The Bonk Squad (15 page)

She slipped the first
pearl button from its buttonhole. Ingrid’s eyes scrunched closed in
terror. Her heart thumped; Marcy gloried in the rapid pulse in
Ingrid’s neck. Lily of the Valley pumped, terror-stricken, into the
dusty air of the disused room. That was more like it!
Bitch!

Marcy completed her
unbuttoning to reveal a flesh colored bra.

“
Oh,
boring
, sweetie...”

She unhooked the bra and
lifted it for a peek at the scared white breasts
underneath.

“
They could do with some
excitement, couldn’t they? Paul would be
so
turned-on if he thought your tits
had had some thrills while they weren’t with him.”

Marcy hummed happily as
she took nail scissors from her bag and cut the bra straps through.
She tossed the boring bra against the wall. Then she cut the blouse
sleeves apart and removed that as well.

Ingrid stood to rigid
attention, arms hauled taut, eyes now wide open, nipples stiff with
terror.

Marcy touched a talon to
each. Ingrid flinched.

“
That’s just the way we
need them—nice and tight. Well done.”

She dug in the roomy bag
again and produced a tiny bottle of contact adhesive and a handful
of small sequined shapes. She smoothed the glue onto the puckered
peaks.

“
Green?” she asked,
holding a glittering emerald circle against Ingrid’s pale skin. “Or
a little red heart? Or these black goodies with the tassels? Your
choice, Ingrid. No—not speaking? Well, the black looks good to me.
And I’m sure Paul will
love
them.” She applied glue to each, and set them
aside.

She removed the rest of
Ingrid’s clothes, and fixed the small glittering cones in
place.

Ingrid moaned, looking
down at her cheaply ornamented body.

Marcy glanced at her
watch. Time was getting short. She produced a battery shaver and
ran it over Ingrid’s groin, letting the crinkly curls fall onto the
floor.

“
Open your legs. Good
girl.”

Fearfully, Ingrid obeyed,
inching her feet apart in their uninspiring shoes. Marcy buzzed
away, pressing the pulsating little shaver against poor Ingrid’s
pussy, knowing the vibrations would shoot right up through her
core.

“
Left foot up,” she
demanded, peeling the shoes and clothes away from Ingrid’s ankle.
“And now the right.” She tossed them against the wall. Without her
shoes, Ingrid’s arms were horribly stretched.

Marcy slipped her own
shoes off and set them beside Ingrid’s feet.

“
Pop my heels on, sweetie.
They’ll raise you up a little. Much more comfortable. And won’t
your legs look longer...” The spike-heeled shoes and tiny tasseled
cones were now the total costume.

She ran a caressing finger
over Ingrid’s pale exposed mound, then pressed a garish lipstick
kiss onto it, registering the tiny bristles with her
lips.

Ingrid was unwise enough
to try and kick her. Marcy grabbed her leg and exposed her
glistening flesh.

“
Why Ingrid, you’re so
wet!”

Smiling with triumph, she
packed her curious tool-bag, slid into Ingrid’s shoes, and stood
ready to leave. “One final little touch,” she said, renewing her
lipstick. She kissed each breast as Ingrid hung there, helpless.
Then she pulled out her cell-phone and snapping a photo. “I’ll send
him that to let him know you’re having a lovely time. He’ll be here
soon. I’m sure he’ll be so pleased for you. Or maybe
not...?”

She left.

Vi found it surprisingly difficult.
She was an adult aged seventy-six. She’d been married for many
years. Produced a son. Had big teenage grandchildren—the photos on
the mantelpiece were proof enough of that.

She had absolute privacy here at home.
She could type anything at all on the paper, and screw it up and
burn it if she didn’t want other eyes seeing it.

But by late evening the words still
wouldn’t appear. And she knew them all! They were in the books she
read...in the chapters the younger women brought along to the
meetings.

Everyday words, arranged so that the
writing shone vivid with lust and longing. So you could hear the
sighs, and the slap of flesh against flesh. And almost smell the
hot bedrooms and rumpled sheets and energetic bodies.

Vi’s secret dreams of publishing
steamier stories as Lettie Berryman or May Tartley were fading
fast.

She always came away from the meetings
invigorated. Couldn’t wait to get to her dear old Brother electric
typewriter as soon as she arrived home. And it had been a good
meeting today—an eye-opener in some ways.

Liz’s revelations about
her—ahem!—pubic hair had really set Vi back on her heels. She was
still cogitating about the sac and crack thing the ex-husband had
endured for his new girlfriend. She had a horrible suspicion she’d
worked it out. Not his bottom and scrotum, surely? She pursed her
mouth with imagined pain.

Nurse Mandy might make a better fist
of things with an actual plot line to follow. A shame she had so
much time in which to write and so little ability. She was very
keen, poor girl.

Ian’s synopsis had been enjoyable—not
really a romance, but he had a strong relationship threaded in and
out of the exciting spy story he’d attempted.

Meg had mentioned a new
gentleman friend, and Vi’s ears had pricked up at that. Meg was a
nice woman. She’d done a good job of raising that son on her own
for the last few years. And it looked as though
he’d
taken a shine to Eloise’s
daughter—although that was a non-starter because the girl was
several years older than he was.

(But if she’d been able to see what
Ben and Tigger were attempting at that very moment on the rug at
the beach she’d have stopped worrying about Paul’s scrotum
entirely.)

“
How does it feel? Tell me
how it feels, Ben.”

“
Mmmmfff...yeah...like a
hot wet octopus...like you’re full of warm custard...like I’m
sliding in noodles...”

“
Noodles?”

“
Slippery...soft....God,
Tigger—that won’t fit...shit...oh yeahhhhhhh...”

So—two widows (herself and Meg), two
divorcees (Liz and Romy, although Romy was married to Neill these
days), two other married women (Eloise and Mandy) and two single
people (Ian and Bobbie.) What an interesting symmetry their little
group had.

Vi returned her eyes to the all too
blank page she’d lined up in her trusty Brother. Typed a few words
and ’d them out. And then began a story about a group of writers
who met on the third Saturday of each month. The shy bachelor, who
looked rather like Ian, and the quiet spinster (Bobbie with a nicer
hairstyle), were gradually drawn together, despite the quarrels
over her naughty cat digging up his prize vegetables. She was away!
But for sure these characters weren’t going to end up panting and
playing with sex-toys in bed. They’d be lucky if she allowed them
more than one kiss before she drew the curtain, and the readers
once again had to imagine the rest.

Maybe next time?

She sighed with vexation as she got up
to make another cup of tea.

Al had shocked her. He was well
dressed and seemed to have money to burn. Their dinner had been
quite expensive, with dessert wine as well as the first delicious
bottle that had partly disappeared down her cleavage. Meg felt
pampered.

He’d talked about his job to begin
with. And out of the blue asked, “Have you ever tried the dating
agencies or the internet sites? It’s a whole new ballgame,
searching for a partner these days.”

She shook her head, amazed he’d
mention the subject or even need any help. “I haven’t been looking
for anyone really.”

“
It’s a circus. Beyond
belief. The agencies want all the information in the world out of
you, and then come up with someone totally unsuitable.”

“
Who’ve you met?” she
asked, intrigued.

“
There are four types of
women looking for a man, I reckon.” He emphasized them by counting
them off on his fingers. “The spinsters. Dried up as prunes. Won’t
let you near them. Useless.”

“
And...?”

“
The divorcees. Tried one
man...it didn’t work...want to try again. You can see why it didn’t
work the first time.”

“
Mmm...?”

“
The gold diggers. Want
someone to pay the bills, especially for the kids they’ve had with
someone else.”

“
And...?”

“
The career women. Hard as
nails. Absolute bitches. Anything you can do, they’ve already done
better. God knows why they’re even looking...”

Meg laughed as he concluded his list.
“Maybe you’ve just had bad luck?”

“
You can say
that
again. I’ve cut back
a lot of my work since Michael came to live with me. Amazing what
you can delegate when you really try. Bloody Diana was right after
all.” He pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. “The
cycling’s good exercise, but I can’t do that non-stop. I want a new
playmate. Someone nice and soft and affectionate. I’ll buy her
dinners and flowers and whatever else she wants, but I need to
fancy the woman, dammit!”

A tiny twinge of jealousy threatened
to spoil Meg’s euphoria. “I can’t imagine a lovely man like you
having any trouble finding a woman. What about all these bars and
places? Aren’t they supposed to be full of single people on the
prowl?”

“
Yeah, right. And they’re
mostly not much older than Michael, with bits of metal through
their eyebrows and tongues.”

“
I thought everyone met up
on the internet these days, anyway?”

“
The internet sites are
full of very fat ladies who lie about their age. They sound
wonderful until you actually set eyes on them.”

“
So I suppose the men lie
too?”

“
Wouldn’t know, Meg. Why
would I know that?”

“
How about that dinner
scheme, then? Eight strangers in a nice restaurant and you see what
happens?”

“
I’ll tell you what
happens—nothing good. So how about it?”

“
Are you asking
me
, Al?” She sat there
gob-smacked. “I mean are you seriously asking me?”

“
Would you seriously think
about it?”

“
But...I’m really not
looking for another partner.”

“
An escort? A couple of
outings each week, and a bit of a cuddle?” He sent her a roguish
smile.

“
We had a bit of a cuddle
last night, didn’t we…?”

“
And very nice it was, too.
Perhaps I’m hoping for a bit more than just a cuddle?”

“
I thought you probably
were, Al.” She played for time, still somewhat overcome. “A couple
of outings a week? Hmmm...” She gazed at him, head on one side,
considering. Bed would be no problem—she’d been expecting that.
Looking forward to it, to be honest. It was at least six months
since she’d last been propositioned, and what a fizzer
he’d
been.

Al held her gaze across the table. Not
begging, but hoping.

“
You could have your pick
of women—you know you could. I don’t believe this,” she finally
said.

“
The glossy dollies? The
trophy wives?”

“
Why not? You’re a real
catch. Surely there are women tripping over each other to make off
with you... “

He had the good manners to look
abashed. “Not what I’m looking for. I don’t want the complications
of another wife. Just someone to have a laugh with. Talk to. Feel
comfortable with. Someone who can cope with a teenage son and his
moods. A friend, Meg—a bloody good friend.”

“
And a lover?”

He nodded. “That’s the
deal.”

She sat there, still surprised, but
still not turning him down. “Okay, we’ll try it then,” she said,
amazing herself with her temerity. “But I don’t want it eating into
my writing time.”

He sipped his wine. “Ben and I have a
scheme to help with that.”

“
What...?
How...?”

“
Wait and see. I’ll spoil
his birthday surprise for you if I say any more.”

Meg’s glance sharpened. “What do you
mean?”

“
You’ll have to be patient
for another week or so. That’s all. We were working on things last
night.”

She sighed. “It’s not ideal right now.
Ben needs the computer for school projects, so I’m fitting in
around him.”

“
So how about you try
fitting in around me?”

“
Starting
tonight?”

Al nodded.

“
Well, I put my best undies
on, in case...”

He threw back his head and laughed—a
rich deep chuckle that made her flesh tingle. She’d have to go on a
serious diet, now. And somehow keep the lights low until she’d
peeled off a few pounds.