Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 04

Again Rebecca can't make out her tone: whether she's really objecting or just joshing.

"Besides," says Paula: "I have to go now: pick up my boy from nursery."

"You have a child?" says Rebecca surprised.

"One boy, three years old," Paula says. "No husband though, he leave." She waves her hand dismissively, as though the husband's leaving is of no account. Already she is swivelling off the bed and reaching for her pants.

"This is good, yes?" she says, presumably meaning the orgasms. Rebecca nods, and watches as she eases each leg into the opening in her pants, then eases her pants up over her thighs and her bottom. That done she puts on her skirt. Rebecca, who is still in a post-orgasmic stupor, marvels that she can stand up, let alone go out of the house.

"I go now," says Paula. At the doorway she picks up the rolling pin, then turns to Rebecca:

"Why you in here anyway?" she asks. Rebecca can't answer that.

"Next time you masturbate in own room," Paula chides her with a barely suppressed grin. "Or next time maybe Mrs Lucie catch you."

It's a long time before Rebecca can rouse herself. When she does, she smoothes out all the bedcovers and tries to make the room look as it did before her intrusion, before going to run herself a bath. There is nothing she can do about the smell of sex, though, which to her nostrils hangs heavy in the air.

Rebecca's relationship with her Uncle has changed -- it could hardly be otherwise. It's not easy to play card games as though nothing has happened with an Uncle who is fucking you every few days. The knowledge of what they are doing comes between them, like the elephant in the room.

It's not without its piquancy, though. There's a certain enjoyment in the way they affect normality in front of Aunt Ellen, sharing a secret that would scandalise and horrify her.

Since her Uncle started paying her, Rebecca has shed all her ambivalence. It doesn't matter if she is in the mood or not: she regards it as paid work, just the same as if she were working in her Uncle's garden, or helping with his accounts.

Her Uncle, too, comes to her with less hesitancy, and no longer feels the need to persuade or explain. He comes more frequently too: almost whenever his wife is away from the house. Such that she never knows when an innocent game will give way to a request for sex.

One evening she's sitting on the sofa with her legs curled beneath her when her Uncle asks her to masturbate. She duly takes off her knickers, hikes up her dress, draws up her knees and proceeds to play with herself. Her Uncle, meanwhile, positions himself a few feet away on a chair and peers at her like a gynaecologist. His eyes are on stalks as Rebecca warms to her task. She quickly realises the way to go is not to put on a show, but pleasure herself as though she were on her own, with no-one but herself to please. Nevertheless, his eyes upon her do act as a stimulant, and soon she's wet and aroused. She feels herself building up to an orgasm -- he'd better not intervene now -- and, though it's not the same as when Paula was watching, she brings herself to a gasping and highly satisfying climax.

After which her Uncle, bent clumsily over the sofa, fucks her quickly, spending himself inside her whilst she is still in thrall to her own orgasm.

Later she adds another fifty pounds to her stash.

She thinks a great deal about Paula, and what happened in her Aunt's bedroom. Paula is something of an enigma to her: the one thing she knows for certain is that she is eager to see her again, and eager to repeat and possibly extend their mutual pleasure.

But the next time Paula comes Aunt Ellen is up and about, and Rebecca can barely exchange a word.

The following week is more promising, for Aunt Ellen is out at work. Rebecca, though she tries not to get her hopes up, finds she is getting wet at the mere thought of she and Paula alone in the house together. So much so that she decides to wait for Paula in the sitting room in a state of readiness: knickers off, knees drawn up, finger playing lasciviously between her legs. Her heart is thumping as she hears the key turn in the front door.

Then she gets a shock: voices. Instead of coming alone Paula has brought her child. Rebecca barely has time to put on her knickers before they discover her on the sofa.

It turns out it is the school holidays -- during which Paula must take her boy with her to work. Instead of an intoxicating rubbing session, Rebecca finds herself reading story-books to a three-year-old.

Although Uncle Noel may once have turned to gardening as a displacement activity, an outlet for the frustrations of a sexless marriage, it's clear to Rebecca that it is also a genuine passion. Time and again he takes her around his garden, telling her the names of plants, pointing out a new bloom here, a leaf-form there, encouraging her to see and appreciate the different forms and colours and textures the world of plants has to offer. It's at times like these that she likes him best: for there is a boyish innocence to his enthusiasms that it is impossible not to warm to.

He seems to enjoy all the aspects of his garden, even the ornamental grasses which Rebecca finds dull. But his pride and joy is his rose garden. This is laid out in a geometrical design, bordered by hedges, and entered through one of two trellis arches. The beds are divided by grass paths.

One hot Sunday afternoon he is leading Rebecca round, bending his face to inhale the scent of the blooms, and encouraging her to do the same.

"This one is Gloire de Dijon," he tells her, bending the stem of an especially fragrant rose. Rebecca, too, inhales the scent, and is transported by the intense fragrance.

"It's exquisite," she says.

They walk along the central path: the air around them is filled with the murmuring of insects and the perfume of roses. As they reach the end, where there rests a small statue of a boy with goat feet and a pan pipe, her Uncle turns to her and says:

"There's only one fragrance in the world better than roses."

"And what's that?" Rebecca asks.

Her Uncle smiles foxily: then he sinks to his knees, pushes up her dress, peels down the hem of her knickers and presses his face between her legs. Then he inhales deeply, several times.

Rebecca stands patiently, looking at the roses, watching a blackbird dart across the path. Somewhere beneath her dress her Uncle is rolling down her pants and easing them off her feet. Then his face is back at her snatch again. She plants her legs a little apart to give him easier access and feels his nose, then his tongue, around her cunt. His breathing becomes heavier. He withdraws his head and looks up at her:

"Sit on my face?" he suggests.

Then he lies on his back along the grass path, waiting.

Rebecca shrugs to herself: why not? She hitches up her dress and lowers herself, squatting just above her Uncle's mouth. She feels the warmth of the sun on her legs and thighs, as her Uncle starts to busy himself, licking and sniffing at her private parts. Some sort of muscle memory kicks in: she feels like she is squatting to piss or shit, and she has to suppress a chuckle as she thinks of herself pissing or shitting in her Uncle's face.

Her Uncle, oblivious, licks on. Rebecca feels the wetness of his saliva all over her labia -- but she feels curiously detached from her genitals: sitting there patiently, maintaining a squatting position, her attention is still on the roses, their blooms now just above head height. She suppresses another chuckle, as the thought of what Aunt Ellen might say if she could see them now flits across her mind. Then -- surely not -- her Uncle's tongue is exploring further across her perineum and -- there's no mistake -- has found its way to her anus. She gives a little gasp of surprise: but her Uncle has burrowed his face determinedly under her buttocks, and is licking her with long movements of his tongue. It's as though he is cleaning her, except that the movements of his tongue scour her anus from back to front. She wonders how clean she is down there: but she doesn't really care, for her Uncle certainly doesn't seem to care. Indeed, he has his tongue curled to a point, like the leaves on one of the ferns he has shown her, and is pressing into her anus as though he is trying to squirrel his tongue inside her. She wriggles a bit -- it feels odd: not unpleasant, but a sort of warm, slightly ticklish feeling.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asks at length.

"Jesus Rebecca," says her Uncle. "For God's sake take my trousers down and finish me off."

She starts to climb off him, but it seems he can't bear to part his face from her bits, for he takes hold of her buttocks and won't let her go. So instead she swivels round, parts her buttocks with her hands such that his tongue has even better access to her anus, and unzips his trousers.

His erection is so strong that it is difficult to lift his underpants over it and push them down. But she does so, and can't resist giving his dick a couple of playful slaps.

"Sit on me," her Uncle gasps.

"I thought I was," says Rebecca: but she knows what he means. Mentally praising her own foresight for always having a condom on her person, she prises herself off his face and rolls the condom over his dick. She doesn't have the lube: but her cunt is wet and slippery from his saliva: it is a simple matter for her to squat over his penis and lower herself, guiding it until it is deep inside her.

Her Uncle groans. His eyes are closed and his face is contorted: it could be with pleasure or pain. Rebecca straddles him like a rider upon a horse, and grips him with the muscles of her vagina. It's a different feeling, being on top: she feels powerful; triumphant. Gripping hard she starts to ride him, rhythmically, up and down and round and around. She hardly needs hands, all the power is coming from the muscles in her legs and thighs. With her free hands she raises her dress, enjoying the sense of naked power she has down below, enjoying the sun on her flesh. Her Uncle is gasping and panting: Rebecca looks down on his screwed-up face, his crows-feet, his receding hairline. She feels him flex and ejaculate, his hips writhing, his whole body twisting on the grass beneath her. The scent of roses wafts over her as her Uncle's convulsions diminish until there is only the sound of his breathing.

Rebecca smiles to herself. There are worse ways of spending your time, and certainly worse ways of earning money, than squatting over a man in a rose garden, breathing in the scent of the roses as he spends himself inside you. She notices, at the side of the path, what at first she takes to be the white, decapitated head of a rose: but it is only her scrunched-up, discarded knickers.

Although Rebecca has no plans to move on, at the back of her mind she knows that life at her Uncle's cannot go on forever. One day she will have to leave: and so every time she adds more banknotes to her stash she feels she is husbanding her money against such a time.

Not that she can spend much anyway: for although there are things she needs, clothes in particular, her Aunt has forbidden her Uncle to give her money, such that she cannot buy anything which her Aunt would see and question her about.

Sometimes she wonders how it will end: will they be discovered? Will her Uncle get tired of her? Or will she just get restless and need to move on?

When the denouement does come, it comes in a way neither she nor her Uncle could possibly have foreseen.

They have always been careful. Her Uncle only takes her when her Aunt is away from the house. They make no remarks in Aunt Ellen's or anyone else's hearing which could rouse suspicion. And they are ultra careful with the used condoms, sealing them into carrier bags then thrusting the bags deep into the rubbish in the wheelie bin. But no-one could have anticipated the fox.

It comes one night, foraging for food. In the morning Aunt Ellen, leaving for the early shift at the Hospital, finds, along with the other rubbish scattered over the driveway, a bag of used condoms.

She holds them out, at arms length, as she beards Rebecca in her bedroom.

"I want you out of here," she says. "Today. This morning."

"What?" says Rebecca, woken from her sleep. She sees the condoms. "Ah," she says.

"'Ah' indeed," says her Aunt grimly. "I knew you'd be trouble the moment you walked in here. You had 'slut' written all over you. Bad blood," she adds, screwing up her nose.

Rebecca knows her time is up. But she's not going to take this without giving something back.

"My mother is ten times the woman you are," she throws back. "At least she knows how to satisfy a man. If you opened your legs instead of your mouth your husband wouldn't have to go chasing after other women."

A stinging slap hits her cheek, knocking her head sideways across her pillow.

"Get out of here you whore," shouts her Aunt. "Now: this minute."

How Rebecca restrains herself she'll never know: it takes her all her self control to restrain herself from scratching her Aunt's eyes out. But restrain herself she does. Jumping out of bed naked as she is, she sweeps all her belongings out of drawers and off shelves into her bag. Then she pulls on her clothes and collects her toiletries from the bathroom. Five minutes later she is closing the gates of The Larches behind her forever.

Still fuming she catches the train back into the city.

By 5pm that evening she not only has a room of her own but also a job: in the Birds of Paradise Massage Parlour.