The Godson (19 page)

‘Where's she?'

‘Asleep.'

‘She doesn't know what she's missing, does she?' grinned Norton, raising his glass.

Margaret took another sip of champagne and gave Les another one of those foxy smiles from across the top of the glass that made his blood race a little.

‘So what about my rub?'

‘Sure. But we'll have to make do with some suntan oil. It's all I got.'

‘No worries,' smiled Margaret. ‘I brought this.' She produced a small bottle of baby oil from the front of her tracksuit and handed it to Norton.

‘Good as gold,' he replied. ‘That should do admirably. Here's what we'll do.'

Without waiting to be told, Margaret unzipped the front of her top, slipped it off and hung it over the nearest chair revealing a nicely rounded pair of boobs sitting comfortably in a delicate black bra, that was as much lace as it was brassiere. The half cup thrust them up slightly and pushed her two dainty
pink nipples against the lace. Norton nearly crushed the bottle of baby oil in his hand and felt like kicking a hole through the sliding glass door.

‘Righto,' he croaked. ‘Okay … yeah.'

Norton put their glasses next to the ice-bucket sitting on the table and moved it a little closer to the bed then sat up one end of the bed with his back against the wall. Margaret got in between his legs and bent slightly forward, pushing her hair down on either side of her neck. With her knees up and facing the TV she fitted between Les's legs perfectly. Les tipped a little baby oil on his hands, rubbed them together till it was warm then sprinkled oil on her back and began slowly working it in.

‘Mmmhh!' she murmured. ‘That feels good already.'

He sprinkled more baby oil on her and began rubbing it around her shoulders and up and down her spine just using the strength of his fingers.

‘Ohhhh! That feels so good,' she crooned.

‘It'd want to,' said Norton. ‘I get fifty bucks an hour for this in Double Bay.'

Margaret chuckled and lightly slapped him on the knee. Les rubbed more oil around the small of her back using the flat of his hands; Margaret sighed, reached across and finished her glass of champagne. Les stopped for a moment, finished his, then poured them both another glass. He worked more baby oil into her back and around her shoulder blades, held her head with one hand and rubbed oil into her slender neck with his fingers; first one side, then the other. Her skin was soft and supple and easy to rub. Margaret was crooning softly, loving every second of it. They stopped for a moment and drank some more champagne.

Norton slipped her bra-straps down and began working harder on her shoulders, kneading them with his fingers. Again without saying a word Margaret reached behind her, unclipped her bra and dropped it on the bed. A small tremor went through Norton and in about two seconds he had a horn that hard a cat couldn't scratch it. Margaret leant back into him, closed her eyes and sighed; out of the bra her boobs looked rounder and juicier than ever. Les sprinkled baby oil on them and began massaging it in, watching them glisten in the moonlight as the nipples rose and firmed. Against him he could feel Margaret's breath getting shorter as she started to come to the boil.

She opened her eyes for a moment and looked up at him;
they were two swirling pools of molten emerald inviting him down. Les cradled her shoulders with one arm and, still massaging her breasts, tilted his head down and kissed her. It was as if their lips were made for each other the way they melted together. Margaret snaked her arms around his neck and drew him down to her and her tongue, hot and sweet, played cunningly around his mouth.

Margaret's lips were made for kissing. They were a blend of softness and pure delight and the woman herself was brimful of sensuality and sex appeal. There was no stopping Les now. He slid his hand down the front of her tracksuit pants on to her ted, now damp and hot. He stroked it softly for a few moments as Margaret made tiny moaning sounds as she kissed him feverishly. He slipped her tracksuit pants and knickers off at the same time, then got up and stepped out of his. As he stood at the edge of the bed Margaret knelt up, reached over and took hold of his dick and slid her mouth over the end of it making moaning, sobbing sounds from deep inside her as she did. Norton's eyes fluttered and his knees buckled. Christ! he thought. Fancy wanting to go out drinking piss with your mates when you've got this at home. That builder in Melbourne must have had an empty biscuit tin for a head. He let her draw on it for a while then he had to stop or he would have spurted all over the place. He eased her back on the bed and entered her; she shuddered and let out a long low groan. Norton's old boy fed on it and got harder as he worked it in, deeper and deeper. Margaret wound her arms around his neck and back as she kissed him and rode with him, squealing all the time with delight. Ingersoll might have been strong and horny, but Margaret was sexuality plus: and all woman.

They got stuck into it as if they were expecting Fred Nile to come banging on the door saying he was going to pass a law in fifteen minutes that there was to be no more sex in New South Wales for twenty years. Margaret thrust herself up at Les, writhing on the bed and kicking her legs in the air while Norton drove down. Then Les felt it coming and he couldn't stop. He began to stroke faster, arching his back and stiffening his legs till finally he gripped the cheeks of Margaret's backside giving her every centimetre and poured himself into her as she howled and writhed around the bed with unrestrained rapture.

They lay together for a little while getting their breath back and their heads together. It had been more than just an ordinary
roll in the hay. Norton cradled an arm around Margaret feeling more than a little pleased with himself. Not only because it had been an unreal screw. He really liked her. She had good looks, sexuality, a sense of humour and sophistication and above all, she was the complete sensuous woman in Norton's eyes. Whether it meant him going down to Melbourne or having to fly her up, he was going to make sure he saw plenty more of Margaret again, no matter what. Completely relaxed, he closed his eyes as he felt her get up and heard her use the bathroom. When he opened them again he saw she'd got dressed and was standing in front of the mirror tidying her hair. A small pang of disappointment went through him; he was hoping she may have stayed a while and maybe they could have gone off again.

‘You going already?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘I was hoping you might have stayed for a while.'

‘Well, I can't really stay.'

‘No. Fair enough.'

He wrapped a towel around himself and stepped towards her as she headed towards the door. Les put his arm around her to hold her and give her a kiss goodnight and although she kissed him lightly back she didn't quite seem to melt into his arms.

‘I'll see you in the morning before I leave,' he smiled.

Margaret returned his smile but didn't quite look him in the face when she did. ‘Goodnight, Les. Thanks for the champagne.'

The door clicked and she was gone.

Norton cleaned his teeth and straightened the bed. He began to understand Margaret's feelings and why she left so abruptly. She's probably a little embarrassed going off like that first time up he thought. And you can bet your life she's never met anyone in Melbourne like the superscrew from Dirranbandi. Yes, I understand, he sighed. She's only a woman. He watched the silent TV for a little while then went to sleep. He was looking forward to seeing her again in the morning.

F
ROM THE TIME
Peregrine left the disco, it had taken him approximately forty-five minutes to get into Heather's pants and about five minutes to empty out. She told him that by coincidence she was a singer and went back to her room to get her harmonica. Peregrine had to sit through at least half
a dozen songs, including a rendition of ‘Me And Bobby McGee', that would have had Janis Joplin rolling over in her grave. She had a nasally, screeching voice like a sulphur-crested cockatoo with a bad hernia, and a brain about the same size as well. This didn't stop Peregrine from promising her a twoyear recording contract as soon as he got back to Sydney. Oddly enough though, Heather appealed to Peregrine. She was a halfbaked, trendy dolly bird, totally naive and completely blase to anything going on around her and she'd just turned twenty — it was almost a case of birds of a feather flocking together. Peregrine decided to take her to the farm with him for the two weeks.

Heather hadn't quite fallen head over heels in love with Peregrine, but no one had ever bought her French champagne before and none of the boys in Port Macquarie were multimillionaires; his father owned a recording company so that had to be a plus. With his contacts and her voice, it would only be a matter of time before she was catapulted into stardom. She was on holidays so the two weeks off work would be no problem and you never know, the farm could be fun. There'd have to be a place somewhere she could hide if Peregrine got too punishing and she only had to sleep with him of a night. Whatever their feelings for each other they still managed to have another ordinary fuck before they went to sleep, and as Heather stayed the night, another one in the morning.

N
ORTON SLEPT LIKE
a baby and woke up with a grin on his face just before eight. He had a shower, packed some clothes and rang Peregrine's room.

‘Peregrine. It's Les. How are you mate?' he said brightly.

‘Absolutely whizz bang, old boy. Yourself?'

‘Terrific. You disappeared rather smartly last night. I went for a dance with that girl in the black dress, looked up and you were gone.'

Peregrine chuckled into the phone as he looked across the room at Heather, towelling herself off after a shower. She'd thrown her toothbrush and a spare pair of knickers in her bag when she went to get her harmonica the night before, so there was no need for her to go to her room first thing that morning.

‘Yes. Well, young Heather and I decided to come back here for a drop of champers. What about yourself?'

‘I finished up pretty much the same way,' laughed Les.

‘Good show, old boy.'

‘So what are you doing for breakfast?'

‘Well, seeing as it's our last morning here, I wouldn't mind having a bit of something decent in that restaurant. What do you say?'

‘I reckon that's a top idea, Pezz.' This suited Norton nicely. He felt like having a good breakfast before they left and it would give him a chance to see Margaret again or one of her friends from work and find out where she was. ‘How about I call for you in say, fifteen minutes?'

‘Splendid. See you then.'

Les packed the rest of his gear, made sure he looked all right for Margaret, then collected Peregrine.

He gave Heather a big smile when he first saw her, but it faded a bit when Peregrine told him going down in the lift that she would be joining them on the farm for the two weeks. And there wasn't a great deal he could do about it without making a real prick of himself. However, when he thought it over, if Peregrine had a bit of crumpet on the farm, he wouldn't be worrying about wanting to go out chasing after it. Maybe it was for the best.

The restaurant was fairly crowded when they walked in, but the staff soon found a table for The Great Gatsby from room 220, his red-headed offsider and their lady friend. It was a buffet style breakfast. A waitress set your table for you then you helped yourself to what was on. If you wanted your eggs Benedictine or poached or whatever, a chef would do that for you, and there was no shortage of choice food. They all settled for scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, croissants, and cereal, and got into it with great gusto. While they sat there eating and chatting away Les had a squizz around the restaurant, hoping to see Margaret. He finally spotted her blue and white tracksuit when they had almost finished, sitting with a table of six at the end of the buffet near the windows. He smiled and waited till she got up to get some more coffee. She had her back to him when he came up behind her.

‘Hello good-looking,' he grinned. ‘How are you?'

She turned, looked at him briefly and completely straight through him, then totally ignored him. Norton's eyebrows knitted and he gave her a double blink, thinking she might have been playing some sort of game.

‘Margaret,' he said again. ‘How are you?'

Again she totally ignored him. It was no game. She filled her cup with coffee and all Les got was a brief and icy ‘Excuse
me' as she reached over for a slice of toast. Having got that, she turned on her heel and rejoined her friends at the opposite end of the restaurant, leaving Norton standing there like a stale bottle of piss holding half a plate of sliced honeydew melon.

Norton couldn't believe his eyes. He was absolutely dumbfounded and hurt. He'd been given the complete and utter blurt, a la carte. It wasn't just a dent in his pride. Margaret had kicked every one of the panels in and the windscreen and headlights too. So much for his ideas of being seen around town with the sensuous, sophisticated woman from Melbourne. The dirty, poxy low moll, he fumed. Ignoring me like that. Fuckin' bitch. Then it dawned on him what had happened. Les had been used, screwed and abused. So much for his feelings. He was nothing more to Margaret than a one night stand. And you could bet she couldn't get down the pub fast enough and tell all her fuckin' mates either, the cunt. A burst of angry air snorted from his nostrils as he took his plate of honeydew melon back to his table. He didn't chew it as he glared towards the other end of the restaurant, he remorselessly ground it to a pulp. Heather was alone at the table when he sat down. Well one thing for fuckin' sure, thought Norton. If I can't get a sheila, Peregrine's not fuckin' gettin' one either. That's for sure.

‘Where did Peter go?' he asked.

Heather looked at him for a moment. ‘Peter?'

‘Oh, well, I meant Peregrine.'