Climbers

They were climbers. He had already reached the pinnacle of wealth. She had yet to climb. But she showed a desire, a hunger to succeed, an inner steel and resilience, to get whatever she needed.

Alex needed a girl. He found her cowering in a damp deserted subway shrouded in heaps of blankets on a bitterly cold winter's night at minus three, breathing a deep sigh of relief when he realised that she was alone. Most of her face was concealed, snugly wrapped in a drab beige woollen shawl. Still, he could make out her almond brown eyes, studying him. Her dirt-crusted forehead. The tangled knots of greasy, copper, shimmering hair that clung to her neck. He stared at her. Her eyes closed like roller blinds, hiding her shame, her humiliation at having to beg to a young man like him.

I Am Homeless. Please Help Me.

A torn-off strip of cardboard lay at her feet. Her plea was scrawled in marker ink: black, bleak, like her future. Assuming she had a future. Alex shrugged, warm as toast inside his fur-lined winter coat. He drew out his leather wallet. Found some loose change, leaned forward, and deposited some charity into her empty tin. The single silver coin made a dull clanging noise as it hit the bottom of the can.

The girl murmured a slurred, shivery thank you to him for being so kind to her. Her voice: thin, parched, weakened with cold, wrought with fatigue, laced with traces of uncertainty girdled with fear, hung in the freezing air between them like a sworn curse, upsetting him.

Seeing that she was frightened, Alex sought to reassure her, telling her not to mention it. He felt sorry for her, riddled with guilt at his wealth compared to her poverty, by what he wanted of her, what he expected, in return for his candid proposition. He treated her like this every night, at the same time, in all weathers, using differing denominations of coins. Whenever the girl was alone. He studied the top half of her face, fascinated, intrigued, assessing her meticulously as if she were a business opportunity or risk. Alex Braid loved taking risks.

Who are you? he speculated to himself, How did your young life end up in this dire mess?

For the want of her. He carefully considered the implications of taking her. He'd need to find out her height, weight, her bra size, her inside leg measurements, every last minute detail of her. His mind returned to her night ahead. How would she feed? How did she go to the toilet? She must stink to high heaven under her filthy rags. The girl must be starving, emaciated. He'd need to fatten her up. Did her body harbour lice - or worms? She'd need a hot bath when he got her home, a healthy rinse under the shower afterwards, maybe even sanitizing to cleanse her body of her foetid stench and germs.

A freight train rumbled along the track overhead, shattering the still peace between them.

He looked around her squalid home. The walls of the subway were sprayed with graffiti: obscenities, harsh demands for equality, freedom and change. The sunken, shielded lights in the ceiling, some of them smashed, cast a dull sodium glow over their art. The concrete path was covered in decaying mulch from where the chill winter winds had blown in dead leaves from outside. At least, she was dry, safe from the freezing frost. Satisfied that he'd done all he could to help her survive another night, he turned to leave, unsure of whether or not he should take her with him.

She felt, heard, him go. Her exhausted body slumped against the curved wall in despair. She needed him - and yet? She fretted, wept, and cried, 'Why are you doing this to me?'

Alex didn't answer, never answered her. He left her lying on the ground to work out why.

He abandoned the girl to survive another night in her ice house, confident that she would still be there for him when he returned tomorrow night. So far, she'd survived five nights of cold snaps with temperatures falling as low as minus seven. He saw no reason why she couldn't survive the daunting snow, ice and frost of the hard nights to come. This girl had an inner steel, an undeniable resilience that he'd come to admire in her, even love in her.

He wondered whether his visits after dark were the reason she stayed alive - for him. The need in her eyes when she posed the question: 'why are you doing this to me?' demanded a response. It had taken all his self-restraint for him not to reveal his unusual offer of a sanctuary: a hot bath, clean clothes for her to wear, a full meal, followed by a warm bed. He'd turned away just in time, conscious of the culture shock his proposition represented for them both. After all, the wealthy young donor and his beggar girl did live in entirely different worlds.

One end of the subway led to a tarmac footpath, a clear hazard for one to skate over when frozen, uphill, along the crest of the down, through sheep fields, and into the ancient town, with its swollen muddy tidal river, ancient castle, quaint antique map shops, restaurants, tea rooms selling fancy cakes, its boutiques. There was a food bank at the far end of the supermarket car park. Alex suspected this was where she foraged for food during the day. He wondered how thin she was getting underneath the blanket, how wasted she'd become; he could only imagine, he'd only ever seen her eyes, forehead and hair. How old was she? Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? What was her name? The girl appeared to be local. Her voice carried a familiar West Sussex country burr. Why had she left the warmth and safety of her home, shelter or hostel? To live here alone, exposing herself to the risk of serious illness, death or, worse still, attacks by the predatory evil men known to prowl these parts in search of easy prey?

Suddenly, feeling contrite, he shook his head, ashamed of himself for deserting her. Why had he left her there? What if she didn't survive? He'd never forgive himself if she came to any harm. So, he went back.

The girl's eyes widened as he approached, sidling up to her, standing over her, pityingly.

'Why are you doing this to me?' she asked, searching his blanched white face for a reason.

He crouched at her feet, so as to be closer to her, so as to be less threatening and fearsome.

'I've a warm place not far from here where you can stay. You're free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you want. There's a hot bath, clean clothes for you to wear, a meal, a warm bed for you to sleep in afterwards,' he hesitated, his heart stuck in his throat, sensing a softening in her, seeing her shoulders slump under the blanket, seeing her frown.

'Why would you take me in? You don't know who I am. Besides, I don't have any cash.'

'You won't need any. I'll help you out until you're earning. Get you on your feet again.'

She found him condescending, 'Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do?'

Alex shook his head in frustration, 'I'm only trying to help you.'

Her face hardened, filled with anger, 'I don't need your help, thanks. I'm happy as I am.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

The strain in the girl's voice told him otherwise. She was clearly in two minds as to what to do next.

He lost patience with her, ready to give up the ghost, 'If you're sure that's what you want.'

'It is what I want,' she said, 'I want you to leave me alone.'

'Take good care of yourself then. Try to keep yourself warm,' Alex got up off the ground.

He really cares about me.

Tears welled in the girl's eyes. She choked on her own words, 'Don't worry about me. I can look after myself.'

Even as the words left her mouth in puffs of frozen breath, she knew that wasn't true: she needed him more than ever. Huddling under the blankets, she shut him out of her mind. She couldn't bear to watch him leave.

Emerging from the subway, Alex drew the powerful flashlight out of his deep coat pocket, taking the chalkstone path through the dense woodland until he reached a frozen lake, a disused barn, some silent dog kennels, the barren vineyard - and the secret walled garden he kept at the foot of the downs. A short shale path led to an arch with a solid oak door in the stone wall. Built into one side of the arch were a red wrought iron post box, an indigo security eye, and an illuminated keypad. He punched in six digits. The door swung open. He went inside, flicked a switch, and the whole garden lit up like a fairground attraction. The garden wall concealed a pristine lawn bordered by gravel paths with empty vegetable plots and bare fruit trees along each wall. A decrepit potting shed with cracked glass panes and a mossy tiled slate roof sat crumbling in one corner. There were climbers up the walls.

His wagon, the wonderful twenty-first birthday present from his doting commère, Sarah, waited to welcome him home at the far end of the garden. The olive green replica gypsy caravan was mounted on six cartwheels. Entry was by a flight of natural wooden steps. Careful not to slip, Alex grabbed hold of the cold steel handrail, hauling his weary body up to the stained glass door. He recited his date of birth, his surname spelled backwards, there was a soft click as the door unlocked, and the interior lights came on.

He heard her cry: shrill, pleading, desperate, behind him in the darkness, 'Wait! Please!'

Swinging around at the top of the steps, he searched the walled garden with his flashlight.

She was standing inside the arch, sheet white, his frozen angel of the night, her nose and lips cyan blue, wearing just a pretty, striped, off the shoulder summer dress. Her arms and legs were bare. Her slim fingers and toes had turned a purpled shade of blue with the cold.

Alex swore and blasphemed about her alarming state of dress, silently, under his breath.

'Quick! Come inside before you catch your death!' he called, shining a light ahead of her in a clear trail up to the steps. The last thing he needed was for her to cut her feet to shreds on the sharp gravel path or slip on frosted grass and break a limb, or spoil her lovely face.

The girl sprinted across the lawn, mounting the stairs in twos to be with him. He slammed the door firmly shut behind them, a blast of warm air caressed her frozen cheeks, and she entered a different world.

Alex shrugged off his coat. She appreciated the lean, well-muscled torso, arms and legs, tightly compressed inside his slim fit shirt and skinny jeans. In the light, the young man was handsome. His tousled caramel hair fell as far as his walnut eyes. He had an innocent, clean-shaven, boyish face. He was the kind of man she'd dreamed of meeting in real life.

Before she could admire him any further, he grabbed her wrist, led her to a small cubicle at the far end of the wagon, pushed on the door, and bustled her inside. There was a toilet and matching olive hand basin, a mirror mounted on a white medicine cabinet, a flip-top bin, a compact shell-shaped bath equipped with shower gel, shampoo, soap, and a yellow plastic duck for her to play with: a silly baby toy that made her face break into the loveliest smile and giggle.

'Is she for me, the duck?'

The young man flushed, 'She's meant for you to play with in the bath.'

'You'd like me to take a bath?' she enquired, rather sheepishly, smiling from ear-to-ear.

He handed her a fluffy pink bath towel and a face flannel, 'There's a warm dressing gown for you to wear afterwards hung on the door, women's deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, tissues, scent up on the shelf. Take as long as you like. If you need anything just shout. I'll go and make us pizza. Do you like pizza? I'm not a good cook, I'm afraid. I've left a woolly jumper, socks and a pair of old jogging bottoms on the bed in your bedroom for you,' he said, pointing left, 'They might be a bit big for you, but they'll keep you warm.'

She was stunned, 'A hot bath, meal, clothes, a warm bed for the night. Why are you doing all this for me? What's the catch? There must be some sort of catch to all of this, surely?'

She fell quiet, contemplating the risk she was taking in the middle of the night, miles from any help, with this strange young man. She wondered how she'd defend herself if he tried to force himself on her. On the other hand, he hadn't threatened her, yet, just welcomed her into his warm place, promises of comfort she hadn't enjoyed since she ran away from home, and it was freezing cold outside and likely to get much colder as the night flew by.

She made up her mind to stay, at least, until she had a better idea for how to survive: until the warmth of Springtime, the thrill of Summer in the open air, their likely balmy Autumn.

'There is no catch, promise, cross my heart and hope to die,' he assured her, crossing his chest with his folded arms, 'I've been lucky in life. I want to give something back. I saw you struggling in that cold subway. It made me want to help you. You're free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you wish,' he reiterated, his face flushed hot, and redder.

She held his hand which felt all warm, smooth, and soft. They stood there, hand-in-hand, cherishing the lovely tingling sensation that passed between them, relishing their moment. The moment they'd searched for since he grew out of a boy into a handsome young man, and she grew out of a girl into a beautiful young woman. They let go of each other's hands and the moment they had waited for so long slowly and sublimely came to a magical end.

Calmer now, fearless, she pulled down her dress, revealing her small, round, pert, breasts, her cute stub of navel, her lush pelt of pubic hair. He hadn't planned to see her like this so soon: naked. He had hoped she might, at least, have worn her bra and panties for him. She embarrassed him with her soiled beauty, a beauty that liquefied inside his heart, tore at his inhibitions, played love games with his mind. Her beauty: so exposed, as she stood before him, broke his heart into bits. The girl was unbearably beautiful stripped, denuded of her filthy blanket, her grubby roses dress. Shy, besotted, beguiled by her, he had to turn away, thrilled by the aspirations that she'd created in his frustrated mind, while conscious of his own lack of self-discipline, frightened of where his fascination with her might lead.

'Think I should have my bath, don't you?' she whispered, alluringly, breathing on his ear.

He felt her dress kiss the backs of his firm calves as it fell to the floor, 'I think you should.'

'What shall I do with my dress?' she asked, bending over to insert the plug in the bathtub, turn on the taps, add a healthy splodge of scented foam, swish the water with the blade of her hand, then - rather eagerly - climb in.

What should she do with the dress she had worn, just for him, ever since they first met?

'Pop it in the bin,' he decided, smiling kindly as he left her to bathe, 'I'll put on a wash.'

Having settled the girl into, he suspected - judging by the awful state of her - her first bath in weeks, he set about preparing her new home. He had a list of tasks written in his mind, scheduled under different headings:

Day-to-day living considered all the things they would do when they were together, things for the girl to do when he had to leave the privacy of the wagon, food, shopping, choosing new clothes for her to wear, buying them online, pastimes, outings, adventures, games...

Administration: Then there was all the paperwork to complete. The girl had come into his life wearing just her roses dress: she had no form of personal identification or passport. It occurred to him that, despite the feelings he had for her, and she clearly had for him, they didn't even know each other's names, a small mutual oversight which needed to be sorted!

He'd have to register their wagon as her new home address, give her access to the internet, let her use his personal laptop, access his social media, let her use his mobile phone until she had her own, assuming she could read and write.

How literate was she in IT, if at all? How far did he trust her? How far dare she trust him?

Entertainment: Lastly, but not least, how would he enrich her life through entertainment: TV, movies, visits to the theatre, cinema, the countryside: rambling, gardening, climbing?

The laptop and printer were on the office desk in the main bedroom. He took a blank sheet of paper and a black biro, scrawled as many tasks as he could remember, then stowed the list in his chest of drawers - beneath his clean socks and pants - where she'd never find it.

Alex went to her bedroom and prepared her bed for the night: fluffing her pillows, turning the duvet neatly down for the night. The jumper, socks and jogging bottoms were stored, freshly laundered, neatly folded, in a white bedside unit next to her single bed. He took them out and arranged them tidily, together with a pair of clean towels, on the bedspread.

The lounge diner looked like a tip. He tidied the pile of newspapers, magazines and books, straightened the cushions on the L-shaped velvet sofa, then tested the remote. At one end of the lounge was the door to his private, secret, playroom. He checked that it was locked. It wouldn't do for the girl to see the toys he kept in there, not yet anyways: she might not understand - and leave him.

Satisfied that he'd made his home as warm, welcoming, and homely for his new girlfriend as he could, given the short time she'd given him to get ready, his thoughts turned to food.

Hoping she didn't suffer from any food allergies, he slid the mega barbecued pepperoni, mozzarella and tomato pizza out of its wrapper onto a flat baking tray, set the oven to gas mark 5, and put it in the oven. She would be starving hungry. Knowing the pizza wouldn't be enough for her, he opened a can of beans and put them on to simmer, stirring regularly, toasted two slices of thick wholemeal bread, made up a bowl of lemon yogurt with sliced bananas to restore her energy, took his 18+ mugs off the tree, and put the kettle on to boil.

That should fill her up, he thought, can't have my girl going to bed on an empty stomach.

As for himself, he wasn't all that hungry: he was much too excited to eat. He'd make do with a mug of tomato soup accompanied by a buttered wholemeal bap filled with mature cheddar cheese and homemade tomato chutney from the village hall market, his favourite bedtime snack.

The girl sank luxuriously into the sudsy hot water right up to her chin, took the bar of ripe lemon soap, and scrubbed her body, paying particular attention to the soft undersides of her breasts, her crotch, and the cleft between her buttocks. Surprised at how quickly she had reversed the state of play, her control of the mind game that he initiated when she lay, at his mercy, on the concrete floor of the subway. In no doubt that she would employ her feminine charms to get whatever she wanted out of him. Such was the boy's immaturity, his childish reaction to seeing her naked. She climbed out of the bath, wrapped the pink bath towel round her, then opened the cubicle door, preparing to put her theory to the test.

He was minding the pizza as it baked golden brown in the glass-fronted oven at the heart of the kitchen's vast suite of equipment: grill with rotisserie, microwave, gas hob, kettle, fridge freezer, sink and built-in cupboards. There was a strip of dense beige carpet on the floor. Bubbly, fizzing with anticipation, the girl curled her toes and giggled, loving the warmth of the kitchen carpet, the privacy of their drawn curtains, her new-found freedom.

'Mister?' she asked in a gentle murmured voice, edging nearer and nearer to him. Closer.

The pizza was ready. He grabbed hold of the oven cloth, opened the oven door, slid it out, then placed it on the stone-effect kitchen worktop to cool. Alex turned to face her, 'Yes?'

She let the towel fall to the floor, and spread her arms, 'Have you ever had a girl before?'

He gasped and blushed and looked up at the garden spiders' cobwebs on the metal ceiling.

Her question answered, she bent down, retrieved her towel then ambled back to the safety of the cubicle to finish her bath.

After she'd cleaned her teeth, rolled on some deodorant, dried and groomed her hair, she slid into her latest paradise to dress. Her little bedroom felt snug after the cruel ordeal of the subway: heartwarming really, her well-earned, comforting reward for her efforts in ensnaring the young man. She smelled money, inherited wealth, loads of it. He was hers to live with forever - all hers. She would stake her claim in him in the only way she knew.

'Ah, he turned the duvet down, just for me,' she smiled to herself, 'how sweet of him.'

The pine tall boy and matching chest of drawers were, other than a set of hangers and six mothballs, empty she discovered, half-expecting to find a children's bible, ruffled comics, a book of fairy tales or some derring-do boy's adventures hidden in the bottom drawer. For the first time in her life, at least, since she ran away from home, the girl began to plan her future. She wondered if he had kind parents, what they'd think of her - when she met them for the first time. It occurred to her that one or both of his parents might be dead.

'My poor, lonesome, virgin boy...'

Alex just had time to text Sarah, divorced wife of an unfaithful musician, and a successful fashion designer in her own right, at her beach shack near the mangrove forest on the beautiful island of Nusa Lembongan off the coast of Bali. He checked the time: 9pm here, 5am there. His commère was an early riser. She'd be working on the veranda overlooking the deserted sandy beach, getting some work done before the stifling, steamy heat set in and she went for her morning swim with yoga on the sand. The joys of being fit, free and uninhibited at forty. Beautiful Sarah Baird could easily pass for a woman half her age or his younger sister. He wondered if she had a stud in her bed today: an Australian lifeguard or her fitness coach. It wouldn't surprise him if she did. Sarah deserved to find love again after the ordeal she went through with her husband Michael: the drink, drugs and wild all night parties, his insatiable sexual appetite for young female fans, his willing teen-aged groupies, while away on tour with the band. Alex despised his father as much as he adored Sarah.

Sarah, he wrote, I think I've found a girl.

Oh, darling, came the reply, I've gone all pins and needles - he imagined her speaking, all plum-in-mouth, sophisticated, some might say posh, classy -- Is she pretty? Is she like us?

She's beautiful. She reminds me of you. But she isn't like us at all. Kate's a country girl at heart. She told me she lives on a farm.

A farm? My goodness. She is different, isn't she? Still, they do say opposites attract, don't they? I'd like to meet her, Alex. Will you bring her to me? I'll make up the spare bed. We can snorkel and swim, cycle and punt, run on the beach. I'll pay for everything, of course.

Christ, I've only just met the girl, he fumed, feeling guilty about his lie.

Of course, Sarah!

Sarah could be forceful, overwhelming. She always got her own way in the end. Alex was six when his father divorced, too young to understand how well she ruined her husband in court: the colossal seven-figure settlement that shattered Michael, leaving him broken, resulting in him taking his own life.

Alex stared down at his mobile.

Someone is typing.

Sarah: Do you love her as much as you love me, Alex?

He heard a small voice behind him say, 'Is it alright for me to come in?'

Have to go. I'll write again tomorrow.

Miss you, darling.

Miss you, too.

Love you, Alex.

Love you, he typed quickly, signing off for the night.

He carefully slid the phone out of harm's way into a slit in the seat of his jeans, before he dared to even look at the girl.

She padded barefoot into the lounge, adorable in his too-big jumper and jogging bottoms. He was seated behind the coffee table in the centre of the curl around sofa. Set out on the table was a veritable feast, compared to the scraps she salvaged from the food bank at the supermarket. An enormous pizza, two slices of toast smothered with baked beans, a mug of tomato soup, and dessert: lemon yogurt brimming with chunks of banana. There was an empty soup-stained mug and a plate with crumbs and bits of chutney on it which she took to be the remnants of his rations. She burst into giggles when she saw the state of his face.

Alex gave her his shy look, 'What is it?'

'You look so funny!' she said, falling about.

He tried to keep a straight face. He loved it when she smiled. She made him happy, 'What makes you think I look funny?'

She ran an index finger over her upper lip, from dimple to dimple, stroking her fine hairs, 'You're wearing a soup moustache.'

'A what?'

'A silly soup moustache,' she chuckled, 'It makes you look so old! Like me to lick it off?'

Before the young man could object, she'd joined him on the sofa, and drawn his chin to her lips with her slim hand. He felt her lips part, her mouth open, he felt the tip of her wet tongue lick the smear of soup off his lips, felt his resistance crumble, as she aroused him: opening his mouth to her, letting her tongue slide into his mouth - for their very first kiss.

For a moment, afterward, neither of them could speak, such was the frisson, the euphoria swelling in their hearts, the thrill of scintillation coursing through their bodies, their love.

It was Alex who broke their silence, her spell, admitting, 'I've never kissed a girl before.'

She squeezed his hand, so as to reassure him, 'I wanted to thank you for all this,' she said, waving her hand over the food, 'for being so kind to me. I couldn't find the words. So, I thanked you in the only way I could. I left my love in you.'

No-one had ever spoken so lovingly to him. She'd left her love indelibly stamped in his heart: life without her would be unbearable. He felt her release his hand, sat, and watched her eat every single morsel. He told the girl his name was Alex Baird. She said her name was Kate just plain old simple Kate. He studied her face: the girl was clearly embarrassed.

'I don't have any other names,' she said, standing, 'I'm tired. I'd like to go to bed, Alex.'

That night, he dreamed of holding Kate in his arms as they stood on the sandy beach: she wearing just her roses dress, he sporting his gaudy Bahama beach shorts, peeling the dress off her, letting her pull off his shorts, kissing her as they lay naked in the sand. The games she'd play for him in his secret room: dancing round her pole on the podium, wearing just her leash, her studded cat collar and a laced-up black leather girdle. The games he'd play with her, his stray damp kitten, as she danced and stripped for him in the heat of the night.

The dream changed to a sun-bleached veranda, the stifling, steamy heat, his body dripping wet, as he lay inert on the lounger, watching Sarah and Kate writhe naked on the splintered wooden floor. He tossed and turned, his body pouring sweat, caught in a flooded torrent of unbridled lust, desire. His pyjamas were soaking wet. Frantically, he pushed back the sodden duvet with his clammy feet, and took them off.

He felt her touch, felt her climbing into bed, her warm nude body, curling into the foetal position, cowling his buttocks. He heard her softly whisper, her breath, tickling his neck.

'I couldn't sleep. Can I sleep with you?'

He didn't answer her. She understood. She needed him. She showed a desire, a hunger, a passion, borne out of her primal need to breed, 'Would you like me to make love to you?'

'I can't, I...'

'I want to make love to you,' she insisted, 'Now, look at me.'

He turned to face her. She ran her fingers over his damp face. She kissed away his tears.

'Lie on your back,' she said, murmuring sexily, keen to encourage him, 'try to keep still.'

He did as he was told. She climbed onto him, rubbing her moist cleft along his limp tool, constantly probing him with intimate questions,

'How does that feel?'

'Incredible,' he gasped, blushing scarlet, a naughty schoolboy caught in the act with a girl on his first date. He rose for her, erecting, hardening, stretching, his chest and abdomen sheened with sweat. Held captive by her, pinioned, unable to resist, he felt her, watched her, slide up his body, heard her quaint, rustic voice, 'Would you like to kiss my breasts?'

He nodded his assent. Kate squatted on his stomach, leaning forwards, teasing his craven mouth with her corky teat, feeding her virgin lover her milk, as he clung to her breast with his mouth, her baby, licking her engorged nipple, her areola: her ring of colour, relishing her salty flavour. Feeling between her slick, wet thighs, she took his rigid love shaft deep inside her, making impassioned love to him with a sublime intensity, always encouraging.

'Put your hands on my bum,' she said.

He slid his hands down her slender back, as far as her hips, gently caressing her soft skin.

'No, not there, my bum.'

She felt his hands grip, then part, her small, taut, doughy buttocks, sighing so pleasurably.

'That feels so good,' she bore down on him in a frenzy, sliding her lubricious vulva along his rigid tarse, clenching his viscid girth, his throbbing, sensitive nub with her strong birth muscle. She kissed him deeply, tasting his saliva, licking the roof of his mouth, making him gag with her straining tongue as she teased his throat. Her kiss came to an abrupt end.

He heard her murmur, 'want to have your baby,' his body shuddered, he went into spasm. Unable to control, or constrain, himself any longer, he ejaculated prematurely, spurting copious dregs of his fertile semen, his manly life-juice, into her swollen, liquid, love-hole.

'Oh, God!' she cried out, her slick body rippling, in ecstasy, coating his stalk in her girlie jus as she came, riding, wave-after-wave of rapturous orgasm, 'love you, Alex, love you!'

He held her tightly as she came, running his fingers thru her saturated hair, proud of her, caressing her, loving every bit of her. Her voice trailed off. Her glorious climax subsided.

Kate fell asleep in her man's arms, her body entwined in her tender lover's embrace: safe, content, happy, fulfilled at last, sure, in the knowledge that she would never be poor again.

She kept a terrible secret. Her chance to run away and escape only came about as a result of a freak accident. An accident that she was complicit in, the result of her morally wrong activities. She shut her eyes, and thought of them, writhing in agony, in bed, as they died.

Her home, Stone Cottage, hidden away in the dark forest on the slopes of the great downs, was more than off the beaten track. It was off the map. The cottage lay at the very end of a dirt track, a track that was frequently reduced to churned-up ruts of mud in rainy weather and blocked by fallen trees in the storms. At the front of the house grew clumps of privet and willow, windbreaks for their black, green and brown wheelie bins, mail box on a post and the underground septic tank which men with a long pipe, pump and tanker lorry came to empty every five years. In this way, by placing all the amenities in front of the cottage, the woman, Hazel, and the man, Blaise, could carry on their strangest lives undisturbed.

The cottage was built into an eight-foot high stone wall which enclosed a walled garden: flower beds, wild plants, roses, shrubs and fungi mainly. There was no arched door in the wall or access to the garden other than through a heavy oak door at the front of the house. The lop-sided red slate roof sloped downward, back-to-front, shading the two lead glass windows - giving the grey stone building the aura of intense seclusion, mysterious depths, and enforced privacy Hazel and Blaise needed to carry out their pagan rites, their rituals.

The door opened inwards to a single downstairs room with an open hearth fire surrounded by worn brown leather armchairs, a case crammed full of ancient books, a nest of tables at one end. A solid oak trapdoor in the flagstone floor - covered with the fireside rug - led down to the cellar. At the other end of the room lay their kitchen: cooker, sink, solid pine kitchen table, three sturdy chairs, the door to the outhouse, the woodshed and garden. The winding wooden staircase in the middle of the room led up to their bedroom, its modest double bed mounted on a traditional wooden frame, a bathroom with a toilet, bidet, basin, a bath tub standing on a set of impressive set of clawed metal feet: Hazel's sacred waters.

The printed, posted, laminated sign beside the chalkstone path leading to the cottage read:

Ramblers are welcome to use the track to pass us, but please, don't stray onto our land.

Hazel and Blaise were country folk at heart: primal naturists who danced naked around the garden bonfire at night, and rose at dawn to worship the rising of the sun. The cottage, cut off from the outside world, allowed them to perform their sacred rituals unhindered, with no television, radio or internet and, rarely, any mail to distract them- just a landline.

By day Blaise, a simple man of little learning, worked as a labourer at the local pig farm, feeding the pigs, mucking them out, birthing the piglets, keeping their sties clean and tidy. While his wife read, and cleaned the house, tended the garden, chopped firewood for the hearth, washed then ironed his clothes, cooked their evening supper - for after her weary husband had caught up on his sleep. Being impotent, dense, and unwilling, her man was unable to give his fertile woman what she desired most: a baby girl to love and to cherish, and be brought up to be pagan - just like her.

After dark, Hazel dressed in her finest clothes, put on make-up, sprayed herself with scent, kissed her husband goodnight, their four-wheel crawled its way up the track, and whisked her off to the room above the antiques shop in the old town, to make love with other men.

Kate was Hazel's child, her mother's little pride and joy - a blessing her husband resented.

Hazel kept her daughter in the cellar, out of harm's way, until she was sixteen, old enough to look after herself, clean the bath, bidet and toilet, scrub the floor, make the beds, do the laundry, cook the meals. The abused child never forgets. Kate set out to exact her revenge on Blaise and his unnatural wife in the only way she could: breakfast in bed for the pair of them on a Saturday morning with grilled bacon, fried eggs, fried bread, pork sausages, fried tomatoes, baked beans, black pudding - and freshly picked poisonous fungi from the garden compost heap.

Alex woke to the sound of church bells tolling in the village. Blearily, he checked his mobile for the time: 10am, brunch time. Kate had stolen his virginity, draining him of his shyness, his fear of sex, growing him out of a boy into a man. He had never felt so happy in his life.

She dwelt in the doorway, wearing his too-big woolly jumper, clutching the loose jogging bottoms at the waist, bearing a large floral wooden lap tray with an embroidered cushion. It was crammed full of food.

'I made you breakfast in bed,' she said, beaming from ear-to-ear, 'It is Saturday morning, after all.'

He sat up in bed, drawing the soiled duvet as high as his chest. The sheet was rucked, wet from where they made love, the window was steamed up, and the whole room reeked of sweat. He'd put a wash on - after they had taken a sexy bath together, of course.

'That looks amazing!' he shouted, not that anyone could hear him there, inside their walls.

'Did you hear the wedding bells, Alex?' she asked, with a delightful twinkle in her eyes.

'I did,' he said, tearfully, 'I heard them loud and clear.'

Kate set the lap tray down on his lap. It was a feast fit for a king. He eyed the tray hungrily as she proudly recited the menu, as if she were a waitress in a high class fast food eatery.

'There's grilled bacon, fried eggs, fried bread, thick pork sausages, fried tomatoes, baked beans, black pudding, oh, and I picked you the mushrooms off the garden compost heap.'

Alex daubed the lot with barbecue sauce, picked up his knife and fork, and began to eat.

'My stepmother wants to meet you,' he said, slicing through a sausage coated in sauce.

'Already?'

'Already.'

'But we've only known each other a day.'

'You made love to me last night,' he said, his voice tinged with pride, 'Isn't that enough?'

'I suppose you told her all the grisly details?' she said at her most arch.

'Hardly. She lives on the other side of the world in Bali. We send each other texts, is all.'

Her face lit up, full of childish delight and surprise, 'The other side of the world? Bali?'

'It's a beautiful tropical island off the coast of Java in the Indian Ocean.'

Kate didn't speak. It was all too much. Only last night, she was struggling to stay alive in a freezing cold subway. She had never left the downs, let alone travel to a far-off island on the journey of a lifetime. Other than her roses dress, she had no belongings, no life at all until she met him. He didn't finish his breakfast. He put the tray on the floor and spoke.

'I told her I'd met a beautiful girl. I told her I'd fallen in love with you. You must come.'

She slumped onto the bed beside him, breaking down in tears, 'You saved my life, Alex. I will never forget what you did for me. But you barely know me. I'm a love child, a girl bastard, a child of sin daughter, who ran away from her living hell. I don't deserve you.'

Girl bastard, child of sin? Shocked, yet intrigued by her outburst, her confession, he held her sobbing head to his chest, and gently stroked her silken hair, 'Tell me what happened.'

'My dad couldn't have sex, couldn't give my mum what she wanted more than anything in the world: a baby girl. So, she cheated on him. She had sex with strange men above a shop in Arundel. She kept this all a secret from me until I was sixteen. As soon as she fell pregnant, he knew the baby couldn't be his. He let her keep her treasured baby girl - she warned him that she'd leave him if he didn't - but resentment built up inside his heart, an ugly tumour. He took out all his spite on me when I was still a little girl: the beast touched me down there, put his dirty hand inside my pants, and rubbed my clit.'

'Don't, please, don't!' Alex revulsed at the disgusting act: last night this poor girl made intimate love to him. She'd taken the lead, teasing, seducing him until he was erect, ready for her to mount. How many other men had she slept with before she used him? He felt stupid for not wearing a condom, felt that he'd been tainted by her. Still, he was hopelessly obsessed with her.

Kate felt his grip on her intensify, his body tense. She regretted going into explicit detail.

What must he think of me?

He attempted to change the subject, 'Did your mother know about this?'

'Mum caught us in the act on their double bed. She threatened to leave us if it didn't stop.'

'And did it?'

Kate studied the rays of sunlight dancing on their bed. It would soon be Spring again: life would be renewed once more: life, her new life, her baby, if only she kept her mouth shut.

'Kate, did it stop?' he said, persisting.

Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, when she answered, 'No, we couldn't stop.'

The inexperienced young man was appalled, 'We? I can't believe you encouraged him.'

Kate burst into tears, 'It wasn't like that. You don't understand. Men never understand!'

He held her sobbing head to his chest, protecting her, frightened that the beast might come back to haunt her, attack her, hurt them.

'I was scared,' she protested, 'Scared he'd kill me, if I told my mum, if I didn't play his filthy games.'

His games? Alex recalled his vivid dream, the dirty secrets he kept hidden behind the play room door. He wanted to be sick.

'What happened?' he asked her, his voice flat dull monotone, 'How long did it go on for?'

'Mum caught us having sex on my single bed,' she mumbled, 'This time, I was punished by her, punished for my own good, punished good and proper, to absolve me of my sins.'

'Punished? You didn't do anything wrong! You were scared he'd kill you, for fuck's sake, only trying to protect yourself from him. What about him, the bastard? Was he punished?'

She turned away from him, turned toward the bedroom window, the light, 'In a way, yes.'

'In a way. What's that supposed to mean?'

'He was denied me. My mum and dad were simple country folk: they believed in nature's way. They agreed, for our own good, that I should be denied him and he should be denied me.'

'Denied you? How?'

'I was locked in the cellar, by her, as my punishment,' she said acidly, as if she was trying to rid her mouth of a bad taste, 'I was only allowed out to play in the garden when he was working on the farm. It was a high walled garden with a locked gate. She kept the key on a chain around her neck: there was no way I could escape. Mum did teach me how to read and write, and do my 'rithmetic, tho'. She wasn't all bad. She wasn't bad at all, I suppose.'

She stopped crying then turned to face him. He stared at her sad face, streaked with tears, he took her in his arms, struggling to contain his disbelief, 'How long did this go on for?'

She didn't answer.

'How long, Kate?'

'I managed to escape, to run away,' was all she said, 'to find you: that's enough, isn't it?'

'I guess so,' he replied, sensing there was far more to her story, 'I love you. Come here.'

She lay with him in their soiled bed, talking, kissing, cuddling, making sad, sweet love.

Wondering where the world would take her next.