they’d catch up with me.

At that moment the only certainty was the uncertainty of whatever choice I made. What I desired then was simply control, to manage my own destiny; but when your life is swirling around in a chaotic mess control and clarity come in very short supply.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Time to make your choice Molly. I lifted my head and stared him straight in the eye.

“So Miss Jones, what are you going to do?” he asked again.

Exhaling I replied “Get us another drink and I’ll tell you.”

Thrusting : One Night In February

The Blue King Club was situated along Old Street in the East End of a London. It was an unassuming place housed above a row of Georgian shops.

It was one of London’s best kept secrets during the sixties. It was not as exuberant as its West End neighbours, there was nothing about the exterior that was welcoming, let alone to let you know it was in fact a nightclub.

To the unassuming passer by they would just assume they were walking past a Haberdashers and an Asian restaurant. Yet sandwiched between the two was a brown door.

A knock on that door and Fred, adorned in his favourite flat cap and nursing an old shrapnel wound in his leg, would open it inviting you up the cramped staircase.

Once you had ascended the creaky bare wooden stairs, a sharp right would take you through a beaded curtain and into the main area of The Blue King.

First timers were always surprised having travelled up the most narrowest of staircases how large the club actually was. It filled the top floor of both the Haberdashers and Asian restaurant that neighboured below.

Immediately to your left was the bar area made of mahogany with the occasional stool dotted around it for the casual patron just popping in for a quick fix.

Along the wood panelled sides was a small corridor that led to the less than luxurious restrooms. The Male cubicle often occupied by a patron who has seen too much of the show that the girls put on.

When not out on show the girls would be housed in a tiny changing room towards the back of the club. It was no bigger than a broom cupboard where they would scramble for any available space to change into a variety of lingerie.

On the opposite side behind a thick wooden door was a larger room. Inside a huge desk dominated the middle with a larger leather chair behind. This was the office of Jimmy Calvin, the owner of The Blue King.

In essence Jimmy was just a petty criminal with unrealistic dreams of being a big time gangster. His office was adorned with photos of all the celebrities, sports stars and those higher up the echelons of the underworld he had met.

Despite Jimmy’s lofty ambitions he knew his place in the hierarchy. He was small fry, a loner who could only be relied upon for the odd job. He was rarely trusted with anything important.

He acquired The Blue King after he took the blame for some crime carried out by someone in The Kray’s firm. ‘A little favour for Reggie’ is all he used to say about it. Five years inside and he emerges as the proprietor of his very own nightclub.

The larger Firms were wary of Jimmy simply for the fact that unchecked ambition can lead to negligence. For his part, Jimmy was largely content with his little slice of the London underworld. He ruled The Blue King and this kept him from doing anything stupid

Every night he would emerge from his office, dressed in a tuxedo, his cummerbund straining at the expanse of his belly. His hair was always slicked back with a middle parting. His rosy cheeks would flush, smiling as he observed his kingdom; dramatically lighting a cigar to emphasise you were on his turf. He had beady little eyes and an upturned nose, which the girls thought made him resemble a pig; Piggy Calvin is what they would giggle after he had done his obligatory tour of their dressing room.

He’d then move to the centre of the club amongst the tiny circular tables covered in red velvet tablecloth, a small green lamp provided limited illumination. Here is where the more important guests would sit and those who Jimmy wished to impress the most.

Should they require a favour from him they would engage in conversation, otherwise there would be some brief pleasantries before Jimmy moved to edge of the bar and sat observing the Kingdom he ruled.

Although his resemblance to a pig was clear I often felt he was an owl. I would catch sight of him from where I was on the stage.

I could see Jimmy craning his neck and observing all those who walked in. He wanted to be noticed. He wanted to be somebody. I, on the other hand remained content to be unnoticed. In this place it was good to be nobody.

I begun working at The Blue King when I was sixteen in the cloakroom. Jimmy gave me the job as a favour to my Dad who wanted me out of his hair. Even though the relationship between Jimmy and my Dad soured I stayed on at the club, working my way up to selling cigarettes, followed by a brief stint behind the bar to eventually being the resident club singer.

The latter occurred by accident when the normal singer failed to show, Jimmy approached me and asked if I could sing. My vague response of ‘a little bit’ was enough to secure me the position.

Jimmy didn’t care about a singer. No one turned up to hear me sing a few Alma Colgan numbers. They were there to ogle at the girls while finalising some shady deals.

The girls paraded on stage as the less refined men at the back of the club whooped and cheered getting their quick arousing fix. Those at the tables would sit in quiet contemplation, studying the girls, choosing which one would provide company later on. A quick word with Jimmy and he’d ensure that the girl of their choice would provide a suitably entertaining climax to the evening.

I was never ‘chosen’ and that suited me fine. I could live with the shouts of ‘take your top off’ as I sung, the awkward silence as I finished and walked to the bar. It never bothered me. Sing, have a drink, get my money, go home. It was a simple uncomplicated life.

Yet on that one night in February my life got incredibly complicated.

I had just finished singing Sugartime to the echo of horny silence and with a happy shrug left the stage to get myself a drink, a straight whiskey which I would swallow in one before meeting Jimmy at the end of the bar to get my wages, then it was down the stairs, a cheery goodbye to Fred and home.

Every now and then a few men would try it on but my demeanour quickly told them I was not interested. Besides I only had to ignore them for five minutes and then then voluptuous Scarlet would be on the stage and I would no longer be in their thoughts.

I would like to think I was attractive enough to justify the attention of the men who frequented the club. But they came here with a certain expectation. They could take what they wanted. If there was the slightest bit of effort involved in they would quickly lose interest.

Therefore I was not totally surprised when a guy approached me. He was tall, completely bald, sunken cheeks and pinhole dark eyes. His smart dressed indicated he was one of Jimmy’s preferred guests.

“Mr Karpinsky would like you to join him” he said he a deep Eastern European accent

“Who’s Mr Karpinsky” I replied.

He pointed over to the furthest table and there sat a overweight man with a heavy black beard, his beady eyes staring over at us.

I wanted to say no but I caught the gaze of Jimmy who was watching. He gestured with his eyes that I was to comply with the request to join Mr Karpinsky .

“Fine” I reluctantly said, grabbing my drink and following the tall man to the table.

I sat down in the vacant chair next to the demanding Mr Karpinsky, who moved closer towards me.  A combination of cigar smoke, alcohol and body odour filled my nostrils as his large frame pressed against me.

“You sing like an angel” he said, his voice had the same eastern European accent as his colleague although slightly higher pitched which surprised me given his size.

He placed his thick hand on my thigh as he continued “You look like an angel”.

It was clear by the way his stubby fingers worked their way up my dress what his intentions were. There was no attractive quality about him. I had no desire to fulfil whatever grubby plan he had in mind. I could see Jimmy watching owl like from his perch at the bar.

A gentleman would intervene, see my vacant expression and offer sanctuary to the women being manhandled. But not Jimmy. To Jimmy we were all his property and he was happy to loan us out to the right sort of people. In his club the girls were bargaining chips and commodity he could trade.

As Mr Karpinsky’s fingers continued their journey all I could think about was grabbing the bottle of champagne and smashing it over his large flabby head. But I knew if I did that I would not have a job to return to. Besides, I was unsure how Mr Karpinsky’s colleague would react to me bludgeoning his fat friend to death with a bottle of the cheap shit that Jimmy pretended was high quality champagne.

It was difficult to think with Mr Karpinsky’s wandering hands.   I needed to formulate a plan on how I could get out of this with preferably my job and dignity intact.  I excused myself politely and walked towards the restrooms.  Jimmy’s steely gaze following me on my journey.

I paused in the narrow corridor just outside the entrance to the Ladies. I breathed deeply, the smell of the toilets a strange welcome relief to the putrid odour of Mr Karpinsky. Suddenly I felt someone nudge into me.

“Oh I am terribly sorry” said the man responsible.  He was impeccably dressed in a three piece suit, his hair was jet black, dazzling blue eyes and although he must have been in his forties was very attractive.  I did not reply, part of me wanted him to try something on with me.  Rescue me from the clumsy fondling of Mr Karpinsky but he just smiled and disappeared into the Gents toilet.

I opened the door to the Ladies and splashed water on my face. I contemplated how long I could conceivably stay in here. Perhaps the likes of Scarlet or Divine would distract him enough that he would soon forget about me and I could just go home without his hand taking that any further lumbering steps up my dress.

I heard the low hum of the music indicating that Scarlet was just about to start her show. I dried my face and left the toilets. As you exit, to the left at the far end is a door which lead to a fire escape and into the alleyway adjacent to the club. The girls call it their Escape Plan if things ever got too much. All I had to do was turn left and I would be free, keep out of Jimmy’s way until he calmed down and then back to work like nothing ever happened.

“I hope you ain’t thinking of leaving Mr Karpinsky on his own.  He’d be most disappointed”

I turned to see Jimmy leaning up against the wall.

“Look Jimmy….this is more what the girls do.  I am just here to sing” I would have continued my pleading but the look in Jimmy’s eyes clearly told me it was futile.

“The girls work for me. You work for me. It’s important we keep our guests…..entertained” he instinctively licked his lips as a he said the last word.

Moving closer to me he continued “Your rent is due at the end of the week, ain’t it? Be a shame if you didn’t have the money to pay him. I hear your landlord will expect something in return if you can’t pay up”.

“Jimmy….please…”

He cut me off by putting a finger to his lips and making an irritating shushing sound “Now Mr Karpinsky requires a little alone time with you, so you’ll find him in my office.  I suggest you hurry up now”

A brief thought of punching Jimmy’s arrogant face and running out the fire escape crossed my mind but it would only be a momentary win. Jimmy was not the sort that would take such impertinence lightly, he would see it as a betrayal, a declaration of war. I couldn’t fight him on my own and I had no-one to help me.

Maybe a few years ago things would have been different. The mere mention of my Dad would have stopped Jimmy from ever making such demands but those days were over. I was alone. Jimmy controlled me and I saw no option but to agree to his demands.

I submissively walked back into the club and across the floor, passing Scarlet who was in the process of removing her bra to the enthusiastic cheers of the audience. I caught her eye as I passed, I thought I saw sympathy in her expression. I had seen her many times go into Jimmy’s office, she knew what I would experience behind that door.

The brief journey to the office seemed to take forever, the music and the cheers a vacant echo in my mind. I felt like a prisoner on death row taking their final walk. I was in a daze and only alerted to the fact that I had reached the door when the handle pushed against me.

I took one final futile look around the club, a desperate glance to see if that suave Gentleman was about to rescue me but all I could see was Jimmy back on his perch watching me.  I turned the handle, opened the door and accepted my fate.

When I entered it was clear that Mr Karpinsky had not intention of just wanting me to sing for him. There was to be no romance or companionship. He was in the process of unbuckling his trousers when he said

“Ahhh there’s my angel”

His trousers dropped to the ground exposing his chubby hairy legs. His underpants quickly followed, a tiny penis emerged from the two overhanging flaps of fat which in any other circumstance would have made me laugh at the thought of a tortoise poking its head out to eat some lettuce.

I stood there not moving, still clinging to the hope that someone would barge through the door and end this bizarre and unwanted coupling. 

“Don’t be shy” he said “I won’t bite…..It won’t bite.” He grabbed my hand and placed it on his penis, he let out a satisfied moan as his hand encouraged mine to stroke him.  

His idea of foreplay was simply to lift up my dress, pull down my tights and bend me over Jimmy’s desk. I felt nothing; whilst that could apply to the vacancy of my thoughts at the point it could equally apply to the fact that I actually felt nothing.

The only indication that he may have been having sex with me was the feel of his large flabby frame pressed against me and comically emphasised grunting.

That’s all I can really remember, his weight getting heavier and heavier on my back, his foul odour filling the room. I was suffocating. Literally suffocating. I just wanted to throw up. Then it stopped. He didn’t cry out in orgasmic pleasure, I felt nothing to indicate he had climaxed, he just lay on top of me.

It seemed like an eternity that I was under him. His full weight trapping me on the table. Then I noticed…. he wasn’t breathing. The possibility there may be a dead guy inside of me was encouragement enough to slide myself from underneath him. It was not an easy task and the momentum caused him to rock back before slamming face first on to the edge of the desk as I prised myself out.

He landed in a heap on the floor, one of Jimmy’s ornaments had fallen off the table and lay by Mr Karpinsky’s lifeless body.  My initial thought was simply ‘Jimmy’s not going to like this’.

I contemplated moving the body, but aside from the difficulty I had getting the lumbering mass off me I did not know what good that would do.  There was only one way in and out of the office so I couldn’t just say that Mr Karpinsky had popped out to get some cigarettes.

Maybe I could just go speak with Jimmy and explain what had happened, but he was not the most understanding person at the best of times. Besides, the bruise that formed on the side of Mr Karpinsky’s temple meant that ‘He simply died’ would be treated with some suspicion.

My only option was to run. I quickly rearranged my clothes, wiped the tears that formed in my eyes, opened the door and just ran across the club. Jimmy, in his curious owl like way, noticed me running but by the time he had hopped off his perch I was down the corridor and through the fire escape.

I took the rickety staircase two steps at a time fearing at any moment that either Jimmy or Mr Karpinsky’s lanky colleague would catch me. The fact that I had fled meant that I had abandoned any chance It was settled – I had killed Mr Karpinsky.

Tears spilled from eyes as I breathlessly made my way down the staircase.  I cursed myself – You should have just turned left when you had the chance.

I tried to put aside any thought of what might become of me.  My only goal at that moment was to get far away from The Blue King as possible.  I would figure everything else out when I was safe….if I ever could be safe.

I jumped the last few steps and sprinted down the alleyway.  My chest cried out in agony as I pushed myself to run as fast as I could.  As I neared where the alleyway opens onto Old Street a car pulled across the entrance.

They’ve already found me.

I stopped. Breathing deeply, I looked back into the gloom of the alleyway and thought I could hear footsteps coming up after me. I was trapped. There was nothing more I could do than hope they would listen to reason.

The car window routrolled down. It was not Mr Karpinsky’s colleague but the attractive gentleman who had bumped into me.

“You’re in danger” he shouted to me “But I can help you.  Get in.”

He opened the passenger door. Whilst I avoided getting into stranger’s cars I had little choice. With the sound of footsteps getting louder in the alley I ran round to the passenger side of the car and hopped in.

Little did I know this would be the final car journey that Molly Jones would make.

Thrusting : Prelude

Where do I start?

At the beginning I suppose.

But where did my life as Labia Lefeure actually begin?

She didn’t experience the growing up poor in the East End of London. It wasn’t her who had to fend for herself due to the absence of parents.

Labia didn’t throw those punches at school because she couldn’t take the teasing of her tattered uniform anymore .

It wasn’t Labia’s lips that David kissed during that careless fumble down the alleyway one summer’s evening.

Those formative years belonged to someone else….another me. A nobody called Molly Jones.

Labia’s story, the one I am telling, begun on 12th February 1967 .

That was the day that she was born. Neatly coinciding with the death of the previous me and with it the life I could have led.

Labia’s birth did not take place in a hospital but instead it was in a little nightclub hidden away in the grimy streets of the East End.

There were no midwives encouraging the soon to be Mother to push but instead a crowd of jeering men shouting futile words of encouragement that I might take my top off.

Proud Fathers were replaced by absentee husbands, taking a detour from a busy day at work to get a quick release before returning to their dutiful wives.

Labia didn’t grow up surrounded by a multitude of siblings, she had a different family. Perhaps there is some similarity here, we don’t get to choose our family and Labia certainly didn’t get to choose hers. Someone else did and that person would prove to be far worse than any overbearing Father.

He put together Precious Comfort Love Thrust, created a family so dysfunctional that what we experienced in four years was enough to fill a lifetime. Fights, love, betrayal, tragedy and somewhere within all that…music. But as you will read music was very much secondary to everything that Precious Comfort Love Thrust was about.

And it all began on that fateful evening in February when Labia was born…..

When I was born.

That night if I had just said no I’d still be simple Molly Jones. Maybe I would have made it as a singer, perhaps I would have settled for the quite life as a secretary, got married, had kids and led a perfect life living in a three bedroom semi in Essex. By now I would have grandchildren at my knee, wistfully seeing out my remaining years playing bingo and complaining about the weather.

Instead I said ‘Yes’ and the life I should have experienced evaporated instantly. No turning back.

Why I agreed to his request is something I have often thought about. Perhaps it was the exuberance of youth. Maybe even by the age of 20 I had tired of Molly Jones; when he asked me the question I was desperately looking for a way out of my life.

He approached me with the opportunity to be someone different. To swap one life for another. He just neglected to tell me what the cost of this new life would be.

For years I’ve tried to forget I was even a part of Precious Comfort Love Thrust but try as I might I just kept getting dragged back into it.

Even news of his death brought me no comfort. I thought it might bring me a sense of freedom but instead it just reminded me of the hold he always had over me.

All because of that one night in February.

Then there was Stef…My poor sweet Stef. She didn’t deserve to die alone in that place, no-one knowing what she truly achieved, what she meant to the band….to the country for that matter.

I know I am on the same path as Stef; to die alone taking all those secrets to my grave. My life hidden away in some secret vault never to be revealed.

Yet she had that suitcase. A collection of vague memories that to the casual observer would seem nothing more than unwanted memorabilia of a band long forgotten. Why she kept that stuff is a mystery to me.

I was surprised to be alerted to a reference to Precious Comfort Love Thrust online. Even more surprised that the curator of our curious history was some blonde girl who thought Unicorned Squirrels would make a good story.

I could have sat back and just watch her create an acceptable version of Precious Comfort Love Thrust; one that even I would find pleasant; a place in history we did not deserve. Although the way she works to schedule I’d have been lucky to still be alive before she got to our first tour.

But even if allowed Selina j to reveal Precious Comfort Love Thrust to the world it would be a lie. The entire life of Labia Lefeure is a lie. If this is to be my swan song surely it should end on the truth? My one final ‘Fuck You’ to him and to truly honour those forgotten.

Dick, Vanda, Kaku, Regis and of course, Stef.

So, I write this story.

The true story of Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

The true story of Labia Lefeure.

The true story of me.

And it all begins on the one night in February.

Precious Comfort Love Thrust : It’s All Changed

Regular readers will be aware of my discovery of the mysterious band, Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

You can read about it here and here . I am also aware I’ve not written much more about them. Whilst attempting to navigate through the contents of Stef’s suitcase can be time consuming that was not the reason for the absence of content.

Something happened.

The other day I was partaking in my daily jog around the East End (…. okay I was walking….. to buy alcohol) when I noticed an elderly woman just standing on the corner gazing over the road at a Vegan cafe.

Having walked these streets with my dad I am used to elderly people looking confused at specialist vegan restaurants but there was something about her that made me stop.

She was dressed in a long rain mac which seemed unnecessary in the heat of the London sun. Her hair was bright white and although her skin showed the ravages of time you could tell she once beautiful…indeed still beautiful.

Concerned that she might be lost I asked if her she was okay. She looked at me with dark eyes which still sparkled, albeit betrayed by the lines that framed them, a clear indication those eyes had witnessed some unpleasant moments.

She returned to looking over at the vegan cafe and spoke, her voice was hoarse and whilst I caught a twang of cockney her speech was more refined

“Over there used to be a club” she said wistfully “I used to sing there…back in the day”

I thought she must just be lonely and was happy to indulge an elderly lady in a trip down memory lane.

“A lot’s changed around here” I replied “So you were a singer?”

She turned to look at me, the dazzle in her eyes faded as she shared this memory with a stranger “You could say that, although there..in that club…I became something different”.

I was intrigued with what she meant but the guarded, cryptic responses led me to believe she was not really in the mood to reveal anymore and the awkwardness made our discussion brief.

I politely said “Gotta rush. Been nice talking to you.”

As I begun to walk away I heard her call out “She didn’t deserve to die alone Selina”.

By the time those words had registered I had turned the corner and although double backed to ask how she knew me the elderly lady was gone.

I hadn’t recalled given her my name. How did she know who I was? The identity of this mysterious woman stayed with me throughout my shopping trip, although by the time I had reached the tills I just resolved she must be some family member I had forgotten about; we have a lot of them in our family.

I gave this encounter no further thought until very recently when I was collecting my post. It was the normal dull stuff; bills and passive aggressive letters from the Residents Committee but crammed into the small box was a brown envelope. It simply had my name written on it and had been hand delivered.

I went back to my flat and opened it, prepared that it was just going to be a full report from the Residents Committee of my most recent infringements. But as I pulled out the thick wad of paper it was something far more surprising than things I’ve done to annoy my neighbour.

It was the small note attached to it I read first. It said;

Selina,

If you’re going to tell our story, tell it properly

Here’s the truth.

L

I looked at the front page of the manuscript which read ‘Thrusting : The Unbelievable True Story Of Precious Comfort Love Thrust”

At the bottom was the identity of the author…. Labia Lefeure.

That elderly lady was Labia!! My brain chimed in with the obvious, hoping that no one would notice how slow it had been to work that one out.

I cursed myself for missing the opportunity to speak with her. I had so many questions. I fumbled through the pages hoping to find some contact details for her, but there were none.

All the answers to my questions would be in this document and so I poured myself a large glass of gin and read the words of Labia (pronounced La-Bi-Ah by the way).

I had polished off nearly half a bottle of gin by the time I had finished it and then I had to read it again because I could not believe what I just read.

There was always a mystery about Precious Comfort Love Thrust. There had always been something peculiar about them, at the end of the day they all just disappeared without any trace.

Labia’s manuscript provided all the answers. Where they came from, why they suddenly disappeared and what Pirouette Angel was.

Before this manuscript had mysteriously appeared I thought I was beginning to work everything out about PCLT. But as I re-read every word Labia wrote I realised I had been wrong about everything.

The story of Precious Comfort Love Thrust is still an amazing one. Perhaps even more amazing than the one I thought I was telling. It still needs to be told. But it’s not for me to tell it. It’s for Labia to tell.

So, coming soon exclusively to my website I shall be serialising Labia’s manuscript.

The true story of Precious Comfort Love Thrust…. Her Story.

The Chastity Of Selina

Epiphanies.

They’re a wonderful thing. That blissful sense of realisation that sweeps across us bringing much needed clarity; a bright light that breaks through the darkness which has kept us static for so long.

They can happen often and occur when we least expect it, whether it be while walking the dog , having a shower or just commuting to work.

My particular epiphany happened to occur at quite an awkward moment; it was whilst on my knees. As much as I would like to say I was praying for some divine intervention the reality was quite different.

Although I may have mumbled ‘God just hurry up’ , it was not directed at some omnipotent higher power but instead to the guy who had spent the good part of ten minutes happily, albeit disappointingly, thrusting into my mouth.

He had positioned ourselves in front of a full length mirror and was engaged in some exaggerated hip swivelling punctuated by husky moans of ‘yeh’ that made me wonder if he had asthma.

You want me to massage your balls or just pass you your inhaler

It was a cheeky curiosity that made me look in the mirror. This was not the first time I had indulged in some reflective randiness and I was used to seeing who stared back.

It was Her….Lina. It was always Her. That lustful thirst of hers never satisfied.

Yet strangely on this occasion when I looked it wasn’t her… it was me; and I didn’t like it, not one single bit.

I immediately pushed the guy away releasing his saliva coated cock from my mouth and stood up.

“What the fuck!” he exclaimed.

“Yeh. We’re done. I’m going home” I replied

“But I’m not finished”

I walked towards the door and turned towards him “Ain’t my problem. Have a wank and stop moaning”.

I left to the sounds of him calling me a bitch, whore and a slut. Names I’d been called so many times they hardly registered anymore.

Now I would love to say this is the end of the story. Conclude this final, yet brief confession with the words “And Selina realised the error of her ways and became a Nun. She was last seen living on a mountain in Switzerland having probably saved some kids from Nazis.”

Yet that’s not how it ends. Far from it. My brain, clearly harbouring some ambition to be a Reality TV host chose my journey home to show me my ‘Best Bits’.

A carefully edited compilation of every quickie, tug and suck before returning to the studio for comment. My only reply was ‘No that was Lina’. A preposterous excuse that was starting to wear thin.

By the time I got home my brain had changed from TV Host to Annoying Friend Who Wants To Tell You Everything You Did On A Drunken Night.

As I drifted in and out of conscious they were there perched on the edge of my bed.

And then there was time you did this.

When I woke in the morning with a heavy head it followed me round my flat

And what about when you….

I was due to pop round to my friend’s Pru house for coffee. Whilst I contemplated cancelling I thought perhaps listening to her drone on about the renovations she had just completed in her house would prevent my brain from pulling out the bell of shame.

Blowjobs – SHAME!

Handjobs – SHAME!

Quickies up against the side of the chip shop – SHAME!

Whatever it was you were doing at that club – SHAME!

With my head full of painful fog, as if all my hangovers had returned for a repeat performance, I wearily made my way round to Pru’s house.

I must have not been looking my best when I arrived because the moment she saw me she asked “Are you okay?”

I gave the automatic response of saying I was fine. It was my default setting like my very own Out of Office response.

I’m sorry Selina is not available right now she’s presently in turmoil as the fabric of her fragile life unravels but she wants you to know she’s doing just fine. Please leave a message after the primal scream.

Normally, my friends would just accept my short declaration that I was fine and we would get on with our day. I am certain they didn’t believe it for a second and would try and tease it out of me by sporadically asking me again but my wall was up and standing firm.

However, this time, it was different. As I gave my stock answer of ‘I’m fine’ I made eye contact with Pru, whose expression was one of sympathy tinged with a school mistress ‘I ain’t falling for that bullshit anymore’ look.

Did she know? Was seeing her new duck egg bathroom a ruse for some intervention?When I walked in would all my ex-lovers be sat there ready to pass judgement? Is that why she got an extension done?

Whatever the reason as I held Pru’s gaze the wall came tumbling down and I cried. A lot.

While Pru and I are best friends she is also the one I have clashed with the most. We are two totally different people. She is organised, precise and graceful. It had been a regular topic of discussion as to how someone as chaotic as I could form an ever lasting friendship with her. I guess we just balance out the universe.

She was also a qualified psychiatrist and despite her best efforts to avoid doing it we often found ourselves being psychoanalysed.

“Selina do you think your desire for another gin is to mask some deep rooted issue stemming from your childhood’

“Pru you always do this . It’s your round. Get the fucking drinks in”

However, for once, I was glad I knew a psychiatrist. As I embarked on telling her my sordid tale I was unsure whether I was speaking with Pru the Psychiatrist or Pru the Friend but she listened. Occasionally she would steer the conversation with an odd question and I did see her write stuff down, although unsure what it said.

Buy more paint for the hallway

Get a new friend

I told her everything; about my over bearing compulsion I had to engage in sexual activity, how it made me feel and, of course, about Lina. It felt weird to be saying this all out loud and even as I heard myself talk my brain chimed in with ‘Oh you are fucking crazy’.

To her credit Pru was thankfully not judgemental. She never once interrupted me with a ‘what the fuck!’. She didn’t suddenly wrestle me to the ground and shove a crucifix in my face chanting ‘The Lord beseech you leave this girl’.

When I finally finished, my eyes red from crying and my voice hoarse, Pru calmly wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“I’m going to suggest a colleague of mine sees you” she said

“What for” I replied

“I think you are bipolar” she said, rather matter-of-factly.

“Well I’m bisexual so it makes sense. I am learning a new language to get the full set” I replied with a smile, which quickly disappeared when met with Pru’s stern expression.

“This is serious Sel. I believe you also have what is known as Hypersexuality”

“Oooh sounds like a superpower” I joked but stopped from exploring the possibility I may be one of the X-Men by a look from Pru.

“But why do I have to see someone else? Why can’t you help me?”

Having asked the question I then paid no attention to the answer, preoccupied with the revelation I had some weird sexual compulsion.

Anyhow Pru’s reasoning was ‘something something I wouldn’t take it seriously something something too close something something conflict of interest something something’

However, I persisted “Pru I’m not going to talk to a stranger. I will listen to you. I promise. Just help me. Please. Tell me what to do”

She cocked her head to one side sympathetically “Well firstly you should stop seeing that side of you….this Lina… as a completely different person.”

“So setting up a Twitter account for her was a bad idea?”

Something something dissociative

“And you need to stop engaging in any sexual activity”

“Done” I replied boldly without much thought “Easy peasy. The virtuous life of a virgin from here on in for me.”

“And that goes for masturbation too”

“Fuck off Pru!”

“See! This is why you need to see my colleague” she exclaimed.

“I’d tell him to fuck off as well. What about a little masturbation?”

“Sel!”

“No toys. Just fingers. A little play”

“Sel!”

“A quick rub? No sexy thoughts I’ll just rely on friction”

“SELINA!! I think we are getting a little distracted by discussing masturbation”

“You were the one who brought it up. It does mean I’ll have to cancel my Catwoman comics subscription now…..”

Something something you’re definitely seeing my colleague.

When I left Pru’s house (after an extended farewell to check we were still friends) I felt good. A weight had certainly been lifted. The dark fog that had circled in my mind had cleared. I had purpose, a new start and for the first time ever I felt I was in control.

My mood was a complete juxtaposition to how I begun the morning. I put my earphones in and scrolled through my phone to play some music.

That morning the music was simply a tool to drown out the storm that raged in my mind, but now it was a compliment to my mood. A soundtrack to celebrate a new start. I scrolled through the playlists and settled on some random Pop. I laid my head back on the seat of the train and closed my eyes as Don’t You (Forget About Me) played.

In the days that followed life was good. I woke each morning feeling elated and that stayed with me throughout the day. Pru still checked in on me, a psychological halfway house before I could meet with her colleague.

Something something Bipolar something something manic something something moods

I’d even started to question if I needed to see her colleague at all and went about my life as if the events that had culminated in me sobbing in a heap in my friend’s newly installed kitchen were very much a thing of the past.

I had made a few changes to my lifestyle. I no longer went out drinking every day after work and when I went out with my besties I found myself leaving early. Pru would always be the first to leave and often we just wave her off before declaring this is where the real fun can begin. But I found myself getting up with her and announcing that I may have an early night.

Oddly, it was this behaviour that prompted my friend Mel to ask me if I was okay. Clearly, my vacant expression, the tired look and disappearing off with random strangers had not previously been a cause of concern for her.

I even begun to not go out every weekend and stayed in to have what I declared to be ‘Me Time’ although absent the masturbation which I continued to argue with Pru is something I should be doing.

Then one Friday night I was sat alone in my flat, half watching Netflix and half congratulating myself with solving my mental health issues with zero therapy and medication when I suddenly received an unexpected visit. A visit from a most unwelcome guest who I had assumed had permanently gone.

Let’s Go Out And Play!

Lina’s arrival surprised me. Normally she appeared accompanied by a cacophony of noise as if she was emerging from the very bowels of hell riding a chariot. There was little that was subtle about her but I had been too wrapped up in premature self congratulations to hear her triumphant return.

I’m horny. Let’s find someone

I tried to ignore her but she persisted. Her demands would cut through the sound of the TV I turned up to try and drown her out.

Her piercing demands echoed around in my head bringing with it the darkness that Lina bathed in. I knew what she wanted and I knew she would not stop until she got it.

Let’s go find someone. You’ll feel better.

I felt deflated. The sound of her in my head a depressing reminder that I couldn’t win. She’d always be there.

This is how it was. How it’s always been. Lina holding my head hostage until she got what she desired. Despite my new beginnings I knew I did not have the strength to defeat her and contemplated relenting, after all what harm could be caused by just allowing her to have that one final carnal feast.

I didn’t even really have to move, one text and I could have the appropriate suitor for Lina at my door. I could hear her purr in anticipation as she encouraged me to scroll through my phone.

She salivated like someone choosing their ideal takeaway;

Not that one – we want it dirty

No we had an Indian the other week

How about a mixed starter for variety?

As I delayed giving Lina what she wanted a glimmer of an idea shone meekly through the darkness that swirled inside my head. Maybe I could beat her? But I needed confirmation it would work.

I stopped scrolling through my contacts and pressed call. But it was not to summons a horny guy who would satisfy Lina, instead it was to speak to someone who Lina absolutely despised.

“Hey Pru… sorry to trouble you. Do you have a moment”

“A little busy Sel. It’s our anniversary and we are having a get together”

“Oh sorry to disturb but ….. Wait ….. you’re having a party and I wasn’t invited?”

Something something you slept with my brother-in-law something something his wife is there

“Anyway” I continued “I’m gonna masturbate. Just checking that’s cool. Gotta go. Bye. Oh…. Happy Anniversary”

I tossed the phone and laid back on the sofa and let my hand slide down my body, my fingers slipping inside my panties. I let out an instinctive moan as my finger tips touched my clit, embracing it like I was welcoming back an old friend.

I closed my eyes and let my fingers explore between my legs with the same enthusiasm as a dog let off a leash on an open field.

Throughout my self exploration I could feel Lina, on top of me, her nails dug deep into my breasts leaning over and offering alternatives to what could currently be inside me other than my fingers.

Whenever I heard her voice demanding to be fed I dove my fingers deeper inside.

Satisfy Me

I moved my other hand between my legs and began furiously rubbing my clit whilst my other disappeared deep inside me.

Not like this. Let’s do it properly.

I closed my eyes tight and tried to block out Lina but even the damp slapping of my fingers working away between my legs seemed to be on her side, calling out her lusty demand.

Let’s Fuck. Let’s Fuck. Let’s Fuck.

I could feel my orgasm begin to build up. It would not be a climax to a wonderful fantasy, I had resolved this would be the conclusion to a nightmare. As my body begun to shudder this was to be my final act of defiance against Lina. She was not getting what she wants. Not tonight. Not ever.

The increase of my arousal acted as a shield to Lina’s onslaught. I was in a place that I rarely visited, a pleasure palace where only I can be. Lina dug her nails deeper into my breasts, desperately trying to pull me out of this horny haven and into her domain of depravity. But with every pinch of my erect nipple I countered by pushing my fingers deeper inside me. I writhed on the sofa as this horny tug of war continued.

With a few final wet advances of my finger I let out a roar…. a huge Fuck You Lina shriek… I shook as I absorbed this defiant orgasm, sending electric pulses throughout my body to finally cleanse me of all things Lina.

I laid still on the sofa, wet, exhausted, breathing deeply. It was silent. Blissful silence. No darkness invaded my mind. It was over. Lina was gone. She was finally gone.

So we’re going out to fuck now?

Bollocks! Plan B – offer Lina out for a fight in a junk yard.

The intensity of my orgasm had left me drained. I rolled wearily off the sofa And precariously padded to the bedroom flopping face first onto the bed.

Lina was there, perched on the edge still repeating over and over her demands. But I was too tired to listen.

Something Something hard from behind

Rather than leaving me susceptible to her insistence my exhaustion gave me the unexpected power to ignore her. As I closed my eyes I resolved I would ignore her tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that. The only flaw in my plan was whether I would have to continuously masturbate myself into oblivion each time. That might get awkward.

I am interested about switching energy supplier but can you just wait there while I go aggressively masturbate otherwise this could end up with us having reckless sex.

Before I welcomed the solitude of sleep my brain offered a solution. Normally it was my worst enemy but feeling sorry for me it offered one final moment of clarity, a simple declaration that it had always been an ally. My mind presented to me the conclusion to the epiphany that had begun on my knees sucking some undeserved penis.

You are Lina

That night when I had looked in the mirror I was reminded that I was Lina. But I hadn’t fully appreciated the final part, the bit where I released the cock from my mouth, stood up and walked away. I chose to do that.

I chose.

It was the absent conclusion that had been shrouded in shame for so long but now rose shining brightly in my mind.

I am You.

Lina’s voice drifted away as my eyes became heavy. In the silence that remained lingered a simple realisation. I don’t have to listen to her anymore.

I am Selina………And I am in control.

************

EXT. A BAR IN LONDON – NIGHT

It is raining. The glow of the bar sign reflects off a puddle in the road which is disturbed when a black cab drives past. We see two people run towards the entrance of the bar , their long coats pulled over their heads to shield them from the rain. As they open the door to bar the low hum of the patrons inside can be briefly heard.

INT. BAR – NIGHT

We move in between the people standing in the bar. It is busy. The majority are dressed in business attire indicating they have just left work for a drink. There is no music just the consistent din of chatter and laughter.

We reach the corner of the bar where we find SELINA , 29 , blonde, cockney, sitting on a stool. She is smartly dressed, her hair is slightly wet indicating that she has not long been there. Her nylon legs are crossed, her heels tapping against the leg of the stool. She sips on a gin and tonic as she studies her phone, smirking as if she had just tweeted something non-sensical for attention.

Her attention is drawn to RANDOM GUY, mid twenties , staggeringly attractive who is stood next to her waiting to be served. They make eye contact and she smiles at him.

RANDOM GUY

What do you have to do to get served here?

SELINA

Showing them your tits helps I find

Random Guy smiles a handsome smile

RANDOM GUY

I might go somewhere that’s a little easier to get served. Don’t suppose you want to join me?

Selina smiles and stares into the ridiculously handsome eyes of Random Guy. She delays her answer.

SELINA

Nah. Thank you but I am with someone. Will you excuse me?

We watch as Selina stands up, swigs down the remainder of her drink and we follow her as she walks towards the Ladies Toilet.

INT. BAR – LADIES TOILETSNIGHT

We see Selina standing at the sinks applying lipstick in the mirror. Another woman finishes washing her hands before leaving the toilet talking loudly with her friend. Selina is alone.

She looks down as she puts her lipstick back in her handbag. She looks back up into the mirror and stares cheekily at her reflection.

SELINA

You shut the fuck up!

~Fin~

Precious Comfort Love Thrust: The Beginning Of The Band

In my last Blog Post I described how I learned of the existence of the Sixties band, Precious Comfort Love Thrust. My ambition has been to write the unofficial ‘official’ biography of the greatest band who never existed.

With the limited material available it has been difficult to put into some chronological order the history of the band. However, Stef’s journals have been an invaluable source of information in that respect.

There were two in the suitcase I acquired when Stef sadly passed away at the Care Home. One contained her beautiful lyrics and the other was almost like a scrap book. It contained her musings, or press cuttings, the odd Polaroid photo crudely taped to the yellowing pages.

One of the most revealing sections of that journal is entitled ‘An Interview I Shall Never Give’. Here Stef writes and answers her own questions about being part of the band. Despite playing the crucial role of being their sole songwriter it would seem she was very much in the background. None of the press cuttings seem to reference her yet without her there would be no Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

She was part of the day to day life of the band, jotting down the mood of recording or touring with throwaway observations in her journal like ‘Labia wants out’ or ‘Dick is struggling’

Whenever one writes a music biography of a band normally the reader would come with some basic knowledge of who the band are and have at least heard one or two songs.

It’s likely the first time you ever heard about Precious Comfort Love Thrust is when I wrote about them or you happened upon the Twitter or Reddit sub I set up to share the contents of Stef’s suitcase.

Also normally a music biography can begin with explaining how the band formed. You know, so and so met each other at school, this person left that band to join etc. Yet, Precious Comfort Love Thrust seemed to just suddenly exist. They appeared as quickly as they disappeared.

What I have been able to work out is the Original Line Up consisted of:-

Labia Lefeure – Lead Singer

Richard ‘Dick’ Splash – Lead Guitarist

Kaku – Bass Guitarist

Vanda T – Rhythm Guitar

Regis – Drummer

In their short history the band would go through different line ups. Dick Splash left the band to be replaced by Curt Lingus.

Both Vanda and surprisingly Labia then left, the latter attempting a solo career which saw he take residence for a while in Las Vegas.

The final iteration of Precious Comfort Love Thrust was Labia returning with Kaku and Regis; the lead guitar being played by a host of session musicians.

Yet the history of the members of the band (or Love Thrusters as Stef called them in her journal) is unknown.

A vital part of any music biography is to be able to trace the early life of the band, to give context to the people that would become universally admired by fans. Yet I cannot find anything relating to the members of PCLT. No clue where they were born, who their parents were, where they went to school. Nothing.

The closest was a very small snippet of an interview Labia gave when she sung at the Sands in Vegas. It read:-

I love being up here with the big band, singing the old songs. It’s like being back home in the clubs in the East End of London”

So we know that Labia (which I presume is not her real name) was born in London and sung in clubs before joining Precious Comfort Love Thrust. But how and why remains shrouded in mystery.

As for the others they are like ghosts. It’s as if they were purposely designed to blend anonymously in the background. Labia was the face of Precious Comfort Love Thrust; it would have been her face who adorned the walls of teenage fans and probably helped a few boys through those difficult years.

But did the girls have Dick Splash on their walls? Or perhaps others went dressed as Vanda or Kaku at concerts. Maybe in pubs today there is someone holding court that the greatest drumming you’ll ever hear was Regis on the track 4-Nication.

As I begun my study of the Journals of Stef Clancy I wondered about the others. Whether they resented Labia for being in the forefront whilst they were reduced to playing in the shadows? Did Labia have a hand in that? Was she some diva who demanded all the attention? And what was Stef’s role in all of this? Who was calling the shots?

Because whilst it’s possible to gather some information from the journal on all the band members including Stef herself, there is one person (or persons) where nothing appears – the Manager.

Who was the Manager? He (or she) put together a band, signed them to an obscure record label that only produced PCLT records then promptly went out of business. If legacy is an indication of greatness then PCLT’s management team would not appear on any list of Greatest Band Managers.

Is the story of Precious Comfort Love Thrust a story of missed opportunity? A group of talented individuals let down by incompetent management.

Or is it a story about ego? A band self destructing before they have even had a chance to begin.

And this is before we get to the strange appearance of Pirouette Angel……..Whatever that was all about.

Precious Comfort Love Thrust : The Band Who Never Existed

When we think of great bands of the 1960s we immediately think of the likes of The Beatles, The Kinks, The Who or The Rolling Stones.

Indeed if you ask anyone to name their Top Ten bands of the sixties those names would feature. Yet one is unlikely to make any list …. Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

If you mention that name to anyone who was around during that period you might witness a fleeting glimpse of recognition. Study them closer and you can almost see their brain do somersaults as it delves into the intoxicated haze of memories of that decade. The name sounds familiar but their mind fails to provide any further confirmation.

It is not uncommon for bands or singers to disappear from the public conscious. Yet even then they find a way back; whether it be because their song ends up in a soundtrack to a movie or one of your Facebook friends lists them in their Top Ten Bands Of All Time just to appear cultured. You know, those friends who listed the most obscure David Bowie song as their favourite, just so they can say they really understood Bowie like no-one else did.

“I’m telling you if you think Space Oddity is better than ‘Always Crashing In The Same Car’ then you don’t get Bowie….Not like I do”

Nowadays, the internet refuses to allow anyone to forget anything. YouTube will host poorly filmed concerts of some band nobody has heard of playing in front of just 25 people in a pub in Basingstoke. eBay will have listings of all manner of music memorabilia. Wikipedia seemingly just has a page for everything and everyone. Spotify and Amazon appear to offer every song ever written, although Alexa seems dead set on playing the version she wants.

No Alexa I did not want to listen to ‘Sound Of Silence (Disco Version) by Groovy Doug and the Kinkettes

Yet with all these digital tools at our disposal you won’t find any reference to Precious Comfort Love Thrust. The internet offers no support for those who are challenged when they put PCLT at the top of their list of best bands. It’s as if they never existed. But they certainly did.

And how can I be so sure? Because of one woman – Stef Clancy.

A few years ago a friend of mine who works in a care home asked for my help in clearing out the belongings of a long term resident who had passed away. That resident was Stef Clancy

My friend explained that this woman had been at the home long before she began working there. She rarely had visitors and it was believed she had no living relatives.

My friend struck up a close bond Stef whose best years were far behind her. During more lucid periods she would talk about all the places in the world she had visited; but most of the time she would incoherently slur orders at my friend such as ‘Find Loafers”

“The thing is” my friend would laugh “Stef didn’t even own a pair of loafers”

Nevertheless a friendship formed, so much so when Stef passed away at the age of 93 she left all her possessions to my friend. A note addressed to my friend was found in the top drawer of her dressing table. A simple instruction written in Stef’s shaky handwriting ‘It’s all yours’.

This is where I came in as the only one in close locality with a car she asked if I wouldn’t mind helping her clear out Stef’s room. Not that poor Stef owned much; a few items of clothing, some jewellery and a couple of books.

It was rather melancholic that this woman had lived through nine decades and yet the sum total of her life could fit in a cardboard box. And none of it gave any clue about who she was and the life she had led; nor where her love of loafers had come from and indeed why she did not possess any.

However, as I was searching under her bed I found a battered suitcase. The wood grain pattern was scored and faded , the remnants of stickers that had adorned the sides remained, too worn to make out what they were. The leather strap handle was frayed, crudely kept together by electrical tape. When I unlocked the rusted fasteners it was filled to the brim of papers.

“What do you want to do with these?” I asked my friend

“Best keep it just in case any family come out of the woodwork. It might be important” she replied.

“I thought there was no family or anything”

“There was this lady who used to visit her but ain’t seen her round here for a long time.”

So I took the suitcase back to my flat where it remained in a corner of my bedroom. Perhaps a long lost relative might finally claim them or my friend might wish to look through whatever was inside.

However, no one claimed to know Stef and my friend became the only source of companionship for a myriad of lonely elderly folk. Over time the suitcase became buried under a pile of clothes until it was very much out of sight, out of mind. Forgotten much like Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

Then the COVID-19 pandemic happened and with it Lockdown. Out of sheer boredom one day I decided to tidy my room and that’s when I was reminded of the existence of the suitcase.

I messaged my friend to see if any family of the mysterious Stef Clancy. She responded that no-one had before quickly adding ‘if there are any deeds to a Castle in that suitcase remember she left it to me.’

There was no treasure to be found amongst the papers, well the sort of riches my friend was hoping for. The suitcase was full of artwork, photos, notebooks and album covers yet strangely without the vinyl in them.

All of them contained the same name :- Precious Comfort Love Thrust.

A quick Google search provided no results for this band but this stuff all looked real. I am no archaeologist but I can tell if a piece of paper is old. This was genuine stuff.

The notebooks contained the lyrics for songs written by Stef herself. Seemingly Stef was something of a lyricist perfectionist determined to have key words included in the song. On each page a list of words were written in the corner and crossed off as they appeared in a verse or chorus.

I searched everywhere I could to hear one of the songs written by Stef but each time it produced a negative result. Despite having no music to sing the lyrics along to there was a poetical quality to them. Stef had adopted her own stanza form. Each key word would be assigned a number and this would feature in exactly the same place in every song.

A further dive of the papers revealed Tour Schedules, release dates for albums and singles. There were photos of their concerts yet strangely they seemed more to concentrate on the audience than the band members themselves.

In respect of the members of Precious Comfort Love Thrust there was little about them. A few bios written for Pop magazines but not much else. No photos of the band except for one of them….Labia Lefeure, the lead singer. She seemed to adorn the cover of many of the albums. Once again a quick search on the internet produced no results.

Who was she? Who were they? I live during a time of Cancel Culture but what could this band have done to be simply erased completely?

For days I tried to find out anything about the band but never any positive results. My hopes of unravelling this mystery faded yet as I looked upon the album artwork and read Stef’s beautiful yet cryptic lyrics I decided I couldn’t keep this to myself.

I decided to set up a Twitter account for Precious Comfort Love Thrust so I could share these curiosities. Maybe someone in the big bad online universe could shed some light and help me unravel this mystery.

And if not at the very least ,to a small degree, I could try and return Precious Comfort Love Thrust back into the public consciousness. Because as I rifled through the mass of ageing papers I knew there was a story to tell.

It’s not my story. It’s the story of Stef, Labia, Dick, Vanda and Regis.

It’s the story of Precious Comfort Love Thrust – the band who never existed.