The Thirteenth Step

Although what I was telling her wasn't strictly true, as I might have exaggerated my earnings a little, it was basically correct. I almost made as much money now as I did at the newspaper. If my readership and particularly premium subscription numbers continued to grow at the same rate they had been, then everything I had said would be true next year. So, it wasn't like I was just idly boasting to try to impress this young lady. Also, my wife makes really good money, so it doesn't matter that the revenue from my blog haven't been quite as much as I would have liked.

Abigail giggled and I looked at her chest again. She really did have a big pair of fun-bags.

"That's a nice pair of glasses," I said, doing my best to not leer at her.

"Oh, thank you," she said and adjusted them as she spoke. "They're new. I don't always wear them, but I should do."

"Yes, they make you look very studious."

I thought about writing a blog about how women are supposed to look attractive. I thought I could call it Sit There and Look Pretty.

"So, what do you blog about?" she sipped her coffee and looked at me with interest.

"All of the hot button topics. Immigration, the population crisis, asylum seekers, the gypsy and traveller community."

"Oh, I see. Is it one of those awful right-wing conservative blogs that is just about bashing immigrants?"

"No, no, not at all. I like to think I take a very balanced view in my writing. And it's not just the immigrants I bash; I go after the communists, the feminists and the cocoa-shunters as well."

"What's a cocoa-shunter?" she asked, looking bemused.

"Never mind." I grinned at her and imagined what it would feel like to squeeze her tits around my cock. "How long have you been a journalist?"

"I finished my degree three years ago. Before that, I was a singer." I noticed she looked wistful as she said this.

"Oh yes, you mentioned your music career when we were in the car yesterday."

"Yes," she said sadly, but smiled. "I thought I was going to be a star. It didn't work out though, so I went back to university. Studied journalism. Changed my profession."

"Well, that is a very brave thing to do." I was worried that she was going to become emotional again, but she appeared quite calm.

"My manager was a complete bastard. His name is Lester Babbitt. Have you heard of him?"

"No, I don't believe I have."

"Do you know what he made me do?"

"No," I said, my voice a hushed whisper due to my rising horror. I had heard of young starlets being required to do all sorts of salacious things by unscrupulous managers in the music industry. I was expecting to hear the grisly details of the lewd acts she was forced to perform in order to secure her shot at stardom. My penis was still rock hard inside my pyjamas, I could feel it throbbing as I looked into her green eyes and waited for her to speak.

"The worst thing that bastard ever did to me was that he made me get these!" She grabbed her breasts with both hands as she spoke, she squeezed them, her fingers digging into the fat flesh through the material of her t-shirt.

I was surprised. "I'm sorry?" I said, not understanding what she meant.

"He made me get these boobs. I've seen you looking at them. I know how they look. They're much too big for me, they're all out of proportion. But these puppies weren't always this big. Soon after he started managing me, Lester encouraged me to go to my GP and say that I had low self-esteem due to my bust size. Eventually, I was referred to a consultant and given a boob-job on the NHS. The augmentation was a tremendous success, they said, and I went from a B cup to an F cup. And now these massive knockers are a reminder of that dark period in my life."

It was a very sad thing to hear. I was really disappointed to find out about her breast implants, I had not realised that her bosoms were not naturally so large. The surgeon really had done an excellent job. I considered writing a blog article about the dangers of pursuing fame at all costs, and the unscrupulous people who operated in the music industry. I thought I could call it A Risky Business. Or Not All That Glitters Is Gold.

"Would it be OK if a friend of mine came round to visit one evening this week?" she asked, pushing her loose hair back from her face.

"Of course. What is she called?" I said without hesitation.

"He is called Morphus. He's the singer in a band called Choke Pair, they are up and coming and I think if I can get an interview with him it might get my writing career restarted."

I didn't like the sound of this. Musicians are usually trouble, in my experience. And what kind of a name was Morphus? I was sure his mum didn't call him that. It sounded like a bad idea to let this gentleman on my property. But she looked at me sweetly and so I agreed.

"OK, that's fine. Just keep the noise down. And please, no drinking. No alcohol in this house."

"OK, no worries," she said. "Actually, another member of the band might come, too. The bassist, he's called Scaramanga. Is that going to be OK?"

I was increasingly uncomfortable with the prospect, but I did not let it show. This girl had been through a lot recently, I didn't like to disappoint her, I found it hard to say no. "Of course, that will be fine," I said.

"Who knows?" she said and smiled at me. "They might even be able to help me get my music career going again."

She finished her coffee and stood up from her chair. Her t-shirt was ruckled up at the back from where she had sat on the chair, and I saw that she did have underwear on underneath it. A black thong, which gave me a very clear view of her broad, round buttocks as she strutted back to the patio doors. She must have realised that her t-shirt had ridden up as she quickly pulled it down, so I only had a brief, cheeky glimpse of her arse. She looked back over her shoulder at me as she reached the door. "See you later. Thank you for letting me stay." And she went back to the summerhouse.

I took a gulp of coffee, put the mug down on the table, then got up and hurried upstairs to the bathroom.

It was the first Friday after she had come to stay at our place, and I was going to a meeting in the evening. I asked Abigail if she wanted to come along, but she said she thought one meeting a week was enough for her. I said that was fine, but she should call me if she needed anything or especially if she felt tempted to drink. This meeting took place in the church hall at the end of our road. It was not as well attended as the one in the community centre in town, but the usual crowd of old alcoholics were there.

Ian said he had been told by his doctor that he had lost seventy-five percent of his liver function. Adrian countered this by saying that his doctor had told him that he had lost ninety percent of his liver function. Benjamin trumped them both by saying he had seen a consultant that week who had told him he had the symptoms of wet brain syndrome. I kept quiet.

I drank three cups of instant coffee during the meeting. I had a pee in the gents' toilets afterwards, and as I was zipping up my fly Benjamin came in through the door and cornered me.

"How is it going, Daniel?" he asked me. He was clearly concerned about something. He looked deathly pale.

"I'm fine. I was so sorry to hear about your diagnosis though."

"It's OK," he said stoically. "I've suspected for a while that I had it. I'm just thankful that I'll be able to die sober. Daniel, tell me, have you ever heard of the thirteenth step?"

"I think I've heard people mention it," I said, trying to remember when I had heard the phrase before.

"Daniel, promise me you'll never take it. Don't ever take the thirteenth step. No matter how great the temptation. Don't do it."

I wasn't sure what it was he was asking me not to do, but I wanted to humour the old man. I liked him, he had helped me a lot. "I promise."

"Good, because once you take that step, there is no turning back," he said in a hushed voice. Then he suddenly grabbed my arm tightly in his clawlike hand, his bloodshot eyes staring at me. "The girl!" he wheezed. "Beware of the girl. And beware of step thirteen."

Walking home from the AA meeting, I passed a beggar who was sat on the pavement outside of Boots. "Can you spare some change please, sir?" I noticed two cans of White Ace cider stood on the ground next to him.

"No, I cannot!" I said angrily. "Why don't you get a proper job instead of leeching off everyone else?"

"Thank you, sir," he said sadly.

"Bloody scrounger," I muttered and walked on. It gave me an idea for another blog article I could write, called The Fight Against Poverty.

When I got back, I saw the light was on in the summerhouse, and I thought I would go down to say goodnight to Abigail. I wasn't wanting to intrude, but I was just being a good host. There was a gap in the curtains, and I was able to peek in. To my surprise, I saw there were two young men in the summerhouse with Abigail. Two men I did not recognise, disreputable looking young men, both wearing black jeans and t-shirts, with long, greasy hair. Scrawny, sickly looking young men. I realised that this must be the two musicians she had mentioned earlier in the week. The window was open, and I could hear what they were saying.

"OK, my turn now," said the first young man. To my horror, I saw he was holding a bong! By a bong, I mean a water pipe used for smoking marijuana. I recognised it as such from the on-line research I had done for my blog article on the evils of cannabis smoking, titled Reefer Madness. It was a good article, I had got a lot of positive feedback for it. I had been thinking of writing another piece about a different but related drugs scourge, nitrous oxide. I was thinking of calling it No Laughing Matter.

He lit the bong, took a long inhalation from it, and blew the smoke out in a great, billowing cloud. I was furious. I was prepared to storm into the summerhouse and tell them that there was to be no drug taking on my property. I had been sober for two years, eleven months and two days and I was not going to put up with this.

"Morph!" Abigail snapped at the boy who had smoked the bong. "I told you to blow the smoke out of the window."

"Ah, shut up," he said absently. "Man, that's some good shit. Smooth."

The other young man nodded, took the bong, carefully cleaned the ash into a mug they were using as an ashtray, and reloaded the bowl from a plastic bag that was on the coffee table. They were sat around in a circle. In fact, there were three of them, so really they were sat around in a triangle. One boy on a sofa, one boy on a chair, and Abigail sat on the floor. Abigail was not wearing her glasses, and I could see that she had put her hair up in bunches and was wearing a black top. She had a number of metal bangles on each wrist, and they rattled and jangled when she moved her hands.

I noticed they had tumblers that they were drinking from, and I was worried they might be drinking alcohol. I could see a large bottle of Sprite but I could not see any booze.

"Can you get that speaker working?" asked the young man who was holding the bong.

"I don't think so," said Abigail. She was fiddling with a small Bluetooth speaker. "I think it's broke."

"Ah, I'll just play it to you through my phone. But you need to hear it loud, really."

He started some music playing from his mobile, and put it on the table. An annoying, tinny noise.

"Hey, Morph. This is really good," said Abigail.

"Thanks, I know," said Morph. "OK, have you got the cards?"

"Yes, here we go," said Abigail, putting a deck of playing cards on the table.

"OK, and we're not playing for money, as you two are both always so broke, so me and Scaramanga have written some forfeits instead."

The other young man produced a plastic bag that contained hundreds of small, folded up slips of paper and gave it a shake.

"It's five card draw, jacks are wild," he said as he dealt out cards to each of the three players.

I was deeply concerned. I don't have anything against gambling as such, but anyone with an addictive personality must be careful. Knowing about Abigail's struggles with alcohol, I didn't want her to risk becoming hooked on gambling too. At least they weren't playing for money.

They played a hand of poker, drawing cards and gambling using the slips of paper as stakes.

"OK, let's see them," said the first boy, Morph.

Abigail put down her cards: a pair of aces.

The first boy put down his: a full house.

The second boy put down his: a pair of eights. And a jack, the wildcard. Three of a kind.

"Bad luck, Abi," said the first boy with a grin. The other boy chuckled. "OK, let's see what we've got." He began unfolding the forfeit slips and reading them out. "Ha! This is a good one to start with: 'the losing player must take their top off'."

The other boy cheered, and Abigail groaned. "How did I know that was going to be in there?" She lifted her t-shirt off over her head, the two boys watched her intently. She wore a simple black bra underneath her t-shirt. Her belly was pale and white, a star tattooed around her navel.

"Hang on, this isn't fair," said the first boy. "If me or Scar had got that forfeit, we would be bare-chested now, we're only wearing t-shirts. But you've got a bra on too. The forfeit should be the same for everyone."

The other boy nodded with agreement.

"No, that's not what it says, it says 'take their top off' not 'take their bra off'," protested Abigail.

"It means all of their tops," said Morph. "Come on, bra too."

Reluctantly, Abigail unhooked her bra and took it off, baring her beautiful breasts to the leers of the two boys. She had the most delicious looking breasts, soft and round, large but perky, with gorgeous pink nipples that boldly pointed upwards.

I realised it had now become more awkward for me if I was to intrude, as Abigail was part naked. It is not good for a host to intrude on a female house guest when she is topless. So, I decided I would just continue watching through the window instead.

The two boys jeered and hooted in the most uncouth manner. I burned with anger at them treating her like this. Although I am not a feminist, I do not like to see women being treated like objects. I feel especially sorry for women with large breasts, who have to put up with all kinds of catcalling and obscene comments from some men. The kind of things you hear shouted from building sites or from white vans as they pass by an amply proportioned young lady: you don't get many of those in a suitcase; if you're selling those puppies, I'll have the one with the pink nose. That kind of thing. It makes me so angry. So, to see Abigail being treated like a piece of meat by these hoodlums made me furious. I was throbbing with anger as I looked through the window, but I managed to maintain my composure.

Abigail, brave and good-natured as she was, grinned stoically as the boys stared at her uncovered bust and made lewd comments about her.

"You know," one boy said to the other, "Abi hasn't always had such big jugs. She had a boob job a few years ago, isn't that right, Abi?"

"Yes. I didn't really want to, but Lester convinced me it would help my career." Abigail looked sad.

"That guy is such a fucking cunt," muttered the boy. "But I'm glad he got you to get the implants. Come on Abi make them jiggle for us."

"Can't we just get on with the game?" she protested.

"Not until you make them jiggle!" he declared.

Abigail rolled her eyes, then stood up and jiggled up and down on the spot, wearing just a pair of camouflage combat trousers and her bracelets and bangles. She made her luscious, big boobs sway and bounce much to the delight of the two boys.

As she sat back down on the carpet, I saw the tattoo she had across her back, a winged cherub with one hand nonchalantly pressed to his chin.

"OK, next forfeit," said Morph unfolding a second slip of paper. "The loser must lick in between the toes of the other players. Come on, me first." He took off his trainers and the holey black socks he wore underneath, and put his large, hairy feet up on the table.

Abigail knelt at the end of the table where Morph's feet were. Looking revolted, she took one foot in her hands. "Oh, it smells so cheesy!" she said with anguish. "It smells like stilton!"

"Rubbish, I had a shower last week!" hooted the boy.

The other boy had pulled off his trainers and socks and put his bare feet on the table next to the first boy's, so there was now four dirty, smelly feet in front of where poor, pretty Abigail was knelt. I watched in horror as Abigail bent forward, stuck out her tongue, and reluctantly licked around the first boy's big toe.

"You have to lick in between each of my toes, all ten, that is the rules," said the boy. And Abigail obeyed him. She looked distressed, I felt so sorry for her, and I was filled with anger at the unclean boys. She stuck out her tongue, the piercing in the tip of it glinting in the light, and licked between each of his toes. "How does that taste?" he asked sarcastically.

"Gross!" she panted, looking up from his foot.

"OK, next foot," he said snidely. The anguish of the poor girl was evident as she licked between his toes, she was grimacing.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed, sticking out her tongue.

"Now do Scar's toes too."

The process was repeated with the other boy's feet. Beautiful Abigail ran her tongue in between the ugly, hairy toes of the boy's big feet. I could see she was spitting out the small pieces of fluff that she had licked from between their toes.

"Now suck my toes, I like that," said the boy.

Abigail obediently sucked each of the toes of one of his feet in turn, then gently kissed the sole of his foot.

"See if you can fit them all in your mouth at once."

She stretched her black painted lips around all five of the toes on his right foot, cramming the top of his foot in her mouth. The two of them laughed at her while she knelt there sucking his foot. He pushed his foot forward into her mouth, making her gag. I saw her eyes bulge, and she made retching sounds while he did this, but she kept his foot in her mouth.

"She's going to end up with a verruca on her tonsils," one of them joked. They laughed at her some more, then one said, "OK, let's get on with the game."

Abigail took his toes out of her mouth and sat back on the carpet.

"You two are so nasty to me," she whined.

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it," was the response.

One of the boys opened a rucksack that was led on the floor next to the sofa and pulled out a clear glass bottle. I immediately recognised it as a litre of Smirnoff.

"Hey Abi, I know you said you were trying to give up drinking, but would you like a shot just to take the taste away?"

She was picking hair and fluff off of her tongue and lips from the feet she had been licking. "I really shouldn't," she said hesitantly.

"Come on, one little shot won't hurt you." He got up from where he was sat and picked up the cup she had drank her Sprite from. He opened the bottle and poured a decent sized slug into the cup and handed it to her. I wanted to shout at her: "Don't do it!" but I was a coward. I did nothing but watch as she gulped down the vodka.

"Oh man, that's the first time I've had a drink in over a week," she gasped as she put down the tumbler.

"Want another?" asked the boy.

"Go on then," she said. He poured a large measure of vodka into her glass and she sipped it.

Part of me was furious that they were giving her alcohol when she was trying to get sober. I was angry at her, too, for not trying to resist temptation. But another part of me craved the booze she was drinking and I was desperate to taste it for myself.

They dealt another hand. Forfeit slips were placed as bets. I thought I could see the two boys signalling to each other, but Abigail did not appear to notice. Then, one of the boys sneakily produced a card from his pocket and slid it to the other boy without Abigail noticing. They were cheating! I realised they were deliberately fixing the game so all of the forfeits would fall to poor Abigail. The blackguards! How I longed to be able to warn that poor unfortunate girl. But, alas! I could not. I had no choice but to watch or walk away. So, I watched.