Susie Learns the Hard Way (4 page)

 

Outside the window, crouched in the overhanging bushes in the secret den he'd first used almost a decade earlier, soon after Miss Piggy came to Mason's High School, old Groudle the caretaker crouched in the shadows, one hand frantically busy inside his overalls as he gazed on the scene he'd enjoyed so many times before.

The girl was slumped across the desk, her lovely bottom striped red, skirt bunched above her waist, knickers stretched between her thighs, two fingers buried in one of the cutest little pussies Groudle had ever seen, and he'd quite lost count after all these years, but he'd seen some proper little peaches. Miss Piggy had a man's eye for the girls, and always seemed to fix on the ones that Groudle would have picked if he'd been choosing for himself. It had been quite a while since he last bothered to watch Miss Piggy during her after-school sessions. Ten years ago, in her early thirties, she'd been slim and shapely and reasonably attractive, especially while taking PE lessons in her crisp clean gym kit. And he used to find her just as arousing as the younger girls, one arm flailing the cane, feet astride, and one hand under her skirt and between her legs as she thrust fingers inside her own body in time to those she was watching.

But these days she was more stout and ruddy, and Groudle just concentrated on watching the girl.

And she was worth watching.

She'd slumped forward across the desk like they all did, but now she was stirring, softly withdrawing two delicately glistening fingers from her sweet body. As the shiny pink lips clasped themselves wetly together, Groudle groaned to himself, and sprayed copiously up the wall.

 

 

 

When Susie left school it was inevitable that she'd do journalism and media studies, inevitable that she'd go to college, and even more inevitable that going to college would mean moving away from home. Her parents didn't understand why; the college was only a few miles away. But her parents didn't know how desperately she wanted to be free to spend whole nights – and days, come to that – as she pleased. She wanted a whole new world of opportunity where she knew her destiny as a top investigating journalist was awaiting her.

In her final year she moved from a shared house into her own flat, an experiment which proved to be good and bad. Most of the time her easygoing and up-front nature, the very thing about her which made her sexual availability so blindingly obvious to the men around her, also made it easy for her to move on. She never took anything seriously and they all knew it; there was seldom any ill feeling when she spotted someone new or different and departed in pursuit of them. Like a butterfly dipping between exotic blooms, her wandering behaviour was completely natural and expected, and the men she left behind usually went back to normal life with a smile on their face. Only one or two made the mistake of reading more into her actions than a brief excitement, but in the past they had been easy to get rid of. Now she had a place of her own they were always trying to move in with her, obliging her to be uncharacteristically harsh with them. She didn't like hurting their feelings, but they left her with no alternative.

But she wasn't going to go back to a shared house and give up the pleasures of her pretty little flat, which she adored. On the ground floor of a four-storey Victorian house in a leafy street, she was in a quiet neighbourhood but close to the city centre and all the action, and almost as close to college, in the opposite direction. By going home regularly, twice a week, to see her parents, she forestalled the possibility of surprise visits at the flat.

High-ceilinged rooms, huge windows and imposing fireplaces gave the two-rooms-kitchen-and-a-bathroom layout a space and grandeur that Susie loved, and being here alone on winter evenings had been a private delight, usually followed by the more familiar kind of private delights. And it was while savouring these delights that she first discovered her new neighbour was a sexual athlete of incredible prowess.

It was Sunday afternoon, just after three, and she'd just climbed from her bath, glowing with the sensuous heat of the oiled and perfumed water and with the deeper warmth that shaving her legs and her neat little pussy always created. And as usual, it was a heat she couldn't ignore; neither could she see any reason why she should. So she lay on her bed, fingers idly stirring between her legs, wondering whether to carry on and let her fingernails rasp her little button into a frenzy, or push a couple of fingers inside and let their slippery thickness spread her apart and produced that deeper and long-lasting satisfaction that relaxed every muscle in her body. She'd just decided to do both, starting with a fingertip crescendo which she knew would leave her pussy aching for fulfilment, when her attention was caught by a very familiar noise, as the bed upstairs began thudding remorselessly into the floorboards.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

It was a regular pace, which meant only one thing. They were at it again! The bloke must be the fittest man in the city, probably the country.

Thud! Thud! Thud! it went, getting faster as he got into his stride.

Susie listened in a mixture of surprise and envy. The Saturday night coupling upstairs was a regular feature of life in her flat, and was impressive for its duration as well as its ferocity. And Sunday mornings were usually the occasion for an equally impressive repeat performance. In fact, the sounds of this morning's bout had ignited her own desires, and after delighting herself with her fingers, she had only just decided it was time for her bath when they began again, their second bout of the morning.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Susie was jealous; this was gold medal-standard shagging from a bloke quite obviously qualified to fuck for Britain in the next Olympics.

Then she heard the squealing become a wailing as the girl – Anne or Annie, she wasn't sure which – began to rise to her own crescendo. ‘Aah... Aaah... Aaaaah...!' the long, agonised shrieks mingling with the thuds as her boyfriend clearly pushed himself solidly home.

As she listened with growing excitement, Susie discovered her right hand was keeping time with the rhythm upstairs, fingers pressing in and out of her body at the same moment as what's-his-name was pushing in and out of Annie. In her mind she pictured the girl on her back, with legs wide and knees drawn up as her boyfriend rose and fell between them, each downward thrust contracting the muscles of his bottom as he rammed himself harder and deeper, making the bed thud and Annie squeal.

Still keeping perfect time, Susie's fingers pushed harder and faster, and she felt her pussy spreading round them just as she knew Annie's was spread around the genuine article upstairs. And each time it pushed in Annie's lips spread a little wider, making her and Susie squeal in perfect harmony, faster and faster and faster until the bed was battering on the floor, Annie's squeals were one long continuous wail, and Susie was screaming aloud in release as she came at precisely the same moment as Annie and her boyfriend.

It was better than she'd expected; a delightful release that left her weak and gasping, the relaxation that followed letting her mind wander until, half asleep, she realised he was doing it again! But now it only made her angry. ‘Inconsiderate,' she muttered to herself as she searched for some clothes to wear, ignoring the juicy wetness between her thighs.

‘Bloody racket,' she said aloud, rattling coat hangers in the wardrobe, feeling the dampness still seeping from her.

‘For crying out loud,' she called out, feeling the fresh clean panties stick wetly to her body as soon as she pulled them on, as the thudding continued, a full thirty minutes after it had started for the third time.

It was still thudding away when she left the house, although it was faster now and Annie had got to the squealing stage again, so it couldn't last much longer. And the house was quiet when she returned twenty minutes later with an armful of Sunday papers. They were all there, all the tabloids, right down to the sleaziest of the lot, and they promised a good hour or more of entertainment. Every Sunday she read at least one, usually more, and never failed to find them exciting. They were a never-ending source of interest and arousal, and though her intent was simply to study for her future career, her reading was still very often the trigger for a quiet afternoon of long-drawn-out pleasure and release. She thought the best story this week was the revival of swinger parties where anything and everything goes, and though it provided such a rich choice of fantasy for her solitary pleasures and she fully intended to come back to it later, she read on just in case. Halfway through a story about a schoolteacher with a fondness for being caned by his teenage pupils, she was disturbed by an outside influence, and she peered around the room, trying to identify its source.

Footsteps on the stairs, that was all. Then she froze, unable to believe her ears.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Away he went again upstairs, the bed pounding on the floor.

Half an hour later, with its steady rhythm unaltered in speed or strength, she gave up and went out, returning much later after the pubs were closed, having enjoyed a pleasant evening in good company and much in need of eight hours' sleep.

Over the next few weeks his incredible sexual performances became a source of utter amazement to Susie. To have the ability to perform so frequently and relentlessly was astounding enough in itself, but to have the
appetite
, to actually
want
to do it almost every waking moment of your life, was another thing altogether. She was only twenty-two years old, but she'd lived a bit and counted herself as experienced. But she could say with honesty that she knew of only one other person with an appetite of similar scale, and she'd got two fingers buried inside that person right now.

But, in the shape of the bloke upstairs – Andy, she'd heard Annie call out at moments of extreme passion – was someone with a matching level of desire as hers. But he'd already found a girlfriend, and she wasn't about to steal blokes from other girls. All else aside, she'd only seen him once, from a distance and in the dark, so she didn't really know whether he was good-looking or no. She ignored the little voice in the background telling her she didn't care... and anyway, she did. Even if she hadn't seen him, she knew enough about him to think he might be a trifle weird.

He never seemed to go to work, but was always in, and always
doing
something. There were footsteps, bumps and rattles, as if he was forever emptying crockery out of cupboards and putting it back. She toyed with the thought that he was one of those obsessive types who's got to keep cleaning all the time; there were certainly some odd smells upstairs, like powerful chemical cleaners, so maybe he was forever bleaching the work surfaces or some such thing.

But it was when she was obliged to spend a few days at home by herself that she really noticed something odd...

At first Susie imagined the bloke on the stairs to be a meter reader. It couldn't be Andy. For reasons which were perhaps connected with the activities she was usually engaged in while he was enacting his own virtuoso performances, she'd pictured Andy as all glistening muscle in legs and shoulders, with an equally glistening and enormous lunchbox in order to do the deed so often and so long.

Or it may have been the fact that she'd only met him in the dark before.

This time, though, it was in the hallway that she bumped – literally – into a hunched figure in a leather jacket. Concerned that he may have been a burglar up to no good, she introduced herself with a brisk and friendly greeting. ‘Hi, I'm Susie – I live in number one.' followed by an inviting, tell-me-everything smile.

‘I know. I'm Andy – from upstairs.'

Surely not, she thought. All right to look at, in a furtive sort of way, he didn't look as she'd imagined the stud she'd heard hammering away upstairs. In fact he didn't look like he had enough blood in him to get it up at all, never mind keep it up. And as for all that continual humping – well, judging by size and weight, he hadn't had a decent meal since Christmas and he looked like he'd be in trouble carrying two pints of milk upstairs by himself.

On the other hand, she thought as she closed her front door behind her, maybe he looked like that
because
of all that activity. Perhaps he'd worn himself into a frazzle with doing it all the time. Certainly he looked like someone who spent his whole life on the job might be expected to look – drawn and exhausted.

Now, here she was coming through the outside door into the hallway on Monday evening, and here was another bloke on his way down the stairs, a bloke who might have been Andy's brother if physique – or lack of it – was the only guide. This was another shy, withdrawn individual who may well have been a meter reader by profession himself, so reticent was his nature. However, it was too late in the evening for meter readers to be out and so she greeted him with a cheerful, ‘Hello,' but he scurried past her and vanished out of the building into the evening without a word, leaving Susie puzzling on the doorstep.

Later on she heard footsteps on the stone steps climbing up to the front door and, curiosity stirred, felt she just had to peep. So she crept over to the tall bay window and peered shamelessly round the edge of the curtain. What she saw was strange, but reassuring. Andy was at the door with his key in the lock, accompanied by another man – just a bulky figure in the darkness.