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Excerpt... 

“Look, I promise, all I want to do is lick you out. Just sit on my face and pretend to smother me. I pay the parlour girls just to sit on my face all the time, but they won’t fake smothering me. I’ll pay you whatever you ask, name your price…”

“Eighteen hundred…” The words left her mouth without her really realising she said them.  She never knew, later if, in that instant, she had been making a serious offer, or just reading the demand for payment aloud. Either way, the words just popped out. The envelope still in clear view, the plastic window glinted at her in the lamplight as though winking at her like an obscene suggestion made by the devil something amused him as if it, or him at what she had just said.

“Ok.” Les, less amused than astonished, could not believe she had accepted his offer to meet after all this time. She could hear his hopeful disbelief in his voice as he asked, “You ain’t pullin’ me plonker are you, babe?

“Oh no, Les. I am deadly serious.” From that moment, she was. “But, it’s just a one off and that will be it. You must promise not to even ring me again. If you do, I’ll just hang up. If you mention the meet even by accident, it could get me the sack.” She was serious and committed. Suzanna decided in an instant it was the only solution, the only answer to her dilemma. “It has to be soon, though. The sooner the better before I change my mind.”

 

Three days later found Suzanna sitting nervously in the hotel room as prearranged by the email exchanges with Les using the account she had, up to now, only sold him panties through the emails. He had made the promise she had asked him for, but she was still nervous. If anyone from the office contacted her about meeting her caller, she had planned to say it was all part of the fantasy, but she knew she was risking her job. That her callers were always talking about meeting her and, invariably, never did. It was her word against theirs.

She had collected the keys at reception as per her instructions. Les had booked the room with a bogus name and address and came to the hotel day before to pay in cash. It was not sort of the hotel that asked too many questions about their guests, especially not when they paid in cash.

As Suzanna straightened the short, dark wig she had put on for the occasion, waiting for Les’ arrival, she looked down at her knees and drew them tightly together. Not for the first time the thought of them being spread over a total stranger’s face set the bile rising in her throat. She had had second thoughts several times since making her agreement with Les, but every time she had moved to cancel it, she had seen the bill, with its demand for payment in those big, bold, black letters, dark as a black hole that threatened to swallow her soul. Every time, that had been enough to stop her.

That alone was enough that her emotions were raw and on edge. Part of her wanted to run from the room and keep running until she fell off the edge of the earth. Only the memory of that bright white envelope, so bright and yet carrying such dark news, kept her in the room. Suzanna took several slow, deep breaths to calm herself. Deep down, she was not sure what she resented more: the letter, for giving her the motive to set herself up in this position, or Les, for providing the opportunity. For all that she had liked him on the phone, that resentment, fuelled by the nerves, and the fear, of what she was about to do, built and built and built in her, until she was looking forward to smothering the dirty knicker-sniffing bastard.

No, she told herself, I’m not doing anything. It’s Rose, she’s here to have her sit on his face, not me, Suzanna.  I will just have to be Rose. I will have to let her take over. She had found it so easy to be Rose on the chat lines, so easy to slip in and out of character, but now, it was a struggle.  Suzanna’s fears and nerves got in the way. I could leave, she told herself once more. I could just leave…  Except, then what? She had said she would rather sell herself than go to Gary for help and, was that not what she was doing? If she left, what could she do, except go to Gary?

Perhaps it was that thought finally cemented her resolve, or perhaps it was that, just at that moment, there came the knock on the door. And just like that, Suzanna slid under the mask of ‘Rose’, and it was Rose who got up to answer the door.

“Rose?” the man who asked had Les’ voice, but he was not how she had expected him to look.  Although, come to think of it, she was not sure how she had expected him to look. He was a short, elderly man, perhaps in his late sixties, or well-preserved seventies, with salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered, but still strong face.

“Hello” Rose stuttered out her greeting. She tried smiling before nervously allowing him to enter the hotel room as she stepped back a few paces as he passed by her. He bounded in eagerly like a child on Christmas morning, wanting to unwrap his favoured present. Rose followed Les over towards the king-size bed.

“Before we start, I need to see the money. Can you put it on the dresser over there?” Suzanna gestured towards the door, not daring to look Les directly in the face.

Suzanna had hated the thought she was about to ask about money like a whore, but Rose, however, did not care. As Rose she realised that she could treat this exactly as a chat-call. On the phone, it was just words, words that did not touch her, but here, it would just be actions, actions that touched Rose, but would never be allowed to touch Suzanna as herself.

“I will,” Les replied, producing a bulging envelope. “You think after all the work it took to get you to meet me, I’d risk it by not keeping my end up?”

“Oh, I’m sure this is keeping your end up.” Rose told him, smiling seductively. She found that, if she thought of this as just the same as the calls, she could act as if she was describing the scene to a caller, instead of living it.

“Oh, you know it is, baby,” Les was already unbuttoning his shirt as he laid the envelope down on the dressing table. As he did so, Rose noticed something shiny in his hand. A foil packet, it was a condom packet. For a second, the persona of Rose faltered, and she was Suzanna again:

“Oh, no,” she shook her head vehemently. “We said nothing about sex, Les. The deal was I’d sit on your face, that’s it.  Nothing more.” She saw a look of disappointment cross his face, but only for an instant. He did not argue with her, perhaps sensing how, in that moment, she was once again close to bolting. But, with his apparent acceptance of her conditions, Suzanna subsided back into Rose.

When she said nothing else, he continued to undress and now, feeling as if she had to at least play her part, Rose did. She slipped off her short jacket, and then dropped her skirt, exposing her red silky panties, the colour he’d previously requested. The old bastard’s eyes lit up as they came into view and Rose felt a touch of colour rising in her cheeks, which instantly matched the red of her panties. She stepped out of her skirt, and her shoes until she stood in black sheer stockings and suspenders.

“Drop the panties,” Les said, staring at them as if they were the Holy Grail. He was already naked, grasping his cock with one hand. It was no surprise to see that it was not as big as he had implied on the chat lines. “Come on, baby, I want to watch.”

“All right,” Rose purred, her character overcoming her hesitation. “But you lie down on the bed. I want to drop them and be able to stand right over you…”

He could not agree fast enough, at once going to the bed and lying back, looking at her with his head tilted back as she slid the red silky underwear down her legs. His eyes almost popped out of his head as it revealed her pussy.

Once more, for a second, Rose hesitated, Suzanna’s reservations rising again. Deciding that she would not feel so concerned if she could not see his expression, Rose took her place, right over the old bastard’s head.

She lowered herself down and gasped aloud as her inner thighs touched his face. Rose tightened her legs, gripping his head.

Les gasped: “Not so tight, love, I want you to smother me, not break my neck!” His breath ticked the lips of her pussy, sending little flickers of electricity through her, both fearful and pleasurable.

Forcing herself to relax, to breathe slowly, calmly, Rose lowered herself those last few inches, until she felt his lips touch her. She tried hard to forget who she was sitting down on. She knew what it felt like, a wet slippery slug burrowing its way into her. The more he licked and sucked the easier it got. After some long minutes of bouncing and gyrating against his face, another feeling took the place of her revulsions, the sensation of arousal.

Rose rode his face hard, whimpering and writhing in pleasure as his tongue thrust into her dripping pussy lips. His breath was coming hard and fast, blowing up inside her or over her mound. She could feel him shaking under her, his hand moving on his cock, jerking himself off so hard and fast he was almost a blur. Rose found her gaze drawn to his cock as he wanked hard, and she wondered if he had wanked as hard over her on the phone lines… But she only wondered for a moment, as his tongue delved deep into her again, and she found rational thought suddenly impossible.  Beneath her, Les bucked, his entire body spasming, thrusting his face upwards so hard it lifted Rose up, momentarily off the bed. She cried out as the sudden sensation finally became enough to overcome her reservations, and the wall inside her broke.  Rose came and came and came, grinding her cunt down on his face as he spurted, cum spraying from the end of his cock to splatter on his legs, even as his entire body jerked once more, going completely, rigid.

After moments, seconds or minutes, Rose could not tell, her own climax subsided, and she realised he was lying still beneath her. Suddenly feeling weak, unsteady, Rose slid off him, collapsing off the bed. As she hit the floor, the situation hit her, just as suddenly. She had just cum on the face of a man old enough to be her father, in exchange for money, in some seedy hotel room. That realisation was all it took to snap her out of character. Rose disappeared, and she was Suzanna again, kneeling on the floor, Les’ saliva coating her thighs and cunt as he lay there, motionless, his own cum cooling on his legs.

Overcome with shame, Suzanna grabbed at her panties, cheeks burning with humiliation. She could not bring herself to look at the bed, she did not want to see if he was watching her as she pulled them on, and her skirt. Les made no objection but, honestly, Suzanna doubted that she would have cared if he had. She glanced at him. He was still lying there, eyes closed spent. She knew that he had paid her to sit on his face all night, but she was sure she had given him enough. He was unconscious, and she doubted, at his age, he would wake again before the morning. He would never know she had left early and, deep down, all that Suzanna wanted in that moment was to get out of there. Out and away.

She grabbed the envelope of money. It felt nowhere near as good in her hand as she had thought it would. She felt no triumph at clearing the debt, only a deep, burning shame. Suzanna was out of the door in a moment, locking it and pushing the key under the door so Les could hand it in the morning. Then, she was gone not running because, even if she had been, she knew she could not outpace her own sense of shame.

 

Suzanna stumbled through her front door without really being aware of unlocking it, or even opening it. The entire journey back from the hotel took place in an out-of-body kind of blur. She could remember where she had gone, how she had travelled, but it was as if there was a gauze curtain between her and the events, reducing them to little more than an indistinct haze.

The entire way home, her mind had played with her like a cat playing with a mouse. Only a few steps out of the hotel, it had convinced her she could still feel the old bastard’s tongue between the lips of her cunt, probing into her, wriggling like some obscene parasite trying to invade her. A few steps more, and she was hallucinating the feel of his breath hot and moist against her thighs and groin.

She had felt her legs sticking together as she had walked, his spittle turning into a sticky goo, but again, she was not sure, even then, how much of that had been in her mind and how much in reality.  Sitting behind the wheel of her car, it had even felt as if it was still his face, not the car seat, beneath her. The seatbelt around her waist had not been a safety restraint, but his hands, holding tight to her as he ate out her cunt. Suzanna had re-lived every lick, every thrust of his tongue, every time he had closed his mouth on one of her lips, or over her clit, every time he had tongue-fucked her.

The tricks her mind had played on her had almost been fatal. She had nearly driven straight off the road nearly three times as, distracted by her shame-induced hallucinations, she had let go of the wheel with one hand and pawed at herself, trying to wipe the spit away with her panties or her skirt.  In all honesty, Suzanna did not know how she had managed the drive back to her home.

Now, she slammed the door behind her, as if trying to shut out the memories and, just for a moment, she leant with her back against the solid wood. It was comforting. And, for a few beats of her heart, she felt better. She slumped, to slide down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her back still to it. But the movement shifted her panties, and suddenly she felt them, wet with Les’ spit, pressing tightly to her, pulled up by her slide down the door so they bunched into a thin rope, pressing between the lips of her cunt and, just like that, it was as if his tongue was in her again.

Suzanna felt her stomach clench, her guts rebel at the thought. Somehow, the taste of vomit filling her mouth, she scrambled, half on her feet, half on hands and knees, from the front door to the bathroom, and get her head over the toilet before she threw up. She rested both forearms on the seat of the toilet, her hair hanging either side of her like a curtain as she emptied her stomach of, what felt like, everything she had ever eaten in her life. The vile taste of acid and bile overpowered her as she closed her eyes, hot tears of shame pouring down her face as she retched again, feeling as though she was emptying her life into the porcelain bowl.

Finally, when there was nothing left in her, and she felt as physically hollow as she felt emotionally empty, Suzanna rocked herself back so she was kneeling before the toilet. Her thoughts seemed to bounce around inside the empty space of her head, ricocheting off the inside of her skull. Memories of what she had done, thoughts, images, all flashing past in a blur.

She forced herself to her feet and, as she rose, Suzanna glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her hair was lank from sweat, her face stained with vomit and tears. Sweat plastered her clothes to her chest and back, and her skirt clung, moist at the front from soaked in saliva. Her thighs glistened with drying spit and suddenly, Suzanna could not bear to look at herself.

With a scream, she spun away from the mirror, and tore at her clothes. She felt more than dirty, somehow unclean.  She tore her shirt off; the buttons popping and flying everywhere. Her bra snapped in her hurry to get it off and she tore the clasp of her skirt as she forced it down her legs.  She clawed at her wet panties, pushing them down, kicking them off her feet.  She felt a sudden burning, irresistible desire for something to cleanse her, to purify her.

Suzanna practically threw herself across the bathroom and into the shower, grabbing the taps and turning them on full. Water so hot it was almost scalding cascaded down over her and she stood there, facing the showerhead, her head bowed, her hands braced on the walls, sobbing to herself as the hot water washed over her. She grabbed the curled-up exfoliator and scrubbed at herself, pouring shower gel over her body directly, even as she rubbed at it.  She scrubbed hard, in a sudden, blazing frenzy; less scrubbing than scouring.  She rubbed at herself with the coarse material so hard that it hurt. She lathered and rinsed her thighs and crotch again, and again, and again, rubbing until her skin was almost raw.  She leaned over to the sink reaching for the disinfectant she kept there and sobbed as she scrubbed herself with it, her breath coming in huge, wracking gasps and, eventually, she once again sank to the floor, squatting in the shower, her arms wrapped around her legs as the water continued to pour over her, eventually going from scalding to hot, to warm, too tepid, and finally to cold.

At last, Suzanna pulled herself out of the shower, forcing herself to stand. She still did not look at the mirror. She did not want to face herself. She staggered out of the bathroom, ignoring her scattered clothes. She trod on the wig she had worn, lying just outside the bathroom door. She did not remember taking it off.  Somehow, she stood by her bed. And then she collapsed, emotionally and physically exhausted, falling onto the soft covers, even though she was soaking wet, she did not care. She could not care.  Her last feeling was one of relief it was over as a dreamless sleep took her.

When she opened her eyes, Suzanna had no concept of time. She had no way of knowing if she had been asleep for seconds, minutes, or hours. She sat up slowly. Her stomach ached from the vomiting, and she was still damp. The bedclothes beneath her were soaked and for a moment, she could not remember why. She sat up and blinked, and, slowly; the memories came back to her.  The hotel room, Les and the drive home.  Once in her bathroom her cheeks heated with shame and humiliation as she made herself get up. Her empty stomach ached for food, but she had almost no appetite.

Suzanna stepped into the bathroom, and turned, for a moment, into a statue, transfixed by what she saw. Her clothes, ripped and ruined, tossed about like trash. The shower was still running, the water ice cold.  She winced at the smell from the toilet she realised she had not flushed it after her attack of vomiting. The pine tang of the disinfectant reminded her of the dirt she had felt engrained in her body.  Moving like a robot, as if in a dream, she turned off the shower and gathered up the clothes. Holding them, bundled in her arms, she went to the wash basket… and paused.

She stood over the basket for a long, long time, holding the soiled, ruined clothes in her arms and then, deliberately, she left the bathroom, and went to the rubbish bin. One by one, she dropped them into it. The soiled knickers. The torn bra. The ripped skirt. The button-less shirt. Still moving like a puppet, she returned to the bathroom, and then she saw it: The envelope. It lay on the floor underneath where her shirt had been. It was fat and bulging with money. It was the reason she had done what she had done.

Suzanna picked it up cautiously, as if it was a hand-grenade, rather than a huge wad of cash. She held it, and at once, her hands felt dirty again, as if the money itself carried the shame of the last night like disease. Suzanna held it at arm’s length, standing over the toilet. The envelope dangled above the bowl and, for a moment, the mad, crazy idea flashed through her mind just to drop it, to flush it away with the rest of the vomit, away with every reminder of her shame.

And then, she thought about the other envelope.  The demonic envelope, containing the demand for payment that had forced her into the Faustian bargain with Les.  If she dropped the money, then she would have sold her soul for nothing.  Even Judas had had his thirty pieces of silver… Suzanna turned and carefully laid the envelope beside the sink, and then turned back to flush the toilet, and wished that her memories could disappear in a rush of water just as easily as the contents of the bowl did.

She kept her mind blank as she washed her hands and then dried herself. Pulling a light robe around herself, she took the envelope of money, went back to the bedroom, and tucked it under her panties in the bedside cabinet. She was not sure why she put it there, but something told her to, and she listened, besides, it seemed appropriate somehow.

By now, her need for food was so intense it felt as if her stomach was cramping. Even though she did not, truthfully, have any appetite, she went into the kitchen to fix herself two pieces of dry toast. Honestly, she doubted she could force anything else down. Nibbling at a corner, she sat down in front of the television, hoping for something to distract her.

She was shocked to see that it was time for the lunchtime news.  She could not remember what time she had gotten home the night before, but she could not believe that it had been that late. Which meant she must have slept for the entire morning. She forced the toast down, only half listening. The newsreader was saying something about divisions in the government, about the economy slipping back into recession, about someone found guilty of a murder committed twenty years ago because of new techniques in analysing DNA evidence.  It all slipped over Suzanna like water. First the national news, then the weather, and then the local news: Some petition to evict a group of travellers from land next to school playing fields had amassed ten thousand signatures, two men had nearly died trying to rescue a dog stranded by incoming tides… It all washed over her.

And then… Suzanna’s head jerked around, her attention caught by something she had half-heard.  “… body of an elderly man, in his seventies…” the newsreader was saying.  “… found in the morning by a maid cleaning the rooms…”  Suzanna’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as she saw the suited reporter, standing directly in front of the hotel where she had been last night!  The plate, with its cargo of half-eaten toast, tumbled suddenly from her nerveless fingers as the television report received all her attention:

“Police have identified the body as that of Leslie Adams, seventy-three,” the newsreader was saying.  Suzanna’s heart skipped a beat at the name.  "They have informed next of kin, and the police are appealing to anyone who may have seen Mr. Adams that night…”

Next to the reporter’s head, a photo appeared, and, if her heart had skipped a beat before, now it seemed to freeze in her chest. Les’ face stared at her from the screen. The same face that had, just hours ago, been pressed into her pussy…

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escaped her half-open mouth as she stared, transfixed, at that face, until the moment that the picture changed, and another story began. But Suzanna did not see the next story about a crossing for wildlife, all she saw was Les’ face. And all she remembered was the way the old bastard had bucked and convulsed beneath her, before lying perfectly still, immobile, lifeless, as she had fled.

She stared, unseeing, at the television, as the news became the weather, and then the weather gave way to other programming. She stared, and stared, always seeing the same old face, feeling the bucking, the jerking, over and over until, startling her out of her reverie, the phone rang.

It took several rings to galvanise her into action. Fear of who it could call her had her nerves jangling in time with the ringing of the telephone. She took a moment to realise that, if they suspected her of Les’ death, it was unlikely that the police would contact her by phone.

In her befuddled mind Suzanna did not at first register who it was that was speaking to her. It trapped the voice of the reporter on the television in her head, blocking out the words of the caller trying to penetrate her brain. Only when she heard him shouting: “Annie, Annie?” down the phone, did he get through to her.

“Gary…” she all but screamed his name. This time his voice held no fear for her, only anger he should still try to get back into her life. After everything she had just gone through, after the horror and fear she was feeling over Les, what was he to her? She neither had the time or the patience for the man. “What do you want?” She spat the words out at him.

“I was just wondering how you were. The mail…”

She was seething at the man all her fears and hatred came spilling out of her. “Oh yes, the mail? I take it this means you knew what one of my letters was about. Ringing to gloat, are we?”

Gary stammered out his reply. He had never heard Suzanna react this way before. “I thought…”

“Yes Gary.” Suzanna cut him short. “That’s always been your trouble, thinking for other people. Controlling, that’s what I call it! Well, sorry to disappoint you but I’ve sorted it out, all by my little pathetic, useless self! I would prefer it if you stopped bothering me and let me get on with my life, without you in it! You made your choices, now leave me to make mine. Goodbye!” Without giving him the chance to reply, she slammed the phone down hard, like a full stop to her relationship with him.

Collapsing back down into her armchair, Suzanna sobbed uncontrollably. Tucking her legs up into the seat, almost folding herself into a foetal position, she cried herself to sleep.

 

Some hours later, Suzanna woke; her body still confined in the armchair. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless. After a few minutes stretching out her aching limbs, she was finally fully awake. Her mind not cleared from the previous night’s events. The smell of stale vomit assaulted her nostrils, her stomach still ached from the endless retching. She tried not to think too much about her encounter with the ill-fated Les and what had happened. Was it a dream? The report of his death seemed unreal somehow. Maybe the picture had merely resembled him? Yes, that was it, just a misunderstanding of what she had seen and heard. She figured that she was most likely still traumatised by what she had allowed herself to do.

Suzanna looked at her watch, which told her she was twenty minutes late for the early evening news, but still had plenty of time to catch the later evening report, if only just to put her mind at rest. She did not know what was real and what was dream anymore. Maybe she was still asleep in bed and all this was a nightmare she was trapped in. Awake or not, she had to get rid of the stench that was making her stomach churn again. She spent the next couple of hours cleaning and disinfecting the flat, before taking yet another shower, hoping that the hot jets and steam would at last clear her brain. There was just enough time for some food before she nervously sat down to study the news reports.

Her stomach filled and slightly calmer, she prepared herself for the worst, not even knowing just what that might be. Finally, the report she had been waiting for aired, slapping her right in the face, showing her, once and for all, what was a reality, and how harsh a reality it was. This time there was a full report on the man’s death. Leslie Adams, it seemed, had suffered a fatal heart attack in the Manor Hotel. Police were looking for another person who they thought might have been present at his death, but they could not release further information.

Relief washed over her in a sudden flood, bringing with it tears of gratitude: she had caused the man’s death, indirectly but she had not been the ultimate reason for his passing. Unfortunately, relief was quickly replaced by a deep pang of fear that settled deep into the pit of her stomach. A fear of what she had left behind: what evidence could there be of another person? Why were the police looking for someone else, and why did they think someone else had been there?  Had she left something, clothing, or perhaps jewellery? She did not think she was missing anything. During her cleaning, she had noticed nothing being absent. Out of the blue, a quick flash of what they had been doing, at the moment of his death brought it all crashing in on her. Could they trace her this way? Through DNA or something?  She was sure she must have left DNA all over his face, but whether they could use that to track her, she had not a clue. Maybe she had been seen coming or going? She could not remember if anyone had been on reception when she left the hotel in such a hurry, but then again, she had given a false name and been wearing a wig. No one could have recognised her. No one in that area would have known of her, anyway.

Suzanna figured she would just have to play a waiting game. If only she had the money to go away for a while. Money! The thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. Oh my God, where did I put it? Momentarily, she was gripped by panic, and then its whereabouts just popped into her head: bedside cabinet drawer! Flopping down like a sack of potatoes on the side of the bed, she shook her head and decided she would ask no one for money ever again!

With that resolution ringing soundly in her mind, she decided that there was nothing more she could do that night.  Suzanna pulled back the bedclothes on her newly made bed and climbed beneath the cool crisp sheets giving herself up to protection of sleep, at least for a little while.

 

Suzanna had stumbled through her front door without really being aware of unlocking it, or even opening it. The entire journey back from the hotel took place in an out-of-body kind of blur. She could remember where she had gone, how she had travelled, but it was as if there was a gauze curtain between her and the events, reducing them to little more than an indistinct haze.

The entire way home, her mind had played with her like a cat playing with a mouse. Only a few steps out of the hotel, it had convinced her she could still feel the old bastard’s tongue between the lips of her pussy, probing into her, wriggling like some obscene parasite trying to invade her. A few steps more, and she was hallucinating the feel of his breath hot and moist against her thighs and groin.  

She had felt her legs sticking together as she had walked, his spittle turning into a sticky goo, but again, she was not sure, even then, how much of that had been in her mind and how much in reality.  Sitting behind the wheel of her car, it had even felt as if it was still his face, not the car seat, beneath her. The seatbelt around her waist had not been a safety restraint, but his hands, holding tight to her as he ate out her cunt. Suzanna had re-lived every lick, every thrust of his tongue, every time he had closed his mouth on one of her lips, or over her clit, every time he had tongue-fucked her.  

The tricks her mind had played on her had almost been fatal. She had nearly driven straight off the road nearly three times as, distracted by her shame-induced hallucinations, she had let go of the wheel with one hand and pawed at herself, trying to wipe the spit away with her panties or her skirt.  In all honesty, Suzanna did not know how she had managed the drive back to her home.

Now, she slammed the door behind her, as if trying to shut out the memories and, just for a moment, she leant with her back against the solid wood. It was comforting. And, for a few beats of her heart, she felt better. She slumped, to slide down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her back still to it. But the movement shifted her panties, and suddenly she felt them, wet with Les’ spit, pressing tightly to her, pulled up by her slide down the door so they bunched into a thin rope, pressing between the lips of her cunt and, just like that, it was as if his tongue was in her again.

Suzanna felt her stomach clench, her guts rebel at the thought. Somehow, the taste of vomit filling her mouth, she scrambled, half on her feet, half on hands and knees, from the front door to the bathroom, and get her head over the toilet before she threw up. She rested both forearms on the seat of the toilet, her hair hanging either side of her like a curtain as she emptied her stomach of, what felt like, everything she had ever eaten in her life. The vile taste of acid and bile overpowered her as she closed her eyes, hot tears of shame pouring down her face as she retched again, feeling as though she was emptying her life into the porcelain bowl.

Finally, when there was nothing left in her, and she felt as physically hollow as she felt emotionally empty, Suzanna rocked herself back, so she was kneeling before the toilet. Her thoughts seemed to bounce around inside the empty space of her head, ricocheting off the inside of her skull. Memories of what she had done, thoughts, images, all flashing past in a blur.

She forced herself to her feet and, as she rose, Suzanna glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her hair was lank from sweat, her face stained with vomit and tears. Sweat plastered her clothes to her chest and back, and her skirt clung, moist at the front from soaked in saliva. Her thighs glistened with drying spit and suddenly, Suzanna could not bear to look at herself.  

With a scream, she spun away from the mirror, and tore at her clothes. She felt more than dirty, somehow unclean.  She tore her shirt off; the buttons popping and flying everywhere. Her bra snapped in her hurry to get it off and she tore the clasp of her skirt as she forced it down her legs.  She clawed at her wet panties, pushing them down, kicking them off her feet.  She felt a sudden burning, irresistible desire for something to cleanse her, to purify her.

Suzanna practically threw herself across the bathroom and into the shower, grabbing the taps and turning them on full. Water so hot it was almost scalding cascaded down over her and she stood there, facing the showerhead, her head bowed, her hands braced on the walls, sobbing to herself as the hot water washed over her. She grabbed the curled-up exfoliator and scrubbed at herself, pouring shower gel over her body directly, even as she rubbed at it.  She scrubbed hard, in a sudden, blazing frenzy; less scrubbing than scouring.  She rubbed at herself with the coarse material so hard that it hurt. She lathered and rinsed her thighs and crotch again, and again, and again, rubbing until her skin was almost raw.  She leaned over to the sink reaching for the disinfectant she kept there and sobbed as she scrubbed herself with it, her breath coming in huge, wracking gasps and, eventually, she once again sank to the floor, squatting in the shower, her arms wrapped around her legs as the water continued to pour over her, eventually going from scalding to hot, to warm, too tepid, and finally to cold.

At last, Suzanna pulled herself out of the shower, forcing herself to stand. She still did not look at the mirror. She did not want to face herself. She staggered out of the bathroom, ignoring her scattered clothes. She trod on the wig she had worn, lying just outside the bathroom door. She did not remember taking it off.  Somehow, she stood by her bed. And then she collapsed, emotionally and physically exhausted, falling onto the soft covers, even though she was soaking wet, she did not care. She could not care.  Her last feeling was one of relief it was over as a dreamless sleep took her.